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general  library 
-op- 
University  OF  Michigan. 


PRESENTED  BY 


89 -v-  i 


i.7? 


LITTELL'S 


LIVING   AGE 


E  Plusibvs  Unum. 

*^TbcM  pobUcations  of  tbe  day  ihoala  from  time  to  thne  be  winnowed,  the  wheat  carefully  preaerved,  and 

ibe  chaff  thrown  away." 

••  Made  up  of  ev^ry  creature^e  beet" 

'*  Various,  that  the  mind 
Of  deeultonr  man,  studious  of  chanj^e. 
And  pleased  with  norelty,  may  be  indulged.** 


FIFTH    SERIES,    VOLUME    XLIV. 

FROM  THE  BEGINNING,  VOL.  CLIX. 

OCTOBER,  NOVEMBER,  DECEMBER, 


1883. 


BOSTON: 
LITTELL    AND     CO. 


I 


TABLE  OF  THE  PRINCIPAL  CONTENTS 


or 


THE    LIVING   AGE,    VOLUME    CLIX. 

TUB  fOSTY-roVSTH  QVAKTBRLY  VOLUME  Or  TNB  nVTH  SXKIBS. 

OCTOBER,    NOVEMBER,    DECEMBER,    1883. 


Quarterly  Review. 

Dean  Swift  in  Ireland,    .        .        .        •  3 

The  Fur- Seals  of  Commerce,  .        .        •  S'S 

Saint  Teresa, 723 

British  Quarterly  Review. 

The  Religion  of  the  Paris  Ouvrier,         .  195 

The  Life  and  Times  of  St.  Anselm,         •  451 

Contemporary  Review. 

Colors  and  Cloths  of  the  Middle  Ages,  •  83 
Contemporary    Life    and    Thought    in 

France, 239 

The  Rise  and  Fall  of  Amsterdam,  .        .  259 

Earth  Movements  in  Java,      .        .        .  296 

Samuel  Richardson,         ....  ^5 

The  New-Birth  of  Christian  Philosophy,  043 

The  Copts,      ......  707 

Robert  Browning,  .        .        .        •        •  771 

Fortnightly  Review. 

Politics  in  the  Lebanon,  •        ...  67 

Modern  Dress, 165 

Some  Recent  Biographies,      •        •        •275 

Through  Portugal, 359 

Nineteenth  Centijry. 

The  Sun*s  Corona, 682 

The  Revival  of  the  West  Indies,     .        .  795 

Church  Quarterly  Review. 

Edward  Henry  Palmer,   .        .        .        •  387 

Scottish  Review. 

Scotland  in  the  Eighteenth  Century,       •  323 

National  Review. 

Will  Norway  become  a  Republic?  .        •  546 

Blackwood's  Magazine. 

Summer  Sport  in  Nova  Zemla,       .        •  -    91 

A  Polish  Love-Story,      .        .        .        •  loi 

An  Italian  Official  under  Napoleon,        •  131 
Fiji :  the  Storv  of  a  Little  War,     .        .415 

Letters  from  Galilee,       •        .        •471,  602 

A.utobiography  of  Anthony  Trollope,     .  579 

The  Double  Ghost  we  saw  in  Galicia,    •  61 1 


Gentleman's  Magazine. 

University  Life  in  the  Early  Part  of  the 

Seventeenth  Century,    .        .        •    374 
Old  Postal  Days  in  San  Francisco,         .    703 

Cornhill  Magazine. 
Madame  D'Arblay,         .        •        •        *    480 

Macmillan's  Magazine. 

Some  Personal  Recollections  of  Madame 

Mohl, 39 

The  Wizard's  Son, .       270,  335,  555,  593.  781 
Jersey, 672 

Temple  Bar. 

Town  Mouse  and  Country  Mouse, .        .  49 

Notes  of  a  Wanderer  in  Skye,         .        .  X46 

Ex- Marshal  Bazaine's  Apology,      .        •  171 

Lord  Beaconsfield's  Character,        .        .  229 
Some  Reminiscences  of  Jane  Welsh  Car- 

lyle, 302 

A  Recollection  of  the  Riviera,        .        .  355 

Lady  Anne  Barnard  at  the  Cape,    .        .  542 

A  Knight-Errant's  Pilgrimage,       .        .  560 
Between  two  Stools,        •        •        .        .716 

Good  Cheer. 
A  Maiden  Fair, 746 

Belgravia. 

Ifiez  de  Castro,        .        •        .        .        .312 

Ruth  Hayes, 365,  408 

Christmas  in  Calcutta,    ....    809 

English  Illustrated  Magazine. 
The  Little  Schoolmaster  Mark,      .        .    524 

Argosy. 

Cherry  Roper's  Penance,         .        ,        .    286 
A  Curious  Experience,   •        .        •        .    672 

Leisure  Hour. 
Judges'  Clerks,        •        .       •        •       .    445 

m 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Sunday  Magazine. 

The  Rose  of  Black  Boy  Alley,        •    430,  464 

Mr.  Edwin  Cole, 491 

Lord  of  Himself,     ....    655,  802 

Month. 

Faculties  of  Birds,  .  .  .  .  .127 
A  Chinese  Martyr  of  our  own  Time,  .  306 
The  Rock  of  Cashel,       ....    688 

Longman's  Magazikk. 

Toads,  Past  and  Present,         •        .        . 
The  Modern  Nebuchadnezzar,        .        . 

Cassell*s  Magazine. 
The  Rabbit  Pest  in  Australasia,     •        • 

Spectator. 

Ivan  Tourgenief,  ..... 
Professor  Cayley*s  Address,  .  •  . 
The  Cost  of  Living  in  Switzerland, 
Mr.  TroUope  as  Critic,  .... 
Evolution  and  Mind,  .  •  •  . 
Beards,    ....... 

Economist. 

The  Cause  of  the  Weakness  of  French 
Negotiations,        .... 

Saturday  Review. 

Fielding's  Bust, 118 

Driving  Tours, 123 

The  Expediency  of  Killing  Eminent  Men,    24S 


437 
755 

62 

59 
509 

697 


251 


Extinct  Miseries  of  Human  Life, 

Le  Mascaret, 

Odet  de  Coligny,  Cardinal  Chatillon, 
An  Annaniese  Decalogue,      • 
Jews  at  Jobar,         .... 

Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

Alpine  Gossip,         .... 
A  Pilgrimage  to  Adam*s  Peak, 


252 
316 
629 

694 
699 


380 
381 


A  River  Parade  in  the  British  Army,  .  383 
Venice  in  the  East-End, ....  764 
Mr.  Ruskin  on  **  Punch,*'        .        .        .    767 

Chambers*  Journal. 

Poor  Little  Life,     .        .        .        •     i55«  205 

Prison  Pets, 190 

Westminster  Abbey,        •        .        .        .192 

Acting  in  Earnest, 441 

Florida  "Crackers,"  ....  625 
Sayings  of  Children,  ....  638 
French  Convict  Marriages,     •        .        .    701 


All  The  Year  Round. 

Along  the  Silver  Streak,  33,  73, 

Some  Things  of  Old  Spain,    . 

Nature. 
The  British  Association, 

Times. 

The  Relief  of  Vienna,     .        . 
The  Distance  of  the  Sun,        . 
Sir  Moses  MonteGore,     . 
A  Statue  to  Alexandre  Dumas,       . 

Globe. 
Grown-up  Children,         .        •        • 

Morning  Post. 
The  Oyster  Season, .... 

Leeds  Mercury. 

Some  Economic  Plants,  .        • 
Whitby  in  the  Herring  Season, 

Daily  Telegraph. 
Toadstools, 

Queen. 
Match-Making  in  County  Mayo,     . 


141.  223 
.  217 


177 

126 
319 

634 

5" 

447 

121 

57S 

762 
823 


INDEX  TO   VOLUME  CLIX. 


Along  the  Silver  Streak,         33,  73,  141, 
Australasia,  The  Rabbit  Pest  in 
Amsterdam,  The  Rise  and  Fall  of 
Adam*s  Peak,  A  Pilgrimage  to 
Acting  In  Earnest,  . 
Anselm,  St.,  Th«  Life  and  Times  of 
Arblay,  Madame  d',         . 

Amber, 

Annamese  Decalogue,  An 


Birds,'  Faculties  of 
Bazaine's,  Ex-Marshal,  Apology, 
British  Association, 
Beaconsfield*s,  Lord,  Character, 
Biographies,  Some  Recent 
Barnard,  Lady  Anne,  at  the  Cape, 

Beards, 

Between  two  Stools,        •        • 
Browning,  Robert  •        • 


223 
62 

44« 

451 
4^ 
640 
694 

127 
171 
177 
229 

275 
542 
697 
716 

771 


Colors  and  Cloths  of  the  Middle  Ages,  83 
Cayley's,  Professor,  Address,  .        .        .188 
Cherry  Koper*s  Penance,         •        .        »  286 
Carlyle,    Jane   Welsh,  Some    Reminis- 
cences of 302 

Chinese  Martyr,  A,  of  our  own  Time,     .  306 

Castro,  Ifiez  de 312 

Clerks,  Judges' 445 

Children,  Grown-up        •        •        •        •  5^' 

"  Crackers,'*  Florida        ....  625 

Coligny,  Cardinal  Chatillon    .        •        .  629 

Children,  Sayings  of        ...        .  638 

Christian  Philosophy,  The  New- Birth  of  643 

Curious  Experience,  A    .        .        •        •  682 
Cashel,  The  Rock  of       .        .        .        .688 

Convict  Marriages,  French     .        .        .  701 

Copts,  The 707 

Christmas  in  Calcutta,    .        .        •        •  809 

Driving  Tours, 123 

Dress,  Modern 165 

D*Arblay,  Madame .        •        .        .        •  480 

Double  Ghost,  The,  we  saw  in  Galicia,  .  61 1 

Dumas,  Alexandre,  A  Statue  to      .        .  634 

Economic  Plants,  Some        .       .       .121 
Expediency,  The,  of   Killing  Eminent 

Men, .248 


Extinct  Miseriesof  Human  Life,  •        • 

Eighteenth  Century,  Scotland  in  • 

Euripides,  The  Writings  of    •  • 

Evolution  and  Mind,       •        •  •        • 

Fielding's  Bust, 

France,  Contemporary  Life  and  Thought 

in 

French  Negotiations,  The  Cause  of  the 

Weakness  of  .... 

Fiji,  The  Story  of  a  Little  War,     . 
Fur-Seals,  The,  of  Commerce, 
Florida  "Crackers,"        .        .        .        . 
French  Convict  Marriages,      •        .        • 

Galilee,  Letters  from  ,       •       •    47I1 

Herring  Season,  The,  at  Whitby, 

Italian  Official,  An,  under  Napoleon, 

Java,  Earth  Movements  in     •        . 
J  udges'  Clerks,        •        .        •        • 
Jersey,     ...... 

jews  at  Jobar, 


Knight-Errant's  Pilgrimage,  A  . 

Lebanon,  Politics  in  the        .        .  •      67 

Little  Schoolmaster  Mark,  The       .  .     C24 

Lord  of  Himself,     ....  655,  802 


MoHL,  Madame,  Some  Personal  Recol 

lections  of     . 
Middle  Ages,  Colors  and  Cloths  of  the 
Miseries,  Extinct,  of  Human  Life, . 
Martyr,  A  Chinese,  of  our  own  Time, 
Mascaret,  Le  .        •        .        • 
Mr.  Edwin  Cole,     .... 
Montefiore,  Sir  Moses     .        •        • 
Maiden  Fair,  A       .        •        •        • 
Mole,  The        ..... 
Match- Making  in  County  Mayo,     • 

Nova  Zemla,  Summer  Sports  in     . 
Napoleon,  An  Italian  Official  under 
Norway,  Will  it  become  a  Republic? 
Nebuchadnezzar^  The  Modern        • 


252 

323 
384 
636 

118 

239 

251 
4<5 

625 
701 

602 
574 

131 

296 

445 
664 
699 

560 


252 
306 
316 
491 

746 
766 
823 

91 

546 
755 


VI 


INDEX. 


Oyster  Season,  The       ,       • 
Old  Postal  Days  in  San  Francisco, 

Polish  Love-Story,  A    .        . 
Poor  Little  Life,      .        .        .        •     I55f 
Prison  Pets,     .....' 
Paris  Ouvrier,  The  Religion  of  the 
Portugal,  Through .... 
Palmer,  Edward  Henry  • 
Philosophy,  Christian,  The  New-Birth 
of  •        .        •        •  '     . 


Rabbit  Pest,  The,  in  Australasia,  . 
Richardson,  Samuel  .  .  • 
Recollection,  A,  of  the  Riviera, 

Ruth  Hayes 365, 

River  Parade,  A,  in  the  British  Army, 
Rose,  The,  of  Black  Boy  Alley,       .    450, 
Ruskin  on  **  Punch,"       .        • 

Swift,  Dean,  in  Ireland,        •        • 
Skye,  Notes  of  a  Wanderer  in        • 
Spain,  Some  Things  of   •        • 
Sun,  The  Distance  of  the        .        • 
Scotland  in  the  Eighteenth  Century, 


447 
703 

lOT 

205 

190 

»9S 


643 

62 

345 

408 

464 
767 


X46 
217 

3'9 
323 


Seventeenth  Century,  University  Life  in 

the 

Switzerland,  The  Cost  of  Living  in 
Seals,  Fur,  The,  of  Commerce, 
Sayings  of  Children, 
Sun's  Corona,  The  .... 
Saint  Teresa, 


Town  Mouse  and  Country  Mouse, 
Tourgenief,  Ivan     .        .        •        • 
Toads,  Past  and  Present, 
TroUope  as  Critic,  .... 
Trollope,  Anthony,  Autobiography  of 
Teresa,  Saint  .        •        .        .        • 
Toadstools,      .        .        •        •        • 


University  Life   in  the   Seventeenth 
Century,        .        •        •        • 


Vienna,  The  Relief  of  . 

Venice  in  the  East-End,  •        •        • 

Westminster  Abbey,    . 
Wizard's  Son,  The  .      270*  335,  555,  593,  7^*' 
Whitby  in  the  Herring  Season,       .        •     574 
West  Indies,  The  Revival  of  the    .        .    795 


374 
509 

5'5 
038 
682 

723 

49 
59 
437 
573 
579 
723 
762 


374 

126 
764 

192 


POETRY. 


Ariadne, 
Autumn  Sympathy, 
Alone. 


Burden  of  Life,  The 
Breath  of  Heaven,  A       • 
Ballade  of  his  own  Country, 


City  Pastoral,  A     • 
Child,  The,  and  Death,  . 
Clover,  The  Two-leaved . 
Ceres,  Invocation  to 
Crimson,.        .        •        • 
Christmas  Carol,  A 


Dandie's  Last  Journey,  • 
English  Home,  An  •        • 


Fancy,  A . 

•*  Fortune  my  Foe," 

Fishermen's  Song,  • 


Grass  of  Parnassus, 
Guenevere,      ,        • 
**  Green," 
Gautier,  From  • 
Golden  Glow,  In  the 
Garland- Weaver,  The 


Hellespont  of  Cream,  An 
Harvest  Thanksgiving,    • 


194 
322 

450 

386 

450 
706 

66 

130 

5M 

578 
770 


386 

450 
450 

514 

194 

258 
322 

578 
770 

770 

66 

258 


"  Look  through  the  Gloaming,*' 
Love  Strong  as  Death,    . 
Love  Stronger  than  Death, 
Light,  The,  Shining  in  Darkness, 
Lamb,  Charles 

March  and  Bacchanal,     • 


322 
322 
322 

5»4 
770 


Neptune,  Ode  to     •        •        •        •        .  642 

Nocturne,  A    .        •        •        .        •        .  706 

Niagara  Falls, 706 

Old  Letters 2 

October  Song,  • 258 

Pit  Mouth,  At  the 66 

Patience,.        .•••..  450 
Pericles,  L>Tics  of  .        .        •        .        •514 

Prize  Flower,  The 578 

Pericles,  The  Dream  of  .        ,        .        .042 

Poets,  and  Poets,     .        •        .        •        •  642 

Ruin,  The 66 

Skylarks,  The 386 

Sonnet, 514 

Song,       ••••••.  706 

Thanksgiving  Ode, .        •        •        •        •  642 

Voices  of  the  Sea, 194 


Along  the  Silver  Streak, 
Between  two  Stools,        • 


TALES. 
33,  73,  141,  223 

•    716 


Cherry  Roper's  Penance, 
Curious  Experience,  A    • 


.     2S6 
•    672 


INDEX. 


VII 


Donble  Ghost,  The,  we  saw  in  Galicia,  •    6i  i 


Little  Schoolmaster  Mark,  The 
Lord  of  Himself,    •        .        • 


655,  802 


Mr.  Edwin  Cole, 491 

Maiden  Fair,  A       •        •       •        •        •    746 


Nebuchadnezzar,  The  Modem 


755 


Polish  Love- Story,  A      •       •       • 
Poor  Little  Life,     •       •       •       • 

Recollection,  A,  of  the  Riviera, 

Ruth  Hayes, 

Rose,  The,  of  Black  Boy  Alley,      . 

Town  Mouse  and  Country  Mouse, . 


.     lOI 

155.  205 

/    355 
365.  408 

430.  464 
•      49 


Wizard's  Son,  The     •   271.  335»  555»  593.  78i 


LITTELL'S  LIVING-  AGE. 


Fifth  StfiM 
YdomaXLiy. 


I  }  No.  2050. -October  6,  1883.  {^TdfS*' 


CONTENTS. 
L  Dran  Swift  in  Ireland^   ....  Quarteriy  Revitw,  .       •       •       •  3 
IL  Along  THE  Silver  Streak.    Part  VII.,    .  All  The  Year  Bounds    •       •       •  33 
II L  Some  Personal  Recollections  op  Ma- 
dams MoHL, MacmillafCs  Magaune^  .        •        •39 

IV.  Town  Mouse  and  Country  Mouse.    Con« 

elusion,  ••••••••  TempU  Bar^  •        •        •        •        •  49 

V.   Ivan  Tourgeniep, Spectator^       .....  59 

VL  The  Rabbit  Pest  in  Australasia,   •       •  OuseWs  Magaune^       ...  62 


POETRY. 

Dakdis*s  Last  Journey,      •       •       •     2 1  Old  Letters^ 


MlSGELLANYy         • 64 


PUBUSHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,   BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  Dollaks,  rtmiiUd  tUrgctly  to  tAs  PttUiskgrs,  the  Livimg  Acs  will  be  punctoallT  forwarded 
for  ajrear,yVvr  offostagt, 

KemUtances  snoaid  be  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-office  moneyHsrder,  if  possible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  monevKhouIdbe  «ent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  postmastera  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.  I>raf  ts,  checks  and  money-ordera  should  bo  made  payable  to  the  order  ol 
L1TTBI.L  &  Co. 

Single  Numbera  of  Thb  Liviiio  Aoi^  18  oentii 


DANDIE'S  LAST  JOURNEY. 
DandU  speaks. 

Of  my  travels  do  you  ask  me  ?    Do  you  seri- 
ously task  me 
To  rub  up  my  geography,  and  tell  where  I 
have  been  ? 
Would  it  really  make  you  merrier,  if  a  Dandie 
Dinmont  terrier 
Were  to  make  your  muzzles  water  with  the 
wonders  he  has  seen  ? 

I  think,  in  spite  of  cavils,  a  well-bred  dog  who 
travels 
May  prove  a  better  traveller  than  some  who 
hold  him  cheap ; 
If  he  takes  discomfort  coolly,  responds  to  kind- 
ness duly. 
And  when  there's  nothing  else  to  do  goes 
quietly  to  sleep. 

By  railway  and  by  steamer  was  I  thus  a  peace- 
ful dreamer, 
Only  waking  when  they  summoned  me  in 
places  new  and  strange. 
No  matter  where  they  took  me,  my  courage 
ne*er  forsook  me ; 
I  knew  my  loved  ones  guarded  me,  and  love 
can  never  change  1 

Oh,  the  memories  that  waken  of  the  rambles 
we  have  taken 
Through   cornfields,    wood,    and    meadow, 
knee-deep  in  heath  and  fern  I 
How  we  roamed  about  together,  in  the  joyous 
summer  weather 
Of  those  glad  days  I  dream  about  —  that 
never  can  return  I 


But  you  ask  me,  half  in  pity,  how  I  liked  that 
grand  old  city. 
So  full  of  all  the  wonders  that  charm  the 
good  and  wise ; 
And  a  joy  you  never  tasted  you  think  was 
sadly  wasted 
On  a  dog  that  has  but  instinct,  his  affection, 
and  his  eyes. 

Yet  when  you  see  me  dreaming,  /see  the  sun- 
light gleaming 
Where  the  springtide  glows  like  summer  and 
the  winter  smiles  like  spring ; 
Where  the  moonbeams  fall  so  whitely,  where 
the  fountains  play  so  brightly, 
And  everywhere,  for  praise  or  prayer,  you 
hear  the  church-bells  ring. 

But  that  which  you  call  history  is  to  us  both  a 
mystery : 
/  do  not  know  the  things  that  were  —  you 
know  not  what  will  be ; 
And  if  to  you  be  given  more  wondrous  powers 
from  Heaven, 
You  do  not  know  what  earth  can  show,  and 
oft  has  shown  to  me. 


DANDIE  S   LAST  JOURNEY,   ETC. 

You  cannot  hear  the  voices  at  which  my  heart 
rejoices — 
The  whispers  of  creation  and  of  those  who 


sang  its  birth ; 
You  little  think  how  often,  some  creature's  lot 
to  soften. 
We  see  the  white-robed  messengers  come 
down  upon  the  earth  I 

If  to  us  no  mjTStic  pages  may  unroll  the  lore  of 

age*. 
Yet  nature's  gracious  teaching  is  for  us  as 

well  as  you ; 

And  I  saw  Rome's  truest  glory,  beyond  all 

song  or  story, 

When  her  sunset  showed  its  crimson  •*- her 

sky  its  deep,  dark  blue. 

I  have  trod  the  wide  Campagna  (the  Piazza, 
too,  di  Spagna), 
In  the  fair  Borghese  Gardens  I  have  scam- 
pered at  my  will ; 
I  have  drunk  of  Trevi's  fountain,  I  have  seen 
Soracte's  mountain. 
And  watched  St.  Peter's,  throned  in  light, 
from  the  famed  Pincian  Hill. 

But  when  your  eyes  are  closing,  and  your  stiff 
limbs  need  reposing. 
What  suits  vou  best  are  home  and  rest ;  and 
those  I  ve  found  once  more  ; 
And  the  tender  touch  of  greeting  and  the  joy 
of  happy  meeting 
Add  brightness  to  the  memory  of  all  that 
went  before. 

Yes,  mv  travels  now  are  ending  and  my  sun  is 
fast  descending ; 
But  those  I  love  are  near  me,  and  how  can  I 
repine  ? 
May  all  who  read  my  verses  be  as  rich  in 
friends  and  Yiurses, 
And  find    their  own  last  journey  end  as 

peacefully  as  mine  I 
Good  Words.  ANNA  H.  DrURY. 


OLD  LETTERS. 


It  seems  but  yesterday  she  died,  but  years 
Have  passed  since  then ;  the  wondrous  change 

of  time 
Makes  great  things  little,  little  things  sublime. 
And  sanctifies  the  dew  of  daily  tears. 
She  died,  as  all  must  die ;  no  trace  appears 
In  history's  page,  nor  save  in  my  poor  rhyme. 
Of  her,  whose  life  was  love,  whose  lovely  prime 
Passed  sadly  where  no  sorrows  are,  nor  fears. 
It  seems  but  yesterday  ;  to-day  I  read 
A  few  short  letters  in  her  own  dear  hand, 
And  doubted  if  'twere  true.      Their  tender 

grace 
Seems  radiant  with  her  life  (    Oh  I  can  the 

dead 
Thus  in  their  letters  live  ?    I  tied  the  band. 
And  kissed  her  name  as  though  I  kissed  her 

face.  Lord  Russlyn. 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


From  The  Quarterly  Review. 
DEAN  SWIFT  IN  IRELAND.* 

More  than  a  year  ago  we  commenced 
a  sketch  of  the  literary  and  political  life 
of  Swif  t.t  We  were  then  obliged  to  break 
off  when  our  task  was  only  half  accom- 
plished ;  we  now  propose  to  return  to  the 
sobject,  and  to  complete  our  study.  But 
before  resuming  our  own  narrative  we 
have  a  very  pleasing  duty  to  perform. 
Since  the  appearance  of  the  first  part  of 
this  article  three  contributions  of  singular 
interest  and  value  have  been  added  to  the 
literature  which  has  gathered  round  the 
great  dean.  First  in  importance  stands 
the  biography  by  Henry  Craik.  This 
work  is  in  many  respects  greatly  superior 
to  any  preceding  biography.  It  is  more 
accurate,  more  critical,  and  much  fuller, 
than  the  memoir  by  Scott.  It  is  written 
with  more  spirit,  and  it  is  executed  with 
greater  skill,  than  the  memoir  by  Monck 
Mason.  It  is,  moreover,  enriched  with 
materia]  to  which  neither  Scott  nor  Monck 
Mason  had  access,  and  which  is  altogether 
new ;  such,  for  example,  would  be  the  diary 
kept  by  Swift  at  Holyhead,  printed  by 
Mr.  Craik  in  his  appendix;  such  would  be 
the  correspondence  between  Swift  and 
Archdeacon  Walls,  furnished  by  Mr. 
Murray;  and  such  would  be  the  Orrery 
papers,  furnished  by  the  Earl  of  Cork.  Of 
Mr.  Craik's  industry  and  accuracy  we 
cannot  speak  too  highly.  It  is  abun- 
dantly evident  from  every  chapter  in  his 
work  that  he  has  left  no  source  of  infor- 
mation unexplored,  from  the  local  gossip 
of  places  where  traditions  of  Swift  still 
linger,  to  the  archives  of  private  families 
and  public  institutions.  Where  Mr. 
Craik  seems  to  us  to  fail  is  in  precision 
and  grasp.  His  narrative  too  often  de- 
generates i oto  mere  compilation.  1 1  lacks 
perspective  and  it  lacks  symmetry.  We 
cannot  but  think  too  — though  we  are  ex- 
tremely unwilling  to  find  faults  in  a  work 
for  which  every  student  of  Swift  will  as- 
suredly be  most  sincerely  thankful  —  that 

•  J.  Tht  Li/*  of  Jonathan  Swift,  By  Henry  Craik, 
If.  A.    London,  iSSa. 

a.  S-wift,  Bv  Leslie  Stephen.  "  English  Men  of 
Letters."     L-ondon,  i8Sa. 

J.  Denn  Swiff's  Diuaso,  By  Dr.  BucknlU,  F,R.S. 
■  Brain-*'     London,  January,  i88a. 

t  LmuG  Agb,  No.  1981,  June  xo>  x88a. 


its  value  would  have  been  greatly  en* 
hanced  had  Mr.  Craik  been  a  little  less 
inattentive  to  the  graces  of  style.  That 
Mr.  Craik  has  not  succeeded  in  throwing 
any  new  light  on  the  various  problems 
which  perplex  Swift's  biography  is  to  be 
regretted,  but  cannot,  in  fairness,  be  im* 
puted  as  a  fault  to  him.  The  portion  of 
his  work  which  will  be  perused  with  most 
interest  by  those  who  are  familiar  with 
former  biographies,  will  probably  be  that 
in  which  he  discusses  Swift's  relations 
with  Walpole,  with  Primate  Boulter,  and 
with  the  Irish  Church. 

The  pleasure  with  which  we  have  read 
Mr.  Leslie  Stephen's  monograph  has  been 
not  un mingled  with  disappointment.  *  Like 
everything  he  writes,  it  is  incisive,  forci- 
ble, and  eminently  interesting.  But  it  is 
plain  that  the  dean  is  no  favorite  with 
him.  He  is  too  sensible  and  too  well  in- 
formed to  be  guilty  either  of  misrepresen- 
tation or  of  errors  in  statement,  and  yet, 
without  misrepresentation  or  misstate- 
ment, he  contrives  to  do  Swift  signal  in- 
justice. We  will  illustrate  what  we  mean. 
The  period  in  Swift's  career  during  which 
he  appears  to  least  advantage  would  cer- 
tainly be  the  period  intervening  between 
his  ordination  and  the  accession  of 
George  L,  in  other  words,  the  period 
during  which  he  was  seeking  preferment. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  period  which  does 
him  most  honor  would  be  that  during 
which  he  was  laboring  in  the  cause  of  Ire- 
land. Of  the  first  of  these  periods  Mr. 
Stephen  gives  us  a  minute  and  elaborate 
history:  of  the  second,  his  account  is  so 
meagre  and  so  perfunctory,  that  a  reader 
who  knew  nothing  more  of  Swift's  career 
in  Ireland  than  what  he  derived  from  Mr. 
Stephen's  narrative,  would  assuredly  have 
very  much  to  learn.  It  was  said  of  Mal- 
let, that  if  he  undertook  the  life  of  Marl- 
borough, he  would  probably  forget  that 
his  hero  was  a  general :  it  may  be  said  of 
Mr.  Stephen,  that  if  he  has  not  exactly 
forgotten  that  Swift  was  a  patriot  and 
philanthropist,  he  has. done  his  best  to 
conceal  it. 

This  brings  us  to  Dr.  Bucknill's  re- 
markable paper  on  the  nature  of  Swift's 
disease.  We  have  read  nothing  that  has 
been  written  on  that  perplexed  and  much- 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


discussed  question  which  appears  to  us 
so  satisfactory.  In  the  first  place,  Dr. 
Bucknill  comes  forward  with  no  mere 
hypothesis.  The  history  of  Swift's  case 
is,  he  says,  sufficiently  ful)  and  explicit  to 
enable  him,  even  at  this  distance  of  time, 
to  form  with  confidence  a  diagnosis ;  and 
that  diagnosis,  together  with  the  grounds 
on  which  it  is  based,  he  has  in  the  paper 
to  which  we  have  referred  given  to  the 
world.  As  the  subject  is  necessarily  a 
somewhat  painful  one,  and  as  it  is  more- 
over a  subject  likely  to  be  of  interest 
rather  to  special  students  of  Swift  than  to 
the  general  reader,  we  have  relegated  its 
discussion  to  a  note ;  and  the  note  will  be 
found  at  the  end  of  this  article. 

We  left  Swift  on  the  point  of  settling 
down  as  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's.  The  cir* 
cumstances  under  which  he  entered  on 
his  new  duties  were  sufficiently  inauspi- 
cious. It  was  well  known  that  he  had 
been  one  of  the  chief  supporters  of  the 
last  ministry,  and  that  his  preferment  had 
been  the  price  of  his  services.  In  Dub- 
lin, where  the  Whigs  were  as  three  to 
one,  the  downfall  of  the  Tories  had  been 
hailed  with  savage  glee.  Indeed,  of  all 
the  sects  into  which  Irish  politicians  were 
divided  and  subdivided,  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned whether  there  was  one  which  re- 
garded with  much  favor  the  party  to 
which  Swift  had  attached  himself.  The 
victory  gained  by  the  Whigs  was  cele- 
brated as  such  victories  always  were  cel- 
ebrated. On  Swift's  head  broke  in  full 
force  the  storm  of  obloquy  which  was 
overwhelming  his  friends  in  England. 
Libels  taunting  him  with  Popery  and  Jaco- 
bitism  freely  circulated  among  the  vul- 
gar. He  was  hustled  and  pelted  in  the 
street.  One  miscreant,  an  Irish  noble- 
man, assaulted  him  with  such  ferocious 
violence,  that  he  presented  a  petition, 
which  is  still  extant,  appealing  for  protec- 
tion to  the  House  of  Peers.  For  some 
months  he  went  in  fear  of  his  life,  and  he 
never  ventured  to  show  himself  even  in 
the  principal  thoroughfares  without  an  es- 
cort of  armed  servants.  And  these  were 
not  his  only  troubles.  He  was  on  bad 
terms  with  his  chapter;  he  was  on  bad 
terms  with  the  archbishop.  He  was  in 
wretched  health,  and  in  still  more  wretch- 


ed spirits.  His  feelings  found  vent  in  a 
copy  of  verses,  which  are  inexpressibly 
sad  and  touching. 

Meanwhile,  evil  tidings  were  arriving 
by  every  post  from  England.  First  came 
the  news  of  the  flight  of  Dolingbroke; 
then  came  the  news  of  the  impeachment 
and  imprisonment  of  Oxford  ;  and  lastly, 
the  still  more  incredible  intelligence,  that 
Ormond  had  declared  for  the  Pretender, 
and  was  in  France.  Under  these  stun- 
ning blows  Swift  acted  as  none  but  men 
on  whom  nature  has  been  lavish  of  heroic 
qualities  are  capable  of  acting.  It  was 
now  plain  that  all  who  had  been  in  the 
confidence  of  the  late  ministry  were  in 
great  danger,  and  that,  unless  they  were 
prepared  to  fare  as  their  leaders  had  fared, 
it  behoved  them  to  walk  warily.  A  vin- 
dictive faction  in  the  flush  of  triumph  is, 
as  Swift  well  knew,  in  no  mood  for  nice 
distinctions  between  guilt  presumptive 
and  guilt  established.  He  was,  moreover, 
well  aware  that  rumor  had  already  been 
busy  with  his  name,  and  that  his  enemies 
were  watching  with  malignant  vigilance 
for  anything  which  he  might  do  or  say  to 
compromise  himself.  But  all  this  was  as 
nothing.  Neither  self-interest  nor  fear 
had  any  influence  on  his  loyal  and  daunt- 
less spirit.  He  wrote  off  to  Oxford,  not 
merely  expressing  his  sympathy,  but  im- 
ploring permission  to  attend  him  in  the 
Tower.  "It  is  the  first  time,'*  he  said, 
*'  that  I  ever  solicited  you  in  my  own  be- 
half, and  if  I  am  refused,  it  will  be  the 
first  request  you  ever  refused  me."  He 
braved  the  suspicions,  —  nay  more,  the 
peril,  —  to  which  a  confidential  correspon- 
dence with  the  families  of  Bolingbroke  and 
Ormond,  when  the  one  had  become  the 
secretary  and  the  other  the  chief  general 
of  the  Pretender,  exposed  him.  We  are 
told  that  when  the  Ulster  king-ofarms 
attempted,  on  the  attainder  of  the  duke, 
to  remove  the  escutcheons  of  the  Or- 
monds,  which  hung  in  St.  Patrick's  Cathe- 
dral, Swift  sternly  bade  him  begone,  "  for 
as  long  as  I  am  dean,"  he  thundered  out, 
"  I  will  never  permit  so  gross  an  indignity 
to  be  ofiEered  to  so  noble  a  house."  It 
was  not  likely  that  he  could  act  thus  with 
impunity,  and  it  appears  from  a  letter  of 
Archbishop  King,  dated  May,  1715,  and 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


from  one  of  his  own  letters  to  Atterbory, 
dated  April,  1716,  that  he  was  twice  in 
danger  of  arrest. 

His  conduct  at  this  crisis  was  the  more 
honorable  to  him,  as  it  sprang  solely  from 
the  purest  of  motives,  from  a  chivalrous 
sense  of  what  is  due  to  friends  and  ben- 
efactors, and  especially  to  friends  and 
benefactors  in  misfortune.  Some  writers 
have,  it  is  true,  imputed  his  conduct,  as 
hostile  contemporaries  imputed  it,  to  less 
worthy  motives.  But  it  would  be  mere 
waste  of  words  to  discuss  their  state- 
ments. Nothing  we  know  of  Swift  is 
more  absolutely  certain  than  the  fact,  that 
so  far  from  having  any  sympathy  with  the 
Pretender,  he  always  regarded  him  with 
peculiar  abhorrence.  He  denounced  him 
in  his  correspondence,  he  denounced  him 
in  his  conversation,  he  denounced  him  in 
bis  public  writings.  '*  I  always  professed,*' 
he  says  in  one  of  his  familiar  letters,  *'  to 
be  against  the  Pretender,  because  I  look 
upon  his  coming  as  a  greater  evil  than  we 
are  likely  to  suffer  under  the  worst  Whig 
government  that  can  be  found."  In  the 
crisis  of  1714,  when  it  is  not  perhaps  too 
much  to  say  that  his  pen  might  have 
turned  the  scale  in  James's  favor,  he  was 
among  the  most  acriminious  and  vehe- 
ment of  anti-Jacobites.  Indeed,  his  feel- 
ings on  this  subject  were  so  well  known, 
that  both  Oxford  and  Bolingbroke  studi- 
ously concealed  from  him  their  negotia- 
tions with  St.  Germain's,  and,  as  his 
"  Historical  Memoirs  "  show,  he  had  never 
even  a  suspicion  of  the  intrigues,  the 
existence  of  which  the  "  Stuart  Papers  " 
have  in  our  time  placed  beyond  doubt,* 

His  pen  meanwhile  was  not  idle.  In 
his  letter  to  Oxford  he  had  promised  that, 
though  the  rage  of  faction  had  rendered 
contemporaries  deaf  and  blind,  future 
ages  should  at  all  events  know  the  truth. 

*  To  the  end  of  his  life  Swift  contended  that  there 
was  no  design  on  the  part  of  Anne's  last  ministry  to 
bring  in  the  Pretender;  how  effectually  Harley  and 
Bolingbroke  had  concealed  their  intrigues  from  him  is 
dear  from  the  dean*8  letter  to  the  Archbishop  of  Dub- 
lin, Dec  16,  1716.  "  Had  there  been  even  the  least 
orertore  or  intent  of  bringing  in  the  Pretender,  I  think 
I  mast  have  been  very  stupid  not  to  have  picked  out 
■ome  discoveries  or  suspicions.  And  although  I  am 
Boc  sore  that  I  should  have  turned  informer,  yet  I  am 
certain  I  should  have  dropped  some  general  cautions, 
amd  imtmtdiaUly  hav  rtiirtdJ* 


With  this  view,  he  drew  up  the  "  Memoirs 
relating  to  that  change  which  happened  in 
the  Queen's  Ministry  in  the  Year  1710," 
a  pamphlet  in  which,  in  a  clear  and  tem- 
perate narrative,  he  explains  the  circum- 
stances under  which  he  had  himself  first 
engaged  in  politics,  as  well  as  the  revolu- 
tion which  brought  his  party  into  power. 
On  the  completion  of  the  "Memoirs"  — 
they  are  dated  on  the  manuscript  October, 
1714  —  he  began  the  "Enquiry  into  the 
Behavior  of  the  Queen's  Last  Ministry." 
This  is  a  work  of  great  interest  and  value. 
With  a  firm  and  impartial  hand  he  traces 
the  history  of  those  fatal  feuds  which  had 
cost  himself  and  his  friends  so  dear.  He 
makes  no  attempt  —  and  it  is  greatly  to 
his  honor  —  to  palliate  what  was  reprehen- 
sible in  his  own  party,  he  makes  no  at- 
tempt to  exaggerate  what  was  reprehen- 
sible in  their  oppoments.  The  prejudice 
of  friendship  is  discernible  perhaps  in  the 
portraits  of  Oxford,  Bolingbroke,  and 
Ormond,  but  it  is  a  prejudice  which  ex- 
tends no  further  than  their  personal  char- 
acters. As  public  men,  no  more  is 
assigned  to  them  than  is  their  due.  They 
are  as  freely  censured  as  their  neighbors. 
Indeed,  the  pamphlet  is  distinguished 
throughout  by  a  spirit  of  candor  not  to  be 
mistaken. 

But  his  most  elaborate  contribution  to 
contemporary  history  was  a  work  which 
had  been  all  but  completed  before  he  left 
London  —  the  "  Memoirs  of  the  Last  Four 
Years  of  the  Queen."  It  was  commenced 
at  Windsor  probably  in  1713,  and  was,  in 
effect,  a  vindication  of  the  Treaty  of 
Utrecht,  Nothing  he  ever  wrote  seems 
to  have  given  him  so  much  satisfaction. 
He  always  described  it  as  the  best  thing 
he  had  done,  and  it  is  certain  that  he  ex- 
pended more  time  and  labor  on  it  than  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  expending  on  any  of 
his  literary  compositions.  But  the  work, 
as  it  now  appears,  is  so  inferior  to  what 
might  have  been  expected  from  Swift's 
account  of  it,  ihat  it  has  been  sometimes 
doubted  whether  what  we  have  is  from 
the  dean's  hand.  It  was  first  given  to 
the  world  under  circumstances  certainly 
suspicious.  It  was  not  published  until 
thirteen  years  after  his  death.  It  was 
not  printed  from  the  original  manuscript. 


DEAN -SWIFT  IN  IRELAND. 


It  was  not  edited  by  any  member  of  his 
family,  or  by  any  one  having  authority 
from  his  executors.  It  was  printed  by 
an  anonymous  editor  from  a  copy  sur- 
reptitiously taken  by  an  anonymous 
friend.  And  yet  we  have  no  more  doubt 
of  its  genuineness  than  we  have  of  the 
genuineness  of  "Gulliver's  Travels." 
One  piece  of  evidence  alone  seems  to  us 
conclusive.  In  1738  the  original  manu- 
script was  read  by  Erasmus  Lewis,  Lord 
Oxford,  and  others,  in  conclave,  with  a 
view  to  discussing  the  propriety  of  its 
publication.  Their  opinion  was  that  it 
contained  several  inaccuracies  of  state- 
ment, and  those  inaccuracies  Lewis,  in  a 
letter  to  Swift  —  it  may  be  found  in  Swift's 
correspondence  —  categorically  pointed 
out.  Now  a  reference  to  the  printed 
memoirs  will  show  that  they  contain  the 
identical  errors  detected  by  Lewis  and  his 
friends  in  Swift's  manuscript.  Again, 
those  portions  in  the  manuscript  narra- 
tive, which  Lewis  describes  as  most  en- 
tertaining and  instructive,  are  precisely 
those  portions  in  the  printed  work  whicn 
are  undoubtedly  best  entitled  to  that 
praise.  Nor  is  there  anything  improba- 
Die  in  the  assertion  of  the  editor  —  one 
Lucas  —  that  he  printed  the  work  from 
a  transcript  of  the  original  manuscript, 
for  the  original  manuscript,  as  we  know 
from  Dean  Swift,  circulated  freely  among 
Swift *s  friends  in  Dublin.  It  is  certain 
that  Nugent,  Dr.  William  King,  and 
Orrery,  had  perused  that  manuscript,  and 
that  they  were  alive  when  the  printed 
work  appeared ;  it  is  equally  certain  that 
none  of  them  expressed  any  doubt  of 
the  genuineness  of  the  printed  memoirs, 
though  those  memoirs  attracted  so  much 
attention  that  they  were  printed  by  instal- 
ments in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine, 
That  Swift  should  himself  have  attached 
so  much  importance  to  the  work,  is  sin- 
gular, for  it  is  in  truth  little  more  than 
what  it  was  originally  intended  to  be  —  a 
party  pamphlet 

Swift's  life  during  these  years  is  re- 
flected very  faithfully  in  bis  correspon- 
dence. It  was  passed  principally  in  the 
discharge  of  his  clerical  duties,  which  he 
performed  with  scrupulous  conscientious- 
ness; in  improving  the  glebe  of  Laracor; 
in  endeavoring  to  come  to  an  understand- 
ing with  the  archbishop,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  with  his  rebellious  chapter  on  the 
other;  and  in  devising  means  for  escaping 
from  himself,  and  from  the  daily  annoy- 
ances to  which  his  position  exposed  him. 
I*  I  am,"  he  writes  to  Bolingbroke,  "  forced 
into  the  most  trifling  amusements,  to  di- 


vert the  vexation  of  former  tboaghts  and 
present  objects."  He  gardened  and  saun- 
tered ;  he  turned  over  the  Greek  and  Ro- 
man classics ;  he  bandied  nonsense  with 
Sheridan  and  Esther  Johnson ;  he  went 
through  a  course  of  ecclesiastical  history ; 
he  dabbled  in  mathematics.  Thus  much 
the  world  saw:  thus  much  he  imparted 
with  all  the  garrulity  of  Montaigne  and 
Walpole  to  the  friends  who  exchanged 
letters  with  him.  But  there  were  troubr 
les — troubles  which  must  at  this  time 
have  been  weighing  heavily  on  his  mind 
—  which  were  little  suspected  by  the 
world,  and  from  which  he  never  raised 
the  veil  e\*en  to  those  who  knew  him 
best. 

Shortly  after  his  arrii^al  in  London,  in 
the  autumn  of  1710,  he  had  renewed  his  ac- 
quaintince  with  a  lady  of  the  name  of  Van- 
homrigh.  Her  husband,  originally  a  mer- 
chant of  Amsterdam,  but  subsequently  the 
holder  of  lucrative  offices  under  the  gov- 
ernment of  William  III.,  had  died  some 
years  before,  leaving  her  in  easy  circum- 
stances, with  a  family  of  two  sons  and  two 
daughters.  Her  house  was  in  Bury 
Street,  St.  James's,  within  a  few  paces  of 
Swift's  lodgings.  Mrs.  Vanhomrigh  was 
fond  —  indeed,  inordinately  fond  —  of 
society,  and,  as  she  was  not  only  well- 
connected  and  hospitable,  but  the  mother 
of  two  charming  girls  in  the  bloom  of 
youth,  she  had  no  difficulty  in  gratifying 
her  whim.  Among  her  male  guests  she 
could  number  such  distinguished  men  as 
Sir  Andrew  Fountaine.  Among  her  fe- 
male visitors  were  to  be  found  some  of 
the  most  attractive  and  most  accomplished 
young  women  in  England.  There  ap- 
pears, indeed,  to  have  been  no  more 
pleasant  lounge  in  London  than  the  little 
drawing-room  in  Bury  Street.  This  Swift 
soon  discovered.  VVithin  a  few  months 
he  had  come  to  be  regarded  almost  as  a 
member  of  the  family.  He  took  his  coffee 
there  of  an  afternoon ;  he  dropped  in,  as 
the  humor  took  him,  to  breakfast  or  din- 
ner ;  his  best  gown  and  his  best  wig  were 
deposited  there ;  and  when  a  friend  sent 
him  a  flask  of  choice  Florence  or  a  haunch 
of  venison,  it  was  shared  with  his  hospi- 
table neighbors.  With  the  young  ladies. 
Miss  Esther,  who  had  not  yet  completed 
her  twentieth  year,  and  Miss  Molly,  who 
was  a  year  or  two  younger,  he  was  a  great 
favorite.  No  man  thought  more  highly  of 
the  moral  and  intellectual  capacities  of 
women  than  Swift,  and  nothing  gave  him 
so  much  pleasure  as  superintending  their 
education.  What  he  had  done  for  Esther 
Johnson  he  now  aspired  to  do  for  the  Miss 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN  IRELAND. 


Vanhomrigbs,  and,  as  he  foand  his  new 
pupils  as  eager  to  receive  as  he  was  to 
impart  instructioa,  he  devoted  himself 
with  assiduity  to  his  pleasant  task.  So 
passed  —  partly  in  the  innocent  frivolities 
of  social  gatherings,  and  partly  in  the 
graver  intercourse  of  teacher  and  pupil  — 
two  happy  years.  But  towards  the  end  of 
1712,  Swiii  suddenly  perceived,  to  his 
great  embarrassment,  that  the  elder  of  the 
two  sisters  had  conceived  a  violent  pas- 
sion for  him.  The  unhappy  girl,  who  had, 
as  she  well  knew,  received  no  encourage- 
ment, struggled  for  a  while,  with  maiden 
modesty,  to  conceal  her  feelings.  At  this 
point  it  would  have  been  well,  perhaps,  if 
Swift  had  found  some  means  of  withdraw- 
ing. But  he  probably  judged  all  women 
from  the  standard  of  Esther  Johnson. 
She,  too,  had  at  one  time  entertained  feel- 
ings for  him  which  it  was  not  in  his  power 
to  return;  but  had,  as  soon  as  she  saw 
that  reciprocity  of  passion  was  hopeless, 
cheerfully  accepted  friendship  for  love. 
There  was  surely  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  Miss  Vanhomrigh  would  not  consent 
to  make  the  same  compromise,  when  she 
was  convinced  that  there  was  the  same 
necessity.  All  that  was  needed  was  a 
clear  understanding  between  them.  That 
understanding  would,  as  time  went  on, 
be  silently  arrived  at.  But  he  little  knew 
the  character  of  the  woman  with  whom  he 
had  to  deal.  The  less  her  passion  was 
encouraged,  the  more  it  grew.  The  more 
eloquently  he  dilated  on  friendship,  the 
more  rapturously  she  declaimed  on  love. 
As  he  pleaded  tor  the  mind,  she  pleaded 
for  the  heart.  So  for  some  months  they 
continued  to  play  at  cross-purposes,  each 
perceiving,  and  each  disregarding,  the  in- 
nuendoes of  the  other.  At  last  the  poor 
S'rl  could  bear  her  tortures  no  longer,  and, 
scorning  lost  to  all  sense  of  feminine 
delicacy,  threw  herself  at  Swift's  feet. 

And  now  commenced  the  really  culpa- 
ble part  of  Swift*s  conduct.  He  ought  at 
once  to  have  taken  a  decisive  step.  He 
ought  to  have  seen  that  there  were  only 
two  courses  open  to  him  ;  the  one  was  to 
make  her  his  wife,  the  other  was  to  take 
leave  of  her  forever.  Unhappily,  he  did 
neither.  He  merely  proceeded  to  apply 
particularly  what  before  he  had  stated 
generally.  He  continued  to  enlarge  on 
the  superiority  of  friendship  to  love,  and 
he  went  on  to  describe  the  depth  and  sin- 
ceritv  of  the  friendship  which  he  had  long 
felt  H)r  her ;  as  for  her  passion  —  so  ran 
bis  reasoning  —  it  was  a  passing  whim  — 
an  unwelcome  intruder  into  the  paradise 
of  purer  joys.     He  could  not  return  it  — 


no  true  philosopher  would  ;  He  could  offer 
instead  all  that  made  human  intercourse 
most  precious  —  devoted  aff<  ction,  grati- 
tude, respect,  esteem.  AH  (his  he  con- 
trived to  convey  in  such  a  manner  as 
could  not  have  inflicted  a  wound  even  on 
the  most  sensitive  pride.  It  was  con- 
veyed—  perhaps  conveyed  for  the  first 
time  —  in  that  exquisitely  graceful  and 
original  poem  which  has  made  the  name 
of  Esther  Vanhomrigh  deathless.  She 
could  there  read  how  Venus,  provoked  by 
the  complaints  which  were  daily  reaching 
her  about  the  degeneracy  of  the  female 
sex,  resolved  to  retrieve  the  reputation  of 
that  sex ;  how,  with  this  object,  she  called 
into  being  a  matchless  maid,  who,  to  every 
feminine  virtue,  united  every  feminine 
grace  and  charm ;  how,  not  content  with 
endowing  her  paragon  with  all  that  is 
proper  to  woman,  the  goddess  succeeded 
by  a  stratagem  in  inducing  Pallas  to  be- 
stow on  her  the  choicest  of  the  virtues 
proper  to  man ;  how  Pallas,  angry  at  being 
deceived,  consoled  herself  with  the  reflec- 
tion, that  a  being  so  endowed  would  be 
little  likely  to  prove  obedient  to  the  god- 
dess who  had  created  her ;  how  Vanessa, 
for  such  was  the  peerless  creature's  name, 
did  not  for  a  while  belie  the  expectations 
of  Pallas,  but  how  at  last  she  was  attacked 
by  treacherous  Cupid  in  Wisdom's  very 
stronghold.  The  flattered  girl  could  then 
follow  in  a  transparent  allegory  the  whole 
history  of  her  relation  with  her  lover, 
sketched  so  delicately,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  so  humorously,  that  it  must  have 
been  impossible  for  her  either  to  take  of- 
fence or  to  miss  his  meaning.  How 
grievously  Swift  had  erred  in  thus  tem- 
pt, rizing,  became  every  day  more  apparent. 
It  was  in  vain  that  he  now  began  to  ab- 
sent himself  from  Bury  Street.  It  was  in 
vain  that  in  his  letters  he  showed,  in  a 
manner  not  to  be  mistaken,  that  he  had  no 
ear  for  the  language  of  love. 

In  the  summer  of  1714  occurred  an  event 
which  introduced  further  complications  in 
this  unhappy  business.  Mrs.  Vanhom- 
righ died,  leaving  her  affairs  in  a  very 
embarrassed  state.  The  daughters,  who 
appear  to  have  been  on  bad  terms  with 
their  brother,  applied  for  assistance  to 
Swift;  and  Swift,  who  had  at  this  time 
left  London,  was  thus  again  forced  into 
intimate  relations  with  Esther.  Nor  was 
this  all.  By  the  terms  of  her  father's  will 
she  had  become  possessed  of  some  prop- 
erty near  Dublin,  and  Swift  learned,  to 
his  intense  mortification  and  perplexity, 
that,  as  there  was  now  nothing  to  detain 
her  in  England,  it  was  her  intention  to 


8 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


follow  him  to  Ireland  He  at  once  wrote 
off,  imploring  her  to  be  discreet,  and 
pointing  out  how  easily  such  a  relation  as 
theirs  might  be  misinterpreted  by  censo- 
rious people.  Dublin,  he  said,  was  not  a 
place  for  any  freedom;  everything  that 
happened  there  was  known  in  a  week,  and 
everything  that  was  known  was  exagger- 
ated a  hundredfold.  "If/*  he  added, 
**you  are  in  Ireland  while  I  am  there,  I 
shall  see  ^ou  very  seldom."  But  all  was 
of  no  avail,  and,  a  few  weeks  after  his  ar- 
rival in  Dublin,  Esther  and  her  sister 
were  in  lodgings  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
the  deanery. 

Swift*s  position  was  now  perplexing  in 
the  extreme.  By  every  tie  but  one  which 
can  bind  man  to  woman,  he  was  bound  to 
Esther  Johnson.  For  more  than  thirteen 
years  she  had  been  a  portion  of  his  life. 
She  had  been  the  partner  of  his  most  se- 
cret thoughts ;  she  had  been  his  solace  in 
gloom  and  sorrow ;  she  had  been  his  nurse 
in  sickness.  In  retqrn  for  all  this  she  had 
claimed  neither  to  bear  his  name  nor  to 
share  his  fortune :  she  had  been  satisfied 
with  his  undivided  affection.  As  yet 
nothing  had  arisen  to  disturb  their  sweet 
and  placid  intercourse.  Indeed,  he  had 
been  so  careful  to  abstain  from  anything 
which  could  cause  her  uneasiness,  that  in 
his  letters  from  London  he  had  never 
even  alluded  to  his  intimacy  with  Esther 
Vanhomrigh ;  and  poor  Stella,  little  sus- 
pecting the  presence  of  a  rival,  was  now 
in  the  first  Joy  of  having  her  idol  again  at 
her  side.  For  a  while  he  nursed  the  hope 
that  Miss  Vanhomrigh  would,  on  seeing 
that  he  absented  himself  from  her  society, 
withdraw  from  Dublin.  He  was  soon  un- 
deceived. The  more  he  left  her  to  her- 
self, the  more  importunate  she  became. 
The  letters  addressed  by  her  at  this 
period  to  Swift  have  been  preserved,  and 
exhibit  a  state  of  mind  which  it  is  both 
terrible  and  pitiable  to  contemplate.  How 
deeply  Swift  was  affected  by  them,  and 
with  what  tenderness  and  delicacy  he 
acted  under  these  most  trying  circum- 
stances, is  evident  from  his  replies.  One 
of  these  replies  we  transcribe:  — 

I  will  see  you  in  a  day  or  two,  and  believe 
me  it  goes  to  my  soul  not  to  see  you  oftener. 
I  will  give  you  the  best  advice,  countenance, 
and  assistance  I  can.  I  would  have  been  with 
3'ou  sooner  if  a  thousand  impediments  had  not 

Sre vented  roe.  I  did  not  imagine  you  had 
een  under  difficulties.  I  am  sure  my  whole 
fortune  should  go  to  remove  them.  I  cannot 
see  you  to-day,  1  fear,  having  affairs  of  my  own 
place  to  do,  but  pray  think  it  not  want  of  friend- 
ship or  tenderness,  which  I  will  always  continue 
to  the  utmost. 


At  last  she  left  Dublin  and  removed  to 
Celbridge.  There,  in  seclusion,  she  con- 
tinued to  cherish  her  hopeless  passion ; 
there  Swift  for  some  years  regularly  cor- 
responded with  her  and  occasionally 
visited  her;  and  there,  in  1723,  while  still 
in  the  bloom  of  womanhood,  she  died. 

This  is  a  melancholy  story,  but  it  is,  as 
we  need  scarcely  say,  a  story  little  likely 
to  lose  in  the  telling,  and  peculiarly  sus- 
ceptible of  prejudiced  distortion.  It  be- 
hoves us,  therefore,  before  passing  judg- 
ment on  Swift's  conduct,  to  distinguish 
carefully  between  what  has  been  asserted 
and  what  has  been  proved,  between  what 
rests  on  mere  conjecture  and  what  rests 
on  authentic  testimony.  Now  we  may 
say  at  once,  that  all  that  is  certainly 
known  of  his  connection  with  Esther  Van- 
homrigh, is  what  mav  be  gathered  from 
the  letters  that  passed  between  them,  and 
from  his  own  poem  of  "  Cadenus  and  Va- 
nessa," and  all  that  can  be  safely  conjec- 
tured is  that,  when  thev  finally  parted,  they 
parted  abruptlv  and  m  anger.  This  ex- 
hausts the  evicfence  on  which  we  can  fair- 
ly rely  in  judging  Swift;  but  this  is  verv 
far  from  exhausting  the  evidence  on  which 
the  world  has  judged  him.  First  came 
the  almost  incredibly  malignant  perver- 
sions of  Orrery.  Then  came  the  loose 
and  random  gossip  of  Mrs.  Pilkington  and 
Thomas  Sheridan.  Out  of  these,  and 
similar  materials,  Scott  wove  his  dramatic 
narrative;  not,  indeed,  with  any  prejudice 
against  Swift,  but  doing  him  great  injus- 
tice by  disseminating  stories  eminently 
calculuted  to  prejudice  others  against  him. 
Thus  he  tells,  and  tells  most  impressively, 
a  story  which,  if  true,  would  justify  us  in 
believing  the  very  worst  of  Swift.  Esther 
Vanhomrigh  —  so  the  story  runs  —  having 
discovered  his  intimacy  with  Stella,  wrote 
to  her,  requesting  to  know  the  nature  of 
her  connection  with  Swift.  Stella,  indig- 
nant that  such  a  question  should  be  put  to 
her,  placed  the  letter  in  Swift's  hands. 
Swift  instantly  rode  off  in  a  paroxysm  of 
fury  to  Celbridge,  and,  and  abruptly  enter- 
ing the  room  where  Miss  Vanhomrigh  was 
sitting,  flung  the  letter  angrily  on  the 
table,  and  then,  without  saving  a  word, 
remounted  his  horse  and  galloped  back  to 
Dublin.  From  that  moment  he  was  a 
stranger  to  her.  In  a  few  weeks  Vanessa 
was  in  her  grave.  The  authority  cited  for 
this  anecdote  is  Sheridan,  who  wrote 
nearly  sixty  years  after  the  event  he  nar- 
rates ;  who  is  confessedly  among  the  most 
inaccurate  and  uncritical  of  Swift's  biog- 
raphers; whose  habit  of  grossly  exagger- 
ating whatever  he  described  is  notorious, 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


and  who  has  been  more  than  once  sus- 
pected of  enlivening  his  pages  with  de- 
liberate fabrications.  In  the  present  case, 
however,  he  had  contented  himself  with 
embellishment;  for  the  story  had  been 
already  told,  first  by  Orrery,  in  whose 
hands  it  had  assumed  an  entirely  differ- 
ent form,  and  secondly  by  Hawkesworth, 
who  merely  copied  what  he  found  in  Or- 
rery. What  Orrery  says  is,  that  Vanessa 
wrote,  not  to  Stella,  but  to  Swift ;  and  that 
the  object  of  her  letter  was,  not  to  as- 
certain the  nature  of  Swift's  connection 
with  her  rival,  but  to  ascertain  his  inten- 
tions with  regard  to  herself;  in  other 
words,  to  insist  on  knowing  whether  it 
was  his  intention  to  make  her  his  wife. 
Why  the  letter,  which  he  describes  as  a 
very  tender  one  —  it  would  be  interesting 
to  know  how  he  could  have  seen  it  — 
should  have  had  such  an  effect  on  Swift, 
be  has  not  condescended  to  explain.  But 
Orrery's  whole  story  is  not  only  in  itself 
monstrously  improbable,  but  it  rests  on 
bis  own  unsupported  testimony;  and  on 
the  value  of  Orrery's  unsupported  testi- 
mony it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  comment. 
Such  is  the  evidence  in  support  of  one  of 
the  gravest  of  the  charges  which  have 
been  brought  against  Swift,  with  respect 
to  Vanessa.  Again,  Scott  asserts,  still 
following  Sheridan,  that,  on  hearing  of 
Miss  Vanhomrigh's  death,  Swift  "re- 
treated in  an  agony  of  self-reproach  and 
remorse  into  the  south  of  Ireland,  where 
he  spent  two  months,  without  the  place 
of  his  abode  being  known  to  any  one." 
Nothing  can  be  more  untrue.  A  refer- 
ence to  his  correspondence  at  this  period 
will  show  that  he  had  long  intended  to 
take  what  he  calls  a  southern  journey; 
that  many  of  his  friends  were  acquainted 
with  his  movements ;  and  that,  so  far  from 
wishing  to  bury  himself  in  solitude,  he 
was  extremely  vexed  that  a  clergyman, 
who  had  promised  to  be  his  companion, 
disappointed  him  at  the  last  moment. 
That  Miss  Vanhomrigh's  death  deeply 
distressed  him,  is  likely  enough;  that  it 
excited  in  him  any  such  emotions  as  Scott 
and  Sheridan  describe,  requires  better 
proof  than  evidence  which,  on  the  only 
point  on  which  it  is  capable  of  being 
tested,  turns  out  to  be  false. 

To  pass,  however,  from  what  is  apocrv- 
phal  to  what  is  authentic.  A  careful  studv 
of  the  letters  which  passed  between  Swift 
and  Vanessa  has  satisfied  us  that  bis  con- 
duct was,  throughout,  far  less  culpable 
than  it  would  at  first  sizht  seem  to  have 
been.  It  resolves  itself,  in  fact,  into  one 
great  error.    As  sooq  as  be  discovered 


that  he  had  inspired  a  passion  which  he 
was  unable  to  return,  his  intercourse  with 
Miss  Vanhomrigh  should  have  immediate- 
ly ceased.  All  that  followed,  followed  as 
the  result  of  that  error.  And  yet  that 
error  was,  as  his  poem  and  correspon- 
dence clearly  show,  a  mere  error  of  judg- 
ment. Had  he  been  aware  that,  by  con- 
tinuing the  intimacy,  he  was  pursuing  a 
course  which  would  be  fatal  to  the  girl's 
happiness,  he  was  either  under  the  spell 
of  a  libertine  passion,  or  he  was  a  man  of 
a  nature  inconceivably  callous  and  brutal. 
That  he  was  no  libertme,  is  admitted  even 
bv  those  who  have  taken  the  least  favora- 
ble view  of  his  conduct ;  that  he  was  nei- 
ther callous  nor  brutal,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, a  man  pre-eminently  distinguished 
by  humanity  and  tenderness,  is  admitted 
by  no  one  more  emphatically  than  by  Miss 
Vanhomrigrh  herself.  The  truth  is,  that 
he  recognized  no  essential  distinction  be* 
tween  the  affection  which  exists  between 
man  and  man,  and  the  affection  which  ex- 
ists between  man  and  woman.  He  knew, 
indeed,  that  in  the  latter  case  it  frequent- 
ly becomes  complicated  with  passion,  but 
such  a  complication  he  regarded  as  purely 
accidental.  1 1  was  a  mere  excretion  which, 
without  the  nutrition  of  sympathetic  folly, 
would  wither  up  and  perish.  It  was  a 
fault  of  the  heart,  which  the  head  would 
and  should  correct.  Hence  he  saw  no 
necessity  for  breaking  off  a  friendship 
which  he  valued.  Hence  the  indifference, 
the  easy  jocularity,  with  which,  after  the 
first  emotion  of  surprise  was  over,  he  per- 
sistently treated  the  poor  girl's  rhapsodies. 
Time  passed  on,  ana  before  he  could  dis- 
cover his  error  it  was  too  late  to  repair  it. 
From  the  moment  of  Mrs.  Vanhomrigh's 
death  he  was,  in  truth,  involved  in  a  laby- 
rinth, out  of  which  it  was  not  merely  diffi- 
cult, but  simply  impossible,  to  extricate 
himself.  If  he  attempted,  as  he  twice  did 
attempt,  to  take  the  step  to  which  duty 
pointed,  entreaties  which  would  have 
melted  a  heart  far  more  obdurate  than  bis, 
instantly  recalled  him.  Could  he  leave  a 
miserable  eirl  —  such  is  the  burden  of  the 
first  appeal  which  was  made  to  him  —  to 
struggle  alone  with  '*  a  wretch  of  a  broth- 
er, cunning  executors,  and  importunate 
creditors"?  "Pray  what,"  she  asks, 
"can  be  wrong  in  seeing  and  advising  an 
unhappy  young  woman?**  "All  I  beg  is, 
that  you  will  tor  once  counterfeit,  since 
you  can't  do  otherwise,  that  indulgent 
friend  you  once  were,  till  I  get  the  better 
of  these  difficulties.'*  He  assists  her;  he 
visits  her;  he  sees  her  safely  through  her 
difficulties,  and  he  again  withdraws.  Upon 


xo 


DEAN  SWIFT  IN  IRELAND. 


that,  she  breaks  out  into  hysterical  rav- 
log,  informs  him  that  she  had  been  on  the 
point  of  destroying  herself,  and  appeals  to 
him  in  the  most  piteous  terms  to  renew 
bis  visits.  To  this  he  replies  in  the  letter 
which  we  have  already  quoted ;  and  he 
grants  the  favor  so  importunately  and  in- 
delicately extorted.  It  is  remarkable  that 
throughout  the  whole  correspondence  she 
makes  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact  that 
she  is  forcing  herself  upon  him,  frankly 
admitting  over  and  over  again  that  there 
had  been  nothing  either  in  his  actions  or 
in  his  words  to  justify  her  conduct.  We 
have  searched  carefully  for  any  indica- 
tions of  a  belief,  or  »ven  of  a  hint  on  her 
part,  that  she  had  been  deceived  or  mis- 
led. Nothing  of  the  kind  is  to  be  found. 
From  beginning  to  end  it  is  the  same 
story ;  on  the  woman's  side,  blind,  uncon- 
trollable passion;  on  Swift's  side,  per- 
plexity, commiseration,  undeviating  kind- 
ness. "Believe  me,''  she  says  at  the 
commencement  of  one  of  her  letters,  **  it 
IS  with  the  utmost  regret  that  I  now  com- 
plain to  you,  because  I  know  your  good 
nature  that  you  cannot  see  any  human 
creature  miserable  without  being  sensibly 
touched;  yet  what  can  I  do?  I  must 
unload  my  heart."  But  she  was  not  al- 
ways, it  may  be  added,  in  the  melting 
mood.  Occasionally  she  expressed  her- 
self in  very  different  language.  It  is  easy 
to  conceive  Swift's  embarrassment  on 
having  the  following  missive  handed  in  to 
him  while  entertaining  a  party  of  friends 
at  the  deanery :  — 

I  believe  you  thought  I  only  rallied  when  I 
told  you  the  other  night  that  I  would  pester 
you  with  letters.  Once  more  I  advise  you,  if 
you  have  any  regard  for  your  own  quiet,  to 
alter  your  behavior  quickly,  — 

that  is,  to  visit  her  more  frequently, 
though  he  had  already  told  her  that  scan- 
dal was  beginning  to  be  busy  with  their 
names, — 

for  I  have  too  much  spirit  to  sit  down  con- 
tented with  this  treatment.  Pray  think  calmly 
of  it  1  Is  it  not  better  to  come  of  yourself  than 
to  be  brought  by  force,  and  that  perhaps  when 
you  have  the  most  agreeable  engagement  in  the 
world  [an  allusion  probably  to  Esther  Johnson] 
for  when  I  undertstke  anything,  I  don't  love  to 
do  it  by  halves. 

In  a  letter  written  not  long  afterwards, 
he  complains  bitterly  of  the  embarrass- 
ment which  one  of  her  communications 
bad  caused.  "  I  received  your  letter,"  he 
writes,  "when  some  company  was  with 
me  on  Saturday,  and  it  put  me  into  such 
confusion,  that  I  could  not  tell  what  to 


do."  His  patience  was  often,  no  doobt, 
severely  tried,  and  bis  irritation  appears 
occasionally  to  have  found  sharp  expres- 
sion. But  it  is  clear  from  his  letters  that 
until  within  a  few  months  of  Vanessa's 
death  he  studied  in  every  way  to  soothe 
and  cheer  her.  What  finally  parted  them 
we  have  now  no  means  of  knowing.  That 
they  parted  in  anger  and  were  never  af- 
terwards reconciled  seems  pretty  certain. 
It  is  possible  that  the  habits  of  intemper- 
ance, to  which  Miss  Vanhomrigh  latterly 
gave  way,  may  have  led  to  some  action 
or  some  expression  which  Swift  could 
neither  pardon  nor  forget. 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  speak  a  harsh  or 
disrespectful  word  of  this  unhappy  wom- 
an. Never,  perhaps,  has  the  grave  closed 
over  a  sadder  or  more  truly  tragical  life. 
It  is  a  story  which  no  man  of  sensibility 
could  possibly  follow  without  deep  emo- 
tion. But  such  emotion  should  not  be 
permitted  to  blind  us  to  justice  and  truth. 
We  do  most  strongly  protest  against  the 
course  adopted  by  writers  like  Jeffrey  and 
Thackeray,  in  treating  of  this  portion  of 
Swift's  life.  Thev  assume  that  the  meas- 
ure of  Vanessa's  frenzy  is  the  measure  of 
Swift's  culpability.  They  argue  that, 
because  she  was  infatuated,  he  was  in- 
human. They  print  long  extracts  from 
her  ravings,  and  then  ask,  with  indigna- 
tion, whether  there  could  be  two  opinions 
about  the  man  whose  conduct  had  wrought 
such  wretchedness.  Nor  is  it  surprising 
that  they  should  have  carried  their  point. 
The  world  knows  that,  when  women  ad- 
dress men  in  such  language  as  Vanessa 
addresses  Swift,  they  are  not  as  a  rule 
taking  the  initiative;  that  if  feminine 
passion  is  strong,  feminine  delicacy  is 
stronger;  and  that  nothing  is  more  im- 
probable than  that  a  young  and  eminently 
attractive  woman  should,  for  twelve 
years,  continue,  without  the  smallest  en- 
couragement, to  force  her  love  on  a  man 
who,  though  double  her  age,  was  still  in 
the  prime  of  life.  And  yet  this  was  most 
assuredly  the  case.  VVe  sincerely  pity 
Vanessa,  but  we  contend  that  there  was 
nothing  in  Swift's  conduct  to  justify  the 
charges  which  hostile  biographers  have 
brought  against  him.  Indeed,  we  feel 
strongly  tempted  to  exclaim  with  honest 
Webster  — 

Condemn  you  him  for  that  the  maid  did  love 

him? 
So  may  you  blame  some  fair  and  crystal  river 
For  that  some  melancholic  distracted  woman 
Hath  drown*d  herself  in  't. 

But  it  is  only  right  to  say  that  those 


DEAN  SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


IX 


wbo  have  judged  him  thus  harshly  have 
proceeded  on  an  assumption  which  would, 
if  correct,  have  greatly  modified  our  own 
view  of  the  question.  If  Swift  was  the 
husband  of  Esther  Johnson,  we  admit, 
without  the  smallest  hesitation,  that  his 
conduct  was  all  that  his  enemies  would 
represent  it.  It  was  at  once  cruel  and 
mean  ;  it  was  at  once  cowardly  and  treach- 
erous; it  was  at  once  lying  and  h3'pocriti- 
cal.  In  that  case  every  visit  he  paid, 
every  letter  he  wrote  to  Miss  Vanhom- 
righ,  subseauent  to  1716,  was  derogatory 
to  him.  We  will  go  further.  In  that 
case,  we  are  prepared  to  believe  the  very 
worst  of  him,  not  only  in  his  relations 
with  Stella  and  Vanessa,  but  in  his  rela- 
tions with  men  and  the  world.  In  that 
case,  there  is  no  ambiguous  action,  either 
in  his  public  or  in  his  private  career,  which 
does  not  become  pregnant  with  suspicion. 
For  in  that  case,  he  stands  convicted  of 
having  passed  half  his  life  in  systemati- 
cally practising,  and  in  compelling  the 
woman  he  loved  to  practise  systematically, 
the  two  vices,  which  of  all  vices  he  pro- 
fessed to  hold  in  the  deepest  abhorrence. 
Those  who  know  anything  of  Swift,  know 
with  what  loathing  he  always  shrank  from 
anything  bearing  the  remotest  resem- 
blance to  duplicity  and  falsehood.  As  a 
political  pamphleteer,  he  might,  like  his 
brother  penmen,  allow  himself  license, 
but  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  life  it 
was  his  habit  to  exact  and  assume  abso- 
lute sincerity.  It  was  the  virtue,  indeed, 
on  which  be  ostentatiouslv  prided  himself ; 
it  was  the  virtue  by  whicn,  in  the  opinion 
of  those  who  were  intimate  with  him,  he 
was  most  distinguished.  "  Dr.  Swift  may 
be  described,"  observed  Bolingbroke  on 
one  occasion,  "  as  a  hypocrite  reversed." 
In  discussing,  therefore,  the  question  of 
bis  supposed  marriage,  the  point  at  issue 
is  not  simply  whether  he  was  the  husband 
of  Esther  Johnson,  but  whether  we  are  to 
believe  him  capable  of  acting  in  a  manner 
▼holly  inconsistent  with  his  principles 
and  his  reputation.  In  other  words, 
whether  we  are  to  believe  that  a  man 
whose  scrupulous  veracity  and  whose  re- 
pugnance to  untruth  in  any  form  were 
proverbial,  would,  with  the  ooject  of  con- 
cealing what  there  was  surely  no  adequate 
moti\'e  for  concealing,  deliberately  devise 
the  subtlest  and  most  elaborate  system  of 
hypocrisy  ever  yet  exposed  to  the  world. 
We  will  illustrate  what  we  mean.  It  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  remind  our  readers 
that  the  documents  bearing  on  Swift's  re- 
lations with  Esther  Johnson  are  very 
voluminous,  and,  from  a  biographical  point 


of  view,  of  unusual  value.  We  have  the 
verses  which  he  was  accustomed  to  send 
to  her  on  the  anniversary  of  her  birthday. 
We  have  the  journal  addressed  to  her 
during  his  residence  in  London.  We 
have  allusions  to  her  in  his  most  secret 
memoranda.  We  have  the  letters  written 
in  agony  to  Worral,  Stopford,  and  Sheri- 
dan, when  he  expected  that  every  post 
would  bring  him  news  of  her  death.  We 
have  the  prayers  which  he  offered  up  at 
her  bedside  during  her  last  hours;  and 
we  have  the  whole  history  of  his  acquaint- 
ance with  her,  written  with  his  own  hand 
while  she  was  still  lying  unburied,  —  a 
history  intended  for  no  eye  but  his  own. 
Now,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
these  documents,  there  is  not  one  line 
which  could  by  any  possibility  be  tortured 
into  an  indication  that  she  was  his  wife. 
Throughout,  the  language  is  the  same. 
He  addresses  her  as  the  "kindest  and 
wisest  of  his  friends."  He  described  her 
in  his  memoir  as  "the  truest,  most  virtu- 
ous  and  valuable  friend  that  I,  or  perhaps 
any  other  person,  was  ever  blessed  with." 
In  all  his  letters  he  alludes  to  her  in  simi- 
lar terms.  In  the  diary  at  Holyhead  she 
is  his  "dearest  friend."  At  her  bedside, 
when  the  end  was  hourly  expected,  he 
prays  for  her  as  his  "dear  and  useful 
friend."  "  There  is  not,"  he  writes  to  Dr. 
Stopford  on  the  occasion  of  Stella's  fatal 
illness,  "a  greater  folly  than  that  of  en- 
tering into  too  strict  and  particular  friend- 
ship, with  the  loss  of  which  a  man  must 
be  absolutely  miserable,  but  especially  at 
an  age  when  it  is  too  late  to  engage  in  a 
new  friendship ;  besides,  this  was  a  per- 
son of  my  own  rearing  and  instructing 
from  childhood;  but,  pardon  me,  I  know 
not  what  I  am  saying,  but,  believe  me, 
that  violent  friendship  is  much  more  last- 
ing and  engaging  than  violent  love."  If 
Stella  was  his  wife,  could  hypocrisy  go 
further?*  It  is  certain  that  he  not  only 
led  all  who  were  acquainted  with  him  to 
believe  that  he  was  unmarried,  but  when-, 
ever  he  spoke  of  wedlock,  he  spoke  of  it 

*  Is  it  credible  that  a  man  could  have  addressed  a 
woman  who  had,  if  the  theory  of  the  roamage  is  true, 
been  his  wife  for  four  years,  in  lines  like  these  — lines, 
we  may  add,  intended  for  no  eyes  but  her  own? 

**  Thou  Stella  wert  no  longer  young 
When  first  for  thee  my  harp  was  strung^ 
Without  one  word  of  Cupid's  darts, 
Of  killing  eves  or  bleeding  hearts. 
With  friendship  and  esteem  possesaPd 
I  ne'er  admitted  love  a  ^est. 
In  all  the  habitudes  of  hfe, 
The^  friend,  the  mistress,  and  the  wife, 
Variety  we  still  pursue. 
In  pleasure  seek  for  something  new ; 
But  his  pursuits  are  at  an  end 
Whom  Stella  chooses  for  a  friend." 


12 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


as  a  thing  atterly  alien  to  bis  tastes  and 
inclinations.  "I  never  yet," he  once  said 
to  a  gentleman  who  was  speaking  to  hinn 
about  marriage,  **  saw  the  woman  I  would 
wish  to  make  my  wife."  It  would  be  easy 
to  multiply  instances,  both  in  his  corre- 
spondence and  in  his  recorded  conversa- 
tion, in  which,  if  he  was  even  formally  a 
married  man,  he  went  out  of  his  way  to 
indulge  in  unnecessary  hypocrisy.  What, 
again,  could  be  more  improbable  than  that 
Esther  Johnson,  a  woman  of  distinguished 
piety,  nay  a  woman  whose  detestation  of 
falsehood  formed,  as  Swift  has  himself 
told  us,  one  of  her  chief  attractions,  would, 
when  on  the  point  of  death,  preface  her 
will  with  a  wholly  gratuitious  lie?  For 
not  only  is  that  will  signed  with  her 
maiden  name,  but  in  the  nrst  clause  she 
describes  herself  as  an  unmarried  woman. 
The  external  evidence  against  the  mar- 
riage appears  to  us  equally  conclusive. 
If  there  was  any  person  entitled  to  speak 
with  authority  on  the  subject,  that  person 
was  assuredly  Mrs.  Dingley.  For  twenty- 
nine  years,  from  the  commencement,  that 
is  to  say,  of  Swift's  intimate  connection 
with  Miss  Johnson  till  the  day  of  Miss 
Johnson's  death,  she  had  been  her  insep- 
arable companion,  her  friend  and  confi- 
dante. She  had  shared  the  same  lodg- 
ings with  her;  it  was  understood  that 
Swift  and  Esther  were  to  havie  no  secrets 
apart  from  her.  When  they  met,  they 
met  in  her  presence;  w»hat  they  wrote, 
passed,  by  Swift's  special  request,  through 
her  hands.  Now  it  is  well  known  that 
Mrs.  Dingley  was  convinced  that  no  mar- 
riage had  ever  taken  place.  The  whole 
story  was,  shesaid,  anidle  tale.  Two  of 
Stella's  executors.  Dr.  Corbet  and  Mr. 
Rochford,  distinctly  stated  that  no  suspi- 
cion of  a  marriage  had  ever  even  crossed 
their  minds,  though  they  had  seen  the  dean 
and  Esther  together  a  thousand  times. 
Swift's  housekeeper,  Mrs  Brent,  a  shrewd 
and  observant  woman,  who  resided  at  the 
deanery  during  the  whole  period  of  her 
master  s  intimacy  with  Miss  Johnson,  was 
satisfied  that  there  had  been  no  marriage. 
So  said  Mrs.  Ridgeway,  w^ho  succeeded 
her  as  housekeeper,  and  who  watched 
over  the  dean  in  his  declining  years.  But 
no  testimony  will,  we  think,  be  allowed  to 
carry  greater  weight  than  that  of  Dr,  John 
Lyon.  He  was  one  of  Swift's  most  inti- 
mate friends,  and  when  the  state  of  the 
dean's  health  was  such  that  it  had  become 
necessary  to  place  him  under  surveillance, 
Lyon  was  the  person  selected  to  under- 
take the  duty.  He  lived  with  him  at  the 
deanery;    he  had  full  control  over  his 


papers ;  he  was  consequently  brought  into 
contact  with  all  who  corresponded  with 
him,  and  with  all  who  visited  him.  He 
had  thus  at  his  command  every  contem- 
porary source  of  information.  Not  long 
after  the  story  was  6rst  circulated,  he  set 
to  work  to  ascertain,  if  possible,  the 
truth.  The  result  of  his  investigations 
was  to  convince  him  that  there  was  abso- 
lutely no  foundation  for  it  but  popular 
gossip,  unsupported  by  a  particle  of  evi- 
dence. 

Such  is  the  evidence  against  the  mar- 
riage. We  will  now  briefly  review  the 
evidence  in  its  favor.  The  first  writer 
who  mentions  it  is  Orrery,  and  his  words 
are  these  :  '*  Stella  was  the  concealed  but 
undoubted  wife  of  Dr.  Swift,  and  if  my 
informations  are  right,  she  was  married 
to  him  in  the  year  1716  by  Dr.  Ash,  then 
Bishop  of  Clogher."  On  this  we  shall 
merely  remark  that  he  offers  no  proof 
whatever  of  what  he  asserts,  though  he 
must  have  known  well  enough  that  what 
he  asserted  was  contrary  to  current  tradi- 
tion ;  that  in  thus  expressing  himself  he 
was  guilty  of  gross  inconsistency,  as  he 
had  nine  years  before  maintained  the  op- 
posite opinion ;  *  and  that  there  is  every 
reason  to  believe  that  he  resorted  to  this 
fiction,  as  he  resorted  to  other  fictions, 
with  the  simple  object  of  seasoning  his 
narrative  with  the  piquant  scandal  in 
which  he  notoriously  delighted.  The  next 
deponent  is  Delany,  whose  independent 
testimony  would,  we  admit,  have  carried 
great  weight  with  it.  But  Delany  simply 
follows  Orrery,  without  explaining  his 
reason  for  doing  so,  without  bringing  for- 
ward anything  in  proof  of  what  Orrery 
had  stated,  and  without  contributing  a 
single  fact  on  his  own  authority.  Such 
was  the  story  in  its  first  stage.  In  1780 
a  new  particular  was  added,  and  a  new 
authority  was  cited.  The  new  particular 
was,  that  the  marriage  took  place  in  the 
garden  ;  the  new  authority  was  Dr.  Sam- 
uel Madden,  and  the  narrator  was  Dr. 
Johnson.  Of  Madden  it  may  suffice  to 
say  that  there  is  no  proof  that  he  was 
acquainted  either  with  Swift  himself  or 
with  any  member  of  Swift's  circle ;  that 
in  temper  and  blood  he  was  half  French, 
half  Irish ;  and  that  as  a  writer  he  is  chiefly 
known  as  the  author  of  a  work  wilder  and 
more  absurd  than  the  wildest  and  most 
absurd  of  Whiston's  prophecies,  or  As- 
gill's  paradoxes.  On  the  value  of  the 
unsupported  testimony  of  such  a  person 

*  See  his  letter  to  Deane  Swift,  dated  Dec  4th, 
174a ;  Scott,  vol.  xiz.,  p.  336. 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


13 


there  is  sorely  do  necessity  for  comment- 
ing.  Next  comes  Sheridan^s  account, 
which,  as  it  adds  an  incident  very  much 
to  Swift's  discredit,  it  is  necessary  to  ex- 
amine with  some  care.  The  substance  of 
It  is  this.  That,  at  the  earnest  solicita- 
tion of  Stella,  Swift  consented  to  marry 
her:  that  the  marriage  ceremony  was 
performed  without  witnesses,  and  on  two 
conditions  ;  first,  that  they  should  con- 
tinue to  live  separately;  and  secondly, 
that  their  union  should  remain  a  secret: 
that  for  some  years  these  conditions  were 
observed,  but  that  on  her  death-bed  Stella 
implored  Swift  to  acknowledge  her  as  his 
wife ;  that  to  this  request  Swift  made  no 
reply,  but,  turning  on  his  heel,  left  the 
room,  and  never  afterwards  saw  her. 
The  first  part  of  this  story  he  professes 
to  have  derived  from  Mrs.  Sican,  the  sec- 
ond part  from  his  father.  We  should  be 
sorry  to  charge  Sheridan  with  deliberate 
falsehood,  but  his  whole  account  of  Swi(t's 
relations  with  Miss  Johnson  teems  with 
inconsistencies  and  improbabilities  so 
glaring,  that  it  is  impossible  to  place  the 
smallest  confidence  in  what  he  says.  He 
here  tells  us  that  the  marriage  had  been 
kept  a  profound  secret;  in  another  place 
he  tells  us  that  Stella  had  herself  com- 
municated it  to  Miss  Vanhomrigh.  He 
admits  that  the  only  unequivocal  proof  of 
the  marriage  is  the  evidence  of  Dr.  Sheri- 
dan, and  yet  in  his  account  of  the  mar- 
riage he  cites  as  his  authority,  not  Dr. 
Sheridan,  but  Mrs.  Sican.  But  a  single 
circumstance  is,  we  think,  quite  sufficient 
to  prove  the  utterly  untrustworthy  charac- 
ter of  his  assertions.  He  informs  us,  on 
the  authority  of  his  father,  that  Stella  was 
so  enraged  by  Swift*s  refusal  to  acknowl- 
edge her  as  his  wife,  that  to  spite  and 
annoy  him  she  bequeathed  her  fortune  to 
a  public  charity.  A  reference  to  Swift's 
correspondence*  will  show  that  it  was  in 
accordance  with  his  wishes  that  she  thus 
disposed  of  her  property.  A  reference  to 
the  will  itself  will  show  that,  so  far  from 
expressing  ill-will  towards  him,  she  left 
him  her  strong  box  and  all  her  papers. 
Nor  is  this  all.  His  statement  is  flatly  con- 
tradicted both  by  Delany  and  by  Deane 
Swift.  Delany  tells  us  that  he  had  been 
informed  by  a  friend  that  Swift  had  ear- 
nestly desired  to  acknowledge  the  mar- 
riage, but  that  Stella  had  wished  it  to 
remain  a  secret.  Deane  Swift  assured 
Orrery,  on  the  authority  of  Mrs.  White- 
way,  that  Stella  had  told  Sheridan  **that 
Swift  had  ofEered  to  declare  the  marriage 

•  *  Se«  Swift's  letter  to  Worral  dated  July  15th,  1736. 


to  the  world,  but  that  she  had  refused." 
Again,  Sheridan  asserts  that  his  father, 
Dr.  Sheridan,  was  present  during  the  sup- 
posed conversation  between  Swift  and 
Stella.  Mrs.  White  way,  on  the  contrary, 
assured  Deane  Swift  that  Dr.  Sheridan 
was  not  present  on  that  occasion. 

This  brings  us  to  the  last  deponent 
whose  evidence  is  worth  consideration. 
In  1789  Mr.  Monck  Berkeley  brought  for- 
ward the  authority  of  a  Mrs.  Hearne,  who 
was,  it  seems,  a  niece  of  Esther  Johnson, 
to  prove  that  the  dean  had  made  Stella 
his  wife.  As  nothing,  however,  is  known 
of  the  history  of  Mrs.  Hearne,  and  as  she 
cited  nothing  in  corroboration  of  her 
statement,  except  vaguely  that  it  was  a 
tradition  among  her  relatives  —  a  tradi- 
tion which  was  of  course  just  as  likely  to 
have  had  its  origin  from  the  narratives  of 
Orrery  and  Delany  as  in  any  authentic 
communication,  —  no  importance  what- 
ever can  be  attached  to  it.  But  the  evi- 
dence on  which  Monck  Berkeley  chiefly 
relied  was  not  that  of  Mrs.  Hearne.  **I 
was,"  he  says,  "  informed  by  the  relict  of 
Bishop  Berkeley  that  her  husband  had  as- 
sured her  of  the  truth  of  Swift's  marriage, 
as  the  Bishop  of  Clogher,  who  had  per- 
formed the  ceremony,  had  himself  com- 
municated the  circumstance  to  him."  If 
this  could  be  depended  on,  it  would,  of 
course,  be  of  great  importance.  But,  un- 
fortunately for  Monck  Berkeley,  and  for 
Monck  Berkeley's  adherents,  it  can  be 
conclusively  proved  that  no  such  commu- 
nication could  have  taken  place.  In  17 15, 
a  year  before  the  suppoised  marriage  was 
solemnized,  Berkeley  was  in  Italy,  where 
he  remained  till  1721.  Between  1716  and 
1717  it  is  certain  that  the  Bishop  of 
Clogher  never  left  Ireland,  and  at  the  end 
of  1717  he  died.  As  for  the  testimony  on 
which  Scott  lays  so  much  stress,  the  story, 
we  mean,  about  Mrs.  Whiteway  having 
heard  Swift  mutter  to  Stella  that  **  if  she 
wished,  it  should  be  owned,"  and  of  hav- 
ing heard  Stella  sigh  back  to  Swift  that 
''it  was  too  late;"  we  shall  merely  ob- 
serve, first,  that  it  was  communicated 
about  ninety  years  after  the  supposed 
words  had  been  spoken,  not  by  the  son  of 
Mrs.  Whiteway,  who,  had  he  known  of  it 
or  had  he  attached  the  smallest  impor- 
tance to  it,  would  have  inserted  it  in  his 
•*  Memoirs  of  Swift,"  but  by  her  grand- 
son, Theophilus  Swift,  a  person  of  no  note 
and  of  no  authority ;  secondly,  it  was  ad- 
mitted that  those  words,  and  that  those 
words  only,  had  been  heard,  and  that  con- 
sequently there  was  nothing  to  indicate 
either  that  the  words  themselves,  or  that 


u 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN  IRELAND. 


the  conversation  of  which  they  formed  a 
portion,  bad  any  reference  to  the  mar- 
riage. 

How  then  stands  the  case?  Even 
thus.  Against  the  marriage  we  have  the 
fact  that  there  is  no  documentary  evidence 
of  its  having  been  solemnized;  that,  so 
far  from  there  being  any  evidence  of  it 
deducible  from  the  conduct  of  Swift  and 
Stella,  Orrery  himself  admits  that  it 
would  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to 
prove  that  they  had  ever  been  alone  to- 
gether during  their  whole  lives.  We  have 
the  fact,  that  Esther  Johnson,  at  a  time 
when  there  could  have  been  no  possible 
motive  for  falsehood,  emphatically  as- 
serted that  she  was  unmarried :  the  fact, 
that  Swift  led  every  one  to  believe  that  he 
was  unmarried :  the  fact,  that  Esther 
Johnson's  bosom  friend  and  inseparable 
companion  was  satis6ed  that  there  had 
been  no  marriage:  the  fact,  that  two  of 
Swift's  housekeepers,  two  of  Stella's  ex- 
ecutors, and  Dr.  Lyon,  were  satisfied  that 
there  had  been  no  marriage.  It  is  easy 
to  say  that  all  that  has  been  advanced 
merely  proves  that  the  marriage  was  a 
secret,  and  that  the  secret  was  well  kept. 
But  that  is  no  answer.  The  question 
must  be  argued  on  evidence ;  and  it  is  in- 
cumbent on  those  who  insist,  in  the  teeth 
of  such  evidence  as  we  have  adduced,  that 
a  marriage  was  solemnized,  to  produce 
evidence  as  satisfactory.  This  they  have 
failed  to  do.*  Till  they  have  done  so,  we 
decline  to  charge  Swift  with  mendacity 
and  hypocrisy,  and  to  convict  him  of  hav- 
ing acted  both  meanly  and  treacherously 
in  his  dealings  with  the  two  women  whose 
names  will,  tor  all  time,  be  bound  up  with 
his.  In  itself  it  matters  not,  as  we  need 
scarcely  say,  two  straws  to  any  one 
whether  Swift  was  or  was  not  the  husband 
of  Stella.  But  it  matters,  we  submit,  a 
great  deal  whether  the  world  is  to  be  jus- 
tified in  casting  a  slur  on  the  memory  of 
an  illustrious  man. 

But  to  return  from  our  long  digression. 
In  the  summer  of  1720  appeared  the  first 
of  those  famous  pamphlets,  which  have 
made  the  name  of  Swift  imperishable  in 
Irish  annals.  It  was  entitled  **  A  Proposal 
for  the  Universal  Use  of  Irish  Manufac- 
tures," and  its  ostensible  object  was  to 
induce  the  people  of  Ireland  to  rely  en- 
tirely, so  far  at  least  as  house  furniture 
and  wearing  apparel  were  concerned,  on 


*  We  have  read  with  care  Mr.  Craik*s  elaborate  dts- 
cnBsion  in  favor  of  the  marriage.  We  can  onlv  aay  that 
we  are  greatly  lurpri&ed  that  Mr.  Craik  ihould,  on  such 
evidence  as  he  there  adduces,  think  himself  justified  in 
Mserting  oonfidenily  that  the  marriage  took  place. 


their  own  industry  and  on  their  own  prod- 
uce; and  to  close  their  markets  against 
everything  wearable  which  should  be  im- 
ported from  England.  In  the  first  part  of 
this  proposal  there  was  nothing  new.  It 
was  merely  the  embodiment  of  a  resolu- 
tion which  had  been  repeatedly  passed  by 
the  Irish  House  of  Commons,  and  passed 
without  opposition  from  the  crown.  We 
greatly  doubt  whether  even  the  second 
part  of  the  proposal,  audacious  though  it 
undoubtedly  was,  would  in  itself  have  pro- 
voked the  English  government  to  retali- 
ate. But  the  ostensible  object  of  the 
pamphlet,  as  it  requires  very  little  pene- 
tration to  see,  was  by  no  means  its  onl^ 
or  indeed  its  chief  object.  In  effect  it 
was  a  bitter  protest  against  the  inhuman- 
ity and  injustice  which  had  since  1665 
characterized  the  Irish  policy  of  England ; 
and  it  was  an  appeal  to  Ireland  to  assert 
her  independence  in  the  only  way  in 
which  fortune  had  as  yet  enabled  her. 
Both  as  a  protest  and  as  an  appeal,  the 
pamphlet  was  equally  justified.  Even 
now,  on  recalling  those  cruel  statutes, 
which  completed  between  1665  and  1699 
the  annihilation  of  Irish  trade,  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  feel  something  of  the  indigna- 
tion which  burned  in  Swift.  In  1660 
there  was  every  prospect  that  in  a  few 
years  Ireland  might  become  a  happy  and 
prosperous  country.  Her  natural  advan- 
tages were  great.  In  no -regions  within 
the  compass  of  the  British  Isles  was  the 
soil  more  fertile.  As  pasture-land  she 
was  to  the  modern  world,  what  Argos  was 
to  the  ancient.  She  was  not  without  nav- 
igable rivers  ;  the  ports  and  harbors  with 
which  nature  had  bountifully  provided  her 
were  the  envy  of  every  maritime  nation 
in  Europe;  and  her  geographical  position 
was  eminently  propitious  to  commercial 
enterprise.  For  the  first  time  in  her  his- 
tory she  was  at  peace.  The  aborigines 
had  at  last  succumbed  to  the  Englishry. 
A  race  of  sturdy  and  industrious  colonists 
were  rapidly  changing  the  face  of  the 
country.  Agriculture  was  thriving.  A 
remunerative  trade  in  live  cattle  and  in 
miscellaneous  farm  produce  had  been 
opened  with  England ;  a  still  more  re- 
munerative trade  in  manufactured  wool 
was  holding  out  prospects  still  more 
promising.  There  were  even  hopes  of  an 
extensive  mercantile  connection  with  the 
colonies.  But  the  dawn  of  this  fair  day 
was  soon  overcast.  Impelled  partly  by 
jealousy,  and  partly  by  that  short-sighted 
selfishness  which  was,  in  former  days,  so 
unhappily  conspicuous  in  her  commercial 
I  relations  with  subject  States,   England 


DEAN  SWIFT  IN  IRELAND. 


'S 


proceeded  to  the  systematic  destruction 
of  Irish  commerce  and  of  Irish  iodustrial 
art  First  came  the  two  statutes  forbid- 
ding  the  importation  of  live  cattle  and 
farm  produce  into  £ng:Iand,  and  Ireland 
was  at  once  deprived  of  her  chief  source  of 
revenue.  Then  came  the  statutes  which 
aoDibitated  her  colonial  trade.  Crushing 
and  terrible  though  these  blows  were,  she 
still,  however,  continued  to  struggle  on, 
crippled  and  dispirited  indeed,  but  not  en- 
tirely without  heart.  But  in  1699  was 
enacted  the  statute  which  completed  her 
niiD.  By  this  she  was  prohibited  from 
seeking  any  vent  for  her  raw  and  manu- 
factured wool,  except  in  England  and 
Wales,  where  the  duties  imposed  on  both 
these  commodities  were  so  heavy  as  virtu- 
ally to  exclude  them  from  the  market. 
The  immediate  result  of  this  atrocious 
measure  was  to  turn  flourishing  villages 
into  deserts,  and  to  throw  between  twenty 
and  thirty  thousand  able-bodied  and  in- 
dustrious artisans  on  public  charity.  The 
ultimate  result  of  all  these  measures  was 
the  complete  paralysis  of  operative  ener- 
gy, the  emigration  of  the  only  class  who 
were  of  benefit  to  the  community,  and 
the  commencement  of  a  period  of  un- 
precedented wretchedness  and  degrada- 
tion. 

The  condition  of  Ireland  between  1700 
and  1750  was  in  truth  such  as  no  histo- 
rian, who  was  not  prepared  to  have  his 
narrative  laid  aside  with  disgust  and  in- 
credulity, would  venture  to  depict.  If 
analogy  is  to  be  sought  for  it,  it  must  be 
sought  in  the  scenes  through  which,  in  the 
frizhtful  fiction  of  Monti,  the  disembod- 
ied spirit  of  Bassville  was  condemned  to 
roam.  In  a  time  of  peace  the  unhappy 
island  suffered  all  the  most  terrible  ca- 
lamities which  follow  in  the 'train  of  war. 
Famine  succeeding  famine  decimated  the 
provincial  villages,  and  depopulated  whole 
regions.  Travellers  have  described  how 
their  way  has  Iain  through  districts  strewn 
like  a  battle-field  with  unburied  corpses, 
which  lay  some  in  ditches,  some  on  the 
roadside,  and  some  on  heaps  of  offal,  the 
prey  of  dogs  and  carrion  birds.  Even 
when  there  was  no  actual  famine,  the  food 
of  the  rustic  vulgar  was  often  such  as  our 
domestic  animals  would  reject  with  dis- 
gust. Their  ordinary  fare  was  buttermilk 
and  potatoes,  and  when  these  failed,  they 
were  at  the  mercy  of  fortune.  Frequently 
the  pot  of  the  wretched  cottier  contained 
nothing  but  the  product  of  the  marsh  and 
the  waste-ground.  The  fiesh  of  a  horse 
which  had  died  in  harness,  the  flesh  of 
sylvan  vermin,  even  when  corruption  had 


begun  to  do  its  revolting  work,  were  de- 
voured voraciously.  Burdy  tells  us  that 
these  famishing  savages  would  surrepti- 
tiously bleed  t^e  cattle  which  they  had 
not  the  courage  to  steal,  and,  boiling  the 
blood  with  sorrel,  convert  the  sickening 
mixture  into  food.  Epidemic  diseases, 
and  all  the  loathsome  maladies  which 
were  the  natural  inheritance  of  men  whose 
food  was  the  food  of  hogs  and  jackals, 
whose  dwellings  were  scarcely  distinguish- 
able from  dunghills,  and  whose  personal 
habits  were  filthy  even  to  beastliness, 
raged  with  a  fury  rarely  witnessed  in 
Western  latitudes.  Not  less  deplorable 
was  the  spectacle  presented  by  the  coun- 
try itself.  "Whoever  took  a  journey 
through  Ireland,*'  says  Swift,  **  would  be 
apt  to  imagine  himself  travelling  in  Lap- 
land or  Iceland.*'  In  the  soutn,  in  the 
east,  and  in  the  west,  stretched  vast  tracts 
of  land  untilled  and  unpeopled,  mere 
waste  and  solitude.  Even  where  Nature 
had  been  roost  bounteous,  the  traveller 
might  wander  for  miles  without  finding  a 
single  habitation,  without  meeting  a  sin- 
gle human  being,  without  beholding  a  sin- 
gle trace  of  human  culture.  Many  of  the 
churches  were  roofless,  the  walls  still  gap- 
ing with  the  breaches  which  the  cannon 
of  Cromwell  had  made  in  them.  Almost 
all  the  old  seats  of  the  nobility  were  in 
ruins.  In  the  villages  and  country  towns, 
every  object  on  which  the  eye  rested  told 
the  same  lamentable  story. 

Much  of  this  misery  was  undoubtedly 
to  be  attributed  to  the  inhabitants  them- 
selves. Never  had  co-operation  and  con- 
cord been  more  necessary,  but  never  had 
civil  and  religious  dissension  raged  with 

freater  fury  than  it  was  raging  now. 
ends  In  religion,  feuds  in  politics,  feuds 
which  had  their  origin  in  private  differ- 
ences, and  feuds  which  had  descended  as 
a  rursed  heirloom  from  father  to  child, 
rankled  in  their  hearts  and  inflamed  their 
blood.  There  was  the  old  enmitv  between 
the  aborigines  and  the  English.  There 
was  a  deadly  feud  between  the  Catholics 
and  the  Protestants ;  there  was  a  feud  not 
less  deadly  between  the  Episcopalians  and 
the .  Nonconformists,  while  the  war  be- 
tween Whig  and  Tory  was  prosecuted 
with  a  ferocity  and  malignity  scarcely 
human.  **  There  is  hardly  a  Whig  in  Ire- 
land," wrote  Swift  to  Sheridan,  **  who 
would  allow  a  potato  and  buttermilk  to  a 
reputed  Tory."  But  this  was  not  all. 
The  principal  landowners  resided  in  En- 
gland, leaving  as  their  lieutenants  a  class 
of  men  known  in  Irish  history  as  middle- 
men.   It  may  be  doubted  whether  since 


x6 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN  IRELAND. 


the  days  of  the  Roman  publicani  oppres- 
sion and  rapacity  had  ever  assumed  a 
shape  so  odious  as  they  assumed  in  these 
men.  The  middleman  was,  as  a  rule,  en- 
tirely destitute  of  education;  his  tastes 
were  low,  his  habits  debauched  and  reck- 
lessly extravagant.  Long  familiarity  with 
such  scenes  as  we  have  described  had 
rendered  him  not  merelv  indifferent  to 
human  suffering,  but  ruthless  and  brutal. 
All  the  tenancies  held  under  him  were  at 
rack-rent,  and  with  the  extraction  of  that 
rent,  or  what  was,  in  kind,  ec^uivalent  to 
that  rent,  began  and  ended  his  relations 
with  his  tenants.  As  many  of  those  ten- 
ants were  little  better  than  impecunious 
serfs,  often  insolvent  and  always  in  ar- 
rears, it  was  only  by  keeping  a  wary  eye 
on  their  movements,  and  oy  pouncine 
with  seasonable  avidity  on  anything  of 
which  they  mi^ht  happen  to  become  pos- 
sessed, either  by  the  labor  of  their  hands, 
or  by  some  accident  of  fortune,  that  he 
could  turn  them  to  account.  Sometimes 
the  produce  of  the  potato-plot  became  his 
prey,  sometimes  their  agricultural  tools; 
not  unfrequently  he  would  seize  every- 
thing which  belonged  to  them,  and  driving 
them  with  their  wives  and  children,  often 
under  circumstances  of  revolting  cruelty, 
out  of  their  cabins,  send  them  to  perish 
of  cold  and  hunger  in  the  open  countrv. 
Nor  were  the  Irish  provincial  gentry  in 
any  way  superior  to  the  middlemen.  Swift, 
indeed,  regarded  them  with  still  greater 
detestation.  As  public  men,  they  were 
chiefly  remarkable  for  their  savage  op- 
pression of  the  clergy,  for  the  merciless- 
ness  with  which  they  exacted  their  rack- 
rents  from  the  tenantry,  and  for  the  mean 
ingenuity  with  which  they  contrived  to 
make  capital  out  of  the  miseries  of  their 
country.  In  private  life  they  were  disso- 
lute, litigious,  and  arrogant,  and  their 
vices  would  comprehend  some  of  the 
worst  vices  incident  to  man  —  inhuman 
cruelty,  tyranny  in  its  most  repulsive  as- 
pects, brutal  appetites  forcibly  gratified, 
or  gratified  under  circumstances  scarcely 
less  atrocious,  and  an  ostentatious  law- 
lessness which  revelled  unchecked  either 
by  civil  authority  or  by  religion. 

But  whatever  degree  of  culpability  mav 
attach  itself  to  the  inhabitants  of  Ireland, 
there  can  be  no  question  that  the  English 
government  were  in  the  main  responsible 
for  the  existence  of  this  pandemonium. 
It  requires  very  little  sagacity  to  see  that 
the  miseries  of  Ireland  flowed  naturally 
and  inevitably  from  the  paralysis  of  na- 
tional industry,  from  the  alienation  of  the 
national  revenue,  from  the  complete  dis- 


location of  the  machinerv  of  government, 
and  from  the  almost  total  absence,  so  far 
at  least  as  the  masses  were  concerned,  of 
the  ameliorating  influences  of  culture  and 
religion.  We  have  already  alluded  to  the 
statutes  which  annihilated  the  trade  and 
prostrated  the  industrial  energv  of  the 
country.  Equally  iniquitous  and  oppres- 
sive was  the  alienation  of  the  revenue. 
On  that  revenue  had  been  quartered  the 
parasites  and  mistresses  of  succeeding 
generations  of  English  kings.  Almost  all 
the  most  remunerative  public  posts  were 
sinecures  in  the  possession  of  men  who 
resided  in  England.  Indeed,  some  of 
these  sinecurists  had  never  set  foot  on 
Irish  earth.  But  nothing  was  more  de- 
rogatory to  England  than  the  scandalous 
condition  of  the  Protestant  hierarchy.  On 
that  body  depended  not  only  the  spiritual 
welfare,  but  the  education  of  the  multi- 
tude; and  their  responsibility  was  the 
greater  in  conseouence  of  the  inhibitions 
which  had  been  laid  by  the  legislature  on 
the  Catholic  priesthood.  But  the  Protes- 
tant clergy  were,  as  a  class,  a  scandal  to 
Christendom.  Many  of  the  bishops  would 
have  disgraced  the  hierarchy  of  Henry 
III.  Their  ignorance,  their  apathy,  their 
nepotism,  their  sensuality,  passed  into 
proverbs.  It  was  not  uncommon  for  them 
to  abandon  even  the  semblance  of  their 
sacred  character,  and  to  live  the  life  of  jo- 
vial country  squires,  their  palaces  ringing 
with  revelry,  their  dioceses  mere  anarchy. 
If  their  sees  were  not  to  their  taste,  they 
resided  elsewhere.  The  Bishop  of  Down, 
for  example,  settled  at  Hammersmith, 
where  he  lived  for  twenty  years  without 
having  once  during  the  whole  of  that  time 
set  foot  in  his  diocese.  That  there  were 
a  few  noble  exceptions  must  in  justice  be 
admitted.  No  Churchman  could  pro- 
nounce the  names  of  Berkeley,  King,  and 
Synge,  without  reverence.  But  the  vir- 
tues of  these  illustrious  prelates  had  little 
influence  either  on  their  degenerate  peers 
or  on  the  inferior  clergy.  Of  this  body  it 
would  not  be  too  much  to  say  that  no  sec- 
tion of  the  demoralized  society,  of  which 
they  formed  a  part,  was  more  demoralized 
or  so  completely  despicable.  Here  and 
there  indeed  might  be  found  a  priest  who 
resided  among  his  parishioners,  and  who 
performed  conscientiously  the  duties  of 
his  profession.  Such  a  priest  was  Skel- 
ton,  and  such  a  priest  was  Jackson,  but 
Skelton  and  Jackson  were  to  the  general 
body  of  the  minor  clergy  what  Dr.  Prim- 
rose was  to  Trulliber,  or  what  the  parson 
in  the  "Canterbury  Tales*'  is  to  the  par- 
son in  **  Peregrine  Pickle." 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


17 


Few  men  could  have  contemplated  un- 
moved the  spectacle  of  a  country  in  such 
a  condition  as  this.  Its  effect  on  Swift 
was  to  excite  emotions  which  in  ordinary 
men  are  seldom  excited  save  by  personal 
injuries.  It  fevered  his  bloocf,  it  broke 
bis  rest,  it  drove  him  at  times  half-frantic 
with  furious  indignation,  it  sunk  him  at 
times  in  abysses  of  sullen  despondency. 
He  brooded  over  it  in  solitude  ;  it  is  his 
constant  theme  in  his  correspondence;  it 
was  his  constant  topic  in  conversation. 
He  spoke  of  it  as  eating  his  flesh  and  ex- 
hausting his  spirits.  For  a  while. he  cher- 
ished the  hope  that  these  evils,  vast  and 
complicated  though  they  were,  were  not 
beyond  remedy.  And  this  remedy,  he 
thought,  lay  not  in  appealing  to  the  jus- 
tice and  humanity  of  the  English  govern- 
ment, but  in  appealing  to  the  Irish  them- 
selves, to  the  landed  gentry,  to  the  mid- 
dlemen, to  the  manufacturers,  to  the 
clergy.  Throughout,  his  object  was  two- 
fold—  the  internal  reformation  of  the 
kingdom,  and  the  establishment  of  the 
principle,  that  Ireland  ought  either  to  be 
autonomous,  or  on  a  footing  of  exact  po- 
litical equality  with  the  mother  country. 

His  first  pamphlet,  the  "Proposal  for 
the  Universal  Use  of  Irish  Manufac- 
tures," is  a  masterpiece.  Addressed,  in 
what  it  insinuates,  to  the  passions,  and  in 
what  it  directly  asserts,  to  the  reason,  it 
is  at  once  an  inflammatory  harangue  and 
a  manual  of  sober  counsel.  In  a  few 
plain  paragraphs  the  secret  of  Ireland's 
wretchedness  is  laid  bare;  how  far  it  is  in 
her  power  to  alleviate  that  wretchedness 
is  demonstrated,  and  the  step  which  ought 
immediately  to  be  taken  is  pointed  out. 
In  the  proposal  that  she  should  close  her 
markets  against  English  goods,  and  draw 
entirely  on  her  own  manufactures,  there 
was  nothing  treasonable,  or  even  disre- 
spectful, to  England.  It  was  no  more 
than  she  had  a  perfect  right  to  do;  it  was 
DO  more  than  the  English  government 
would  probably  have  permitted  her  to 
do.  But  the  pamphlet  had  another  side. 
Though  there  is  not  perhaps  a  sentence 
in  it  which  could,  so  far  as  the  mere 
words  are  concerned,  have  been  chal- 
lenged as  either  inflammatory  or  insult- 
ing, the  whole  piece  is  in  effect  a  fierce 
and  bitter  commentary  on  the  tyranny  of 
the  mother  country,  and  an  appeal  to  Ire- 
land to  strike,  if  not  for  independence,  at 
least  for  indemnity.  The  pamphlet,  though 
it  appeared,  as  almost  all  Swift's  pam- 
phlets did  appear,  anonymously,  instantly 
attracted  attention.  The  English  govern- 
ment  became  alarmed.    The  work  was 

UVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV«  2238 


pronounced  to  be  "seditious,  factious, 
and  virulent,"  and  the  attention  of  Whit- 
shed,  then  chief  justice  of  Ireland,  was 
directed  to  it.  Whitshed,  who  had  little 
sympathy  with  Irish  agitation,  and  who 
may  possibly  have  been  acting  on  instruc- 
tions from  England,  proceeded  at  once  to 
extreme  measures.  The  pamphlet  was 
laid  before  the  grand  jury  of  the  county 
and  the  city.  The  printer  was  arrested. 
The  trial  came  on,  and  a  disgraceful  scene 
ensued.  The  jury  acquitted  the  prisoner. 
The  chief  justice  refused  to  accept  the 
verdict,  and  the  jury  were  sent  back  to 
reconsider  their  decision.  Again  they 
found  the  man  not  guilty,  and  a^ain  Whit- 
shed declined  to  record  the  verdict.  Nine 
times  was  this  odious  farce  repeated,  until 
the  wretched  men,  worn  out  by  physical 
fatigue,  left  the  case  by  special  verdict  in 
the  hands  of  the  judge.  But  Whitshed*s 
iniquitous  triumph  was  merely  nominal, 
for  his  conduct  had  excited  such  disgust, 
that  it  was  deemed  advisable  to  put  off 
the  trial  of  the  verdict.  Successive  post- 
ponements terminated  at  last  in  the  lord 
lieutenant  granting  a  nolle  prosequi.  Such 
a  concession  to  popular  feeling  the  En- 

flish  government  had  never  before  made, 
t  was  a  victory  on  which  the  Irish  justly 
congratulated  themselves.  It  was  a  vic- 
tory destined,  indeed,  to  form  a  new  era 
in  their  history. 

Nothing  we  know  of  Swift  illustrates 
more  strikingly  his  tact  and  sagacity  as  a 
political  leader  than  his  conduct  at  this 
juncture.  A  less  skilful  strategist  would, 
in  the  elation  of  triumph,  have  been  im- 
patient for  new  triumphs,  would  have  lost 
no  time  in  pressing  eagerly  forward,  and 
would  thus  have  forced  on  a  crisis  when  a 
crisis  was  premature.  But  Swift  saw  that 
affairs  were  at  that  stage  when  the  wisest 
course  is  to  leave  them  to  ourselves.  The 
fire  had  been  kindled  —  it  might  be  safely 
trusted  to  spread ;  the  leaven  of  dissatis- 
faction and  resistance  was  seething  —  it 
was  best  to  leave  it  to  ferment.  Up  to  a 
certain  point  the  course  of  revolution  is 
determined  by  human  agency,  but  in  all 
revolutions  there  is  a  point  at  which  hu- 
man agency  is  powerless,  and  the  reins 
are  in  the  hands  of  fortune.  At  such 
crises  occur  those  apparently  insignificant 
accidents,  the  effects  of  which  are  so 
strangely  disproportionate  to  the  charac- 
ter of  the  accidents  themselves,  and  which 
are  to  political  communities  what  the 
spark  is  to  combustible  explosives.  Such 
a  crisis  had  not  as  yet  arrived  in  the 
struggle  between  England  and  Ireland, 
but  for  such  a  crisis  —  and  he  saw  it  was 


i8 


DEAN   SWIFT   IN   IRELANBl 


maturing  —  Swift  deemed  it  expedient  to 
wait. 

Meanwhile  his  pen  was  not  idle.  In 
1720  there  was  a  project  for  establishing 
a  National  Bank  in  Dublin.  The  scheme 
was  regarded  with  favor  by  some  of  the 
leading  citizens  and  by  many  of  the  petty 
tradesmen;  and  subscription-lists  were 
opened.  But  Swift  was  too  sound  a  finan- 
cier not  to  see  that  an  institution  emi- 
nently useful,  and  indeed  necessary,  in  a 
prosperous  community,  can  only  end  in 
fraud  and  mischief  in  a  community  where 
stock  is  incommensurate  with  credit.  Ac- 
cordingly he  ridiculed  the  scheme  in  three 
ludicrous  pamphlets  —  w^e  doubt  greatly 
the  authenticity  of  the  other  two  attrib- 
uted to  him  by  Scott  —  and  his  satire  was 
so  efficacious,  that  when  in  the  ensuing 
session  the  proposal  was  discussed  in 
Parliament,  it  was  almost  unanimously 
rejected. 

These  pamphlets  were  succeeded  a  few 
months  afterwards  by  a  little  piece,  in 
which  the  extraordinary  versatility  of 
Swift's  genius  is  very  strikingly  and  very 
amusingly  illustrated.  The  streets  of 
Dublin  had  for  several  years  been  infested 
with  gangs  of  marauders,  whose  depreda- 
tions and  violence  made  them  the  terror 
of  the  citizens.  A  man  who  ventured  out 
unarmed  at  night,  carried,  it  was  said,  his 
life  in  his  hands.  Scarce  a  week  passed 
without  some  gross  outrage.  At  such  a 
pitch,  indeed,  had  their  lawlessness  and 
audacity  arrived,  that  it  had  become  per- 
ilous even  in  broad  daylight  to  walk  in 
any  but  the  most  frequented  thorough- 
fares. Pre-eminent  among  these  miscre- 
ants was  one  Ebenezer  Elliston.  The 
fellow  had  long  succeeded  in  eluding  the 
police,  but  had  recently  been  captured 
and  publicly  executed.  In  itself,  how- 
ever, the  execution  would  probably  have 
had  very  little  effect,  for  the  class  to 
which  Elliston  belonged  is,  as  a  rule, 
either  too  sanguine  or  too  obtuse  to  take 
warning  from  example.  But  on  the  very 
day  of  the  execution  appeared,  in  the 
form  of  a  broadsheet,  an  announcement, 
which  carried  apprehension  and  dismay 
into  the  heart  of  the  boldest  malefactors 
in  Dublin.  This  was  '*The  Last  Speech 
and  Dving  Words  of  Ebenezer  Elliston," 
published,  as  was  stated  on  the  title-page, 
by  his  own  desire,  and  for  the  public 
eood.  In  it  he  not  only  solemnly  ex- 
horted his  brother  bandits  to  amend  their 
lives,  and  to  avoid  the  fate  which  had 
most  righteously  overtaken  himself  and 
would  in  the  end  inevitably  overtake 
them,  but  he  informed  them  that,  having 


resolved  to  atone  in  some  measure  for  his 
own  crimes  against  God  and  society,  he 
had  thought  it  his  duty  to  do  what  in  him 
lay  to  assist  the  government  in  suppress- 
ing the  crimes  of  others.  '*  For  that  pur- 
pose, I  have,"  he  said,  **  left  with  an  honest 
man  the  names  of  all  my  wicked  brethren, 
the  present  places  of  their  abode,  with  a 
short  account  of  the  chief  crimes  they 
have  committed.  I  have  likewise  set 
down  the  names  of  those  we  call  our  set- 
ters, of  the  wicked  houses  we  frequent, 
and  of  those  who  receive  and  buy  our 
stolen  goods.**  He  then  goes  on  to  say 
that  the  person  with  whom  the  paper  had 
been  deposited  would,  on  hearing  of  the 
arrest  of  any  rogue  whose  name  was  men- 
tioned in  it,  place  the  document  in  the 
hands  of  the  government.  '*  And  of  this," 
he  adds,  "  I  hereby  give  my  companions 
fair  and  public  warning,  and  hope  they 
will  take  it."  As  Elliston  was  known  to  be 
a  man  of  education,  and  as  the  informa- 
tion displayed  in  the  piece  was  such  as  it 
seemed  scarcely  possible  that  any  one 
who  was  not  in  the  secrets  of  £lliston*s 
fraternity  could  possess,  the  genuineness 
of  the  confession  was  never  for  a  moment 
doubted.  Its  effect  was,  we  are  told, 
immediately  apparent.  Brigandism  lost 
heart;  many  of  the  leading  bandits  quit- 
ted the  city;  and  the  dean  was  enabled 
to  boast  that  Dublin  enjoyed,  for  a  time 
at  least,  almost  complete  immunity  from 
the  most  formidable  of  social  pests. 

And  now  arrived,  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly, that  crisis  in  the  struggle  with 
England,  which  Swift  had  with  judicious 
patience  been  so  long  awaiting.  For 
some  years  there  had  been  a  great  scar- 
city of  copper  money,  and  the  deficiency 
had,  as  a  natural  consequence,  led  to  the 
circulation  of  debased  and  counterfeit 
coins  on  a  very  large  scale.  Accordingly, 
in  the  spring  of  1722,  a  memorial  was  pre- 
sented to  the  lords  of  the  treasury,  stating 
the  grievance  and  petitioning  for  a  rem- 
edy. The  petition  was  considered,  and 
the  memorialists  were  informed  that 
measures  would  be  immediately  taken  for 
remedying  the  evil.  Such  courteous  alac- 
rity had  not  been  usual  with  the  English 
government  in  dealing  with  Irish  griev- 
ances, and  excited,  not  unnaturally,  some 
surprise.  But  it  was  soon  explained.  In 
a  few  weeks  intelligence  reached  Dublin 
that  a  patent  had  been  granted  to  a  per- 
son of  the  name  of  Wood,  empowerin<^ 
him  to  coin  as  his  exclusive  right  loS.ooo/. 
worth  of  farthings  and  halfpence  for  cir- 
culation in  Ireland.  As  less  than  a  third 
of  that  sum  in  halfpence  and  farthings 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


19 


would  have  sufficed,  and  more  than  suf- 
ficed, for  what  was  needed,  the  announce- 
ment was  received  with  astonishment. 
And  astonishment  soon  passed  into  indig- 
nation. For  it  appeared  on  enquiry,  that 
the  patent  had  been  granted  without  con- 
sulting the  Irish  Privy  Council  or  any 
Irish  official,  nay,  even  without  consulting 
the  lord  lieutenant,  though  he  was  then 
residing  in  London.  It  appeared,  on  fur- 
ther inquiry,  that  the  whole  transaction 
bad  been  a  disgraceful  job,  and  that  the 
person  to  whom  the  patent  had  been  con- 
ceded was  a  mere  adventurer,  whose  sole 
care  was  to  make  the  grant  sufficiently 
remunerative  to  indemnify  himself  for  a 
heavy  bribe  which  he.  had  paid  for  ob- 
taining it,  and  to  fill  his  own  pockets. 
The  inference  was  obvious.  As  the 
profits  of  the  man  would  be  in  proportion 
to  the  quality  of  copper  coin  turned  out 
bv  him,  and  in  proportion  to  the  inferiority 
of  the  metal  employed  in  the  manufacture, 
bis  first  object  would  be  the  indefinite 
multiplication  of  his  coinage,  and  his 
second  object  would  be  its  debasement. 
In  August,  the  commissioners  of  the  rev- 
enue addressed  a  letter  to  the  secretary 
of  the  lord  lieutenant,  respectfully  appeal- 
ing against  the  patent.  This  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  second  letter,  directed  to  the 
lords  commissioners  of  the  treasury,  in- 
forming them  that  the'  money  was  not 
needed.  But  to  these  letters  no  attention 
was  paid.  Meanwhile  the  mint  of  Wood 
was  hard  at  work.  Several  cargoes  of  the 
coin  had  already  been  imported  and  were 
in  circulation  at  the  ports.  Each  week 
brought  with  it  a  fresh  influx.  The 
tradespeople,  well  aware  of  the  prejudice 
against  the  coins,  were  in  the  greatest 
perplexity.  If  they  accepted  them,  they 
accepted  what  might  very  possibly  turn 
to  dross  in  their  hands ;  if  they  refused 
them,  they  must  either  lose  custom,  or  re- 
ceive payment  in  a  coinage  no  longer  cur- 
rent. 

In  August,  1723,  the  lord  lieutenant 
arrived,  and  a  few  weeks  afterwards  Par- 
liament met.  The  greatest  excitement 
prevailed  in  both  Houses.  Opinions 
were  divided ;  but  it  was  resolved  at  last 
to  appeal  against  the  patent  On  the 
23rd  of  September,  an  address  to  the  king 
was  voted  bv  the  Commons.  The  lords 
followed  with  a  similar  address  on  the 
2Sth.  It  was  asserted  that  Wood  had 
been  guilty  of  fraud  and  deceit;  that  he 
had  infringed  the  terms  of  the  patent, 
both  in  the  quantity  and  in  the  quality  of 
the  coin,  and  that  the  circulation  of  his 
cotoage  would  be  highly  prejudicial  to  the 


revenue,  and  destructive  to  the  commerce 
of  Ireland.  Walpole  had  the  good  sense 
to  see  that  these  addresses  could  not  with 
safety  be  treated  as  the  previous  appeals 
had  been  treated,  and  the  two  Houses 
were  informed,  in  courteous  and  concilia* 
tory  terms,  that  the  matter  would  receive 
his  Majesty's  most  careful  consideration. 
And  the  promise  was  kept.  A  committee 
of  the  Privy  Council  was  specially  con- 
vened. Their  sittings  extended  over 
many  weeks,  and  it  is,  we  think,  abun- 
dantly clear  that  they  performed  their 
duties  with  scrupulous  conscientiousness. 
Walpole  now  hoped,  and  hoped  not  with- 
out reason,  that  Ireland  would  be  paci- 
fied ;  or  that,  at  the  very  worst,  a  compro- 
mise, which  would  save  the  ministry  from 
the  humiliation  of  having  to  withdraw  the 
patent,  could  be  arranged.  But  before  the 
committee  could  arrive  at  any  conclusion, 
an  event  had  occurred  which  dashed  all 
these  hopes  to  the  ground. 

Up  to  this  point  Swift  appears  to  have 
remained  passive,  though  it  is,  we  think, 
highlv  probable  that  he  had  contributed 
largely  to  the  pasquinade  and  broadsheet 
literature  which  had  never  ceased  since 
the  announcement  of  Wood's  patent  to 
pour  'forth  each  week  from  the  public 
press.  He  was  well  aware  that  of  all  the 
expedients  which  can  be  devised  for  keep- 
ing up  popular  irritation,  and  for  impress- 
ing on  the  will  of  many  the  will  of  one, 
these  trifles  are  the  most  efficacious. 
They  had  served  his  turn  before,  and 
nothing  is  less  likely  than  that  he  neg- 
lected them  now.  It  is  certain  that  after 
the  publication  of  the  first  "  Drapier  Let- 
ter''  he  was  a  voluminous  contributor  to 
what  he  has  himself  designated  as  Grub 
Street  literature.  However  that  may  be, 
he  commenced  in  the  summer  of  1724  that 
famous  series  of  letters  which,  if  they  are 
to  be  estimated  by  the  effect  they  pro- 
duced, must  be  allowed  the  first  place  in 
political  literature.  The  opening  letter 
is  a  model  of  the  art  which  lies  in  the  con- 
cealment of  art.  We  have  not  the  small- 
est doubt  that  Swift  designed  from  the 
very  beginning  to  proceed  from  the  dis- 
comfiture of  Wood  to  the  resuscitation  of 
Ireland,  and  on  in  regular  progression  to 
the  vindication  of  Irish  independence. 
But  of  this  there  is  no  indication  in  the 
first  letter.  It  is  simply  an  appeal  pur- 
porting to  emanate  from  one  M,  B.,  a 
draper,  or,  as  Swift  chooses  to  spell  it, 
drapier,  of  Dublin,  to  the  lower  and  mid- 
dle classes,  calling  on  them  to  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  farthings  and  halfpence 
of  Wood.    In  a  style  pitched  studiously 


20 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


in  the  lowest  key,  and  with  the  reasoning 
that  comes  home  to  the  dullest  and  most 
illiterate  of  the  vulgar,  the  Drapier  points 
out  to  his  countrymen  that  the  value  of 
money  is  determined  by  its  intrinsic 
value;  that  the  intrinsic  value  of  Wood*s 
coins  was  at  least  six  parts  in  seven  be- 
low sterling;  and  that  the  man  who  was 
fool  enough  to  accept  payment  in  them, 
must  to  a  certainty  lose  more  than  ten- 
pence  in  every  shilling.  "  If,"  he  said, 
"you  accept  the  money,  the  kingdom  is 
undone,  and  every  poor  man  in  it  is  un- 
done.'' On  the  monstrous  exaggerations 
and  palpable  sophistry  by  which  these  as- 
sertions were  supported,  it  would  be  mere 
waste  of  words  to  comment.  The  object 
which  Swift  sought  to  attain,  was  an  ob- 
ject the  legitimacy  of  which  admits  of  no 
question,  and  if  he  sought  its  attainment 
by  the  only  means  which  fortune  had 
placed  at  his  disposal,  who  can  blame 
him?  It  will  not  be  disputed  that  the 
concession  of  the  patent  had  been  a  scan- 
dalous job;  that  in  conferring  it  without 
consulting  the  Irish  government,  England 
had  been  guilty  of  grossly  insulting  the 
subjects  of  that  government;  that  the 
promts  which  Wood  anticipated  were 
such  as  could  be  scarcely  compatible  with 
a  strict  adherence  to  the  terms  of  his  con- 
tract ;  and  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  some 
of  his  coins  were,  in  spite  of  the  risk  in- 
curred by  detection,  found  on  examina- 
tion to  be  below  the  stipulated  value. 

The  publication  of  the  letter  was  as 
well-timed  as  the  skill  with  which  it  was 
written  was  consummate.  It  appeared  at 
a  moment  when  the  social  and  political 
atmosphere  was  in  the  highest  possible 
state  of  inflammability,  and  ready  at  any 
moment  to  burst  into  flame.  It  was  the 
spark  which  ignited  it,  and  the  explosion 
was  terrific.  From  Cork  to  Londonderry, 
from  Gal  way  to  Dublin,  Ireland  was  in  a 
blaze.  The  feuds,  which  had  for  years 
been  raging  between  party  and  party,  be- 
tween sect  and  sect,  between  caste  and 
caste,  were  suspended,  and  the  whole 
country  responded  as  one  man  to  the  ap- 
peal of  the  Drapier.  For  the  first  time  in 
Irish  history  the  Celt  and  the  Saxon  had 
a  common  bond.  For  once  the  Whig 
joined  hand  with  the  Tory.  For  once  the 
same  sentiment  animated  the  Episcopa- 
lian and  the  Papist,  the  Presbyterian  and 
the  New  Lighter,  the  Hanoverian  and  the 
Jacobite.  On  the  4th  of  August  appeared 
a  second  letter  from  the  Drapier.  In 
substance  it  is  like  the  first,  partly  a  phil- 
ippic and  partly  an  appeal,  but  it  is  a 
philippic  infinitely  more  savage  and  scath- 


ing, it  is  an  appeal  in  a  higher  and  more 
passionate  strain.  This  letter  was  ad- 
dressed to  Harding,  the  printer,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  paragraph  which  had  three 
days  before  appeared  in  his  newspaper. 
The  paragraph  was  to  the  effect  that  the 
Privy  Council,  whose  decision  had  not  as 
yet  been  officially  announced,  had  in  their 
report  recommended  a  compromise.  The 
report  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who  as  mas- 
ter of  the  mint  had  been  instructed  to  test 
the  coin,  had,  it  was  stated,  been  favor- 
able to  Wood.  Wood,  therefore,  was  to 
retain  the  right  of  mintage,  but,  in  defer- 
ence to  public  feeling  in  Ireland,  the 
amount  of  the  sum  to  be  coined  by  him 
was  to  be  reduced  from  a  hundred  and 
eight  thousand  pounds  to  forty  thousand. 
The  justice  and  reasonableness  of  this 
proposal,  a  proposal  which  had  emanated 
from  Wood  himself,  must  have  been  as 
obvious  then  as  it  is  obvious  now.  But 
Swift  saw  at  once  that  if  the  compromise 
were  accepted,  the  victory,  though  nomi- 
nally on  the  side  of  Ireland,  would  in  real- 
ity be  on  the  side  of  England.  In  essence 
England  had  conceded  nothing.  Wood 
still  retained  his  obnoxious  prerogative; 
England  still  assumed  the  right  of  confer- 
ring that  prerogative.  A  particular  evil 
had  been  lightened,  bat  the  greater  evil, 
the  evil  principle,  remained.  But  this 
was  not  all.  We  have  already  expressed 
our  conviction  that  it  was  Swift's  design 
from  the  very  beginning  to  make  the  con* 
troversy  with  Wood  the  basis  of  far  more 
extensive  operations.  It  had  furnished 
him  with  the  means  of  waking  Ireland 
from  long  lethargy  into  fiery  life.  He 
looked  to  it  to  furnish  him  with  the  means 
of  elevating  her  from  servitude  to  inde- 
pendence, from  ignominy  to  honor.  His 
only  fear  was  lest  the  spirit  which  he  had 
kindled  should  burn  itself  out,  or  be  pre- 
maturely quenched.  And  of  this  he  must 
have  felt  that  there  was  some  danc^er, 
when  it  was  announced  that  England  had 
given  way  much  more  than  it  was  ex- 
pected she  would  give  way,  and  much 
more  than  she  had  ever  given  way  before. 
In  his  second  letter,  therefore,  written  to 
prepare  his  readers  for  the  official  an- 
nouncement of  the  report,  he  treats  the 
proffered  compromise  with  indignant  dis- 
dain, and,  with  a  skill  which  would  have 
done  honor  to  Demosthenes,  tears  the 
whole  case  of  his  opponents  into  shreds 
before  they  bad  had  the  opportunity  of 
unfolding  it. 

A  few  days  afterwards  the  report  ar- 
rived, and  a  third  letter,  with  the  now 
famous  signature  attached  to  it,  followed 


DEAN   SWIFT   IN   IRELAND. 


31 


almost  immediately.  It  was  addressed  to 
the  nobility  and  gentry,  as  its  predeces* 
sors  had  been  addressed  to  the  lower  and 
middle  classes.  In  effect  it  repeats,  but 
repeats  more  emphatically  and  at  greater 
length,  what  he  had  commented  on  in  the 
second  letter;  the  mendacity  and  impu- 
dence of  Wood,  and  of  the  witnesses  who 
bad  in  the  inquiry  before  the  Privy  Coun- 
cil borne  testimony  in  Wood's  favor ;  the 
cruelty  and  illegality  of  the  patent;  the 
scandalous  circumstances  under  which  the 
patent  had  been  obtained ;  the  still  more 
scandalous  circumstances  under  which  it 
had  been  executed;  the  intrinsic  worth- 
lessness  of  the  coins;  the  tyranny  and 
injustice  of  the  mother  country.  But  the 
matter  which  forms  the  staple  of  the  let- 
ter is  not  the  matter  which  gives  the 
letter  its  distinctive  character.  It  is  here 
that  we  catch  for  the  first  time  unmistak- 
able glimpses  of  Swift's  ultimate  design. 
The  words  of  the  fourteenth  paragraph 
could  have  left  the  English  government 
in  little  doubt  of  the  turn  which  the  con- 
troversy was  about  to  take.  '*  Were  not 
the  people  of  Ireland,'*  asks  the  Drapier, 
**  born  as  free  as  those  of  England  ?  How 
have  they  perfected  their  freedom  ?  Are 
not  they  subjects  of  the  same  king?  Am 
I  a  freeman  in  England,  and  do  I  become 
a  slave  in  six  hours  by  crossing  the  Chan- 
nel? **  In  another  passage  he  adverts  to 
some  of  the  principal  political  grievances 
of  the  kingdom,  sarcastically  remarking 
that  a  people  whose  loyalty  had  been 
proof  against  so  many  attempts  to  shake 
it  was  surely  entitled  to  as  much  consid- 
eration on  the  part  of  the  crown,  as  a 
people  whose  loyalty  had  not  always  been 
above  suspicion.  The  remark  was  as 
pointed  as  it  was  just.  The  events  of 
171 5  and  1722  had  left  a  deep  stain  on 
the  loyalty  of  England,  but  Ireland  had 
never  wavered  in  her  fidelity  to  the  house 
of  Hanover. 

But  it  was  not  simply  in  the  character 
of  the  Drapier  that  Swift  was  scattering 
bis  firebrands.  In  every  form  which  po- 
litical literature  can  assume,  from  ribald 
songs  roared  out  to  thieves  and  harridans 
over  their  gin,  to  satires  and  disquisitions 
which  infected  with  the  popular  madness 
the  common  room  of  Trinitv  and  the 
drawing-rooms  of  College  Green  and 
Grafton  Street,  he  sought  to  fan  tumult 
into  rebellion.  He  even  brought  the  mat- 
ter into  the  pulpit.  In  a  sermon,  which 
Burke  afterwards  described  as  **  contain- 
ing the  best  motives  to  patriotism  which 
were  ever  delivered  in  so  small  a  com- 
pass/* the  dean  called  on  his  brethren 


to  remember  that  next  to  their  duty  to 
their  Creator  came  their  duty  to  them- 
selves and  to  their  fellow-citizens,  and 
that,  as  duty  and  religion  bound  them  to 
resist  what  was  evil  and  mischievous,  so 
duty  and  religion  bound  them  to  be  as 
one  man  against  Wood  and  Wood's  up- 
holders. 

Meanwhile  meetings  were  held ;  clubs 
were  formed,  petitions  and  addresses  came 
pouring  in.  The  grand  jury  and  the  in- 
habitants of  the  Liberty  of  St.  Patrick's 
drew  up  a  resolution  formally  announcing 
that  they  would  neither  receive  nor  tender 
payment  in  Wood's  coins.  The  butchers 
passed  a  resolution  to  the  same  effect; 
the  brewers  followed ;  and  at  last  the  verv 
newsboys,  or,  as  they  were  then  callea, 
the  "flying  stationers,"  issued  a  manifesto 
against  the  coins.  Nor  was  it  in  the  cap- 
ital only  that  these  bold  proceedings  were 
taking  place.  In  many  of  the  provincial 
towns  similar  resolutions  were  passed, 
and  the  excitement  in  Cork  and  Water- 
ford  was  such  as  seriously  to  menace  the 
existence  of  the  government. 

It  was  now  apparent  even  to  Walpole 
that  some  decisive  step  must  be  taken. 
The  Duke  of  Grafton,  whose  fretful  and 
choleric  temper,  and  whose  haughty  and 
unconciliating  manners,  rendered  him 
peculiarly  ill-fitted  for  his  position,  was 
recalled,  and  the  minister  appointed  to 
succeed  him  was  Carteret.  The  appoint- 
ment justly  excited  great  surprise.  Wal- 
pole and  Carteret  had  long  been  at  open 
enmity.  During  several  sessions  it  had 
been  Carteret's  chief  object  to  perplex 
and  annoy  his  rival ;  and  he  was  sus- 
pected, and  suspected  with  reason,  of 
having  fomented  the  disturbances  which 
he  was  now  being  sent  out  to  quell.  With 
the  lord  chancellor  Midleton,  and  with 
the  lord  chancellor's  relatives  the  Brod- 
ricks,  he  had  certainly  been  in  friendly 
communication ;  and  of  all  the  opponents 
of  the  patent,  Midleton  and  the  Brodricks 
had,  next  to  Swift,  been  the  most  pertina- 
cious. Coxe  tells  us  that  it  was  Carteret 
who  informed  Alan  Brodrick  of  the  se- 
cret arrangement  between  Wood  and  the 
Duchess  of  Kendal  with  regard  to  the 
profits  of  the  patent,  a  scandal  which  the 
malcontents  had  turned  to  great  account. 
Thus  in  a  private  capacity  he  had  been  in 
league  with  those  whom  in  his  official 
capacity  he  was  bound  to  regard  as  oppo- 
nents. 

In  this  singular  position  Carteret  landed 
in  Ireland  at  the  latter  end  of  October, 
with  general  instructions  and  with  ample 
powers.    He  was  to  soothe  or  coerce,  to 


22 


DEAN   SWirr  IN  IRELAND, 


yield  or  resist,  as  the  exigencies  of  the 
crisis  demanded.  If  on  inquiry  it  should 
seem  expedient  to  suspend  the  patent, 
the  patent  was  to  be  suspended ;  if  he 
thou«;ht  it  desirable  to  go  further  and 
withdraw  it  altogether,  it  was  to  be  with- 
drawn. But  he  had  scarcely  time  to  take 
the  oaths  before  new  and  alarming  com- 
plications arose.  On  the  23rd  of  October 
appeared  the  fourth  "  Drapier  Letter."  In 
this  discourse  Swift  threw  o€E  all  disguise. 
The  question  of  the  patent  is  here  subor- 
dinated to  the  far  more  important  ques- 
tion of  the  nature  of  the  relations  between 
Ireland  and  England.  Contemptuously 
dismissing  a  recent  protest  of  Wood  **a9 
the  last  howl  of  a  dog  who  had  been  dis- 
sected alive,"  he  goes  on  to  assert  that 
the  royal  prerogative,  the  power  on  which, 
during  the  whole  struggle  with  Wood,  so 
much  stress  had  been  laid,  was  as  limited 
in  Ireland  as  it  was  in  the  mother  country. 
He  comments  bitterly  on  the  so-called 
dependency  of  Ireland;  on  the  injustice 
of  legislating  for  her  in  a  Parliament  in 
which  she  had  no  representatives;  and  on 
the  fact  that  all  places  of  trust  and  emolu- 
ment were  filled  by  Englishmen,  instead 
of  being  filled,  as  they  ought  to  have  been 
filled,  by  natives.  But  the  remedy,  he 
said,  was  in  their  own  hands  ;  and  in  two 
sentences,  which  vibrated  through  the 
whole  kingdom,  he  suggested  it :  **By  the 
laws  of  God,  of  nature,  of  nations,  and 
of  your  countrv,  you  are  and  ought  to  be 
as  free  a  people  as  your  brethren  in  En- 
gland.*' Again :  **  All  government  without 
the  consent  of  the  governed  is  the  very 
definition  of  slavery,"  —  "though,"  he 
added,  with  bitter  sarcasm,  "eleven  men 
well  armed  will  certainly  subdue  one  sin- 
gle man  in  his  shirt."  It  was  impossible 
for  the  lord  lieutenant  to  allow  this  to 
pass.  A  proclamation  was  issued  describ- 
ing the  letter  as  wicked  and  malicious, 
and  offering  a  reward  of  three  hundred 
pounds  to  any  one  who  would  discover 
the  author.  Harding,  the  printer  of  it, 
was  arrested  and  thrown  into  prison. 

Up  to  this  point  Swift  had,  as  an  indi- 
vidual, kept  studiously  in  the  background. 
He  now  came  prominently  forward.  On 
the  day  succeeding  the  proclamation  he 
presented  himself  at  the  levee  of  the 
lord  lieutenant,  and,  forcing  his  way  into 
the  presence  of  Carteret,  sternly  upbraided 
him  with  what  he  had  done.  "  Your  Ex- 
cellency has,"  he  thundered  out  with  a 
voice  and  manner  which  struck  the  whole 
assembly  dumb  with  amazement,  "given 
us  a  noble  specimen  of  what  this  devoted 
nation  has  to  hope  for  from  your  gov- 


ernment." He  then  burst  oat  into  a  tor* 
rent  of  invectives  against  the  proclama- 
tion, the  arrest  of  Harding,  and  the  pro- 
tection given  to  the  patent.  To  a  man  in 
Carteret's  position  such  a  scene  must 
have  been  sufiiciently  embarrassing.  But 
he  was  too  accomplished  a  diplomatist  to 
betray  either  surprise  or  anger.  He  lis- 
tened with  great  composure  and  urbanity 
to  all  Swift  had  to  say,  and  then  with  a 
bow  and  a  smile  gave  him  bis  answer  in 
an  exquisitely  felicitous  quotation  from 
Virgil, - 

Res  dura  et  regni  novitas  me  talia  cogunt 
Moliri. 

So  terminated  this  strange  interview. 
And  now  the  struggle  with  England 
reached  its  climax;  the  bill  against  Hard- 
ing was  about  to  be  presented  to  the 
grand  jury.  On  its  rejection  hung  the 
hopes  of  the  patriots ;  on  its  acceptation 
hung  the  hopes  of  the  government.  In 
an  admirable  address.  Swift  calmly  and 
solemnly  explained  to  his  fellow-citizens 
the  momentous  issues  which  some  of  them 
would  shortly  be  called  upon  to  try.  The 
important  day  arrived.  What  followed 
was  what  every  one  anticipated  would  fol- 
low: the  bill  was  thrown  out.  But  the 
chief  justice  Whitshed,  acting  as  he  had 
acted  on  a  former  occasion,  concluded 
a  scene  which  would  have  disgraced 
Scroggs,  by  dissolving  the  jury.  This 
insane  measure  served  only  to  swell  the 
triumph  of  the  patriots.  Another  jury 
was  immediately  summoned.  The  bill 
against  Harding  was  again  ignored,  and, 
to  complete  the  discomfiture  of  the  gov- 
ernment, the  rejection  of  the  bill  was 
coupled  with  a  formal  vindication  of  the 
Drapier.  From  this  moment  the  battle 
was  virtually  won;  the  Drapier  had  tri- 
umphed, and  Swift  ruled  Ireland.  But 
nine  troubled  months  had  yet  to  pass  be- 
fore victory  definitely  declared  itself.  The 
struggle  between  pride  and  expediency 
was  a  severe  one.  At  last  England  yielcl- 
ed.  "  I  have  his  Majesty's  commands  to 
acquaint  you  that  an  entire  end  is  put  to 
the  patent  formerly  granted  to  Mr.  Wood," 
were  the  words  in  which,  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  autumn  session  of  1725,  the 
viceroy  announced  to  Ireland  that  the 
greatest  victory  she  had  ever  won  had 
been  gained. 

The  public  joy  knew  no  bounds.  In  a 
few  hours  Dublin  presented  the  appear- 
ance of  a  vast  jubilee.  In  a  few  days  there 
was  scarcely  a  town  or  a  village  in  Ireland 
which  was  not  beside  itself  with  exulta- 
tion.   The  whole  island  rang  with  the 


DEAN  SWIFT   IN  IRELAND. 


23 


praises  of  the  Drapier.  It  was  the  Dra- 
pier,  they  cried,  who  had  saved  them,  it 
was  the  Drapier  who  had  taught  them  to 
be  patriots.  Had  Swift  rescued  the  coun- 
try from  some  overwhelming  calamity,  had 
he  done  all  and  more  than  all  that  the 
CEdipus  of  story  is  fabled  to  have  done 
for  the  city  of  Erechtheus,  popular  grati- 
tude could  not  have  gone  further.  Med- 
als were  struck  in  his  honor.  A  club,  the 
professed  object  of  which  was  to  perpetu- 
ate his  fame,  was  formed.  His  portrait 
stamped  on  medallions,  or  woven  on  hand- 
kerchiefs, was  the  ornament  most  cher- 
ished by  both  sexes.  When  he  appeared 
in  the  streets  all  heads  were  uncovered. 
If  for  the  first  time  he  visited  a  town,  it 
was  usual  for  the  corporation  to  receive 
him  with  public  honors.  Each  year  as 
his  birthday  came  round  it  was  celebrated 
with  tumultuous  festivity.  '*  He  became,*' 
says  Orrery,  ''the  idol  of  the  people  of 
Ireland  to  a  degree  of  devotion  that  in  the 
most  superstitious  country  scarcely  any 
idol  ever  attained."  Even  now  no  true 
Irishman  ever  pronounces  his  name  with- 
out reverence. 

But  it  was  not  as  a  political  agitator  only 
that  Swift  sought  to  attain  his  object. 
Nothing,  he  believed,  contributed  more 
to  the  degradation  and  wretchedness  of 
the  country  than  the  state  of  the  Church. 
As  a  Churchmah  his  own  convictions  and 
principles  had  never  wavered.  From  the 
very  first  he  had  attached  himself  to  the 
High  Church  party;  from  the  very  first 
be  had  regarded  the  Low  Church  party, 
not  merely  with  suspicion,  but  with  in- 
tense dislike.  Their  latitudinarian  opin- 
ions, the  indulgence  with  which  they  were 
inclined  to  treat  the  Nonconformists,  their 
close  alliance  with  the  Whigs,  their  readi- 
ness on  every  occasion  to  play  into  the 
hands  of  the  Whigs,  and  to  sacrifice  the 
interests  of  the  Church  to  the  interests  of 
a  faction  largely  composed  of  men  at  open 
enmity  with  the  Church  —  all  this  he  had 
long  beheld  with  indignation  and  alarm. 
On  arriving  in  Ireland  he  found  himself 
in  the  midst  of  this  obnoxious  party.  For 
a  while,  however,  he  contented  himself 
with  standing  aloof  and  remaining  pas- 
sive. But  between  I7i4and  1720  it  be- 
came clearly  apparent  that  it  was  the 
intention  of  the  Whig  ministry  in  En- 
gland to  make  the  Church  of  Ireland 
subservient  to  the  English  government. 
This  was  to  be  accomplished  by  the  grad- 
ual elimination  of  all  High  Churchmen 
and  of  all  natives  from  offices  of  trust  and 
emolument.  Regularly  as  each  see  or  as 
each  deanery  fell  vacant,  it  was  conferred 


on  some  member  of  the  Low  Church  party 
in  England,  selected  not  so  much  because 
he  possessed  any  moral  or  intellectual 
qualification  for  the  post,  as  because  his 
patrons  could  depend  on  his  obsequious 
compliance  with  their  designs'.  Against 
this  system  of  preferment,  and  against  the 
whole  body  of  those  who  thus  obtained 
preferment.  Swift  waged  incessant  war. 
If  they  endeavored  to  aggrandize  them- 
selves, if  they  essayed  in  any  way  to  op- 
press the  inferior  clergy,  or  to  extend 
the  bounds  of  episcopal  authority,  he  was 
in  the  arena  in  a  moment.  Thus  in  1723 
he  opposed  an  attempt  to  enlaro^e  the 
power  of  the  bishops  in  letting  Teases. 
Thus  in  ^1733  he  succeeded  in  inducing 
the  Lower  House  to  throw  out  the  Resi- 
dence Bill  and  the  Division  Bill.  The 
hatred  which  Swift  bore  to  the  Whig 
hierarchy  of  Ireland  is  perfectly  explica- 
ble on  political  and  ecclesiastical  grounds, 
but  we  may  perhaps  suspect  that  feelings 
less  creditable  to  him  entered  into  its 
composition.  The  truth  is,  he  could  not 
forget  that  men,  immeasurably  his  infe- 
riors in  parts  and  character,  had  out- 
stripped him  in  the  race  of  ambition. 

While  he  was  thus  defending  the 
Church  from  enemies  from  within  —  for 
such  he  considered  these  prelates  —  he 
was  equally  indefatigable  in  defending  her 
from  enemies  from  without.  It  was  owing 
to  his  efforts  that  the  Modus  Bill  — a  bill 
which  would,  by  commuting  the  tithe  upon 
hemp  and  fiax  for  a  fixed  sum,  have  bene- 
fited the  laity  at  the  expense  of  the  clergy 
—  was  defeated.  1 1  was  an  attempt  on  the 
part^of  the  Commons  and  the  landlords  to 
rob  the  Church  of  the  tithe  of  agistment 
that  inspired  the  last  and  most  furious  of 
his  satires.  But  nothing  excited  his  in- 
dignation more  than  the  indulgence  ex- 
tended to  the  Nonconformists.  Of  all  the 
enemies  of  the  Established  Church  they 
were,  in  his  eyes,  the  most  odious  and  the 
most  formidable.  It  was  no  secret  that 
the  largest  and  most  influential  sect 
among  them  aimed  at  nothing  less  than 
the  subversion  of  Episcopacy.  In  num- 
bers these  sectaries  already  equalled  the 
Episcopalian  Protestants ;  in  activity  and 
zeal  they  were  far  superior  to  them.  In- 
deed, Swift  firmly  believed  that  it  was  the 
Test  Act,  and  the  Test  Act  onlv,  which 
stood  between  the  Church  and  its  de- 
stroyers. But  the  Whigs  argued  that  the 
danger  came  not  from  the  Nonconformists 
but  from  the  Papists.  The  struggle,  they 
said,  lay  not  between  Protestantism  and 
Protestantism,  but  between  Protestantism 
and  Roman  Catholicism ;  and  the  exten- 


24 


DEAN   SWIFT   IN   IRELAND. 


8IOD  of  indulgences  to  the  sectaries  would, 
they  thought,  have  the  effect  of  uniting 
the  Protestants,  without  distinction  of 
sect,  against  the  common  enemy.  To 
this  Swift  replied  that  there  was  little  to 
fear  from  the  Papists.  The  Papists  had 
been  reduced  to  unimportance  and  impo- 
tence by  the  penal  laws;  they  were  as 
inconsiderable  in  point  of  power  as  the 
women  and  children.  Popery  was  no 
doubt  a  more  portentous  monster  than 
Presbyterianism,  as  a  lion  is  stronger  and 
larger  than  a  cat;  but,  he  adds  in  one  of 
those  happy  and  witty  illustrations  with 
which  his  pamphlets  abound,  **if  a  man 
were  to  have  his  choice,  either  a  lion  at 
his  foot  bound  fast  with  three  or  four 
chains,  his  teeth  drawn  and  his  claws 
pared  to  the  auick,  or  an  angry  cat  in 
full  liberty  at  his  throat,  he  would  take 
no  long  time  to  determine."  For  this 
reason  he  not  only  opposed  all  attempts 
to  repeal  the  Test  Act,  but  all  attempts  to 
relax  its  stringency.  And  the  pamphlets 
and  verses  produced  by  him  in  the  course 
of  this  long  controversy  are  among  the 
ablest  and  most  entertaining  of  his  minor 
writings. 

Not  less  strenuous  were  his  attempts 
to  awaken  in  the  Church  itself  the  spirit 
of  resistance  and  reform.  Among  the 
bishops  there  was  a  small  minority  by  no 
means  favorably  disposed  towards  the 
policy  of  England.  The  Toleration  Bill 
of  1 7 19  had  alarmed  them.  The  obvious 
intention  of  the  English  government  to 
degrade  the  Irish  Church  into  a  mere  in- 
strument of  political  dominion  had  dis- 
gusted them.  With  this  section,  at  the 
head  of  which  was  King,  Archbishop  of 
Dublin,  Swift  coalesced,  and  out  of  this 
section  he  labored  to  construct  a  party 
which  should  combat  the  Nonconformists 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  Hanoverian 
hierarchy  on  the  other;  which  should 
protest  against  the  systematic  exclusion 
of  the  Irish  clergy  from  remunerative 
preferment,  which  should  inaugurate  a 
national  Church.  Meanwhile  he  was 
doing  all  in  his  power  to  raise  the  charac- 
ter and  improve  the  condition  of  the  in- 
ferior clergy.  He  was  a  friend,  an 
adviser,  an  advocate,  on  whom  they  could 
always  depend.  He  defended  them 
against  the  bishops;  he  fought  for  them 
against  the  landlords.  Many  of  them 
owed  what  preferment  they  possessed  to 
his  generous  importunity. 

It  is  melancholy  to  turn  from  Swift's 
public  to  his  private  life.  We  open  his 
correspondence  and  we  find  abundant 
proof  that,  so  far  from  having  derived 


any  gratification,  either  from  his  recent 
triumph  or  from  the  discharge  of  duty,  he 
continued  to  be,  what  in  truth  he  had  long 
been,  the  most  wretched,  the  most  dis- 
contented, the  most  solitary  of  men.  The 
verv  name  of  the  country  for  which  he 
haa  done  so  much  was  odious  to  him.  He 
scarcely  ever  alluded  either  to  the  En- 
glish or  to  the  native  Irish,  but  with  some 
epithet  Indicative  of  loathing  and  con- 
tempt. In  the  l£nglish  rule  he  saw  the 
emtK)diment  of  all  that  is  most  detestable 
in  power;  in  the  condition  of  his  compa- 
triots, the  embodiment  of  all  that  is  most 
despicable  in  submission.  **  I  am  sit- 
ting,'* he  writes  in  one  of  his  letters,  **  like 
a  toad  in  the  corner  of  my  great  house, 
with  a  perfect  hatred  of  all  public  actions 
and  persons.*'  Though  his  active  benevo- 
lence never  slumbered,  and  though  he 
still  felt,  he  says,  affection  for  particular 
individuals,  his  feelings  towards  humanity 
in  general  were  those  of  a  man  in  whom 
misanthropy  was  beginning  to  border  on 
monomania.  He  also  complains  of  his 
broken  health,  of  his  sleepless  nights,  of 
his  solitude  in  the  midst  of  acquaintances, 
of  his  enforced  residence  in  a  country 
which  he  abhorred,  of  his  banishment 
from  those  in  whose  society  he  had  found 
the  burden  of  existence  less  intolerable. 

For  some  time  his  old  friends  had  been 
importuning  him  to  pa/  a  visit  to  En- 
gland. Though  Atterbury  was  in  exile, 
and  death  had  removed  Oxford,  Parnell, 
and  Prior,  the  Scriblerus  Club  could  still 
muster  a  goodly  company.  Bolingbroke, 
after  many  vicissitudes,  was  again  on  En- 
glish soil.  Pope,  who  had  achieved  a 
reputation  second  to  no  poet  in  Europe, 
had  settled  at  Twickenham,  and  was  grad- 
ually gatherinp^  round  him  that  splendid 
society  on  which  his  genius  has  shed  ad- 
ditional lustre.    Arbuthnot, 

social,  cheerful,  and  serene. 
And  just  as  rich  as  when  he  served  a  queen, 

had  lost  nothing  of  the  wit,  the  humor,  the 
wisdom,  the  humanity,  which  had  sixteen 
years  before  won  the  hearts  of  all  who 
knew  him.  And  not  less  importunate  were 
those  many  other  friends  in  whose  man- 
sions he  had  been  a  welcome  guest  when 
he  sat  each  week  among  the  brethren.  But 
it  was  long  before  he  could  make  up  bis 
mind  to  cross  the  Channel,  and  it  was  not 
till  the  spring  of  1726  that  he  found  him- 
self once  more  in  London. 

During  this  visit  occurred  two  memo- 
rable events:  the  interview  with  Walpole, 
and  the  publication  of  **  Gulliver's  Trav- 
els.**   No  incident  in  Swift's  biography 


DEAN   SWIFT   IN   IRELAND. 


>5 


has  been  so  grossly  misrepresented  as 
his  connection  with  Walpole.  It  was 
whispered  at  the  time  that  he  had  sold 
himself  to  the  court,  and  that  the  price  of 
his  apostasy  was  to  be  high  ecclesiastical 
preferment.  It  was  subsequently  re- 
ported that  he  had  merely  ofifered  to  turn 
renegade;  for  that  Walpole,  having  dis- 
covered from  an  intercepted  letter  that  he 
was  playing  a  double  part,  declined  to 
have  any  dealings  with  him.*  Chester- 
field confidently  asserted  that  Swift  had 
offered  his  services  to  the  ministrv.  Now 
the  facts  of  the  case  are  simply  these. 
Shortly  after  the  dean's  arrival  in  London, 
Walpole,  who  was  probably  acquainted 
with  him,  and  who  was  certainly  ac- 
quainted with  many  of  his  friends,  invited 
him  with  other  guests  to  a  dinnerparty  at 
Chelsea.  It  chanced  that  not  long  before 
a  libel  had  appeared,  in  which  the  charac- 
ter of  the  first  minister  had  been  very 
severely  handled.  And  that  libel  Walpole 
had  attributed,  but  attributed  erroneously, 
to  Gay.  Poor  Gay  had  in  consequence 
not  only  made  an  enemy  of  Walpole,  but 
what  was  still  more  serious,  had  lost  caste 
at  Leicester  House.  It  was  therefore 
with  an  allusion  to  Gay's  misadventure 
that  Swift  took  occasion  to  observe  at 
Walpole's  table,  that  "  when  great  minis- 
ters heard  an  ill  thing  of  a  private  person 
who  expected  soihe  favor,  although  they 
were  afterwards  convinced  that  the  per- 
son was  innocent,  yet  they  would  never 
be  reconciled."  The  words  were  ambigu- 
ous, though  Walpole  was  probably  well 
aware  that  when  Swift  uttered  them,  he 
was  referring  not  to  himself  but  to  Gay. 
He  affected,  however,  to  believe  that 
Swift  was  referring  to  himself,  and  was 
mean  enough  to  circulate  a  report  that 
the  dean  had  been  apologizing;  in  other 
words,  had  been  currying  favor  with  him. 
It  is  just  possible,  of  course,  that  Wal- 
pole may  for  the  moment  have  misinter- 
preted Swift's  meaning.  If  he  did  so,  he 
was  soon  undeceived.  At  the  end  of 
April,  Swift  had  a  second  interview.  It 
had  been  granted  at  the  request  of  Peter- 
borough, and  it  was  granted  that  Swift 
might  have  an  opportunity  of  discussing 
the  affairs  of  Ireland.  What  passed  on 
this  occasion  is  partly  a  matter  of  cer- 
tainty, and  partly  a  matter  of  conjecture, 
almost  as  conclusive  as  certainty.  That 
Walpole  frankly  communicated  his  views 
with  regard  to  the  relations  between  En- 
gland and  Ireland ;  that  these  views  were 

*  A  rery  circunutantial  venion  of  this  story  is  giren 
by  Cdltaa'in  his  **  JLacon,**  p^  aaa. 


diametrically  opposed  to  Swift's;  that 
Swift,  seeing  that  debate  was  useless, 
said  very  much  less  than  he  designed  to 
say ;  and  that  the  two  men  parted,  \i  not 
exactly  in  enmity,  at  least  with  no  friendly 
feelings,  we  know  definitely  from  Swift's 
correspondence.  What  seems  to  us  to 
place  it  beyond  doubt  that  Walpole  sought 
in  the  course  of  the  interview  to  deal  with 
Swift  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  dealing 
with  men  whom  it  was  his  policy  to  con- 
ciliate, are  two  passages  in  Swift's  corre- 
spondence. *'  I  have  had,"  he  writes  to 
Sheridan,  **  the  fairest  offer  made  me  of  a 
settlement  here  that  one  can  imagine, 
within  twelve  miles  of  London,  and  in  the 
midst  of  my  friends;  but  1  am  too  old 
for  new  schemes,  and  especially  such  as 
would  bridle  me  in  my  freedom."  Again, 
he  says  in  a  letter  to  Stopford,  referring 
to  the  see  of  Cloyne,  that  it  was  not 
offered  him,  and  would  not  have  been  ac- 
cepted by  him  "except  under  conditions 
which  would  never  have  been  granted." 
The  inference  is  obvious.  Walpole,*  well 
aware  of  Swift's  wish  to  settle  in  En- 
gland, was  disposed  to  turn  that  wish  to 
account.  In  all  probability  he  offered 
what  Swift  mentions  to  Sheridan  without 
imposing  conditions  other  than  those  im- 
plied conditions  which  men  who  accept 
favors  from  others  spontaneously  hold  to 
be  binding.  It  was  no  doubt  hinted  at 
the  same  time,  vaguely  but  intelligibly, 
that  higher  preferment  was  in  reserve,  if 
higher  preferment  should  be  earned,  and 
to  this  Swift  probably  refers  when  he 
speaks  of  conditions  which  would  never 
have  been  granted.  But  whatever  inter- 
pretation may  be  placed  on  Swift's  words, 
whatever  obscurity  may  still  cloud  this 
much-discussed  passage  in  his  life,  one 
thing  is  clear,  he  never  for  a  moment 
allowed  self-interest  to  weigh  against  duty 
and  principle. 

Meanwhile  he  was  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  that  immortal  satire,  the  fame 
of  which  has  thrown  all  his  other  writings 
into  the  shade.  At  what  precise  time  he 
commenced  the  composition  of  **  Gulli- 
ver" is  not  known.  It  was  originally  de- 
signed to  form  a  portion  of  the  work 
projected  by  the  Scriblerus  Club  in  17 14; 
and  we  are  inclined  to  think  that,  if  it 
was  not  commenced  then,  it  was  com- 
menced shortly  afterwards.  He  had  cer- 
tainly made  some  progress  in  it  as  early 
as  the  winter  of  1721,  for  we  find  allusion 
to  it  in  a  letter  of  Holingbroke's,  dated 
January  ist,  1721 ;  and  in  a  letter  of  Miss 
Vanhomrigh's,  undated,  but  written  prob- 
ably about  the  same  time.    There  can  be 


26 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN   IRELAND. 


little  doubt,  therefore,  that  the  work  was 
far  advanced  before  his  visit  to  Quilca  at 
the  end  of  1724,  and  we  know  from  his 
correspondence  that  durinji^  that  visit —  a 
visit  which  extended  over  the  greater 
part  of  a  year —  the  manuscript  was  sel- 
dom out  of  his  hands.  Between  that  date 
and  the  date  of  publication  it  appears  to 
have  undergone  repeated  revisions.  Many 
passages,  for  example,  must  almost  cer- 
tainly have  been  inserted  during  his  res- 
idence in  England.  Indeed,  we  are 
inclined  to  suspect  that  it  was  to  his 
residence  in  England  that  the  satire  owed 
much  of  its  local  coloring.  Nor  is  it  at 
all  surprising  that  **  Gulliver"  should  have 
occupied  Swift's  thoughts  for  many  years, 
and  should  have  been  the  result  of  pa- 
tient and  protracted  labor.  It  would  be 
eas^  to  point  to  fictions  which  in  wealth 
of  imagination  and  fancv,  in  humor,  in 
wit,  in  originality,  woulcl  suffer  nothing 
from  comparison  with  Swift's  master- 
piece. Such  in  ancient  times  would  be 
•*  The  Birds,"  and  "  The  True  Art  of  Writ- 
ing History;"  such,  in  later  times,  would 
be  the  romances  of  Rabelais  and  Cer- 
vantes. But  what  distinguishes  Swift's 
satire  from  all  other  works  of  the  same 
class,  is  not  merely  its  comprehensiveness 
and  intensity,  but  its  exact  and  elaborate 
propriety.  The  skill  with  which  every 
incident,  nay,  almost  every  allusion  in  a 
narrative  as  rich  in  incident  as  the  "  Trav- 
els "  of  Pinto,  and  as  minutely  particular 
as  the  "Adventures  of  Crusoe,"  is  in- 
vested with  satirical  significance,  is  little 
short  of  marvellous.  From  the  com- 
mencement to  the  end  there  is  nothing 
superfluous,  and  there  is  nothing  irrele- 
vant. The  merest  trifle  has  its  point. 
Where  the  satire  is  not  general,  it  is  per- 
sonal and  local.  Where  the  analogies  are 
not  to  be  found  in  the  vices  and  follies 
common  to  all  ages,  they  are  to  be  found 
in  the  social  and  political  history  of 
Swift's  own  time.  But  the  fiction  has 
been  framed  with  such  nice  ingenuity, 
that  the  allegory  blends  what  is  ephem- 
eral with  what  is  universal;  and  a  satire 
which  is  on  the  one  hand  as  wide  as  hu- 
manity, is  on  the  other  hand  as  local  and 
particular  as  the  **  History  of  John  Bull" 
or  the  "Satyre  Menipp^e."  Regarded 
simply  as  a  romance,  the  work  is  not  less 
finished.  De  Morgan  has  pointed  out 
the  scrupulous  accuracy  with  which  in  the 
two  tirst  voyages  the  scale  of  proportions 
is  adjusted  and  observed.  So  artfully,  he 
observes,  has  Swift  guarded  against  the 
possibility  of  discrepancy,  that  he  has 
taken  care  to  baffle  mathematical  scrutiny 


by  avoiding  any  statement  which  would 
furnish  a  standard  for  exact  calculation. 
And  this  minute  diligence,  this  subtle 
skill,  is  manifest  in  the  delineation  of  the 
hero  Gulliver,  who  is  not  merely  the  ironi- 
cal embodiment  of  Swift  himself,  but  a 
portrait  as  true  to  life  as  Bowling  or 
Trunnion ;  in  the  style  which  is  at  once  a 
parody  of  the  style  of  the  old  voyagers, 
and  a  style  in  itself  of  a  high  order  of  in- 
trinsic excellence ;  in  the  fine  and  delicate 
touches  which  give  to  incidents,  in  them- 
selves monstrously  extravagant,  so  much 
verisimilitude,  that  as  we  follow  the  story 
we  are  almost  cheated  into  believing  it. 
In  all  works  of  a  similar  kind  every  mci* 
dent  IS,  as  Scott  well  observes,  a  new 
demand  upon  the  patience  and  credulity 
of  the  reader.  In  Swift's  romance,  as 
soon  as  the  first  shock  of  incredulity  is 
over,  the  process  of  illusion  is  uninter- 
rupted. If  the  premises  of  the  fiction  be 
once  granted,  if  the  existence  of  Lilliput 
and  Brobdingnag,  of  Laputa  and  Balni- 
barbi,  be  postulated,  we  have  before  us  a 
narrative  as  logical  as  it  is  consistent  and 
plausible.  Indeed,  the  skill  with  which 
Swift  has  by  a  thousand  minute  strokes 
contrived  to  invest  the  whole  work  with 
the  semblance  of  authenticity,  is  inimita- 
ble. De  Foe  himself  is  not  a  greater  mas- 
ter of  the  art  of  realistic  effect. 

That  in  the  plot  of  hfs  story  Swift  was 
largely  indebted  to  preceding  writers  can- 
not, we  think,  be  disputed.  The  resem- 
blances which  exist  between  passages  in 
**  Gulliver,"  and  passages  in  works  with 
which  Swift  is  known  to  have  been  con- 
versant, are  too  close  to  be  mere  coinci- 
dences. There  can  be  no  doubt,  for 
example,  that  the  Academy  of  Lagado  was 
suggested  by  the  diversions  of  the  cour- 
tiers of  Queen  Quintessence  in  the  fifth 
book  of  "  Pantagruel ; "  that  the  attack  of 
the  Lilliputians  on  Gulliver  is  the  coun- 
terpart of  the  attack  of  the  Pygmies  ooi 
Hercules  in  the  second  book  of  the  *'  Im- 
agines "of  Philostratus ;  that  the  scenes 
with  the  ghosts  in  Glubbdubdrib  are 
modelled  on  Lucian;  that  in  the  "Voy- 
age to  Laputa "  the  romances  of  Cyrano 
de  Bergerac  were  laid  under  contribu- 
tion; and  that  in  the  "Voyage  to  the 
Houyhnhnms,"  he  drew  both  on  the 
"Arabian  Nights"  and  on  Goodwin's 
"Voyage  of  Domingo  Gonsalez."  We 
think  it  very  likely  that  the  Houyhnhnms 
were  suggested  by  the  forty-fifth  chapter 
of  Solinus,  and  that  several  strokes  for 
the  Yahoos  were  borrowed  from  the 
"  Travels  "  of  Sir  Thomas  Herbert.  It  is 
certain  that  Swift  was,  like  Sterne,  a  dili- 


DEAN  SWIFT  IN  IRELAND. 


«7 


ffcnt  student  of  carioas  and  recondite 
literature;  and  that,  like  Sterne,  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  turning  that  knowledge  to 
account.  Of  this  we  have  a  remarkable 
illustration  in  the '^  Voyage  to  Brobding- 
nag."  Few  readers  who  know  anything 
of  nautical  science  have  not  been  sur- 
prised at  the  minuteness  and  accuracy  of 
the  technical  knowledge  displayed  by 
Swift  in  his  account  of  the  manoeuvres  of 
Gulliver*s  crew  in  the  storm  off  the  Mo- 
luccas. Now  the  whole  of  this  passage 
was  taken  nearly  verbatim  from  a  work 
then  probably  circulating  only  among 
naval  students,  and  in  our  time  almost 
unique.  This  was  Samuel  Sturmy's 
**  Manner's  Magazine,"  published  at  Lon- 
don in  1679,  a  copy  of  which  may  be  found 
in  the  British  Museum.* 


*  As  this  moftt  cariona  appropriation,  to  which  oar 
attention  was  directed  by  a  slip  >n  a  acrap-book  in  the 
British  Museum,  has  wholly  escaped  Swift's  biog- 
raphers and  critics,  and  has  not,  so  far  as  we  Icnow, 
traTelled  beyond  the  scrap-book,  we  will  transcribe  the 
original  and  the  copy,  giving  them  both  in  parallel 
columns :  -^ 


Swift. 
**GaUiTer,'*  pp.  108,  10^ 

•'Finding  it  was  likdy 
to  overbiow  we  took  in  our 
sprit  sail]  and  stood  by  to 
uod  the  fore  sail,  but, 
suking  foul  weather,  we 
looked  the  guns  were  ^1 
fast  and  handed  the  mizen. 

**The  ship  lay  very 
broad  off.  so  we  thought  it 
better  spooning  before  the 
sea  than  trying  or  hulling. 

"We  reefed  the  fore- 
sail and  set  him  and  hauled 
aft  the  fore  sheet ;  the 
helm  was  hard  aweather. 

**We  belayed  the  fore 
do«ii  hau!,  but  the  sail 
mas  split  and  we  hauled 
ik)wn  the  yard  and  got  the 
sail  into  the  ship  and  uu- 
bocndaJl  the  things  clear 
^it. 

**It  was  a  very  fierce 
storm:  the  sea  broke 
strange  and  dangeroas. 

"We  hauled  off  upon 
the  Iau>ard  of  the  whip 
staff  and  helped  the  man 
« the  helm. 

«*We  would  not  get 
down  our  top  roast,  but 
kt  ail  stard,  because  she 
•cnddetl  before  the  sea 
very  well,  and  we  kuew 
that  the  icpmast  being 
airft  th«  ship  was  the 
wbolesctrter  and  made  bet- 
ter way  through  the  sea, 
seeins  we  I* ad  sea-room. 

"We  get  tliC  starboard 
tacks  at  cord ;  we  cast  off 
tLe  weather  bowlings, 
wea:her  braces  and  lifts; 
we  set  in  the  lee  braces 
and  hauled  them  tight  and 
heiafed  them,  and  hauled 
•tcr  the  miaen,  and  hauled 


Stusmy. 

"Mariner's     Magazine," 
pp.  15,  16,  1684. 

"  It  is  like  to  overblow, 
take  in  your  sprit  sail, 
stand  by  to  hand  the  fore 
sail  .  .  .  We  make  foul 
weather,  look  the  guns  be 
all  fast,  come  hand  the 
mizen. 

**The  ship  lies  very 
broad^  off;  it  is  better 
SDooiiing  before  the  sea 
than  trying  or  hulling. 

"Go  reef  the  foresail 
and  set  him ;  hawl  aft  the 
fore-sheet.  The  helm  is 
hard  aweather. 

"  Belay  the  fore  down 
haul.  The  sail  is  split: 
go  hawl  down  the  yardf  and 
get  the  sail  into  tho  ship 
and  unbind  all  things  clear 
of  it 

**A  very  fierce  storm. 
The  sea  breaks  strange 
and  dangerous. 

"  Stand  by  to.  hanl  off 
above  the  lanyard  of  the 
whip  staff  and  help  the 
man  at  the  helm. 

'*  Shall  we  get  down  our 
topmasts?  No  let  all 
stand:  she  scuds  before 
the  sea  very  well:  the  top* 
mast  being  aloft  the  shtp 
is  the  wholesomen  and 
nuketh  better  way  through 
the  sea,  seeing  wc  have  sea 
room. 

"  Get  the  starboard  Ucks 
abcard,  cast  off  our  weath- 
er braces  and  lifts ;  set  in 
the  lee  braces  and  haw! 
them  taught  and  belay e 
them  and  hawl  pyer  the 
mizen  tacks  to  windward 
auci    keep    her   luil   and 


But  to  suppose  that  these  appropria- 
tions and  reminiscences  detract  in  any 
way  from  the  essential  originality  of  the 
work,  would  be  as  absurd  as  to  tax 
Shakespeare  with  stealing  *'Antonv  and 
Cleopatra"  from  Plutarch,  or  "  Macbeth  " 
from  Hoiinshed.  What  Swift  borrowed 
was  what  Shakespeare  borrowed,  and 
what  the  creative  artists  of  all  a^es  have 
never  scrupled  to  borrow  — incidents  and 
hints.  The  description  from  Sturmy  is  to 
the  "  Voyage  to  Brobdingnag  "  precisely 
what  the  progress  of  Cleopatra,  in  North^ 
"  Plutarch,"  is  to  the  drama  of  **  Antony 
and  Cleopatra.'*  Indeed,  the  sum  of 
Swift's  obligations  to  the  writers  whom 
we  have  mentioned  would,  though  con- 
siderable, be  found  on  examination  to  be 
infinitely  less  than  the  obligations  of  the 
most  original  of  poets  to  the  novelists  of 
Italy  and  to  the  works  of  contemporaries. 

Niuch  has  been  said  about  Swift's  object 
in  writing'*  Gulliver."  That  object  he  has 
himself  explained.  It  was  to  vex  the 
world.  It  was  to  embody  in  allegory  the 
hatred  and  disdain  with  which  he  person- 
ally, regarded  all  nations,  all  professions, 
all  communities,  and  especially  man,  as 
main  in  essence  is.  It  had  no'moral,  no 
social,  no  philosophical  purpose.  It  was 
the  mere  ebullition  of  cynicism  and  mis- 
anthropy. It  was  a  savage /r//  d^ esprit : 
and  as  such  wise  men  will  regard  it.  But 
there  have  never  been  wanting  —  there 
probably  never  will  be  wanting  —  critics 
to  place  it  on  a  much  higher  footing.  In 
their  eyes  it  is  as  a  satire,  as  an  estimate 
of  humanity,  and,  as  a  criticism  of  life,  as 
reasonable  as  it  is  just.  "Gulliver  is," 
says  Hazlitt,  **an  attempt  to  tear  off  the 
mask  of  imposture  from  the  world,  to  strip 
empty  pride  and  grandeur  of  the  imposing 
air  which  external  circumstances  throw 
around  them.  And  nothing,"  he  adds, 
"  but  imposture  has  a  right  to  complain  of 
it."  The  answer  to  this  is  obvious. 
Where  satire  has  a  moral  purpose,  it  is 
discriminating.  It  is  levelled,  not  at  de- 
fects and  infirmities  which  are  essential 
and  in  nature  unremovable,  but  at  defects 
and  infirmities  which  are  unessential,  and 
therefore  corrigible.  If  its  immediate 
object  is  to  punish,  its  ultimate  object  is 
to  amend.  But  this  is  not  the  spirit  of 
"  Gulliver."  Take  the  Yahoos.  Nothing 
can  be  plainer  than  that  these  odious  and 
repulsive  creatures  were  designed  to  be 

Swift.  Sturmy. 

forward  bv  tack  to  wind-    by  as  near  as  she  would 
ward  and  kept  her  full  and    lie." 
by  as  near  as  she  would 
lie.»' 


28 


DEAN   SWIFT  IN  IRELAND. 


types,  not  o£  man,  as  man  when  brutalized 
and  degenerate  may  become,  but  of  man, 
as  man  is  naturally  constituted.  Take  the 
Struldbrugs.  What  end  could  possibly 
be  attained  by  so  shocking  an  exposure  of 
human  infirmities  ?  Juvenal  has,  it  is  true, 
left  us  a  similar  delineation;  but  Juvenal's 
object  was,  by  teaching  men  to  distinguish 
between  what  is  desirable  and  what  is  not 
desirable,  to  guide  them  to  a  cheerful  and 
elevated  philosophy.  Swift's  design  be- 
gan and  ended  in  cynical  mockery.  Again, 
in  the  '*  Voyage  to  Laputa,"  though  the 
local  satire  —  the  satire,  for  example,  on 
the  projectors  —  is  pointed  and  just,  the 
general  satire  is  in  the  highest  degree  ex- 
travagant and  absurd.  No  one  would  dis- 
pute that  intellectual  energy  may,  like  the 
passions,  be  abused  and  perverted,  and 
no  one  would  dispute  that  its  abuse  and 

Serversion  are  fair  game  for  the  satirist, 
lut  the  inutility  of  such  energy,  when 
misapplied,  is  no  criterion  of  its  utility 
when  properly  directed.  By  Swift  the 
misapplication,  and  the  misapplication 
onlv,  is  recognized.  He  thus  contrives  — 
ana  contrives  most  dishonestly  —  to  rep- 
resent the  mathematical  and  mechanical 
sciences  as  despicable  and  ridiculous, 
medicine  as  mere  charlatanry,  and  experi- 
mental philosophy  as  an  idle  and  silly  de- 
lusion—  in  a  word,  to  pour  contempt  on 
those  pursuits  and  faculties  on  which  the 
intellectual  supremacy  of  man  is  based. 
Not  less  sophistical  and  disingenuous  is 
the  device  employed  by  him  in  the  "Voy- 
age to  the  Houyhnhnms"  for  dethroning 
his  kind  from  their  moral  supremacy. 
We  here  find  him  assigning  to  brutes  the 
qualities  characteristic  of  men,  and  as- 
signing to  men  the  qualities  characteristic 
of  brutes,  that  men  may  by  comparison 
with  brutes  be  degraded,  and  that  brutes 
may  by  comparison  with  men  be  exalted. 
If  the  work  be  regarded  merely  as  a  sat- 
ire, it  is  not  perhaps  too  much  to  sa^*  that 
in  condensed  and  sustained  power  it  has 
neither  equal  nor  second  among  human 
productions.  But  it  is  a  satire  the  phil- 
osophy and  morality  of  which  will  not  for 
a  moment  bear  serious  examination. 

The  work  appeared  anonymously  early 
in  November,  1726.  It  became  instantly 
popular.  Within  a  week  the  first  edition 
was  exhausted.  A  second  edition  speedily 
followed,  but  before  the  second  edition 
was  ready,  pirated  copies  of  the  first  were 
in  circulation  in  Ireland,  and  the  work 
was  traversing  Great  Britain  in  all  direc- 
tions in  the  columns  of  a  weekly  journal. 
No  one,  so  far  as  our  knowledge  goes, 
has  noticed  that "  Gulliver  *'  was  reprinted 


in  successive  instalments  in  a  contempo- 
rary newspaper,  called  Parker^s  Penny 
Post^  between  November  28th,  1726,  and 
the  following  spring  —  a  sufficient  indica- 
tion of  the  opinion  formed  of  it  by  those 
who  are  best  acquainted  with  the  popular 
taste,  and  probaoly  the  first  occasion  on 
which  the  weekly  press  was  applied  to 
such  a  purpose.  But  though  the  wbrk 
appealed  to  all,  it  appealed  in  different 
ways.  By  the  multitude  it  was  read,  as 
it  is  read  in  the  nurseries  and  playrooms 
of  our  more  enlightened  age,  with  wonder- 
ing credulity.  But  the  avidity  with  which 
it  was  devoured  by  readers  to  whom  the 
allegory  was  nothing  and  the  story  every- 
thing, was  equalled  by  the  avidity  with 
which  it  was  devoured  by  readers  to  whom 
the  allegory  was  supreme  and  the  story 
purely  subordinate.  At  court,  and  in 
political  circles,  it  was  read  and  quoted  as 
no  satire  since  "Hudibras  "had  been. 
There  Flimnap  and  Sieve,  Skyresk  Bolgo- 
lam,  and  Redresal,  the  Tranecksan  and 
Slamecksan,  the  Big-endians  and  Small- 
endians,  t«ie  Sardrals  and  the  Nardacks, 
the  two  Frelocks  and  Mully  Ully  Gue, 
were  what  the  caricatures  of  Gilray  were, 
fifty  years  later,  to  the  court  of  George 
III.  The  circumstances  which  led  to  the 
flight  of  Gulliver  from  Lilliput,-  and  the 
account  given  of  the  natives  of  Tnbnia, 
must  have  come  home  with  peculiar  force 
and  pungency  to  readers  who  could  re- 
member the  proceedings  which  led  to  the 
incarceration  of  Harley  and  the  flight  of 
Bolingbroke  and  Ormond,  and  in  whose 
memories  the  trial  of  Atterbury  was  still 
fresh.  To  us  the  schemes  propounded  in 
the  Academy  of  Lagado  have  no  more 
point  than  the  schemes  which  occupied 
the  courtiers  of  Queen  Entelechy;  but 
how  pregnant,  how  pertinent,  how  ex- 
quisite, must  the  satire  have  appeared  to 
readers  who  were  still  smarting  from  the 
Bubblemania,  who  had  been  shareholders 
in  the  Society  for  Transmuting  Quicksil- 
ver into  Malleable  Metal,  or  in  the  So- 
ciety for  Extracting  Silver  from  Lead  1 
Nor  was  the  satire  in  its  broader  aspect 
less  keenly  relished.  Aristotle  has  ob- 
served that  the  measure  of  a  man*s  moral 
degradation  may  be  held  to  be  complete 
when  he  sees  nothing  derogatory  in  join- 
ing in  the  gibe  against  himself.  And 
what  is  true  of  an  individual  is  assuredly 
true  of  an  age.  At  no  period  distin- 
guished by  generosity  of  sentiment,  by 
magnanimity,  by  humanity,  by  any  of  the 
nobler  and  finer  qualities  of  mankind, 
could  such  satire  as  the  satire  of  which 
the  greater  part  of  "  Gulliver  "  is  the  em- 


DEAN   SWIFT   IN   IRELAND. 


29 


bodiment,  have  been  universally  ap- 
plauded. Yet,  so  it  was.  The  men  and 
women  of  those  times  appear  to  have 
seen  oothin<;  objectionable  in  an  apologue 
which  would  scarcely  have  passed  without 
a  protest  in  the  Rome  of  Petronius  or  in 
the  Paris  of  Dubois.  One  noble  lady 
facetiously  identified  herself  with  the 
Yahoos ;  another  declared  that  her  whole 
life  had  been  lost  in  caressing  the  worst 
part  of  mankind,  and  in  treating  the  best 
as  her  foes.  Here  and  there,  indeed,  a 
reader  might  be  found  who  was  of  opinion 
that  the  satire  was  too  strongly  flavored 
with  misanthropy,  but  such  readers  were 
altogether  in  the  minority.  It  is  remark- 
able that  even  Arbuthnot,  though  he 
objected  to  Laputa,  expressed  no  dis- 
satisfaction with  the  "Voyage  to  the 
Houyhnhnms." 

Nearly  three  months  before  the  publi- 
cation of  "Gulliver,"  Swift  had  quitted 
London  for  Dublin.  His  departure  had 
been  hastened  by  the  terrible  news  that 
the  calamity,  which  of  all  calamitie  she 
dreaded  most,  was  imminent.  The  health 
ot  Miss  Johnson  had  long  been  failing, 
and  had  latterly  afforded  matter  for  grave 
anxiety.  Shortly  after  Swift's  arrival  in 
England,  alarming  symptoms  had  begun 
to  develop  themselves.  For  a  while,  how- 
ever, his  friends  in  Dublin  had  mercifully 
concealed  the  worst,  and  for  a  while  his 
fears  were  not  unmingled  with  hope.  At 
last  he  knew  the  worst.  His  grief  was 
such  as  absolutely  to  unnerve  and  unman 
him.  The  letters  written  at  this  time  to 
Stopford  and  Sheridan  exhibit  a  state  of 
mind  pitiable  to  contemplate.  But  the 
blow  was  not  to  fall  yet.  Esther  John- 
son rallied,  and  Swift  again  visited  En- 
gland. 

He  arrived  in  London  with  impaired 
health,  and  with  a  mind  ill  at  ease.  Nor 
was  the  life  on  which  he  now  entered  at 
all  calculated  to  remedy  the  mischief. 
His  popularity  and  fame  were  at  their 
height,  and  he  soon  found  that  he  had  to 
pay  the  full  price  for  his  position.  Neither 
friends  nor  strangers  allowed  him  any 
peace.  At  Twickenham,  Pope  teased 
him  to  death  about  the  corrected  edition 
of  **  Gulliver,"  and  about  the  third  volume 
of  the  "Miscellanies."  Gay,  busy  with 
the  "  Beggar's  Opera,"  sought  anxiously 
to  profit  from  his  criticism  ;  and,  if  tradi- 
tion is  to  be  trusted,  the  drama  which 
owed  its  existence  to  Swift's  suggestion, 
owes  to  his  pen  two  of  its  most  famous 
songs.  In  London,  and  at  Dawley,  he 
was  submitted  to  persecutions  of  another 
kind.    Peterborough  and  Harcourt  were 


eager  to  negotiate  an  understanding  with 
VValpole.  Bolingbroke  and  Pulteney 
sought  to  engage  him  in  active  coope ra- 
tion with  the  opposition.  The  opposition 
were  now  high  in  hope.  The  death  of  the 
king  could  be  no  remote  event ;  and  it 
was  confidently  believed  that,  with  the  ac- 
cession of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  su- 
premacy of  Walpole  would  be  at  an  end, 
and  that  the  ministry  would  be  recon- 
structed. The  person  who  was  popularly 
supposed  to  direct  the  counsels  of  the 
prince  was  Mrs.  Howard,  the  declared 
enemy  of  Walpole,  the  staunch  ally  of 
the  faction  opposed  to  him.  That  Swift 
shared  in  some  measure  the  hopes  of  his 
friends,  is  very  likely.  With  Mrs,  How- 
ard he  was  on  terms  of  close  intimacy. 
Before  his  arrival  in  England  he  had  reg- 
ularly corresponded  with  her.  During 
his  residence  In  England  he  regularly 
visited  her.  At  Leicester  House  he  haci 
been  received  with  marked  favor.  In- 
deed, the  princess  had  gone  out  of  her 
way  to  pay  him  attention.  He  had  thus 
ample  reason  for  supposing  that,  if  afifairs 
took  the  turn  which  his  friends  antici- 
pated, the  prize  which  had  twice  before 
eluded  him  would  again  be  within  his 
grasp.  Suddenly,  far  more  suddenly  than 
was  expected,  occurred  the  event  on 
which  so  much  depended.  On  July  9th 
died  George  I.  Swift  remained  in  London 
during  that  period  of  intense  excitement 
which  intervened  between  the  preferment 
of  Sir  Spencer  Compton  and  the  re-estab- 
lishment of  Walpole.  He  kissed  the 
hands  of  the  new  king  and  the  new  queen, 
saw  in  a  few  days  that  all  was  over,  and 
then  hurried  off,  sick  and  weary,  to  bury 
himself,  first  in  Pope's  study  at  Twicken- 
ham, andtthen  at  Lord  Oxford's  country 
seat  at  Wimpole.  At  the  end  of  Sep- 
tember he  abruptly  quitted  England  for- 
ever. 

Of  his  last  days  on  this  side  of  the 
Channel  a  singularly  interesting  record 
has  recently  come  to  light.  On  arriving 
at  Holyhead  he  found  himself  too  late  for 
the  Dublin  packet.  Unfavorable  weather 
set  in,  and  he  was  detained  for  upwards 
of  a  week  in  what  was  then  the  most  com- 
fortless of  British  seaports.  During  that 
week  he  amused  himself  with  scribbling 
verses  and  with  keeping  a  journal.  This 
journal  Mr.  Craik  has  now  given  to  the 
world,  and  we  have  no  hesitation  in  call- 
ing it  the  most  remarkable  contribution 
to  the  personal  history  of  Swift  which  has 
appeared  since  the  publication  of  the 
"  Letters  to  Stella."  In  reading  the  jour- 
nal it  is  impossible  not  to  be  struck  with 


30 


DEAN   SWIFT   IN   IRELAND. 


its  resemblance  to  the  diary  kept  by  By- 
ron at  Ravenna.  In  both  there  is  the 
same  contrast  between  what  appears  on 
the  surface  and  what  is  beneath.  In  both 
cases  the  same  listless  wretchedness  takes 
refuge  in  the  same  laborious  trifling. 
Both  are  the  soliloquies  of  men  who  are 
as  weary  of  themselves  as  they  are  weary 
of  the  world,  and  who  clutch  desperately 
at  every  expedient  for  escaping  reflection 
and  for  killing  time,  sometimes  by  invest- 
ing trifles  with  adventitious  importance, 
sometimes  by  indulging  half-ironically  in 
a  sort  of  humorous  self-analysis,  some- 
times by  dallying  lazily  with  their  own 
idle  fancies. 

The  death  of  Esther  Johnson,  in  Janu- 
ary, 1728,  dissolved  the  only  tie  which 
bound  Swift  to  life.  It  hacl  been  long 
expected,  but  when  the  end  came  it  must 
have  come  suddenly,  for,  though  in  Dub- 
lin, he  was  not  with  her.  With  pathetic 
particularity  he  has  himself  recorded  the 
circumstances  under  which  he  heard  of 
his  irreparable  loss.  It  was  late  in  the 
evening  of  Sunday,  the  28th  of  January. 
The  guests  who  were  in  the  habit  of  as- 
sembling weekly  at  the  deanery  on  that 
evening  were  round  him,  and  it  was  nearly 
midnight  before  he  could  be  alone  with 
his  sorrow.  How  that  sad  night  was 
passed  was  known  to  none,  until  he  had 
himself  been  laid  in  the  grave.  Then 
was  found  among  his  papers  that  most 
touching  memorial  of  his  grief  and  love 
—  the  "  Memoir  and  Character  of  Esther 
Johnson."  Firmly  and  calmly  had  the 
desolate  old  man  met  the  calamity  which 
a  few  months  before  he  had  described 
himself  as  not  daring  to  contemplate. 
That  night  he  commenced  the  narrative 
which  tells  the  story  of  her  in  whose 
coffin  was  buried  all  that  made  existence 
tolerable  to  him.  And  regularly  as  each 
night  came  round  he  appears  to  have  re- 
sumed his  task.  There  is  something 
almost  ghastly  in  the  contrast  between 
the  smooth  and  icy  flow  of  the  chronicle 
itself  and  the  terribly  pathetic  signifi- 
cance of  the  parentheses  which  mark  the 
stages  in  its  composition.  "This,"  he 
writes,  on  the  night  of  the  30th,  "is  the 
night  of  the  funeral,  which  my  sickness 
will  not  suffer  me  to  attend.  It  is  now 
nine  o^clock,  and  I  am  removed  into  an- 
other compartment  that  I  may  not  see  the 
light  in  the  church,  which  is  just  over 
the  window  of  my  bedchamber."  Sorrow 
and  despair  have  many  voices,  but  seldom 
have  they  found  expression  so  affecting 
as  in  those  calm  and  simple  words. 
Se  non  piangi,  di  che  pianger  suoli  ? 


It  is  said  that  her  name  was  never  after- 
wards known  to  pass  his  lips. 

The  biography  of  Swift  from  the  death 
of  Esther  Johnson  to  the  hour  in  which 
his  own  eyes  closed  on  the  world,  is  the 
catastrophe  of  a  tragedy  sadder  and  more 
awful  than  any  of  those  pathetic  fictions 
which  appal  and  melt  us  on  the  stage  of 
Sophocles  and  Shakespeare.  The  dis- 
tressing malady  under  which  he  labored 
never  for  long  relaxed  its  grasp,  and  when 
the  paroxysms  were  not  actually  on  him, 
the  daily  and  hourly  dread  of  their  re- 
turn was  scarcely  less  agonizing.  In  that 
maladv  he  discerned  the  gradual  but  in- 
evitable approach  of  a  calamity,  which  is 
of  all  the  calamities  incident  to  man  the 
most  fearful  to  contemplate.  Over  his 
spirits  hung  the  cloud  of  profound  and 
settled  melancholy.  His  wretchedness 
was  without  respite  and  without  alloy. 
When  he  was  not  under  the  spell  of  dull, 
dumb  misery,  he  was  on  the  rack  of  furi- 
ous passions. 

Sense  of  intolerable  wrong, 

And  whom  he  scorned,  those  only  strong ; 

Thirst  of  revenge,  the  powerless  will 

Still  baffled  and  yet  burning  still, 

For  aye  entempesting  anew, 

The  unfathomable  hell  within. 

His  writings  and  correspondence  exhibit 
a  mind  perpetually  oscillating  between 
unutterable  despair  and  demoniac  rage, 
between  a  misanthropy  bitterer  and  more 
savage  than  that  which  tore  the  heart 
of  Timon,  and  a  sympathy  with  suffer- 
ing humanity  as  acute  and  sensitive  as 
that  which  vibrated  in  Rousseau  and  Shel- 
ley. 

It  was  not  until  the  accession  of 
George  II.  that  Swift  fully  realized  the 
hopelessness  of  effecting  any  reform  in 
Ireland.  His  second  interview  with  Wal- 
pole  had  convinced  him  that  so  long  as 
that  minister  was  at  the  head  of  affairs  the 
policy  of  England  would  remain  un- 
changed, that  a  deaf  ear  would  be  turned 
to  all  appeals,  all  protests,  all  sugges- 
tions. The  new  reign  would,  he  had 
hoped,  have  placed  the  reins  of  govern- 
ment in  new  hands.  It  had,  on  the  con- 
trary, confirmed  the  su^^remacy  of  Wal- 
pole,  and  the  fate  of  Ireland  was  sealed. 
But  what  enraged  him  most  was  the  con- 
sciousness that  his  efforts  to  awaken  in 
the  Irish  themselves  the  spirit  of  resis- 
tance and  reform  had  wholly  failed.  None 
of  his  proposals  had  been  carried  out, 
none  of  his  warnings  had  been  heeded. 
All  was  as  all  had  been  before.  An  igno- 
ble rabble  of  sycophants  and  slaves  still 
grovelled  at  the  feet  of  power.    Corrupt 


DEAN   SWIFT   IN    IRELAND. 


II 


tioo  and  iniquity  still  sat  unabashed  on 
the  tribunal ;  the  two  Houses  still  swarmed 
with  the  tools  of  oppression;  and  the 
country,  which  his  genius  and  energy  had 
for  a  moment  galvanized  into  life,  had 
again  sunk  torpid  and  inert  into  the  deg- 
radation in  which  he  had  found  her.  lo 
the  provinces  was  raging  one  of  the  most 
frightful  famines  ever  known  io  the  annals 
of  the  peasantry.  Never,  perhaps,  in  the 
whole  course  of  her  melancholy  history 
was  the  condition  of  Ireland  more  deplor- 
able than  at  the  beginning  of  1729.  All 
this  worked  liked  poison  in  Swift's  blood, 
and,  like  the  cleaving  mischief  of  the 
fable,  tortured  him  without  intermission 
till  torture  ceased  to  be  possible.  But  the 
savage  indignation,  which  the  spectacle  of 
English  misgovernment  excited  in  him, 
was  now  fully  equalled  by  the  disdain  and 
loathing  with  which  he  regarded  the  suf- 
ferers themselves.  Towards  the  aborigi- 
nes his  feelings  had  never  been  other  than 
those  of  repulsion  and  contempt,  mingled 
with  the  sort  of  pity  which  the  humane 
feel  for  the  sufferings  of  the  inferior  ani- 
mals. As  a  politician,  he  looked  upon 
them  pretty  much  as  Prospero  looked 
upon  Caliban,  or  as  a  Spartan  legislator 
looked  upon  the  Helots.  On  the  regener- 
ation of  the  Englishry  depended  in  his 
opinion  the  regeneration  of  the  whole 
island.  It  was  m  their  interests  that  he 
had  labored,  it  was  on  their  cooperation 
that  be  had  relied.  It  was  to  them  that 
he  had  appealed.  And  he  had  found  them 
as  frivolous,  as  impracticable,  as  despi- 
cable, as  their  compatriots.  The  hatred, 
with  which  Swift  in  his  later  years  re- 
garded Ireland  and  its  inhabitants,  recalls 
in  its  intensity  and  bitterness  the  hatred 
with  which  Juvenal  appears  to  have  re- 
garded the  people  of  £gypt»  and  Dante 
the  people  of  Pisa.  It  resembled  a  con- 
saming  passion.  It  overflowed,  we  are 
told,  io  his  conversation,  it  glows  at  white 
heat  in  his  writings,  it  flames  out  in  his 
correspondence.  **  It  is  time  for  me,"  he 
says,  in  one  place,  **to  have  done  with 
the  world,  and  not  die  here  io  a  rage,  like 
a  poisoned  rat  in  a  hole."  He  is  sur- 
rounded **by  slaves,  and  knaves,  and 
fools,"  in  a  country  which  is  "  a  wretched 
dirtv  dog-hole ;  a  prison,  but  good  enough 
to  aie  in."  He  is  **worn  out  with  years 
and  sickness  and  rage  against  all  public 
proceedings."  **  My  flesh  and  bones,''  he 
furiously  exclaims  in  another  letter,  **  are 
to  be  carried  to  Holyhead,  for  I  will  not 
lie  in  a  country  of  slaves." 

Meanwhile,  his  literary  activity  was  in- 
cessant.   The  mere  enumeration  of  the 


pieces  produced  by  Swift  between  1727 
and  1737  would  occupy  several  pages. 
In  that  list  would  be  found  some  of  the 
best  of  his  poems,  and  some  of  the  best 
of  his  minor  prate  satires.  Foremost 
among  the  first  would  stand  the  *'  Rhap- 
sody on  Poetry,"  the  **  Poem  to  a  Lady 
who  had  asked  him  to  write  on  her 
in  the  heroic  style,"  *'  The  Grand  Ques- 
tion Debated,"  "The  Beast's  Confes- 
sion," "The  Day  of  Judgment."  "The 
Verses  on  his  own  Death ; "  foremost 
among  the  second  would  be  the  "  Modest 
Proposal  for  Preventing  the  Children  of 
the  Poor  from  becoming  a  Burden,"  the 
"Treatise  on  Polite  Conversation,"  and 
the  "Directions  to  Servants."  But  the 
number  of  these  works  bears  no  propor- 
tion lo  the  number  of  those  in  which  he 
dealt  with  the  questions  of  the  hour,  and 
which  have  with  the  hour  ceased  to  be 
generally  interesting;  the  pamphlets,  for 
example,  on  the  grievances  of  Ireland; 
the  pamphlets  evoked  by  the  proposal  to 
repeal  the  Test  Act;  by  the  bills  for  im- 
posing restrictions  on  the  liberty  of  the 
clergy,  and  for  subdividing  large  bene- 
fices, and  by  the  Modus  Bill  of  1733. 
But  the  writings  most  truly  characteristic 
of  Swift's  state  of  mind  during  these 
years  are  his  poems.  In  them  his  misan- 
thropy, his  hatred  of  individuals,  his  rage, 
his  pessimism,  found  full  vent.  Of  some 
of  these  poems  it  would  be  no  exaggera- 
tion to  say,  that  nothing  so  purely  diabol- 
ical had  ever  before,  or  has  ever  since, 
emanated  from  man.  There  are  passages 
in  the  satirists  of  antiquity  which  are  — 
in  mere  indecency,  perhaps — as  shame- 
less and  brutal.  A  misanthropy  almost 
as  bitter  flavors  the  satire  in  which  Ju- 
venal depicts  the  feud  between  the  Om« 
bites  and  the  Tentyrites.  The  invectives 
of  Junius,  and  the  libels  of  Pope,  not 
unfrequently  exhibit  a  malignity  scarcely 
human ;  and  if  the  Mephistopheles  of  fa- 
ble could  be  clothed  in  flesh,  his  mockery 
would  probably  be  the  mockery  of  Vol- 
taire and  Heine.  But  the  later  satire  of 
Swift  stands  alone.  It  is  the  very  alcohol 
of  hatred  and  contempt.  Its  intensity  is 
the  intensity  of  monomania,  whether  its 
object  be  an  individual,  a  sect,  or  man- 
kind. To  find  any  parallel  to  such  pieces 
as  the  "  Ladies*  Dressing  Room,"  the 
"  Place  of  the  Damned,"  and  the  "  Le- 
gion Club,'*  we  must  go  to  the  speeches 
in  which  the  depraved  and  diseased  mind 
of  Lear  runs  riot  in  obscenity  and  rage. 
But  it  was  when  his  satire  was  directed  • 
against  particular  individuals,  that  it  be- 
came most  inhuman,  and  most  noisome. 


33 


DEAN   SWIFT   IN   IRELAND. 


Such,  for  example,  would  be  the  attack 
on  Walpole  in  the  *•  Epistle  to  Gay,'*  the 
attack  on  Allen  in  **Traulus,"  ana  such 
pre-eminently  would  be  the  libels  on 
Tighe.  To  provoke  the  hostility  of  Swift 
was,  in  truth,  like  rousing  the  energies  of 
a  skunk  and  a  polecat.  It  was  to  engage 
in  a  contest,  the  issue  of  which  was  cer- 
tain, to  be  compelled  to  beat  an  ignomini- 
ous retreat,  cruelly  lacerated,  and  half 
suffocated  with  filth. 

But  there  was  another  side  to  his  life 
durino^  these  years,  and  we  gladly  turn  to 
it.  No  city  ever  owed  more  to  a  private 
man  than  Dublin  owed  to  Swift.  In  1720 
he  defeated,  or  at  least  contributed  to 
defeat,  a  scheme  which  would  in  all  prob- 
ability have  involved  hundreds  of  .her 
-citizens  in  ruin.  With  the  two  most  for- 
midable pests  which  infest  civilized  com- 
munities, mendicancy  and  bandittism,  he 
grappled  with  eminent  success.  The  first 
nuisance  was  ereatly  abated  by  his  plan 
for  providing  beggars  with  badges,  and 
thus  confining  them  to  the  parishes  to 
which  they  severally  belonged;  and  it 
was,  as  we  have  seen,  owing  to  his  vigi- 
lance and  ingenuity  that  Dublin  enjoyed, 
for  a  time  at  least,  almost  complete  immu- 
nity from  street  marauders.  His  care 
indeed  extended  to  every  department  of 
municipal  economy,  from  the  direction  of 
Parliamentary  elections  to  the  regulation 
of  the  coal  traffic.  It  may  be  said  of  Dr. 
Swift,  writes  one  who  knew  him  well,  that 
he  literally  followed  the  example  of  his 
Master,  and  went  about  doing  good.  His 
private  charity,  though  judicious,  was. 
Soundless.  He  never,  we  are  told,  went 
abroad  without  a  pocket  full  of  coins 
which  he  distributed  among  the  indigent 
and  sick,  whom  he  regularly  visited. 
Nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  his 
severe  frugality  in  domestic  life,  which 
fools  mistook  for  avarice,  arose  solely 
from  his  determination  to  devote  his 
money  to  the  noblest  uses  to  which  money 
can  be  applied.  If  he  denied  hknself  and 
his  guests  superfluities,  it  was  that  he 
mi^ht  provide  the  needy  with  necessaries, 
and  posterity  with  St.  Patrick's  Hospital. 
He  was  the  idol  of  the  multitude,  he  was 
the  terror  of  the  government.  "  I  know 
by  experience,"  wrote  Carteret,  just  after 
he  resigned  the  lord  lieutenantcy,  **how 
much  the  city  of  Dublin  thinks  itself  un- 
der your  protection,  and  how  strictlv  they 
used  to  obey  all  orders  fulminated  from 
the  sovereignty  of  St.  Patrick's."  In  his 
'war  with  England,  and  with  that  party  in 
Dublin  which  was  in  the  English  interest, 
be  was  not  unfrequently  threatened  with 


violence;  but  the  mere  rumor  that  the 
dean  was  in  danger  was  sufficient  to  rally 
round  him  a  body-guard  so  formidable, 
that  he  had  little  to  fear  either  from  the 
law  or  from  private  malice. 

But  to  Swift  all  this  was  nothing.  Sick 
of  himself,  sick  of  the  world,  fully  aware 
of  the  awful  fate  which  was  impending 
over  him  —  he  saw  it,  says  Lyon,  as  plainly 
as  men  foresee  a  coming  shower  —  he 
longed  only,  he  prayed  only  for  death.  It 
was  his  constant  habit  to  take  leave  of 
one  of  the  few  friends  whom  he  admitted 
to  his  intimacy,  and  who  was  accustomed 
to  visit  him  two  or  three  times  a  week, 
with  the  words,  "Well,  God  bless  you, 
good-night  to  you,  but  I  hope  I  shall 
never  see  you  again." 

At  the  end  of  1737  it  became  apparent 
to  his  friends,  and  it  becomes  painfully 
apparent  in  his  correspondence,  that  his 
mind  was  rapidly  failing.  The  deafness 
and  giddiness,  which  had  before  visited 
him  intermittently,  now  rarely  left  him. 
His  memory  was  so  impaired  that  he  was 
scarcely  able  to  converse.  It  was  only 
with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  could 
express  himself  on  paper.  As  his  intel- 
lect decayed,  his  irritability  and  ferocity 
increased.  On  the  slightest  provocation 
he  would  break  out  into  paroxysms  of 
frantic  rage.  At  last  his  reason  gave 
way,  and  he  ceased  to  be  responsible  for 
his  actions.  In  March,  1742,  it  became 
necessary  to  place  his  estate  in  the  hands 
of  trustees. 

Into  a  particular  narrative  of  Swift's 
last  days  we  really  cannot  enter.  Noth- 
ing in  the  recorded  history  of  humanity, 
nothing  that  the  imagination  of  pian  has 
conceived,  can  transcend  in  horror  and 
pathos  the  accounts  which  have  come 
down  to  us  of  the  closing  scenes  of  his 
life.  His  memory  was  gone,  his  reason 
was  gone ;  he  recognized  no  friend :  he 
was  below  his  own  Struldbrugs.  Day 
after  day  he  paced  his  chamber,  as  a  wild 
beast  paces  its  cage,  taking  his  food  as 
he  walked,  and  occasionally  muttering  ex- 
pressions which  plainly  showed  that  he 
was  fully  conscious  of  the  degradation 
into  which  he  had  fallen.  At  times  it  was 
dangerous  to  approach  him,  for  the  mere 
sight  of  his  kind  would,  when  in  his 
wilder  moods,  throw  him  into  convulsions 
of  impotent  fury.  During  the  autumn  of 
1742  his  state  was  horrible  and  pitiable 
beyond  expression.  At  last,  after  suffer* 
ing  unspeakable  tortures  from  one  of  the 
most  .agonizing  maladies  known   to  sur« 

fery,  he  sank  into  the  torpor  of  imbecility, 
n  this  deplorable  condition  he  continued, 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


33 


vHh  short  intervals  of  a  sort  of  semi- 
consciousness, till  death  released  him 
from  calamity.  He  expired  at  three  o'clock 
on  the  afternoon  of  Saturday,  the  19th  of 
October,  1745.  Three  days  afterwards, 
his  coffin  was  laid  at  midnight  beside  the 
coffin  of  Esther  Johnson,  in  the  south 
nave  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral. 


Note  on  Swift's  Disease. 


The  history  of  Swift's  case  is  briefly  this. 
In  his  twenty-third  year  he  became  subject  to 
fits  of  giddiness ;  in  his  twenty-eighth  year,  or, 
according  to  another  account,  l^fore  he  had 
completed  his  twentiethyear,  he  was.  attacked 
by  fits  of  deafness.  The  first  disorder  he 
attrttnited  primarily  to  a  surfeit  of  green  fruit ; 
the  origin  of  the  second  he  ascribed .ta*a  com- 
mon cold.  The  giddiness  was  occasionally 
attended  with  sickness,  the  deafness  with  ring- 
iDg  in  the  ears,  and  both  with  extreme  depres- 
Mon.  The  attacks  were  periodic  and  paroxys- 
mal, increasing  in  frequency  and  severity  as 
life  advanced.  As  old  age  drew  on»  his  giddi- 
ness  and  deafness  became  more  constant  and 
intense;  he  grew  morbidly  irritable;  he  lost 
all  control  over  his  temper,  his  intellect  be- 
came abnormally  enfeebled,  his  memory  at 
times  almost  totally  failed  him.  But  it  was 
not  until  he  had  completed  his  seventy-fourth 
year  that  he  became  unequivocally  insane.  In 
1742  what  appeared  to  be  an  attack  of  acute 
mania  —  though  it  was  mania  without  delu- 
sion, and  may  perhaps  have  been  merely  the 
frenzied  expression  of  excruciating  physical 
pain,  occasioned  by  a  tumor  in  the  eye  —  was 
succeeded  by  absolute  fatuity.  In  this  state, 
broken,  however,  by  occasional  gleams  of  sen- 
sibility and  reason,  he  remained  till  death. 
The  autopsy  revealed  water  on  the  brain,  the 
common  result  of  cerebral  atrophy. 

That  a  disease  present! ngi such  symptoms  as 
these  should  have  originated  from  a  surfeit  of 
fruit  and  a  common  cold,  was  a  theory  that 
may  have  passed  unchallenged  in  the  infancy 
of  medical  science,  but  was  not  likely  to  find 
much  favor  in  more  enlightened  times.  Ac- 
cordingly, at  the  beginning  of  this  century,  an 
eminent  physician.  Dr.  Beddoes,  came  forward 
with  another  hypothesis.  He  entertained  no 
doubt  that  the  disease  was  homogeneous  and 
progressive ;  and,  connecting  its  primary  symp- 
toms with  other  peculiarities  of  Swift's  con- 
dtict  and  writings,  he  ascribed  their  origin«to 
a  cause  very  derogatory  to  the  moral  character 
of  the  sufferer.  Scott,  justly  indignant  that 
such  an  aspersion  should  have  been  cast  on 
the  dean's  memory,  took  occasion  in  his  "  Life 
of  Swift "  to  comment  very  severely  on  Bed- 
does*  remarks.  But  Scott,  unfortunately,  had 
no  means  of  refuting  them.  Medical  science 
was  silent ;  and  Swift,  ludicrous  to  relate,  has 
been  held  up  in  more  than  one  publication  as 
an  appalling  illustration  of  the  effects  of 
profligate  indulgence.  At  last,  in  1846,  Sir 
William  Wilde  came  to  the  rescue.      In  an 


essay  in  the  DubOn  Quarterly  Journal  of  Afed* 
teal  Science^  afterwards  published  in  a  volume 
eriiitled  **The  Closing  Years  of  Dean  Swift's 
Life,"  he  reinvestigated  with  the  minutest  care 
the  whole  case.     In  the  first  place,  he  made 
the  important  discovery  that  the  dean  had  un- 
doubtedly had  a  stroke  of  paralysis.     This  was 
a  circumstance  which  had  not  been  recorded 
by  any  of  the  biographers,  but  which  a  plaster 
cast,  taken  from  the  mask  applied  to  the  face 
after  death,  placed    beyond    doubt.      Wilde 
boldly  contended  that  there  was  no  proof  at 
all  that  Swift  was  ever  insane  in  the  sense  in 
which  the  word  is  usually  understood,  nay, 
that  previous  to  1742  he  showed  no  symptonis 
whatever  of  mental  disease  "beyond  the  or- 
dinary decay  of  nature."    The  deplorable  con- 
dition into  which  he  subsequently  sank,  Wilde 
attributed  not  to  insanity,  or  to  imbecility,  but 
to  paralysis  of   the    muscles    by  which  the 
mechanism  of  speech  is  produced,  and  to  loss 
of  memory,  the  result  in  all  probability  of  sub- 
arachnoid effusion.     But  what   Wilcle  failed 
to  understand  was  the  nature  of  the  original 
disease,  in  other  words,  the  cause  of  the  gid- 
diness and  deafness  which,  whatever  may  have 
been  their  connection  with  the  graver  symp- 
toms of  the  case,  undoubtedly  ushered  them 
in.     And  it  is  here  that  Dr.  Bucknill  comes  to 
our  assistance.      In  his  opinion,  the  lifelong 
malady  of  Swift  is  to  be  identified  with  a 
malady  which  medical  science  has  only  re- 
cently recognized,  *' labvrinthine  vertigo,"  or, 
as  it  is  sometimes  calleci  in  honor  of  the  emi- 
nent pathologist  who  discovered  it,  la  maladie 
de  Minihre*    To  this  are  to  be  attributed  all 
the  symptoms  which  were  supposed  by  Swift 
•himself  to  have  originated  from  a  surfeit  of 
fruit  or  a  chill,  which  Beddoes  attributed  to 
profligate  habits,  and  which  Sir  William  Wilde 
was  unable  satisfactorily  to  account  for.     It 
was    a    purely  physical    and    local  disorder, 
which  in  no  way  either  impaired  or  perverted 
his  mental  powers,  and  which,  had  it  run  its 
course  uncomplicated,  would   probably  have 
ended  merely  in  complete  deafness.     But  on 
this  disorder  supervened,  between  1738  and 
1742,  dementia,  with  hemiplegia  and  aphasia ; 
the  dementia  arising  from  general  decay  of 
the  brain  occasioned  by  age  and  disease,  the 
aphasia  and  paralysis  resulting  from  disease  of 
one  particular  part  of  the  brain,  probably  the 
third  left  frontal  convolution.     Thus  the  in- 
sanity, or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  the  fatuity 
of  Swift,  was  not,  as  he  himself  and  his  biog- 
raphers after  him  have  supposed,  the  gradual 
development  of  years,  but  was  partly  the  effect 
of  senile  decay,  and  partly  the  effect  of  a  local 
lesioiu 


LIVING  AGE. 


VOL.  XLIV. 


2239 


From  All  The  Year  Roand. 
ALONG  THE  SILVER  STREAK. 

All  Arromanches  turned  out  to  witness 
our  departure  ^  all  the  resident  popula- 


34 


ALONG   THE   SILVER   STREAK, 


tion  that  is ;  the  shopkeepers,  who  deal 
mostly  in  sand-shoes,  in  spades  and  buclc- 
ets  for  children  —  and  why  young  England 
should  always  use  a  spade  with  a  grip  for 
the  hand,  while  infant  France  prefers  the 
long,  straight-handled  variety,  is  one  of 
those  minute  differences  the  root  of  which 
perhaps  lies  deep  in  national  character  — 
but  anyhow,  the  dealers  in  spades  and 
buckets,  and  work-baskets  with  '*  Arro- 
manches  "  embroidered  in  red  worsted  on 
their  sides,  were  all  deeply  interested  in 
our  departure.  And  with  these  there  were 
the  fisher  wives  and  daughters,  and  the 
female  population  generally,  with  the  boo- 
nie  brown-eyed  girls,  and  the  mothers  ex- 
uberant in  form,  at  the  head  of  whom  is 
the  stout  and  jolly  dame  who  supplies  the 
hotel  and  the  town  generally  with  fish,  and 
who,  in  virtue  of  this  official  connection 
with  our  party,  became,  as  it  were,  the  her- 
ald and  guiae-general  of  the  affair,  ex- 
plaining to  the  rest  of  the  townspeople  the 
affinities  and  relationships  of  the  whole 
party. 

Last  night  a  thunderstorm  broke  over 
the  place,  with  grand  masses  of  black 
clouds,  bringing  out  the  little  town  in  its 
nook,  the  dark  cliffs,  the  gleaming  sands, 
and  the  foaming  sea  in  lurid  light  and  por- 
tentous shade;  but  this  morning  all  is 
crisp  and  calm,  with  light,  fleecy  clouds  in 
the  deep  blue  sky,  and  a  sun  that  smiles 
and  dimples  in  pure  light-heartedness.  A 
morning  this  in  which  it  is  enjoined  upon 
all  the  world  to  feel  light-hearted,  under 
penalty  of  complete  disaccord  with  all 
surroundings.  For  all  about  —  in  cottage 
and  hamlet,  in  the  fields  where  the  corn  is 
ripening  for  the  harvest,  and  on  the  roads 
where  sometimes  we  meet  a  team  of  great 
strong  horses  with  melodiously  tinkling 
bells  upon  their  arched  necks — every- 
thing seems  full  of  the  joy  and  pleasure 
of  existence,  of  the  delight  of  breathing 
and  living  in  this  sunny  perfumed  air,  yes, 
and  even  of  working  where  sun  and  sky 
are  fellow-laborers,  and  where  people  can 
sing  at  their  work  as  they  do  in  the  vil- 
lages, where  the  young  people  are  already 
beginning  to  sing  the  pleasures  of  the 
approaching  harvest. 

VoiU  la  Saint  Jean  pass^e, 
Le  mois  d'AoCt  est  approchan^ 
Oil  les  gar9ons  des  villages 
S'en  vont  la  gerbe  battant. 
Ho  I  batteux,  battens  la  gerbe^ 
Compagnons  joyeusement  1 

Our  road  takes  us  through  a  pleasant 
land  of  pasture  and  cornfield,  with  some- 
tiroes  a  stream  crossiog  the  road,  and 


every  now  and  then  a  village  and  an  old 
church  among  the  trees.  And  after  a 
while  we  come  to  the  little  river  Seniles, 
and  follow  its  course  down  the  rich  valley ; 
and  presently,  through  an  opening  in  the 
low  spreading  hills,  we  come  in  sight  of 
Courseulles  and  the  sea  again. 

At  Courseulles  we  must  breakfast  in 
sight  of  the  oyster  pares  from  which  we 
derived  the  most  delicious  part  of  the 
meal. 

Our  old  squire  grows  quite  young  again 
over  his  oysters  and  chablis,  and  begins 
to  tell  his  stories  of  the  palmy  days  of  the 
second  empire,  and  of  the  merry  days  he 
had  in  Paris,  with  his  old  comrade,  the 
Count  de  St.  Pol,  and  that  reminds  him  : 
Where  is  the  young  Count  de  St.  Pol, 
and  how  is  it  we  have  not  seen  him  lately  ? 
a  question  which  comes  upon  Hilda  and 
myself  with  a  rather  chilly  feeling.  We 
had  almost  forgotten  the  count,  and  now 
there  comes  another  reminder  of  the  un- 
pleasant episode  with  which  he  is  con- 
nected. This  in  the  form  of  a  hu^e  pair 
of  curling  horns  and  the  coal-black  nose 
of  a  Pyrenean  sheep  which  appears  over 
the  edge  of  the  table  as  we  sit  at  break- 
fast in  the  open  air,  and  presently  we  hear 
the  bang  of  a  tambourine  and  the  shrill 
piping  note  of  a  tin  whistle,  as  two  brown 
and  dusty  men  with  ragged  garments  and 
big  leather  wallets  make  their  appearance, 
with  the  gipsy  girl  and  the  second  sheep 
close  behind.  The  men  are  rather  clam- 
orous in  their  demand  for  backsheesh, 
and  direct  their  attentions  especially  to 
Hilda;  making  signs  of  intelligence,  and 
as  it  were  of  secret  understanding  with 
her,  to  her  great  annoyance  and  indigna- 
tion. 

1  jumped  up  to  send  the  men  off,  but 
madame  la  directrice  interfered  in  their 
behalf. 

"  Let  us  have  one  little  performance," 
she  cried.  "  They  are  so  amusing,  those 
beasts,  when  they  stand  upon  their  hind 
legs;"  and  she  threw  the  men  a  small 
silver  coin,  which  they  picked  up  and  ex- 
amined with  some  contempt. 

But  they  had  been  promised,  said  one  of 
the  men,  speaking  in  his  nasal  patois,  fifty 
francs  by  the  young  English  lady  there, 
pointing  to  Hilda,  when  they  saw  her  last 
by  the  old  abbey  of  C^risy. 

"  How  dare  you  say  so  ?  *'  cried  Hilda 
indignantly. 

"  Why,  this  is  a  case  of  blackmail,"  said 
the  director ;  **  it  demands  the  interference 
of  the  authorities.  We  will  tell  our  host 
to  fetch  the  gendarmes.*' 

"  No,"  cried  Tom,  "  I  object  to  the  gen- 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


35 


darmes,  vrho  put  everything  down  in  those 
confounded  note-books;  perhaps  they 
have  got  my  name  down  as  it  is.  Let  us 
deal  with  these  rascals  ourselves.'* 

At  the  sight  of  Tom  and  myself  advanc- 
ing with  warlike  intentions,  the  men 
sheered  off  sullenly,  muttering  many 
threats,  while  the  more  valiant  sheep  pro- 
tected their  retreat  by  menacing  us  with 
their  horns.  The  girl  remained  behind, 
and  when  her  companions  shouted  to  her 
to  come  on,  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees 
before  Hilda. 

**  Mademoiselle,"  she  cried  sobbing, 
"you  look  kind  and  good;  will  you  save 
me  from  these  men,  who  do  nothing  but 
beat  and  Mi-treat  me?  They  have  been 
worse  than  ever  since  the  day  I  showed 
your  friend  where  to  find  you,  and  I  am 
sure  they  will  kill  me  now.** 

**  Don't  be  afraid,  little  one,"  said  Hilda, 
taking  her  hand  kindly ;  **  no  one  shall  take 
you  away  against  your  will." 

** Unless  indeed,"  interposed  the  direc- 
tor, **  unless  one  of  these  men  is  her  fa- 
ther. We  can't  dispute  parental  authority, 
yon  know." 

"Oh  no,  monsieur,"  cried  the  girl,  "I 
am  not  of  their  country  at  all.  They 
bought  me  for  a  few  sous  of  mv  father, 
promising  to  teach  me  a  trade,  out  they 
kave  taught  me  nothing." 

*•  That  might  be  a  binding  contract,  how- 
ever," said  the  director,  "but  still,  if  there 
has  been  ill-treatment" — snapping  his 
fingers  —  "that  for  the  contract.  The 
child  looks  docile  and  intelligent.  Ste- 
phanie, my  angel,  wilt  thou  tauce  her  for 
thy  little  maid?" 

Stephanie  shrugged  her  shoulders  ex- 
pressively. 

"I  have  not  the  time,  mon  chfr,  to 
superintend  her  education." 

The  girl  brightened  up  at  this,  for  she 
had  evidently  nxed  upon  Hilda  as  her  pro- 
tectress, and  looked  askance  at  madame 
la  directrice. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  she  faltered,  "  I  do 
not  think  1  am  fit  to  be  a  femme  de 
chambre.  I  would  be  an  artiste,  like  my 
mother.  I  can  dance ;  I  can  sing  a  little. 
Let  me  follow  in  your  train,  mademoiselle, 
and  perhaps  I  can  amuse  you  a  little 
sometimes." 

Since  the  days  of  his  youth,  Tom  de- 
dares,  when  he  projected  a  private  Punch 
and  Judy  show  for  his  own  amusement, 
he  had  conceived  of  nothing  so  refresh- 
ingly nai/zs  the  plan  of  this  brown  gipsy 
child. 

In  her  eyes,  Hilda  was  a  great  lady, 
with  her  yacht  and  her  troops  of  follow- 


ets,  among  whom  the  poor  saltimhanque 
might  find  a  place  for  the  amusement  of  a 
spare  moment.  But  Hilda  was  touched 
and  yet  embarrassed  by  the  girl's  appeal. 

"  How  can  I  make  your  future,  my 
child,"  she  said,  "  when  my  own  is  so  un- 
certain ?  " 

"  Speak  for  me,  monsieur,"  said  the 
girl,  appealing  to  me.  "  Mademoiselle 
will  refuse  you  nothing." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  I  asked  of  Hilda 
in  a  whisper.  "Shall  we  adopt  the 
child  ? " 

"Oh,  if  I  could!  I  should  dearly  like 
to,"  replied  Hilda.  "  But  what  would  he 
say?"  —  "he,"  no  doubt,  being  the  re- 
doubtable Mr.  Chancellor. 

"  Well,  leave  it  to  me,"  I  said.  "  Tom 
and  I  will  arrange  matters,  only  Justine 
must  take  care  of  her." 

Tom's  skill  in  a  bargain  stood  us  in 
good  stead  on  this  occasion,  for  we 
thought  it  best  to  come  to  an  arrange- 
ment with  the  Pyrenean  shepherds,  who, 
when  they  found  that  the  little  girl  was  in 
question,  demanded  extravagant  sums  for 
her  release.  Finally,  however,  we  beat 
them  down  to  6fty  francs,  the  very  sum 
they  had  demanded  as  hush-money.  The 
tambourine  was  thrown  into  the  bargain, 
and  Tom,  emboldened  by  success,  was 
going  on  to  make  a  bid  for  the  sheep,  but 
this  I  put  a  stop  to;  for  apart  from  the 
inconvenience  of  Iravelling  about  with  a 
couple  of  curly-horned  sheep  of  fighting 
propensities,  it  would  certainly  be  wrong 
to  deprive  the  men  of  their  means  of 
livelihood.  For  our  Pyreneans  would 
certainly  soon  drink  out  the  purchase- 
money  of  their  flock,  and  then  would  be 
left  as  a  scourge  upon  the  country,  for 
certainly  there  was  the  making  of  bandits 
in  these  truculent  fellows. 

"You  have  paid  money  for  me.  Oh, 
you  were  wrong  to  give  anything  to  those 
wicked  fellows  ! "  cried  our  little  ward  — 
her  name  was  Zamora,  by  the  way,  a  name 
I  remembered  once  to  have  heard  called 
by  gipsies  across  a  river  with  a  sound 
wonderfully  pathetic  and  tender,  and  the 
name  had  awelt  in  my  memory  ever  since. 
And  here  was  the  real  Zamora  at  last  —  a 
regular  little  gipsy,  to  whom  both  Tom 
and  myself  at  once  took  a  wonderful  lik- 
ing. 

We  took  her  to  see  Contango  in  his 
stable,  when  the  gipsy  nature  of  the  child 
burst  forth  in  her  delight  in  the  horse,  his 
satin  coat,  and  powerful  frame.  The 
dream  of  her  life,  she  acknowledged  with 
glittering  eyes,  was  to  ride  a  horse  like 
that,  bare-backed,  round  some   arena  ^ 


3^ 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


she,  all  10  spangles  and  diaphanous  mas- 
lio,  to  dash  through  hoop  after  hoop  amid 
the  maddening  plaudits  of  the  crowd. 

The  girl  acted  the  scene  with  such  fire 
and  life  that  Tom  involuntarily  cried 
**  Houpe  Id  I "  as  she  gathered  herself  to- 
gether for  each  daring  spring. 

"  Hang  it,  Frankl"  cried  Tom  at  last, 
"put  your  money  in  a  circus,  and  bring 
out  our  little  Zaroora  as  the  flying  won- 
der." 

The  child  looked  at  us  eagerly,  full  of 
enthusiasm,  and  then  she  saw,  or  fancied 
she  saw,  that  we  were  laughing  at  her, 
and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  her  lip 
quivered. 

**Zamora,"  I  cried,  **you  shall  follow 
the  bent  of  your  talent.  Come,  we  will 
find  some  kind  master  for  you  who  will 
teach  you  all  the  mysteries  of  the  manige. 
You  shall  ride  three  horses  at  once  —  six 
if  you  like." 

Zamora  seized  my  band  and  kissed  it 
gratefully. 

"But  I  should  have  liked  you  for  a 
master,"  she  sighed.  Those  other  mas- 
ters,  indeed,  from  whom  we  had  delivered 
the  child,  had  been  so  cruel!  Zamora 
could  show  the  marks  of  the  stripes  they 
had  given  her  upon  her  shoulders.  "  Ah, 
they  were  wicked  men,  and  they  bore  no 
good-will  to  monsieur  I  " 

Zamora  knew  that  the  pair  had  been 
employed  by  M.  de  St. 'Pol,  after  he  had 
received  that  blow,  to  follow  me  and  trace 
all  my  movements.  And  they  had  fol- 
lowed the  trail  as  far  as  Arromanches, 
but  there  they  had  been  deceived  by  the 
talk  of  the  fishermen,  who  had  reported 
that  the  yacht  had  sailed  for  "  Suthanton  " 
with  her  whole  party.  And  the  count,  in- 
formed of  the  sailing  of  the  yacht,  had 
concluded  that  I  was  running  away  from 
him,  and  had  started  for  England  at  once 
to  pursue  his  revenge,  and  he  was  prob- 
ably running  after  the  **  Sew-Mew  "  at 
this  present  moment. 

We  laughed  heartily,  Tom  and  I,  over 
this  happy  contretemps^  There  was  the 
possibility,  indeed,  of  De  St.  Pol  meeting 
with  Mr.  Chancellor  and  somehow  bring- 
ing him  into  the  quarrel;  but  this  was  a 
bare  possibility  hardly  worth  considera- 
tion. For  it  would  certainly  be  against 
the  code  of  honor  to  bring  a  lady*s  name 
into  the  dispute.  The  count  would  no 
doubt  seek  some  other  mode  of  revenge 
—  probably  by  passing  upon  me  some 
public  insult  that  would  almost  compel 
me  to  fight  him. 

However,  we  had  nothing  to  do  in  the 
matter  but  to  wait  events.    And  in  the 


mean  time  Wyvern  was  in  search  of  us, 
anxious  to  get  the  party  together  for  a 
start.  Wyvern  was  rather  excited  by  the 
immediate  prospect  of  meeting  his  chief, 
and  he  had  prepared  a  kind  of  muster- 
roll  of  the  whole  party  ready  to  lay  before 
him. 

"Chancellor  will  be  sure  to  want  to 
know  who  everybody  is,"  Wyvern  ex- 
plained apologetically.  "  You  see  I  have 
got  a  column  nere  for  the  purpose.  Tve 
got  you  down,  Tom,  here  as  *  Miss  Chud- 
leigh's  cousin  ;' and  your  friend — Tm 
afraid  IVe  made  rather  a  muddle  of  his 
name  —  *  Lam  '  something." 

"  Put  down  my  real  name,  please,  if  you 
must  put  it  down,"  I  interposed.  "  The 
other  was  just  a  purser's  name.  Put 
down,  'Mr.  Frank  Lyme, of  Lyme.*" 

"  Hallo  ! "  cried  Wyvern,  "  that  makes 
rather  more  of  a  muddle  of  it,  doesn't  it  ? 
You  see,  I  send  the  chief  a  weekly  return 
of  his  guests,  and  I'm  sure  I  put  Lam 
something  down,  and  he'll  have  it  to  show 
against  me  if  there's  any  mistake.  But 
never  mind,  here  goes;  let  him  find  it  out 
—  'Mr.  Lyme,  of  Lyme,  friend  of  Miss 
Chudleigh  s  cousin  '  —  eh  ?" 

In  one  way  or  another  Mr.  Wyvern  got 
his  list  completed,  and  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  finding  his  muster  complete  at  the 
railway  station.  Tom  had  undertaken  to 
drive  Contango  by  the  direct  road  some 
ten  miles  to  Caen,  taking  Justine  and 
Zamora  as  companions.  But  the  rest  of 
us  preferred  the  railway,  quite  a  toy-line 
recently  opened,  with  stations  at  all  the 
little  watering-places  on  the  coast.  Ber- 
ni^res  comes  first,  with  its  fine  church- 
tower  and  tall,  graceful  spire ;  then  St. 
Aubin^a  favorite  saint  this  with  the 
Normans.  We  can  reckon  up  seven  St. 
Aubins  In  their  country.  St.  Germain, 
however,  heads  the  poll  with  thirteen  vil- 
lages owning  his  sway,  while  St.  Georges 
is  a  good  third,  and  the  rest  are  nowhere. 
As  to  what  Albinus  had  done,  or  what 
Germanus,  to  make  them  thus  respected, 
no  one  seems  to  be  informed.  Our  direc- 
tor discards  the  saints  altogether  with  a 
contemptuous  wave  of  the  band.  But  St. 
Aubin-by-the-Sea  is  nice  because  the 
houses  are  ranged  close  to  the  sands,  and 
people  can  pop  out  of  their  own  doors  and 
into  the  sea  without  further  ceremony. 
Then  comes  Lagrune,  with  another  tall 
spire  a  good  deal  battered  and  disfigured, 
and  after  this  Luc-sur-Mer,  the  most  pop- 
ular and  lively  of  all  these  little  bathing- 
places.  But  these  places  are  all  just  now 
in  full  enjoyment  of  the  benefits  of  the 
season,  the  sands  dotted  with  bathers. 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


37 


with  chairs,  with  tents,  with  gay  umbrel- 
las —  and  everything  to  l>e  seen  to  the 
best  advantage  from  the  railway,  espe- 
cially from  the  tops  of  the  cars,  which  are 
ntilized  for  outside  passengers.  A  pleas* 
ing  novelty  this  last,  and  yet  not  a  novelty 
so  much  as  a  revival,  for  on  our  English 
railroads  we  had  outside  passengers  to 
start  with,  after  the  model  of  the  stage- 
coach, till  some  of  these  were  decapitated 
10  passing  under  bridges.  But  here  there 
are  no  bridges  to  fear  —  nothing  to  give 
alarm  overhead;  but  a  pleasant  smiling 
plain  all  about,  and  a  level  crossing  here 
and  there,  where  a  woman  signals  our 
approach  upon  a  horn. 

The  railway  turns  inland  by  Douvres, 
and  passes  close  by  the  locally  famous 
chapel  of  La  D^liverande,  whence  every 
year  pilgrims  flock  in  crowds,  whole  par- 
ishes sometimes  marching  thither  in  pro- 
cession, with  the  curd  at  the  head,  to  visit 
a  famous  image  of  the  Virgin.  But  the 
church  is  almost  new,  and  is  surrounded 
by  various  buildings  of  a  conventual  char- 
acter, all  new  and  in  excellent  repair,  and 
therefore  not  exciting  much  interest 
among  us.  But  the  veneration  of  the 
people  for  the  site  is  not  an  affair  of  to- 
day, but  dates  from  ages  far  remote,  from 
the  days  of  Saint  Regnobert,  one  of  the 
earliest  Christian  missionaries  in  these 
parts,  at  a  time  when  Rome  was  still 
mistress  of  the  world  ;  and  even  then,  no 
doubt,  the  worthy  Regnobert  only  hal- 
lowed to  Christian  use  a  site  already  dear 
to  popular  superstition. 

The  railway  winds  quietly  into  Caen 
without  affording  us  any  general  view  of 
the  city,  and  at  the  station  we  find  our- 
selves the  centre  of  quite  a  crowd  of 
well-dressed  people  drawn  up  to  receive 
us.  It  is  our  director,  however,  who  is 
the  object  of  this  ovation,  our  director  — 
quite  transformed  by  the  occasion  —  dis- 
tributing bows,  salutes,  pressures  of  the 
hand,  in  every  direction,  while  his  wife 
is  equally  the  centre  of  all  kinds  of  flatter- 
ing attentions.  Of  all  people  our  direc- 
tor is  most  welcome  at  Caen  at  this 
moment,  for  the  whole  place  is  in  high 
f^te  with  its  Coocours  Regional;  its  ex- 
position, its  public  banquets,  and  private 
entertainments;  and  in  all  of  these,  as 
the  representative  of  his  **  bureau,*'  will 
our  director  be  in  the  greatest  request. 
Our  whole  party,  too,  is  illumined  by 
the  radiance  that  shines  upon  our  direc^ 
tor.  It  is  a  happy  occasion  for  cement- 
ing the  cordiality  which  should  unite  two 
great  and  friendly  nations,  whose  only 
rivalry  should  be  in  the  path  of  a  benef- 


icent progress.  And  the  visit  of  the  dis- 
tinguished Mr.  Chancellor  and  his  party 
is  another  proof  of  the  friendship  that 
binds  the  two  countries. 

"  Has  Mr.  Chancellor  then  arrived  ?  " 
is  asked  with  some  anxiety. 

"Well,  no,  not  yet;  but  his  yacht  has 
been  signalled  at  the  mouth  of  the  river. 
It  will  take  two  hours,  perhaps,  to  make 
the  intermediate  transit." 

•*  We  have  just  two  hours,'*  I  said,  turn- 
ing to  Hilda;  "two  hours  in  which  our 
fate  must  be, decided.  Let  us  get  away 
from  this  crowd,  and  spend  the  last  two 
hours  together," 

It  was  not  diflicult  to  get  away  from  the 
rest,  and  we  wandered  away  from  the  sta- 
tion, at  haphazard,  towards  the  town.  All 
the  streets  presented  a  gay  and  holiday 
aspect  —  the  houses  festooned  with  flags, 
and  the  shop-windows  dressed  out  with 
the  most  attractive  wares.  All  this  had 
been  going  on  for  weeks  and  weeks,  and 
yet  nobody  seemed  tired  of  it;  the  flags 
fluttered  just  as  gaily,  the  people  made 
holiday  just  as  freely  —  with  a  severe  eye 
to  business  all  the  time  —  as  if  this  were 
the  first  day  of  rejoicing.  But  altogether 
there  was  so  much  noise  and  hubbub, 
that  we  could  hardly  hear  ourselves 
speak  ;  and  so,  following  the  slope  of  the 
ground,  we  made  our  way  out  of  the  town 
and  towards  the  meadows  by  the  river. 
Turning  one  way  we  found  the  meadows 
occupied  by  a  horse-show,  a  circus,  and 
the  outbuildings  of  the  exposition,  but  in 
the  other  direction  there  was  comparative 
quiet,  with  solemn  reaches  of  the  river 
passing  out  into  the  country,  among 
avenues  of  stately  trees,  while  cheerful 
country  houses,  with  gay  gardens,  bright- 
ened up  the  scene.  Behind  us  stretched 
the  city  of  Caen  with  its  long  line  of 
spires  set  against  the  evening  sky,  the 
Conqueror's  church  mounting  guard  at 
one  end,  and  his  consort  Matilda's  at  the 
other.  The  soft  tinkle  of  bells  came 
pleasantly  over  the  ^meadows,  with  the 
murmur  of  voices  and  the  neighing  and 
whinnying  of  horses  from  the  shows  close 
by,  and  the  shrill  cries  and  laughter  of 
children  at  play. 

We  sat  down  upon  a  bench  under  the 
trees,  Hilda  seating  herself  at  the  end  of 
the  bench,  so  as  to  leave  a  space  between 
us  —  just  as  the  whole  length  of  Caen 
divides  William  the  Conqueror  from  his 
faithful  Matilda.  It  is  true  that  I  did  not 
feel  like  the  conqueror  at  all,  but  rather 
as  one  defeated.  Hilda  looked  nervously 
at  her  watch;  already  half  an  hour  had 
passed.    The  "  Sea-Mew  "  was  now  steam- 


3» 

lug  up  the  river,  I  could  see  her  in  the 
mind's  eye  dashing  ^long  between  the 
long  avenues  of  trees,  setting  all  the  fish- 
ing-boats dancing  and  twirling  with  the 
swell  she  raised  in  passing,  while  her 
owner  paced  the  deck  impatiently  and 
urged  "full  speed."  The  thought  was 
maddening. 

"  Hilda,"  I  cried,  *'  I  am  not  going  to 
stop  here  to  see  that  fellow  claim  you  as 
his  property.  If  you  don't  make  up  your 
mind  in  ten  minutes  to  take  me,  and  throw 
Chancellor  over,  1  shall  go  right  away 
somewhere." 

"  Listen,  Frank,"  said  Hilda,  giving  me 
an  appealing  glance.  '*  Have  a  little  pa- 
tience and  wait.  I  own  that  I  dread  this 
meeting.  I  have  tried  hard  to  do  my 
duty,  and  drive  you  out  of  my  heart,  but 
I  am  not  strong  enough.  It  is  a  humil- 
iating confession,"  and  Hilda  knit  her 
brows,  "but  there  it  is.  Only  he  must 
decide." 

"  M  v  darling  Hilda,"  I  cried,  and  the 
space  between  us  had  now  come  to  a  van- 
ishing point,  "  if  you  are  of  a  mind  to 
have  me,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
that  can  come  between  us." 

"Oh  yes,  indeed  there  is,  Frank,"  cried 
Hilda,  putting  back  my  arm  that  had  be- 
gun to  encircle  her  waist ;  "  plenty  of 
things  may  come  between  us.  A  whole 
peck  of  family  troubles  come  between 
us.  But  listen,  Frank,  I  have  written  to 
Mr.  Chancellor." 

"I  know  you  are  always  writing  to 
him,"  I  replied  savagely. 

"  But  this  time,  Frank,"  continued 
Hilda  gently,  "  it  was  a  letter  that  I  am 
afraid  must  have  hurt  him  very  much.  I 
told  him  about  you  —  he  knew  a  little 
about  you  before — just  that  there  had 
been  such  a  person.  But  this  time  I  told 
him  all.  That  you  had  been  my  first  and 
my  only  love,  and  that  I  could  never, 
never  forget  you.  No,  Frank,  you  mustn't 
take  advantage  of  this  confession,  which 
has  been  wrung  from  me  by  circum- 
stances, for  I  still  belong  to  somebody 
else,  till  he  releases  me  from  my  prom- 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


if 


ise. 

Hilda  was  resolute  upon  this  point,  she 
would  not  forfeit  her  word  to  Mr.  Chan- 
cellor, or  allow  me  any  of  a  lover's  priv- 
ileges till  he  had  absolved  her.  And 
Hilda  confessed  that  she  feared  his  influ- 
ence would  be  too  strong  upon  her,  and 
that  he  would  talk  her  over  and  carry 
everythingf  his  own  way  after  all.  As  we 
were  talking  we  hearcl  the  shrill  whistle 
of  a  steamer,  that  was  no  doubt  just  en- 
tering the  basin.     It  must  be  the  "Sea- 


Mew"  by  that  long,  dolorous  shriek,  that 
the  French  boats  could  not  come  near  in 
the  way  of  sound  and  shrillness. 

Hilda  turned  pale  as  she  made  me  hurry 
towards  the  town,  but  half-way  across  the 
prairies  we  met  Wyvern  hurrying  to  meet 
us. 

"  The  *  Sea-Mew  *  has  arrived,"  he  cried, 
"but  no  Chancellor.  However,  her  master 
has  brought  a  despatch  for  you  that  will 
no  doubt  account  for  Chancellor's  absence. 
But  I  assure  you  that  our  French  friends 
are  very  much  excited  about  it.  They  will 
have  it  that  Chancellor,  being  a  member 
of  the  administration,  is  prevented  from 
coming  over  by  national  jealousy.  Per- 
haps there  is  something  to  be  said  for  that 
view,  but  it  must  not  be  countenanced, 
you  understand."  And  with  that  Wyvern 
hurried  off  to  talk  to  the  pr//e/,  whom  he 
recognized  in  the  distance. 

Meantime  Hilda  had  devoured  her  let- 
ter, and  at  the  end  of  it  gave  me  a  gentle 
pressure  on  the  arm. 

"  He  has  forgiven  me.  Frank,"  she  said, 
"but  not  quite  freely.  You  may  read  the 
second  sheet  of  the  letter,  for  it  is  about 
business  matters." 

I  read  as  follows,  the  writing  being  very 
neat  and  firm  :  — 

"  I  have  spared  no  pains,  no  expense,  as 
you  are  aware,  to  make  you  happy.  The 
*  Sea-Mew*  I  bought  principally  for  your 
amusement,  although,  as  you  know,  I 
don't  personally  care  for  the  sea.  1  did 
not  grudge  all  this,  but  still  I  think  I 
have  cause  to  complain.  The  yacht  is 
still  at  your  disposal,  however,  for  the 
present,  but  as  I  shall  try  to  sell  her  at 
once,  before  the  season  is  over,  you  must 
not  complain  if  she  is  suddenly  recalled. 
Of  course  I  can't  do  anything  more  in 
your  brother's  business,  the  probable 
odium  to  be  encountered  in  providing  in 
the  public  service  for  such  a  worthless 
person  is  too  serious  to  be  encountered, 
except  for  the  sake  of  one  very  near  and 
dear.  But  the  purchase  of  the  Combe 
Chudleigh  property  is  so  nearly  completed 
that  I  cannot  now  recede,  although  the 
possession  of  the  estate  will  be,  in  some 
respects,  painful.  However,  it  affords 
me  the  satisfaction  of  assuring  you  that 
you  and  your  father  are  welcome  to  re- 
main there  till  you  find  a  suitable  abode 
elsewhere." 

There  was  a  mixture  of  assumed  be- 
nevolence and  genuine  rancor  about  this 
letter,  that  was  rather  amusing.  But 
Hilda  looked  very  grave  over  it,  after  the 
first  feeling  of  thankfulness  had  passed 
over. 


SOME   PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF  MADAME  MOHL. 


39 


'^Yoa  will  repeat,  Frank,*'  she  cried, 
when  you  have  beard  all  I  have  to  tell 


)« 


jroa 

Hilda  be^an  with  the  death  of  her  auot. 
Miss  Chudleigh,  our  dear  old  friend  of 
Weymouth.  A  few  days  before,  the  old 
lady  had  sent  for  her  and  told  her  how 
she  had  disposed  of  her  property. 

*'  And  you  and  Frank  can  marry  and  be 
happy  upon  my  money.  I  had  much 
rather  that,  than  that  it  should  run  down 
the  gutters  after  Redmond.*' 

And  thus  the  property  was  tied  up  so 
that  she  could  not  touch  the  principal. 
And  Hilda  had  intended  that,  somehow, 
I  should  be  informed  of  her  aunt's  benev- 
olent intentions,  when  she  heard  the  re- 
port of  my  having  married  the  Indian 
princess.  At  that  time,  too,  had  occurred 
ber  father's  collapse,  when  he  was  obliged 
to  leave  Combe  Chudleigh,  and  to  take  to 
economical  living  in  London.  And  .then 
Redmond,  whose  extravagance  had  ruined 
the  old  squire,  in  his  straits  for  money 
bad  resorted  to  some  questionable  prac- 
tices in  raising  loans,  and  had  been  threat- 
ened with  a  criminal  prosecution.  Mr. 
Chancellor,  however,  had  arranged  mat- 
ters with  the  creditors,  who  had  agreed  to 
take  an  assignment  of  Hilda's  income, 
excepting  some  two  hundred  a  year  she 
retained  for  pocket  money  —  an  assign- 
ment for  ten  years,  Mr.  Chancellor  having 
generously  acceded  to  this  disposal  of  the 
fortune  of  bis  future  wife.  It  was  over 
these  papers  that  Hilda  had  been  so  en- 
grossed with  Mr.  Wyvern,  when  we  re- 
joined the  yacht  at  Port.  It  was  all  set- 
tled now,  and  Redmond  was  personally 
safe,  but  his  prospects  of  public  employ- 
ment were  at  an  end,  very  much  to  the 
advantage  of  the  public,  as  I  thought. 

*'And  this  poor  little  two  hundred  a 
year  of  mine,"  said  Hilda,  **is  all  we  shall 
have  to  depend  upon,  for  I  don't  suppose 
you  have  made  your  fortune  abroad,  have 
you,  Frank  ?  " 

I  could  truthfully  replv  that  I  had  not 
made  my  fortune,  indeed  I  had  lost  half 
the  little  capital  I  started  with,  in  tea- 
planting  out  in  India.  But  then  the  other 
half  was  still  intact,  and  I  told  Hilda  that 
would  be  something  to  start  with,  and  we 
bad  youth  and  health  on  our  side,  and 
working  together  surely  we  could  make 
some  kind  of  mark  in  the  world. 

**  Well,  I  am  willing  to  try,  Frank,"  said 
Hilda  cheerfully,  ''if  you  are.  Only  it 
strikes  me  that  our -holiday  ought  to  end 
here,  and  that  we  ought  to  begin  this 
work,  whatever  it  is  to  be,  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." 


Of  course  it  was  out  of  the  question  to 
accept  Mr.  Chancellor's  offer  of  the  loan 
of  the  ''Sea-Mew**  till  he  could  sell  her. 
But  I  had  a  plan  of  my  own  about  that, 
which  I  only  wanted  Tom's  help  to  carry 
out. 

And  as  we  walked  up  the  Rue  St.  Jean 
towards  the  hotel,  we  met  Tom  driving 
Contango,  and  a  good  deal  embarrassed, 
for  he  had  not  been  able  to  find  us  out, 
and  Zamora  attracted  a  good  deal  of  at- 
tention, from  her  outlandish  appearance 
and  vivid  gestures.  But  having  depos- 
ited his  feminine  charge  at  the  hotel,  and 
attended  to  Contango's  comfort  at  the 
stables,  Tom  was  all  ready  to  execute  my 
commission,  which  was  no  other  than  to 
purchase  the  ^Sea-Mew"  as  she  stood, 
or  floated  rather,  with  all  her  fittings  and 
belongings.  And  Tom  soon  found  out 
from  the  master  what  price  he  thought 
the  yacht  was  fairly  worth,  and  then  he 
telegraphed  an  offer  to  Mr.  Chancellor, 
somewhat  below  this  amount.  The  reply 
came  in  a  few  hours.  It  was  an  accept- 
ance of  the  offer,  provided  the  money  was 
deposited  at  Rothschild's  within  twenty- 
four  hours.  There  was  no  difficulty  about 
this,  so  that  the  yacht  was  now  mine  to 
all  intents  and  purposes. 

But  as  Tom  came  back  from  his  last 
journey  to  the  port  about  the  yacht,  he 
took  me  aside,  with  a  grave  look  upon  his 
face. 

'*  Frank,  who  came  across  in  the  *  Sea- 
Mew,'  with  Mr.  Chancellor's  permission, 
can  you  guess  ?  Why,  the  Count  de  St. 
Pol.     I  met  the  man  just  now." 


From  Macmillan's  Magazine. 
SOME    PERSONAL    RECOLLECTIONS    OF 
MADAME  MOHL. 

In  the  year  1850,  my  father  and  mother 
and  I  were  at  Turin,  where  we  saw  a 
great  deal  of  the  Marchesa  Costanza  Ar- 
conati,  an  old  friend  of  our  family.  One 
day  she  said  to  us  that  she  must  make  us 
acquainted  with  Madame  Mohl.  We  had 
no  particular  desire  to  know  her ;  we  had 
heard  of  her,  probably  from  some  very 
stupid  person,  as  a  sort  of  blue-stocking. 
I  can  still  hear  the  tone  in  which  Madame 
Arconati  rejoined,  '*  £lle  n'est  pas  du  tout 
p^dante ! " 

On  our  return  through  Paris  in  185 1, 
we  accordingly  made  M.  and  Madame 
Mohl's  acquaintance.  "Your  father  did 
not  care  about  me  at  all  at  first,"  she  has 
often  said  to  me  laughingly;  ** it  took  him 


3^ 


ALONG   THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


Ibg  up  the  river,  I  could  see  her  in  the 
mind's  eye  dashing  alon^  between  the 
long  avenues  of  trees,  setting  all  the  fish- 
ing-boats dancing  and  twirling  with  the 
swell  she  raised  in  passing,  while  her 
owner  paced  the  deck  impatiently  and 
urged  **full  speed/*  The  thought  was 
maddening. 

"  Hilda,"  I  cried,  "  I  am  not  going  to 
stop  here  to  see  that  fellow  claim  you  as 
his  property.  If  you  don't  make  up  your 
mind  in  ten  minutes  to  take  me,  and  throw 
Chancellor  over,  I  shall  go  right  away 
somewhere." 

"  Listen,  Frank,"  said  Hilda,  giving  me 
an  appealing  glance.  **  Have  a  little  pa- 
tience and  wait.  I  own  that  I  dread  this 
meeting.  I  have  tried  hard  to  do  my 
duty,  and  drive  you  out  of  my  heart,  but 
I  am  not  strong  enough.  It  is  a  humil- 
iating confession,"  and  Hilda  knit  her 
brows,  **  but  there  it  is.  Only  he  must 
decide." 

"  Mv  darling  Hilda,"  I  cried,  and  the 
space  between  us  had  now  come  to  a  van- 
ishing point,  *Mf  you  are  of  a  mind  to 
have  me,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
that  can  come  between  us." 

"Oh  yes,  indeed  there  is,  Frank,"  cried 
Hilda,  putting  back  my  arm  that  had  be- 
gun to  encircle  her  w^aist ;  **  plenty  of 
things  may  come  between  us.  A  whole 
peck  of  family  troubles  come  between 
us.  But  listen,  Frank,  I  have  written  to 
Mr.  Chancellor." 

"I  know  you  are  always  writing  to 
him,"  I  replied  savagely. 

"  But  this  time,  Frank,"  continued 
Hilda  gently,  "  it  was  a  letter  that  I  am 
afraid  must  have  hurt  him  very  much.  I 
told  him  about  you  —  he  knew  a  little 
about  you  before  —  just  that  there  had 
been  such  a  person.  But  this  time  I  told 
him  all.  That  you  had  been  my  first  and 
my  only  love,  and  that  I  could  never, 
never  forget  you.  No,  Frank,  you  mustn't 
take  advantage  of  this  confession,  which 
has  been  wrung  from  me  by  circum- 
stances, for  I  still  belong  to  somebody 
else,  till  he  releases  me  from  my  prom- 
ise." 

Hilda  was  resolute  upon  this  point,  she 
would  not  forfeit  her  word  to  Mr.  Chan- 
cellor, or  allow  me  any  of  a  lover's  priv- 
ileges till  he  had  absolved  her.  And 
Hilda  confessed  that  she  feared  his  influ- 
ence would  be  too  strong  upon  her,  and 
that  he  would  talk  her  over  and  carry 
everythingf  his  own  way  after  all.  As  we 
were  talking  we  heard  the  shrill  whistle 
of  a  steamer,  that  was  no  doubt  just  en- 
tering the  basin.     It  must  be  the  "  Sea- 


Mew"  by  that  long,  dolorous  shriek,  that 
the  French  boats  could  not  come  near  in 
the  way  of  sound  and  shrillness. 

Hilda  turned  pale  as  she  made  me  hurry 
towards  the  town,  but  half-way  across  the 
prairies  we  met  Wyvern  hurrying  to  meet 
us. 

•*  The  *  Sea-Mew  *  has  arrived,"  he  cried, 
**but  no  Chancellor.  However,  her  master 
has  brought  a  despatch  for  you  that  will 
no  doubt  account  for  Chancellor's  absence. 
But  I  assure  you  that  our  French  friends 
are  very  much  excited  about  it.  They  w;!l 
have  it  that  Chancellor,  being  a  member 
of  the  administration,  is  prevented  from 
coming  over  by  national  jealousy.  Per- 
haps there  is  something  to  be  said  for  that 
view,  but  it  must  not  be  countenanced, 
you  understand."  And  with  that  Wyvern 
hurried  off  to  talk  to  the  prifet^  whom  he 
recognized  in  the  distance. 

Meantime  Hilda  had  devoured  her  let- 
ter, and  at  the  end  of  it  gave  me  a  gentle 
pressure  on  the  arm. 

•*  He  has  forgiven  me,  Frank,"  she  said, 
"but  not  quite  freely.  You  may  read  the 
second  sheet  of  the  letter,  for  it  is  about 
business  matters." 

1  read  as  follows,  the  writing  being  very 
neat  and  firm  :  — 

"  I  have  spared  no  pains,  no  expense,  as 
you  are  aware,  to  make  you  happy.  The 
•Sea-Mew'  I  bought  principally  for  your 
amusement,  although,  as  you  know,  I 
don't  personally  care  for  the  sea.  I  did 
not  grudge  all  this,  but  still  I  think  I 
have  cause  to  complain.  The  yacht  is 
still  at  your  disposal,  however,  for  the 
present,  but  as  I  shall  try  to  sell  her  at 
once,  before  the  season  is  over,  you  must 
not  complain  if  she  is  suddenly  recalled. 
Of  course  I  can't  do  anything  more  in 
your  brother's  business,  the  probable 
odium  to  be  encountered  in  providing  in 
the  public  service  for  such  a  worthless 
person  is  too  serious  to  be  encountered, 
except  for  the  sake  of  one  very  near  and 
dear.  But  the  purchase  of  the  Combe 
Chudleigh  property  is  so  nearly  completed 
that  I  cannot  now  recede,  although  the 
possession  of  the  estate  will  be,  in  some 
respects,  painful.  However,  it  affords 
me  the  satisfaction  of  assuring  you  that 
you  and  your  father  are  welcome  to  re- 
main there  till  you  find  a  suitable  abode 
elsewhere." 

There  was  a  mixture  of  assumed  be- 
nevolence and  genuine  rancor  about  this 
letter,  that  was  rather  amusing.  But 
Hilda  looked  very  grave  over  it,  after  the 
first  feeling  of  thankfulness  had  passed 
over. 


SOME   PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF   MADAME  MOHL. 


39 


''Yoa  will  repent,  Frank,"  she  cried, 
"  when  you  have  beard  all  1  have  to  tell 
you." 

Hilda  began  with  the  death  of  her  aunt. 
Miss  Chudleigh,  our  dear  old  friend  of 
Weymouth.  A  few  days  before,  the  old 
lady  had  sent  for  her  and  told  her  how 
she  had  disposed  of  her  property. 

**  And  you  and  Frank  can  marry  and  be 
happy  upon  my  money.  I  had  much 
rather  that,  than  that  it  should  run  down 
the  gutters  after  Redmond." 

And  thus  the  property  was  tied  up  so 
that  she  could  not  touch  the  principal. 
And  Hilda  had  intended  that,  somehow, 
I  should  be  informed  of  her  aunt*s  benev* 
olent  intentions,  when  she  heard  the  re- 
port of  my  having  married  the  Indian 
princess.  At  that  time,  too,  had  occurred 
ber  £ather*s  collapse,  when  he  was  obliged 
to  leave  Combe  Chudleigh,  and  to  take  to 
economical  living  in  London.  And  .then 
Redmond,  whose  extravagance  had  ruined 
the  old  squire,  in  his  straits  for  money 
had  resorted  to  some  questionable  prac- 
tices in  raising  loans,  and  had  been  threat- 
ened with  a  criminal  prosecution.  Mr. 
Chancellor,  however,  had  arranged  mat- 
ters with  the  creditors,  who  had  agreed  to 
take  an  assignment  of  Hilda's  income, 
excepting  some  two  hundred  a  year  she 
retained  for  pocket  money  —  an  assign- 
ment for  ten  years,  Mr.  Chancellor  having 
generously  acceded  to  this  disposal  of  the 
fortune  of  his  future  wife.  It  was  over 
these  papers  that  Hilda  had  been  so  en- 
l^rossed  with  Mr.  Wyvern,  when  we  re- 
joined the  yacht  at  Port.  It  was  all  set- 
tled now,  and  Redmond  was  personally 
safe,  but  his  prospects  of  public  employ- 
ment were  at  an  end,  very  much  to  the 
advantage  of  the  public,  as  I  thought. 

**And  this  poor  little  two  hundred  a 
year  of  mine,"  said  Hilda,  '*is  all  we  shall 
have  to  depend  upon,  for  I  don't  suppose 
you  have  made  your  fortune  abroad,  have 
you,  Frank  ? " 

1  could  truthfully  reply  that  I  had  not 
made  my  fortune,  indeecl  I  had  lost  half 
the  little  capital  I  started  with,  in  tea- 
planting  out  in  India.  But  then  the  other 
half  was  still  intact,  and  1  told  Hilda  that 
would  be  something  to  start  with,  and  we 
bad  youth  and  health  on  our  side,  and 
working  together  surely  we  could  make 
some  kind  of  mark  in  the  world. 

**  Well,  I  am  willing  to  try,  Frank,"  said 
Hilda  cheerfully,  **if  you  are.  Only  it 
strikes  me  that  our -holiday  ought  to  end 
here,  and  that  we  ought  to  begin  this 
work,  whatever  it  is  to  be,  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." 


Of  course  it  was  out  of  the  question  to 
accept  Mr.  Chancellor's  offer  of  the  loan 
of  the  *'  Sea-Mew  "  till  he  could  sell  her. 
But  I  had  a  plan  of  my  own  about  that, 
which  I  only  wanted  Tom's  help  to  carry 
out. 

And  as  we  walked  up  the  Rue  St.  Jean 
towards  the  hotel,  we  met  Tom  driving 
Contango,  and  a  good  deal  embarrassed, 
for  he  had  not  been  able  to  find  us  out, 
and  Zamora  attracted  a  good  deal  of  at- 
tention, from  her  outlandish  appearance 
and  vivid  gestures.  But  having  depos- 
ited his  feminine  charge  at  the  hotel,  and 
attended  to  Contango's  comfort  at  the 
stables,  Tom  was  all  ready  to  execute  my 
commission,  which  was  no  other  than  to 
purchase  the  "Sea-Mew"  as  she  stood, 
or  floated  rather,  with  all  her  fittings  and 
belongings.  And  Tom  soon  found  out 
from  the  master  what  price  he  thought 
the  yacht  was  fairly  worth,  and  then  he 
telegraphed  an  offer  to  Mr.  Chancellor, 
somewhat  below  this  amount.  The  reply 
came  in  a  few  hours.  It  was  an  accept- 
ance of  the  offer,  provided  the  money  was 
deposited  at  Rothschild's  within  twenty- 
four  hours.  There  was  no  difficulty  about 
this,  so  that  the  yacht  was  now  mine  to 
all  intents  and  purposes. 

But  as  Tom  came  back  from  his  last 
journey  to  the  port  about  the  yacht,  he 
took  me  aside,  with  a  grave  look  upon  his 
face. 

'*  Frank,  who  came  across  in  the  '  Sea- 
Mew,*  with  Mr.  Chancellor's  permission, 
can  you  guess  ?  Wh^,  the  Count  de  St. 
Pol.     I  met  the  man  jqst  now." 


From  Macmillan's  Magazine. 
SOME    PERSONAL    RECOLLECTIONS    OF 
MADAME  MOHL. 

In  the  year  1850,  my  father  and  mother 
and  I  were  at  Turin,  where  we  saw  a 
great  deal  of  the  Marchesa  Costanza  Ar- 
conati,  an  old  friend  of  our  family.  One 
day  she  said  to  us  that  she  must  make  us 
acquainted  with  Madame  Mohl.  We  had 
no  particular  desire  to  know  her ;  we  had 
heard  of  her,  probably  from  some  very 
stupid  person,  as  a  sort  of  blue-stocking. 
I  can  still  hear  the  tone  in  which  Madame 
Arconati  rejoined,  '*  Elle  n'est  pas  du  tout 
p^dante ! " 

On  our  return  through  Paris  in  1851, 
we  accordingly  made  M.  and  Madame 
Mohl's  acquaintance.  '*Your  father  did 
not  care  about  me  at  all  at  first,"  she  has 
often  said  to  me  laughingly;  " it  took  him 


40 


SOME   PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF   MADAME   MOHL. 


some  time  to  discover  my  merits."  They 
soon,  however,  became  firm  friends,  and 
she  came  to  see  us  in  London  for  the  first 
time  during  the  Great  Exhibition. 

In  Paris,  which  we  visited  every  year, 
she  was  our  mainstay.  When  we  first 
arrived  she  would  ask  us  whom  we  par- 
ticularly desired  to  see,  and  whether  we 
knew  them  already  or  not  she  was  sure  to 
get  them  to  meet  us.  She  was  a  very 
early  riser,  and  would  often  tap  at  the 
door  of  our  apartment  between  nine  and 
ten  o'clock,  and  sit  down  and  talk  to  us 
while  we  were  at  breakfast.  Hers  was 
real  conversation,  not  preaching.  It  was 
spontaneous,  full  of  fun  and  grace  of  ex- 
pression. She  spoke  French  and  English 
with  the  fluency  and  accent  of  a  native, 
yet  with  the  care  and  originality  of  a  for- 
eigner. (My  authority  for  saying  this  of 
her  French  was  Alexis  de  Tocqueville.) 
When  there  was  no  word  in  either  lan- 
guage exactly  to  fit  her  thoughts  she 
would  coin  one  for  the  occasion.  She  had 
much  of  the  phraseology  of  the  last  cen- 
turv,  but  none  of  its  coarseness,  for  she 
had  an  essentially  delicate  and  refined  na- 
ture. Althoug^h  a  great  reader  she  had, 
as  Madame  Arconati  said,  not  an  atom  of 
dogmatism  or  pedantry.  She  had  no  airs 
of  superiority  of  any  kind.  The  next 
year  she  came  to  stay  with  us ;  as  an 
inmate  she  gave  no  trouble,  she  never  put 
out  the  household  in  any  way,  and  her 
punctuality  was  unfailing.  She  would 
take  pains  to  be  agreeable  to  the  stupid- 
est and  most  insignificant  person  who 
happened  to  look  in.  She  never  snubbed 
or  neglected  any  one  in  our  house,  not 
even  very  young  ladies,  although  she 
would  sometimes  say,  if  she  chanced  to 
sit  near  one,  *'  My  dear,  I  felt  so  ashamed 
of  not  being  a  young  man.'* 

Although  she  was  so  fond  of  society, 
and  talked  so  much  and  so  easily,  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  solitude  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  her.  She  would  come  home 
from  a  round  of  visits  looking  fagged, 
with  her  hair  all  out  of  curl,  and  throw 
herself  into  an  armchair  exclaiming,  **  I 
am  as  tired  as  fifty  dogs,"  and  then  take 
up  what  she  called  a  nourishing  book  (an 
epithet  of  high  praise  which  she  also  ap- 
plied to  persons),  and  retire  to  her  room 
tor  a  couple  of  hours,  whence  she  would 
emerge  at  dinner  time,  fresh,  brilliant, 
with  her  curls  and  her  mind  quite  crisp; 
the  life  and  soul  of  the  company. 

When  in  society  she  disliked  iite^- 
tiies^  and  thought  them  very  ill-bred.  She 
liked  a  little  circle  in  which  the  ball  of 
coaversatioQ  is  tossed  from  one  to  the 


other.  She  thought  it  more  exciting  and 
less  fatiguing  than  if  the  company  split  up 
in  the  English  fashion  into  duets.  She 
never  could  understand  the  pleasure  that 
English  people  find  in  standing  and  say- 
ing three  words  to  each  other  at  evening 
parties.  She  would  try  to  get  two  or 
three  to  sit  by  her  and  talk  quietly,  but 
she  said  they  seemed  in  a  sort  of  feverish 
fidget  as  if  expecting  some  wonderful 
sight,  and  incapable  of  paying  attention. 
She  greatly  enjoyed  a  real  tSte-^-tiie 
with  a  friend  when  there  was  no  distract- 
ing company  present,  and  would  readily 
unlock  the  stores  of  her  memory,  and 
pour  out  the  results  of  her  long  and 
varied  experience. 

Although  her  opinions  on  people  and 
things  were  extraordinarily  tolerant  and 
unconventional,  she  yet  had  a  fine  sense 
of  moral  rectitude  and  high  principle 
which  made  her  a  perfectly  safe  friend  for 
young  people.  I  never  heard  her  say  a 
word  or  utter  a  sentiment  which  I  should 
shrink  from  recording  here  could  I  only 
recollect  it.  Conversation  is  unfortunately 
as  ephemeral  as  acting  or  singing.  M/ 
father  recorded  a  great  deal  of  hers  in  his 
journals,  but  as  she  herself  says  of  Ma- 
dame R^camier,  **  Such  recollections  have 
much  the  same  effect  on  those  who  knew 
her  that  a  hortus  siccus  ol  tropical  flowers 
would  have  on  a  traveller  just  returned 
from  seeing  them  in  their  native  country." 
Still  such  as  they  are  they  are  valuable, 
for  although  so  light  and  full  of  fancy 
there  was  solid  matter  in  her  conversa- 
tion; it  was  not  mere  froih ;  she  had 
thought  much  and  read  much,  besides 
having  always  lived  in  the  intimacy  of  the 
most  brilliant  and  remarkable  men  and 
women  of  her  time.  Her  early  youth  was 
spent  in  the  last  palmy  days  of  Parisian 
society,  before  luxury  and  crowds  took 
the  place  of  the  quiet  sociiU  intime  in 
which  rank  and  wealth  were  almost  imma- 
terial. 

Her  maiden  name  was  Mary  Clarke*  I 
believe  her  father's  family  to  have  been  of 
Irish  extraction.  Her  grandfather,  An- 
drew Clarke,  forsook  his  wife  and  family 
to  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  Stuarts.  On 
the  other  hand,  an  ancestor  of  her  moth- 
er's, a  Hay  of  Hope  in  Scotland,  fought 
for  William  III.  at  the  battle  of  the 
Boyne,  and  the  sword  that  he  used  on 
that  occasion  was  carefully  preserved  by 
Madame  Mohi.  Her  maternal  grandfa- 
ther. Captain  David  Hay,  died  compara- 
tively early;  his  widow  attained  a  very 
advanced  age,  and  always  lived  with  their 
only  child,  who  married  Mr.  Clarke.   Mrs.  ^ 


SOME    PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF  MADAME   MOHL. 


41 


Hay  was  a  remarkable  woman ;  she  had 
lived  in  the  best  Edinburgh  society,  and 
was  intimate  with  Hume  and  his  contem* 
poraries.  Mary  was  the  youngest  of  three 
children :  one,  a  boy,  died  in  infancy ;  the 
other  Eleanor,  was  seven  years  older  than 
her  sister.  She  represented  the  Scotch 
element,  and  was  quiet,  beautiful,  digni- 
fied, and  very  Low  Church.  She  remem- 
bered to  have  seen  Louis  XVL  and  Marie 
Antoinette  at  nyass  in  the  chapel  of  the 
Tuileries  after  their  flight  to  Varennes. 
One  of  Mary's  earliest  recollections  was 
seeing  the  Allies  enter  Paris  in  1815, 
which  she  did  from  the  back  of  a  troop- 
er's horse.  Eleanor  was  married  to  Mr. 
Frcwen  Turner,  of  Cold  Overton,  Leices- 
tershire, in  1808.  Mrs.  Clarke's  constitu- 
tion could  not  stand  the  English  climate. 
She  lived  almost  constantly  in  France; 
and  although  a  Protestant,  she  put  her 
daughter  for  a  short  time  to  school  in  a 
convent. 

Mary  was  a  spoilt  child  and  a  great  pet. 
She  has  often  told  me  that  she  owed  her 
unfailing  spirits  to  her  having  never  been 
snubbed  by  her  mother.  After  Mrs. 
Frewen  Turner's  marriage,  Mrs.  Clarke 
thought  it  advisable  for  Mary  to  pay  her 
sister  long  visits  to  England ;  but  al- 
though she  was  verv  fonfi  of  Eleanor, 
Madame  Mohl  has  often  told  me  that  she 
always  hailed  with  delight  her  return  to 
her  mother,  to  whom  she  was  passionately 
attached,  and  who  allowed  her  the  most 
entire  freedom.  She  was  long  enough, 
however,  in  England  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  old  society,  and  stayed  often  with 
Miss  Benger,  who  received  on  the  old- 
fashioned  easy  terms  most  of  the  distin- 
guished people  of  her  day.  She  also 
knew  Miss  Lydia  White.  She  had  always 
longed  to  see  Mme.  de  StaSl,  and  on  one 
of  these  visits  she  heard  that  the  great 
authoress  was  staying  at  a  hotel  in  Lon- 
don. So  she  resolved  to  see  her,  but  she 
had  no  introduction,  and  Madame  de  Stael 
was  not  easily  approached.  It  was  thus 
that  she  told  us  how  she  accomplished 
her  object :  — 

^  My  dear,  I  happened  to  have  a  little 
money  in  my  pocket,  so  slipped  out  of  the 
bouse,  called  a  coach,  and  ordered  the 
man  to  drive  me  to  the  hotel "  (she  was 
not  clear  as  to  where  it  was).  **  I  had 
heard  that  Madame  de  StaSl  was  looking 
out  for  a  governess,  and  I  resolved  to 
offer  myself.  I  was  shown  in ;  Madame 
de  Sta^l  was  there  and  the  brattikin  (a 
little  boy).  She  was  trh  grande  dame^ 
very  courteous,  asked  me  to  sit  down, 
said  I  looked  very  young,  and  proceeded  I 


to  ask  me  my  capabilities.  I  agreed 
to  everything,  for  I  wanted  to  have  a 
little  talk  with  her.  Of  course  I  couldn't 
have  taught  him  at  all,  I  could  never  have 
been  bothered  with  him.  So  at  last  she 
repeated  that  I  was  too  young,  and  bowed 
me  out.  This  was  the  only  time  I  saw 
Madame  de  StaSl,  and  I  never  told  any- 
body when  I  got  home." 

Mrs.  Clarke's  headquarters  were  in 
Paris.  She  and  her  mother  had  excellent 
introductions  from  Edinburgh  friends. 
Mrs.  Clarke  was  known  as  a  person  of 
very  advanced  opinions,  and  her  acquain- 
tance was  sought  by  the  members  of  **  La 
Jeune  France."  One  of  their  greatest 
friends  was  M.  Fauriel,  who  played  an 
important  part  in  Miss  Clarke's  life.  His 
name  is  little  known  in  England,  but  on 
the  Continent  he  was  considered  a  very 
great  savant,*  He  was  very  intimate 
with  Madame  R^camier,  and  be  was  al- 
ways praising  his  English  friends  to  her. 
So  she  asked  to  be  introduced  to  them. 
They  lived  at  that  time  in  the  Rue  Bona- 
parte, but  they  had  a  squabble  with  their 
landlord,  and  Madame  R^camier  urged 
them  in  consequence  to  take  part  of  her 
apartments  in  the  Abbaye-au-Bois,  where 
they  remained  for  seven  years. 

**  The  Abbaye  was  a  large,  old  building, 
with  a  courtyard,  closed  on  the  street  by 
a  high  iron  grate  surmounted  by  a  cross. 
Through  this  grate  you  see  the  square 
court,  and  opposite  to  it  the  entrance  door 
of  the  chapel  and  another  small  door, 
which  is  the  entrance  to  the  parloir. 
Various  staircases  ascend  from  this  yard 
conducting  to  apartments  inhabited  by  re- 
tired ladies."  f  It  was  in  this  convent 
that  Madame  Rtfcamier  held  her  court 
from  the  year  1819  to  the  day  of  her  death 
in  1849.  She  was  captivated  by  Miss 
Clarke's  extraordinary  cleverness,  kindli- 
ness, and  vivacity,  and  they  also  charmed 

*  Claude  Fauriel  was  born  at  St  Etienne  in  177a. 
He  served  in  the  army  for  a  few  years,  then  became 
secretary  to  General  Dugomroier,  and  was  afterwards 
atuched  to  the  staff  of  Fouch^.  But  he  soon  embraced 
a  literary  career.  He  settled  in  Paris^  where  he  be- 
came acquainted  with  the  most  distinguished  members 
of  the  Soci^ttf  d*Auteuil.  He  knew  a  great  many  lan- 
guages and  translated  several  foreign  works.  In  1824 
he  published  "  Les  Chants  populaires  de  la  Gr&ce 
moaerne."  In  1834  he  was  appointed  lecturer  on  foreign 
literature  in  the  University  of  Paris.  His  lectures  were 
admirable.  In  1833  he  published  **  Les  Origines  des 
Epopees  chevaleresques."  ^  He  also  wrote  a  "  History 
01  Provencal  Poetrjr.^'  His  "  Dante  et  les  Origines  da 
la  Langue  et  la  Litt^rature  italiennes  '*  brought  him 
into  contact  with  Manzoni,  whose  letters  to  him,  re- 
cently published  in  Italy,  show  the  utmost  esteem  and 
reverence  for  the  French  philosopher. 

t  This  description  is  taken  irom  Madame  Mohl*8 
book  on  Madame  R^camier,  which  also  contains  a  full 
and  interesting  account  of  this  society  (see  "  MadasM 
Rdcamier,"  Chapman  and  Hall,  x86a)i 


SOME   PERSONAL  RECOIXECTIOllS  OF  MADAME  MOHU 


n 


M.  de  Chateaobriand,  for  whose 
nent  Madame  R6caciiier  cared  above  all 
tbfii<^,  and  she  persuaded  ber  jouiig 
frieod  to  come  to  her  every  aftemooa  at 
loor  o'clock,  wheo  she  received  the  iUte 
pi  Paris.  Hither  came  the  members  of 
the  old  aristocracy,  the  Doc  de  Laval, 
MattKIeo  de  Mootmorency,  etc,  as  well 
as  all  t^e  intellect oal  celebrities  of  the  day. 
Politico  were  very  ezcitiog  at  that  time ; 
several  of  the  kabUmis  were  members  of 
the  CI  1  amber,  aod  came  in  every  day  to 
relate  what  had  taken  place.  Nothing 
remarkable  in  private  or  public  ever 
passed  that  was  not  known  there  sooner 
than  elsewhere.  Whoever  had  first  read 
a  new  book  came  to  give  an  account  of  it. 
•*  La  Jenne  France  "  was  represented  by 
Benjamin  Constant,  Cousin,  Villemain, 
Coizot,  Thiers,  Mignet,  R^mnsat, 
Thierry,  Tocqoeville.  One  of  its  roost 
agreeable  members  was  the  yoonger 
Amp^c.*  He  came  every  day.  **  His 
conversation,"  says  Madame  Mohl  (and 
the  present  writer  can  testify  to  the  truth 
of  her  descriptionX  **  his  conversation  was 
like  a  stream  of  sparkling  water,  always 
fresh,  never  fati^ing.  His  wit  was  so 
natural  that  you  never  thought  of  any 
thing  but  the  amusement  he  gave  you.^ 
To  a  chosen  few  out  of  this  circle  M.  de 
Chateaubriand  read  his  ''Memoirs,"  bit 
by  bit  as  he  wrote  them.  The  effect  was 
prodigious.  In  some  of  the  scenes  Ma- 
dame Mohl  said  tears  would  unconsciously 
steal  down  her  face,  to  the  great  satisfac- 
tion of  the  author.  Here,  too,  Rachel 
recited  the  part  of  Esther  for  a  charitable 
subscription,  and  from  that  time  never 
undertook  a  new  part  without  having 
given  the  first  recital  at  the  Abbaye-au- 
Bois.  To  us  who  are  unable  to  command 
such  stimulating  intellectual  food,  it  may 
be  some  consolation  to  find  that  those 
who  enjoyed  it  were  not  exempt  from 
ennui.  The  most  courted,  the  idol  of 
that  society,  M.  de  Chateaubriand  him- 
self, suffered  most  severely  from  this 
malady.  He  often  said  he  wished  that 
ennui  would  settle  in  his  leg,  for  then  he 
would  cut  it  offl  Madame  Mohl,  how- 
ever, never,  either  then  or  afterwards, 
seemed  to  know  what  it  meant.    She  en- 

*  The  following  is  M.  Ampere's  sketch  of  Madame 
Mohl  St  the  Abbaye-ao-Bois;  "A  little  later  in  the 
evenin<r  the  icre.it  resource  was  Madame  Mohl,  then 
MiM  (!iarke.  She  is  a  charming  mixture  of  French 
vivacity  and  Kngiish  originality;  but  I  think  the  French 
element  predominates.  She  was  the  delieht  of  the 
grand  tnnuyi  ;  her  expressions  were  entirely  her  own, 
■nd  he  more  than  once  made  use  of  them  in  his  writings. 
Her  French  was  as  original  as  the  turn  of  her  mind; 
exqui«ite  in  quality,  but  savoring  more  of  the  last  cen- 
tury than  of  our  own  time." 


joyed  life  thorovghly,  and  I  have  often 
heard  her  say  she  would  like  to  begin 
agaio  and  go  throi^h  every  bit  of  the 
past. 

There  were  three  distinguished  men 
who  spent  every  evening  with  Mrs. 
Clarke  and  ber  daughter  —  M.  Fauriel, 
M.  Mohl,*  and  M.  Roolin.  For  some 
time  no  one  else  was  admitted.  One 
year  the  three  friends  went  to  the  £ast« 
**  My  mother  and  1,"  she  told  me,  '*  spent 
every  evening  of  that  winter  alone.  I 
read  sach  a  number  of  books.  We  would 
not  admit  any  one,  lest  it  should  contrary 
them  when  they  came  back." 

M.  Fauriel  was  much  older  than  the 
other  two.  He  was  devotedly  attached 
to  Mary,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  engage* 
ment  between  them ;  but  she  did  not  care 
enough  about  him  to  marry  him,  although 
she  would  never  marry  any  one  else  as 
long  as  he  lived.  He  died  of  cholera,  in 
M.  MohPs  arms,  in  the  year  1844.  leaving 
his  library  to  YHs  Jiancie.  To  M.  Mohl 
he  bequeathed  a  much  more  valuable 
legacy. 

In  the  year  1846  Mrs.  Clarke  died. 
Some  years  previously  they  had  removed 
into  the  apartment  in  the  Rue  du  Bac« 
which  Madame  Mohl  occupied  for  the 
rest  of  her  life;  but  this  did  not  prevent 
her  daily  intercourse  with  Madame  R^ca- 
mier.  M.  and  Madame  de  Chateaubriand 
lived  on  the  ground>floor,  and  in  1847, 
after  Madame  de  Chauteaubriand*s  death, 
and  during  a  short  absence  of  Madame 
R^amier's,  Madame  Mohl  spent  some 
time  of  every  day  with  the  great  poet  -^ 
then  in  his  decline—- trying  to  interest 
and  amuse  him.  She  wrote  daily  bulle* 
tins  of  his  state  to  Madame  R^camier, 
who  in  his  last  days  occupied  the  spare 
room  in  Madame  Mohl's  apartment  ia 

•  This  is  Ste.  Benve's  portrait  of  M.  Mohl:  •<  Ua 
homme  qui  est  l*^ruditian  et  la  curiosity  m^me:  M. 
Mohl,  le  savant  Orientaliste,  et  plus  qu'nn  savant,  un 
sage  I  esprit  dair,  loyal,  ^tendu,  esprit  alleroand,  pass6 
au  filtre  anglais,  sans  un  trouble,  sans  un  nuage,  miroir 
ouvert  et  limpide,  morality  franche  et  pure,  de  bonne 
heure  revenu  de  tout;  avec  un  grain  d*ironie  sans 
amertume,  front  chauve  et  rire  d* enfant,  intelligence  4 
la  Goethe,  sinoa  qu'elle  est  exempte  de  toute  couleur 
et  qu*e]1e  est  soigneusement  depuuill^e  du  sens  esth^ 
tique,  comme  d*un  mensonge." 

It  is  really  impossible  to  translate  this  delicate  and 
forcible  description,  but  the  foUowin}{  may  give  some 
idea  of  it :  **  M.  Mohl,  the  learned  Orientalist,  is  erudi- 
tion and  investigation  itself.  He  is  more  than  a  philos* 
opher,  he  is  wisdom  personified  I  His  intellect  is  clear, 
sincere,  and  liberal,  thoroughly  German,  yet  passed 
through  an  £nglish  filter;  an  untroubled,  cloudless 
spirit,  a  mirror  without  speck  or  flaw  ;  a  spotless  chaiw 
acter,  having  early  cast  aside  the  illusions  of  youth  ;  a 
spice  of  irony  without  bitterness,  the  bald  brow  of  a 
sage  with  the  laugh  of  a  child.  His  mind  in  some  re- 
spects resembles  that  of  Goethe,  except  that  it  is  free 
of  all  bias,  avoidinj^  carefully,  in  his  devotion  to  tmth| 
the  snare  of  cstheucism." 


SOME   PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  MADAME   MOHL. 


43 


order  to  be  near  the  friend  to  whom  she 
had  devoted  nearly  thirty  years  of  her 
life. 

After  her  mother's  death  Miss  Clarke 
consented  to  reward  M.  Mohl  for  his 
seventeen  years  of  devotion.  The  en- 
gagement was  kept  a  profound  secret. 
The  story  of  their  marriage  used  always 
to  amuse  me  extremely,  and  Madame 
Mohl  was  so  good-natured  as  to  tell  it  to 
me  more  than  once.  It  was  to  this  ef- 
fect :  — 

•*  I  gave  mv  two  servants  warning,  my 
dear,  and  told  them  I  was  going  to  travel 
in  Switzerland.  You  know  it  is  necessary 
to  put  up  a  placard  the  day  before  on  the 
church  you  are  going  to^be  married  in, 
announcing  the  event.  So  I  gave  a  little 
boy  ten  francs  to  paste  a  playbill  over  it 
at  once,  and  waited  at  the  corner  of  the 
street  to  see  it  done.  When  the  morning 
came  I  told  my  maid  I  was  goin<;  to  a 
christening,  as  an  excuse  for  putting  on 
my  best  clothes.  I  didn't  know  whether 
1  was  standing  on  my  head  or  my  heels. 
After  the  ceremony  I  left  M.  Mohl  and 
my  witnesses  at  the  church  door,  got  into 
a  coach,  and  told  the  man  to  drive  to  loo, 
Ruedu  Bac*'(she  lived  at  120).  "I  got 
out  as  soon  as  we  arrived,  paid  the  driver, 
went  into  the  porter's  lodge,  and  asked  if 
Madame  Bertrand  was  at  home  —  this 
was  to  give  time  for  the  coach  to  drive  off. 
The  porter  thought  me  very  stupid.  He 
assured  me  that  no  Madame  Bertrand  had 
ever  !i\'ed  there,  which  I  knew  perfectly 
well.  When  I  got  home  I  took  off  my 
fine  clothes  and  my  wedding  ring,  and 
packed  up  for  my  journey.  My  servants 
had  00  idea  that  1  was  married.  I  did 
not  see  M.  Mohl  again  for  two  days,  when 
I  met  him  and  our  witnesses  at  the  rail- 
way station.  We  all  dined  together,  and 
M.  Mohl  and  I  set  off  for  Switzerland ; 
and  then,  luckily  for  me,  the  Due  de  Pras- 
lin  murdered  his  wife,  and  everybody 
talked  about  that,  and  forgot  me  and  my 


marriage. 


She  wrote  to  her  sister,  without  any 
previous  warning,  that  '*as  an  aunt  was 
like  a  6fth  wheel  to  a  coach,  she  had  been 
married  that  morning  to  M.  Mohl." 

M.  and  Madame  Mohl  remained  in  the 
apartment  of  the  Kue  du  Bac.  It  was  a 
very  convenient  one.  They  had  the 
fourth  story  for  their  kitchen,  servants' 
and  spare  room  —  that  comfortable,  hos- 
pitable room  to  which  her  English  friends 
were  so  kindly  welcomed.  The  servants' 
rooms  were  as  well  furnished  as  her  own  ; 
she  consulted  their  comfort  in  every  way, 
and  they  were  devoted  to  her.     They 


themselves  lived  on  the  third  floor,  which 
consisted  of  two  drawing-rooms  divided 
from  each  other  by  a  glass  door,  a  large 
library,  a  dining-room,  and  bedroom. 
The  drawing-room  had  two  large  windows 
looking  into  the  garden  of  the  foreign 
missionaries,  which  was  full  of  trees  and 
flowering  shrubs  and  gave  a  feeling  of 
country  although  it  was  in  the  midst  of 
Paris,  which  formed  a  background  to  the 
picture,  with  the  dome  of  the  Invalides 
and  spire  of  St.  Clotilde  rising  in  the  dis- 
tance. The  drawing-room  was  not  smart 
in  any  way,  but  it  was  full  of  comfortable 
seats,  not  stiffly  arranged,  as  is  often  the 
case  in  French  houses.  On  Sunday  and 
Wednesday  afternoons  and  on  Friday 
evenings  it  was  frequented  by  the  most 
interesting  people  in  Paris.  All  who 
survived  of  the  men  who  In  1830  were 
called  '*  La  Jeune  France  "  were  there, 
and  besides  those  already  mentioned,  the 
Due  de  Broglie,  M.  and  Madame  d'Haus- 
sonville,  Prosper  M^rimde,  Duvergier  de 
Hauranne,  Odillon  Barrot,  as  well  as 
many  eminent  Orientalists  and  profes- 
sors brought  by  M.  Mohl;  and,  as  years 
went  on,  the  men  of  a  succeeding  genera- 
tion —  Lanfrey,  Lom^nie,  Laboulaye, 
Provost  Paradol,  Renan,  etc.,  were  con- 
stant visitors.  Almost  all  foreigners  of 
any  intellectual  distinction  made  their 
way  to  the  Rue  du  Bac.  The  queen  of 
Holland  always  came  when  she  was  in 
Paris  (M.  Mohl  was  a  great  favorite  of 
hers),  and  the  Arconatis,  CoIIegnos,  Prin- 
cess Belgiojoso,  Daniel  Manin,  Tourg^- 
nieff,  the  Duchess  Colonna,  Mr.  Dana, 
Charles  Sumner,  etc.  She  was  particu- 
larly fond  of  English  people,  especially  of 
those  who  were  kind  to  her  in  England. 
There  was  no  trouble  she  would  not  take 
to  make  Paris  agreeable  to  them. 

Thiers  was  a  frequent  visitor.  AVhen 
he  first  arrived  in  Paris  from  Marseilles 
to  push  his  fortunes  he  was  introduced  to 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Clarke  as  to  people  who 
would  help  him  on.  **  What  can  you  do?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Clarke.  '*Je  sais  manier  la 
plume,"  was  the  reply.  She  introduced 
him  to  the  editor  of  the  Consiitutionnel^ 
and  the  first  articie  he  wrote  was  in  praise 
of  a  piece  of  sculpture  executed  by  a 
friend  of  Mrs.  Clarke's.  He  fell  in  love 
with  Mary,  and  at  one  time  he  took  to 
coming  every  evening  and  staying  so  late 
that  the  porter  was  exasperated.  One 
day  the  porter  called  out  to  Miss  Clarke, 
"  Mademoiselle,  j'ai  quelque  chose  k  vous 
dire.  Si  ce  petit  ^tudiant  qui  vient  ici 
tous  les  soirs  ne  s'en  va  pas  avant  minuit, 
je  fermerai  la  porte  et  j*irai  me  coucher* 


44 


SOME   PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF   MADAME   MOHL. 


II  pourra  dormir  sous  la  porte  coch^re  ;  <;a 
le  gu^rira.**  She  never  knew  how  deep 
was  the  impression  she  produced  until  a 
fortnight  before  his  death  when  she  met 
him  in  the  Isle  Adam,  at  the  house  of  her 
friend  Madame  Chevreux.  The  younger 
people  were  all  amusing  themselves,  she 
was  resting  in  a  summer-house  when  M. 
Thiers  found  her  out,,  and  there,  for  the 
first  time,  he  told  her  of  his  early  and 
romantic  attachment.  She  was  greatlv 
pleased  and  much  touched,  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing year,  in  spite  of  her  friends*  remon- 
strances, she  would  go  to  the  anniversary 
ceremony  of  his  death,  bearing  the  fa- 
tigue of  standing  for  hours  in  a  broiling 
sun. 

• 

On  Friday  evenings  the  lamps  in  the 
little  salon  were  carefully  shaded,  for  M. 
Mohl  was. intolerant  of  a  blaze  of  light,  as 
indeed  he  was  of  glare  and  display  of  any 
kind.  He  used  to  be  very  sarcastic  if  any 
lady  arrived  smartly  dressed,  which  was 
often  the  case,  as  Madame  Duch&tel  re- 
ceived on  the  same  evening  all  the  rank 
and  fashion  of  the  Orleanist  party. 

One  evening  Sanson,  the  great  actor, 
who  had  exchanged  the  stage  for  the  post 
of  teacher  at  the  Conservatoire,  told  us  all 
sorts  of  amusing  stories  about  his  pupils, 
especially  of  Rachel,  whom  he  discovered 
and  trained.  Guizot,  Cousin,  and  Mignet 
were  present,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  see 
them  retire  gracefully  into  the  background 
and  leave  the  arena  to  the  old  actor,  whom 
they  encouraged  by  their  attention  and 
sympathy. 

The  .young  lady  who  used  to  make  tea 
was  a  niece  of  M.  Mohl's,  now  Madame 
Von  Schmidt  Zabierow,  the  wife  of  the 
governor  of  Carinthia.  Her  aunt  was 
very  fond  of  her,  she  almost  lived  in  the 
Rue  du  Bac,  and  many  little  dances  were 
got  up  in  her  honor.  Prosper  Mtfrimde 
was  a  great  admirer  of  Mile.  Ida's  clever- 
ness and  simplicity,  and  used  often  to 
invite  the  Mohls  and  ourselves  to  drink 
yellow  Russian  tea  in  his  apartment  in 
the  Rue  de  Sdvres.  He  was  charming  on 
these  occasions:  he  laid  aside  his  cold, 
cynical  manner,  and  amused  us  by  show- 
ing us  his  drawings  and  discoursing  on 
the  places  and  people  he  had  seen.  There 
were  never  any  other  guests. 

Madame  Mohl  owed  to  M.  Fauriel  the 
Italian  element  in  her  society.  He  ac- 
companied her  mother  and  herself  to  Italy 
in  the  old  days.  Everywhere  he  had  ac- 
cess to  the  best  society,  and  no  one  could 
know  Mrs.  and  Miss  Clarke  without  lik- 
ing them.    They  were  two  years  in  Italy : 


the  winters  they  spent  at  Milan,  where 
they  lived  in  the  house  next  to  Man- 
zoni*s,  with  whom  they  passed  every  even- 
ing. 

Among  their  most  intimate  friends  were 
the  Arconatis,  of  whom  I  have  already 
spoken.  Madame  Arconati  was  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  and  attractive  wom- 
en of  her  day.  She  and  her  husband 
emigrated  in  1821  and  lived  in  the  grand 
old  Chd.teau  of  Gaesbeck,  near  Brussels, 
where  they  collected  round  them  many 
eminent  countrymen  of  their  own,  also 
exiled  for  political  reasons.  Arrivabene» 
Collegno,  Berchet,  Gioberti  were  among 
them.  As  soon  as  the  amnesty  was  de- 
clared they  returned  to  Italy.  The  Mar- 
quis Arconati  was  elected  a  member  of 
the  Italian  Parliament,  and  they  lived  for 
some  years  at  Turin.  They  had  a  villa  oa 
the  Lake  of  Como,  where  M.  and  Mme. 
Mohl  visited  them  several  times.  On 
one  occasion  there  was  a  fearful  thunder- 
storm, and  the  Arconatis  were  asked  to 
shelter  an  English  family  out  in  an  open 
boat  on  the  lake.  These  English  people 
were  Arthur  Stanley  —  not  yet  Dean  of 
Westminster  —  his  mother,  and  his  sis- 
ter. Thev  were  hospitably  received,  and 
were  all  cfelighted  with  each  other,  espe- 
cially Madame  Mohl  and  Arthur  Stanley, 
who  straightway  conceived  for  each  other 
the  ardent  friendship  which  added  so 
much  pleasure  and  interest  to  both  their 
lives.  The  Stanleys  visited  her  in  Paris, 
and  it  was  in  the  Rue  du  Bac  that  the 
dean  first  met  Lady  Augusta  Bruce :  he 
sat  by  her  at  dinner,  and  afterwards  said 
to  his  mother  that  if  he  ever  married. 
Lady  Augusta  should  be  his  wife.  Ma- 
dame Mohl  alwavs  considered  that  the 
marriage  was  made  by  her,  and  was  very 
proud  of  her  handiwork.  She  was  not 
equally  pleased  when  her  men  friends 
married  women  whom  she  did  not  know, 
or  failed  to  marry  those  whom  she  intend- 
ed for  them.  In  such  cases  the  unfortu- 
nate wife  scarcely  ever  found  favor  in  her 
eyes. 

Every  year  Madame  Mohl  visited  her 
sister,  Mrs.  Frewen  Turner,  in  Leicester- 
shire, and  on  her  way  she  used  to  spend 
some  time  with  her  London  friends.  She 
came  when  the  season  was  pretty  far  ad- 
vanced to  enliven  us  all,  and  give  the 
signal  for  all  sorts  of  pleasant  meetings 
and  entertainments :  it  was  a  great  de- 
light when  it  came  to  our  turn  to  receive 
her.  In  Leicestershire,  **Aunt  Clarky," 
as  they  called  her,  gave  new  life  to  the 
family  circle.  Her  young  great-nieces 
and  nephews  especially  rejoiced  in  her 


SOME   PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF   MADAME   MOHL. 


45 


arriva].  She  used  to  read  with  them,  talk 
to  them,  and  scamper  with  them  on  pony- 
back  all  over  the  country. 

As  soon  as  M.  MohPs  duties  at  the 
College  de  France,  the  Imprimerie  Na- 
tionale,  and  the  Institut  were  over,  he 
followed  her  to  England.  Very  few  of 
the  members  of  the  gay  world  were  by 
that  time  left  in  London,  but  he  did  not 
care  about  that.  He  spent  his  time  chiefly 
in  the  British  Museum  and  the  Athe- 
naeum, where  he  delighted  in  dining  with 
three  or  four  old  Oriental  and  learned 
friends,  whom  he  used  to  call  **  the  boys." 
He  was  particularly  fond  of  the  society  of 
clever  old  ladies,  and  almost  every  even- 
ing found  him  at  Lady  William  Russell's. 
Such  of  his  friends  as  were  still  in  Lon- 
don were  charmed  to  welcome  him.  He 
vas  a  most  interesting  converser.  No 
one  told  a  story  so  well ;  all  sorts  of  amus- 
ing adventures  always  seemed  to  be  hap- 
pening to  him ;  he  could  not  go  in  an 
omnibus  without  something  absurd  and 
diverting  taking  place;  his  acute  sense  of 
fan  made  everything  appear  to  him  in  a 
ludicrous  light.  With  all  this  he  had  a 
sort  of  childish  simplicity  and  total  ab- 
sence of  pretension,  in  spite,  or  rather  in 
consequence,  of  his  great  talent  and  learn- 
iog.  He  spoke  perfect  English,  but  as  it 
vas  a  foreign  language  he  did  not  use  the 
current  expressions  —  the  counters  which 
often  stand  in  the  place  of  ideas.  With 
him,  as  with  his  wife,  the  word  exactly 
fitted  the  idea.  Her  conversation  was  not 
so  fall  of  anecdote,  but  she  had  more 
imagination  and  higher  spirits.  She  never 
concealed  a  thought  — out  it  all  came  in 
an  instant ;  while  be  was  not  at  all  defi- 
cient in  reticence.  They  married  so  late 
that  their  uoion  never  became  an  old  story 
to  either  of  tbem.  When  M.  Mohl  came 
into  their  salon,  his  first  impulse  was  to 
talk  to  his  wife,  to  tell  her  all  that  had 
amused  aoci  interested  him  since  they  last 
met;  she  had  often  to  direct  his  attention 
to  the  guests  that  were  present.  The  so- 
ciety in  their  own  house  exactly  suited 
them  both,  and  like  the  bees,  they  wan- 
dered, often  singly,  far  and  wide  to  bring 
back  honey  to  the  hive.  When  they  were 
parted  they  wrote  each  other  long  and 
amusing  letters,  half  in  French  and  half 
in  English. 

Their  English  friends  did  not  quite 
tinderstand  their  visiting  England  sepa- 
rately, but  Paris  becomes  very  hot  towards 
the  end  of  June,  and  it  was  better  for 
Madame  MohPs  health  to  leave  it,  while 
M.  Mohl  was  tied  there  on  account  of  his 
occupations,  nor  would  he  have  enjoyed 


the  season  with  its  large  parties  and  dis- 
sipation, whereas  his  wife  enjoyed  every- 
thing intensely  in  its  turn.  She  delighted 
in  the  theatre,  which  he  abhorred.  "Isn't 
it  convenient?"  she  used  to  say.  '♦  I  put 
all  the  money 'we  can  spare  for  the  play 
into  this  box,  and  as  Mr.  Mohl  can*t  bear 
going  I  spend  it  all  on  myself."  She  was 
a  very  bad  walker  by  day,  but  she  always 
felt  stronger  at  flight,  and  we  often 
trudged  through  the  streets  of  Paris  on 
our  return  from  the  theatre,  walking  rap- 
idly (for  she  never  did  anything  slowly), 
and  in  the  highest  spirits,  her  nose  not 
assailed  as  mine  was  by  the  abominable 
odors  of  the  Rue  du  I3ac.  She  had  no 
sense  of  smell,  although  all  her  other 
senses  were  extraordinarily  acute.  She 
never  lost  her  hearing,  and  her  sight  was 
very  little  impaired  to  the  last. 

Her  taste  for  art  was  as  much  cultivated 
as  her  taste  for  literature.  She  drew  and 
painted  in  her  youth  with  considerable 
success  —  Ary  Scheffer  was  her  master; 
but  although  she  was  very  fond  of  music 
she  neither  played  nor  sang.  Above  all 
others  she  loved  Italian  music,  especially 
singing.  One  evening  I  took  her  to  a 
private  concert  where  there  was  no  other 
kind  of  music.  **Oh,  my  dear,"  she 
said,  "  I  thought  I  was  in  heaven  I "  she 
did  not  care  for  difficult  instrumental 
music. 

Everything  loud  and  big,  coarse  and 
unfinished,  was  disagreeable  to  her,  her 
taste  was  for  things  small  and  delicate 
like  herself.  She  had  even  a  prejudice 
against  tall  women.  She  was  very  fond 
of  beauty,  and  always  said  that  she  could 
not  bear  ugly  people;  but  I  noticed  that 
when  she  liked  people  she  never  thought 
them  ugly,  she  said  there  was  a  f^race 
about  them,  one  of  her  favorite  expres- 
sions. She  was  as  capricious  as  a  spoilt 
child,  yet  until  advanced  age  impaired  her 
self-control,  she  never  allowed  her  whims 
to  interfere  with  the  comfort  of  others. 
She  was  blessed  with  a  good  though  hasty 
temper,  and  an  unusual  amount  of  com- 
mon sense  which  made  her  see  the  ab- 
surdity of  extravagant  pretentions  of  any 
kind.  She  liked  intensely,  as  she  did 
everything  else.  One  of  her  droll  phrases 
(I  remember  her  saying  it  of  Mr.  Erasmus 
Darwin  among  others)  was,  "  My  dear,  I 
am  so  fond  of  him  that  it  makes  me  quite 
uncomfortable." 

There  never  was  a  cloud  between  her 
and  me,  but  although  she  was  not  touchy 
she  was  vehement,  and  she  sometimes 
had  little  misunderstandings  with  others 
whom  she  loved.    This  she  called  being 


SOME   PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF   MADAME   MOHL. 


46 

en  dilicatesse  with  so-aod  so.  She  was  a 
thoroughly  good  hater,  and  occasionally 
took  violent  and  unreasonable  prejudices, 
and  said  very  unkind  things  of  the  objects 
of  them.  The  person  she  detested  above 
all  others  was  Louis  Napoleon.  His 
character,  and  the  tyranny  and  luxury  of 
the  second  empire,  were  intolerable  to 
her.  When,  in  1854,  Montalembert  was 
imprisoned  for  writing  a  letter  against  the 
emperor  which  found  its  way  into  print, 
Madame  Mohl,  who  had  no  previous  ac- 
quaintance with  him,  visited  Montalem- 
bert in  prison,  sympathized  with  him, 
wept  with  him,  and  ever  afterwards  they 
were  firm  friends.  She  equally  detested 
the  great  Napoleon.  Henri  IV.  she 
adored,  and  she  read  everything,  however 
dull  and  archaic,  that  related  to  him. 
One  afternoon,  three  or  four  years  ago, 
Mignet  (aged  84)  obeyed  a  summons  from 
his  old  friend  to  meet  Mrs.  Wynne  Finch 
at  her  house.  Mignet  was  astonished  to 
find  that  Madame  Mohl  was  studying 
some  old  chronicle  on  the  laws  enacted 
by  the  great  king.  He  went  on  to  give 
them  a  most  interesting  lecture  on  the 
reign  and  virtues  of  Henri  IV.  Madame 
Mohl  got  tired,  and  touching  Mignet*s 
shoulder  with  all  the  petulance  of  a  spoilt 
child,  she  cried,  **  Assez,  mon  cher;  vous 
pr^chez  une  convertie." 

She  was  extremely  fond  of  scenery  and 
travelling,  and  her  visits  to  Germany  with 
her  husband  were  very  agreeable  to  her. 
She  was  proud  of  the  high  position  which 
he  and  his  brothers  occupied  in  their  own 
country,  and  which  brought  her  into  con- 
tact with  interesting  people.  The  Mohls 
were  a  very  remarkable  family.  In  the 
next  generation  one  of  M.  MohTs  nieces 
married  the  celebrated  Professor  Helm- 
holtz,  while,  as  I  have  said  before,  the 
other  became  the  wife  of  the  governor  of 
Carinthia. 

It  was  delightful  to  stay  with  Madame 
Mohl  in  a  country  house.  She  visited  us 
in  1859  ^^  Malvern,  and  we  went  after- 
wards on  the  top  of  a  stagecoach  (when 
she  was  divided  between  terror,  and  en- 
joyment of  the  scenerv),  over  the  hills  to 
the  Clives  at  Whitfield,  Hereford.  Mrs. 
Archer  Clive,  the  authoress  of  "  Paul 
Ferroll,"  was  a  special  favorite  of  hers. 

In  i860  she  went  with  us  to  stay  with 
Dr.  Jeune  (late  Bishop  of  Peterborough, 
at  that  time  vice-chancellor),  at  Pembroke 
College,  Oxford.  We  were  given  fellows' 
rooms  in  the  college.  She  was  charmed 
to  see  such  a  number  of  books,  and  she 
pounced  upon  Niebuhr's  *'  History  of 
Rome.*'  She  used  to  escape  from  the  com- 


pany and  spend  hours  in  reading  it.     She 
found  it  so  very  nourishing. 

In  the  year  1870,  Madame  Mohl  came 
to  England,  followed  as  usual  by  her  hus- 
band; but  they  were  not  destined  to  re- 
turn home  for  a  very  long  while.  The 
Franco-German  war  broke  out,  and  Ma- 
dame Mohl  remained  to  be  the  delight  of 
London  society  during  the  whole  winter, 
four  months  of  which  she  spent  with  us. 
She  invariably  spoke  of  this  as  of  the 
time  she  was  '*on  the  parish."  M.  Mohl 
was  staying  with  other  friends.  He  came 
to  see  her  every  day.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Mohl," 
she  used  to  say  to  him  (I  never  heard  her 
call  him  by  any  other  name),  ''shall  we 
ever  see  our  home  again?"  **Yes,  Ma- 
damchen,"  was  invariably  the  reply.  But 
although  she  was  anxious,  she  always 
said  that  she  enjoyed  herself  uncommonly. 
She  went  out  a  great  deal,  the  dean  and 
Lady  Augusta  and  many  other  friends 
came  constantly  to  see  her;  everybody 
did  their  best  to  amuse  her.  She  dearly 
liked  what  she  called  being  *'  made  a  fuss 
of ; "  she  was  as  she  said  a  very  grateful 
person,  and  every  act  of  kindness  was 
appreciated  and  remembered  by  her. 

One  of  the  things  she  disliked  in  £n- 
gladd  was  our  love  of  open  windows.  "My 
dear,"  she  would  say,  **it*s  quite  a  mal- 
ady," an  expression  she  used  of  any  habit 
or  taste  which  she  did  not  share. 

One  of  her  French  habits,  which  was 
rather  annoying  to  her  host,  was  that  she 
insisted  on  keeping  targe  sums  of  money 
in  her  bedroom.  Nothing  would  persuade 
her  to  have  a  banker.  She  never  remem- 
bered where  she  put  it  away,  and  con- 
stantly thought  she  had  lost  it,  when  there 
was  a  grand  hunt  and  disturbance,  and 
t^txy  one  was  upset  till  it  was  found 
again,  which  it  always  was  in  some  bag  or 
drawer.  Although  her  habits  were  French, 
her  heart  was  English,  and  she  was  str^ 
proud  of  being  a  British  subject.  The 
best  picture  she  possessed,  a  lovely 
Greuze,  she  told  me  she  should  leave  to 
the  National  Gallery. 

As  soon  as  the  siege  was  raised,  M. 
Mohl  returned  to  Paris,  but  he  would  not 
allow  her  to  accompany  him.  Her  anxiety 
then  became  very  great;  for  the  first  time 
it  struck  her  as  possible  that  she  might 
survive  her  husband.  ''Oh,  my  dear," 
she  would  exclaim,  "what  would  my  life 
be  worth  if  I  lost  Mr.  Mohl ! " 

Then  came  the  Commune.    She  obsti 
nately  refused  to  read  the  newspapers; 
nor  could  she  bear  to  talk  of  the  horrors 
which  were  going  on.  Her  husband  wrote 
long  and  frequent  letters  to  her,  which 


SOME    PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS   OF   MADAME   MOHL. 


47 


were  most  interesting.  They  arrived  very 
irre<jularly,  sometimes   two  or  three   to- 

S ether,  sometimes  none  at  all  for  several 
ays.  Her  delight  was  intense  when  the 
dean  and  Lady  Augusta,  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment,  offered  to  take  her  to 
Paris.  The  dean  told  me  that  her  joy  on 
arriving  was  almost  childish.  She  skipped 
about,  and  was  quite  happy  at  being 
obliged  to  walk  all  the  way  to  the  Rue  du 
Bac 

But  the  happiest  years  of  her  life  were 
over;  many  of  the  old  set  were  dead,  and 
M.  Mohl*s  position  as  a  German  was  no 
longer  what  it  had  been.  Their  salon 
never  regained  its  brilliancy.  In  London, 
on  the  other  hand,  she  had  become,  by 
her  long  stay  amongst  us,  better  and  more 
widely  known.  Her  arrival  towards  the 
close  of  the  season  was  the  signal  for  all 
sorts  of  festivities.  All  who  knew  her 
wanted  to  see  her,  and  all  who  did  not, 
wanted  to  make  her  acquaintance.  We 
often  begged  her  to  come  with  M.  Mohl 
and  live  in  England.  **  No,  no,  my  dear,'* 
she  would  say,  "  it  is  only  because  I  am  a 
rarity  that  you  make  such  a  fuss  about 


Up  to  the  last  she  had,  unlike  most 
people  who  live  to  be  very  old,  a  curious 
fancy  for  concealing  her  age.  In  1870  it 
was  impossible  to  get  her  to  say  how  old 
she  was  when  the  census  paper  had  to  be 
filled  up,  and  there  is  a  tradition  that 
when  asked  to  declare  it  at  the  Afairie  on 
ber  marriage,  she  said,  '*  Monsieur,  si 
voos  iosistez,  je  me  jeterai  par  la  f entire, 
mais  je  ne  vous  dirai  pas  mon  ftge."  I  do 
not  vouch  for  the  truth  of  this  story,  as 
of  course  I  did  not  hear  it  from  her  own 
lips.  She  was  seven  years  older  than  her 
busbaud,  and  it  never  occurred  to  her, 
except  for  a  moment  during  the  Com- 
mane,  that  he  might  precede  her  to  the 
grave.  He  never  got  over  the  impression 
of  that  dreadful  time,  or  ceased  to  lament 
the  enmity  between  his  nation  and  his 
adopted  country.  In  1875  he  began  to  fail. 
The  first  symptom  was  an  affection  of  the 
knee  which  prevented  his  taking  exercise. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  year  he  was  no 
longer  able  to  leave  his  house.  Then 
came  the  ill  news  of  his  brother  Robert's 
death,  and  he  failed  more  and  more  rapid- 
ly. Her  grief  was  mingled  with  astonish- 
ment, even  with  indignation.  The  doctors 
did  not  venture  to  dispel  her  hopes.  She 
tried  to  shut  her  eyes  to  his  danger,  and 
she  was  actually  taken  by  surprise  when 
he  died  on  January  4th,  1876.  Only  her 
most  intimate  friends  know  how  terrible 
was  the  shock.    He  was  absolutely  nec- 


essary to  her  existence.  She  never  got 
over  his  loss,  and  from  that  moment  de- 
sired most  earnestly  to  follow  him.  At 
the  time  she  went  almost  out  of  her 
mind.* 

She  came  to  us  in  September  at  Bourne- 
mouth ;  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  had  re- 
ceived a  blow  from  which  she  would  never 
recover.  Still  she  was  incapable  of  dis- 
mal despondency,  and  her  elastic  spirit  re- 
bounded at  intervals.  She  loved  the  sea  and 
the  woods,  and  all  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  the  country.  The  house  contained  an 
excellent  library  of  many  interesting  old 
books,  and  into  these  she  plunged  eagerly. 
We  had  a  house  full  of  children  and 
young  people  (with  whom  she  was  a  great 
favoriteX  and  a  basket  pony-chaise  which 
carried  her  about  and  saved  her  much 
fatigue,  although  her  love  for  animals  was 
so  great  that  she  insisted  upon  walking 
up  all  the  hills.  She  could  not  bear  to  see 
a  horse  beaten.  It  was  almost  painful  to 
drive  with  her,  for  she  would  keep  looking 
out  to  see  if  the  coachman  was  flogging 
his  horses,  and  insist  on  my  calling  out  to 
him  every  two  minutes  that  we  were  not 
in  a  hurry.  In  Paris  it  was  worse.  She 
said  that  nothing  in  England  struck  her 
so  much  as  our  superior  humanity  to  ani- 
mals, it  was  quite  a  pleasure  to  her  to 
look  out  of  the  window  when  a  great  party 
was  going  on,  and  see  the  coachmen  pat- 
ting their  horses.  She  would  not  have  a 
dog  of  her  own  because  she  said  she 
should  grow  too  fond  of  it,  but  she  always 
had  a  Persian  cat,  generally  from  a  breed 
cherished  by  her  dear  friend.  Miss  Flor« 
ence  Nightingale. 

In  the  following  spring  (1877)  she  went 
to  visit  her  niece,  Madame  Helmholtz,  at 
Berlin,  where  she  saw  all  the  most  inter- 
esting people,  among  others  the  crown 
prince  and  princess  showed  her  great 
attention.  She  told  me  that  the  crown 
prince  did  her  the  honor  of  talking  to  her 
during  a  whole  evening  about  his  wife, 
who,  he  said,  was  the  cleverest  and  most 


*  The  following  extract  from  one  of  Mndame  MohPs 
letters  to  Mrs.  Wynne  Finch  is  touching  in  its  sim- 
plicity :  — 

"  It  was  on  the  night  of  the  3rd,  or  rather  the  morn- 
ing of  the  4th,  that  he  passed  awav.  He  had  been 
struggling  for  breath  for  four  or  five  hours,  worse  and 
worse,  he  stroked  my  face  all  the  time  but  could  not 
speak;  that  stroking  has  been  an  ineffable  comfort  to 
me ;  it  was  an  endearment  when  he  could  not  sneak, 
the  only  sign  he  could  give  me  of  his  affection,  and  that 
he  knew  it  was  I  that  was  with  him.  You,  dear  friend, 
have  children,  and  what  a  difference  that  makes!" 
This  was  written  on  the  anniversary  of  his  death.  M  rs. 
Wynne  Finch  was  at  that  time  in  Rome,  and  Madame 
Mohl  must  have  been  sitting  alone,  pondering  over  the 
terrible  time  of  her  bereavement  which  Mrs.  Wynne 
Finch  had  lived  through  with  her. 


48 


SOME   PERSONAL   RECOLLECTIONS    OF   MADAME   MOHL. 


remarkable  woman  in  Europe.  But  Ger- 
man habits  and  German  hours  did  not 
suit  her.  She  suffered  extremely  from 
the  stoves,  and  she  came  suddenly  back 
to  Paris,  where  I  found  her  a  few  days 
afterwards.  I  had  not  been  in  Paris  since 
the  autumn  of  1871,  when  all  was  in  con- 
fusion; but  M.  Mohl  was  alive  at  that 
time,  we  went  perpetually  to  the  theatre, 
and  were  all  merry  enough  in  spite  of  the 
desolation  around  us.  But  now  in  1877, 
the  salon  in  the  Ruedu  Bac  was  painfully 
silent. 

Life  is  a  series  of  dissolving  views. 
Almost  all  the  friends  of  her  earlier  years, 
even  those  who  were  much  younger  than 
herself,  were  ^one,  she  had  been  too  much 
out  of  heart  to  care  for  acquaintances,  M. 
Mohl  was  no  longer  there  to  bring  grist 
to  the  mill,  and  no  one  came  on  the  Fri- 
day evenings  which  used  to  be  so  bril- 
liant. Still  she  herself  was  as  charming 
as  ever.  One  evening  she  showed  me  a 
little  sketch  she  had  made  of  herself,  and 
given  to  M.  Mohl  sixty  years  previously, 
when  he  was  going  to  the  East.  She  had 
found  it  in  his  desk  after  his  death,  and 
was  much  touched  and  pleased  at  its  hav- 
ing been  cherished  for  so  long.  It  was 
still  like  her,  the  same  innocent,  childlike, 
yet  piquant  expression,  the  same  bright- 
ness. There  was  no  regular  beauty  in  the 
features;  the  upper  lip  was  long,  and  it 
was  a  minois  chtffonni^  but  it  was  a  very 
interesting  face.  The  little  ringlets  were 
there,  which  had  now  turned  from  brown 
to  grey,  and  from  grey  to  white.  She  de- 
spised women  who  spent  much  time  and 
money  on  their  dress,  yet  she  was  not 
indt^erent  to  her  own,  but  she  kept  as 
much  as  possible  to  the  fashions  of  her 
youth.  Before  her  husband's  death  she 
would  array  herself  very  carefully  on 
grand  occasions.  She  had  one  dress  in 
particular  of  a  golden  hue  which  she 
called  **  les  cheveux  de  la  reine  "  that  was 
quite  beautiful.  She  never  would  wear 
heavy  materials,  only  satins  and  silks. 
When  she  was  in  London,  in  1870,  Mrs. 
Grote  gave  her  a  violet  velvet  dress,  but 
she  onlv  wore  it  to  please  the  donor,  and 
turned  it  into  chair-covers  as  soon  as  she 
got  back  to  Paris. 

My  last  visit  to  Paris  was  in  1879.  It 
was  more  sad  to  see  her  in  her  own  home 
than  in  ours.  The  remembrance  of  what 
that  home  had  been,  its  gaiety  and  happi- 
ness, contrasted  with  its  present  gloom 
and  solitariness,  v/as  ever  present  to  one*s 
thoughts.  I  found  her  always  poring 
over  her  husband's  letters  and  papers. 
She  would  brighten  up  when  I  came  in, 


and  we  spent  many  pleasant  evenings  to- 
gether. 

She  came  to  us  for  the  last  time  last 
June  twelvemonth.  She  had  now  entered 
her  ninetieth  year,  and  her  loss  of  mem- 
ory and  increased  restlessness  had  be- 
come very  painful.  She  would  start  up 
several  times  a  day  saying  she  must  write 
to  Mr.  Mohl,  forgetting  that  he  was  dead. 
She  was  longing  to  die  herself.  She 
could  not  even  understand  what  she  read. 
From  the  touching  account  in  the  little 
book  already  so  often  referred  to  (the 
only  one  unfortunately  that  she  ever 
wrote^  on  Chateaubriand's  last  years,  we 
may  judge  how  much  she  suffered  from 
the  consciousness  of  her  state.  "  There 
was  no  want  of  ordinary  sense,  but  the 
power  of  thinking  was  completely  gone. 
He  could  not  read  a  line,  nor  follow  up  an 
idea  in  conversation.'*  From  us  she  went 
into  the  country,  where  she  became  still 
more  unhappv  and  restless,  and  returned 
home  for  the  fast  time  in  September.  The 
brilliant  circle  met  no  longer  in  the  Rue 
du  Bac,  still  there  were  a  few  faithful 
friends  who  never  forsook  that  sad  and 
desolate  fireside.  One  of  them  has  told 
me  that  on  first  going  in  she  found  the 
once  gay  little  hostess  curled  up  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  sofa  crying  like  a  child.  A 
kind  welcome  always  awaited  those  who 
visited  her,  although  she  could  not  always 
remember  who  they  were.  By  never  con- 
tradicting her  fancies,  but  by  linking  on 
the  present  to  the  past,  she  would  grad- 
ually become  clearer,  and  talk  for  a  short 
time  with  her  old  vivacity. 

Of  those  who  never  neglected  to  cheer 
her,  were  M.  and  Madame  Renan,  Ma- 
dame and  Mademoiselle  de  Tourg^nieff, 
M.  St.  Hilaire,  and  others  less  known  to 
fame.  M.*and  Madame  d'Abbadie  lived 
in  the  floor  below.  Madame  d'Abbadie 
was  not  only  a  kind  friend,  but  a  delight- 
ful companion,  coming  in  every  evening 
at  9.30,  when  Madame  Mohl  Ivd  had  her 
tea  and  her  nap  and  was  most  disposed 
for  conversation  ;  and  during  her  frequent 
absences,  she  wrote  long  and  charmin? 
letters,  full  of  grace,  as  Madame  Mohl 
used  to  say.  She  was  unfortunately  away 
almost  all  the  winter  before  her  old  friend's 
death. 

Of  all  the  friends  of  her  later  years 
there  was  none  with  whom  she  was  so 
truly  intimate,  to  whom  she  opened  her 
whole  heart  so  freely,  as  Mrs.  Wynne 
Finch,  who  when  she  was  in  Paris  nevet 
allowed  many  days  to  pass  without  spend 

*  The  celebrated  Egyptian  traveller. 


TOWN   MOUSE   AND   COUNTRY   MOUSE. 


49 


ing  with  her  some  hours,  and  these  were 
the  hours  when  Madame  Mohl  was  the 
brightest  —  at  the  end  of  the  day.  She 
would  keep  this  dear  friend  with  her 
until  past  midnicrht,  caUing  out  to  the 
cook,  Fhillis,  "Amusez  bien  )e  domes- 
tique,''  so  that  his  mistress  might  not  be 
in  a  hurry  to  go  away.  When  a  letter  came 
telling  her  that  Mrs.  Wynne  Finch  was 
going  to  remain  longer  away,  she  would 
read  no  further,  but  crumpled  it  in  her 
bands,  flung  it  down,  and  stamped  on 
it. 

She  was  passionately  fond  of  acting, 
and  used  to  say  that  she  longed  to  be  an 
actress,  and  to  perform  the  part  taken  by 
Madame  Alain  in  "Z/i  Joie  fait  Peur,^^ 
She  would  have  acted  well ;  she  had  all 
the  gesture  of  a  southerner,  and  it  was 
delightful  to  hear  her  recite  La  Fontaine's 
"Fables."  It  was  very  long  since  she 
bad  been  at  the  theatre  when  Mrs.  Wynne 
Finch  took  her  there  for  the  last  time 
about  three  years  ago.  They  chose  the 
Fran^ais.  As  soon  as  they  were  seated 
io  their  box,  Madame  Mohl  looked  round 
with  childish  glee.  "  My  dear,  I  could  kiss 
the  bouse,"  she  said. 

Her  English  nieces  would  have  been 
only  too  glad  to  have  taken  it  in  turns  to 
look  after  her,  but  although  she  liked  to 
have  them  for  a  few  weeks  on  a  visit,  she 
could  not  bear  the  idea  of  being  looked 
after.  As  soon  as  she  suspected  that 
they  were  with  her  for  her  comfort,  and 
not  for  their  own  pleasure,  she  wearied  of. 
tbem,  and  they  had  to  leave  her  to  the 
care  of  the  kind  servants,  who  did  their 
best,  but  who  could  not  watch  over  her  in 
the  way  that  her  age  and  increasing  in- 
firmities seemed  to  render  necessary. 

On  Friday,  May  the  nth,  she  was  as 
well  as  usual,  and  M.  Barth^lemy  St. 
Htlaire  dined  with  her.  Early  on  the  fol- 
lowing day  she  had  a  fainting  fit,  to  which 
she  bad  for  years  been  subject,  and  Ma- 
dame d'Abbadie  sent  for  Mademoiselle  de 
Tourgdoieff.*  She  was  very  weak,  and 
breathing  with  difficulty.  Mademoiselle 
de  Tourgdnieff  and  Madame  d'Abbadie 
were  the  only  persons  with  her. 

On  the  Sunday  she  was  quiet,  often 
asleep,  but  quite  conscious,  and  on  the 
following  day  appeared  to  be  so  much  bet- 
ter, that  the  doctor  almost  gave  hopes  of 
her  recovery.  Her  favorite  cat  jumped  on 
her  bed,  and  she  said,  in  her  old  funny  way 
to  Mademoiselle  de  Tourgdnieff,  *M1  est 
si  distingud,  sa  femme  ne  Test  pas  du  tout, 

*  Madame  and  MademoiMlle  TourK^nieff  are  only 
distantly  related  to  the  great  writer.  They  are  both 
PrutesiaiiL 


roais  il  ne  se  n^apergoit  pas,  il  est  comma 
beaucoup  d*hommes  en  cela." 

At  nine  on  Tuesday  morning.  Made- 
moiselle de  Tourgdnieff  (who  has  given 
me  most  of  these  particulars)  was  sent 
for.     Madame  Mohl  was  dying. 

Madame  d'Abbadie  and  Mademoiselle 
TourgdniefiE  remained  watching  and  pray- 
ing, and  the  last  came  without  a  pang. 
There  was  no  more  breathing:  that  was 
all. 

Her  life  had  become  labor  and  sorrow 
to  her,  we  could  not  wish  it  to  be  pro- 
longed, yet  it  was  with  a  pang  of  deep  re- 
gret that  we  heard  that  she  was  gone  for- 
ever from  this  world  which  she  had  helped 
to  make  so  bright  to  all  around  her,  and 
that  we  should  see  her  face  no  more. 

M.  C.  M.  Simpson. 


UVING  AGE. 


VOL.  XLIV. 


2240 


From  Temple  Bar. 
TOWN  MOUSE  AND  COUNTRY  MOUSE. 

A    FEW     STRAY     LETTERS,    EDITED    BY    LADY 
LINDSAY  (OP  BALCARRES). 

Part  II. 

LETTER  VIIL 

{From  Miss  Beatrice  Maxwell  to  the  Lady 
Augusta  Dacre.) 

Greenleaf  Manor.    May,  18S-. 

My  Darling  Gussie, — 

It  is  some  time  since  I  wrote  to  you. 
Forgive  me ;  ray  silence  has  arisen,  not 
from  forgetfulness  of  my  promise,  but 
from  sheer  inanition  of  ideas ;  now  only, 
at  last,  I  have  something  to  write  about. 
I  have  been  to  a  lawn*tennis  party,  dear- 
est; this  is  the  sum  of  my  dissipation.  I 
went;  I  saw;  I  did  not  absolutely  con- 
quer, however,  because,  never  having  held 
a  racquet  in  my  hand  until  yesterday,  I 
was  no  more  dexterous  with  it  than  a 
child  of  six  who  handles  a  revolver.  I 
let  it  go  off,  so  to  speak.  I  hit  the  ball  at 
random,  and  at  random  the  ball  struck  ofiE 
the  hat  of  an  unoffending  curate.  I  do 
not  think  he  actually  suffered  from  the 
blow,  but  he  blushed  and  smiled  ner- 
vously, whilst  several  of  the  bystanders 
laughed  outright,  and  seemed  thoroughly 
to  enjoy  the  accident. 

I  apologized  as  nicely  as  I  could,  and  — 
played  no  more.  But  anyhow,  dear  Gus- 
sie, it  is  some  comfort  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  one  man  in  the  neighbor- 
hood who  does  not  hunt,  or  who  (now  that 
the  hunting  season  is  over)  does  not  spend 


so 


TOWN  MOUSE  AND  COUNTRY  MOUSE. 


his  leisure  dreaming  and  conversing  of 
hunting  past  and  hunting  future. 

I  wonder  much  in  what  terms  our  favor- 
ite Madame  de  S^vign^  would  have  de- 
scribed a  lawn-tennis  party,  when  writ- 
ing, as  usual,  to  her  extremely  tiresome 
daughter. 

Perchance  like  this :  — 

^^Dearest  too  ^ood  and  too  amiable^  I 
think  ofyou^  alas^  and  of  your  trials^  your 
complaisance  to  that  ruffian  your  spouse. 
How  can  I  divert  you  f  Have  you  •  heard 
of  the  novel  f^ame  played  at  Madame  de 
Maintenon'sf  Monsieur  de  Chaulnes 
invented  it;  the  king  is  highly-  pleased 
therewith  ;  the  emperor  of  Morocco  {who, 
to  speak  truth,  has  an  adorable  figure)  is  a 
fnan*ellous  proficient.  The  duke  runs; 
the  duchess  dies  away  with  admiration  ;  a 
stroke  here,  a  service  there  /  Ah,  my  quite 
beautiful,  I  have  not  the  wit  to  bore  my^ 
self  in  the  midst  of  these  delights ^^ 

In  plain  English,  my  dear,  it  is  still  too 
cold  for  outdoor  pastimes,  to  my  thinking. 
But,  as  the  ancient  chronicler  hath  it, 
^'Les  anglais  s'amusent  moult  trtste- 
ment,"  and  Tony,  to  whom  indoor  life  is 
as  unintelligible  as  a  page  of  Sanskrit, 
positively  insisted  on  driving  me  in  his 
dog-cart  ten  long  miles  to  see  our  neigh- 
bors, or,  as  he  called  it,  to  enjoy  the  fun. 

Long  before  the  drive  was  half  over, 
my  nose  was  the  color  and  shape  of  a 
fine  ripe  tomato ;  the  east  wind,  mean- 
while, had  taken  entire  charge  of  my  com- 
plexion. 

Our  hostess,  a  kindly  buxom  lady,  met 
ns  on  the  lawn.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
gossamer  costume  that  was  apparently 
made  last  year,  and  had  now  been  hastily 
taken  out  of  a  box  and  shaken  out  for 
wear,  for  it  was  still  flattened  and  creased 
in  odd  places.  By  way  of  contrast,  how- 
ever, she  had  tied  around  her  neck  a  com- 
fortable fur  boa.  •*  So  nice  for  our  young 
people  to  get  back  to  their  wholesome 
sports,"  she  said,  addressing  me;  then, 
turning  to  my  brother,  she  added  with  a 
fine  enthusiasm,-— 

*♦  Ah,  Mr.  Tony,  I  see  you  have  brought 
your  favorite  bat  with  you !  Quite  right, 
quite  right;  my  son  John  tells  me  there  is 
such  a  difference  in  bats,  and  he  ought  to 
know,  surely,  as  he  is  the  champion  player 
of  the  whole  county  I  I  was  almost  afraid 
he  had  got  his  match  to-day.  Young 
Lumpkin  from  Derbyshire  is  quite  a  hero, 
I  assure  you.  Miss  Maxwell,  and  so  hand- 
some to  look  at;  Tm  only  surprised  he*s 
been  allowed  to  remain  a  bachelor,  though 
be  is  only  five  and  twenty !  But  come 
along,    come    along ;   it's .  wasting   your 


>» 


time,  Mr.  Tony,  talking  to  me,  and  my 
girls  won't  forgive  me,  I  know,  for  they've 
been  looking  out  for  you  for  this  last  hour 
to  make  up  a  first-rate  four  !  '* 

There  was  tea  on  the  lawn,  dearest 
Gussie ;  would  you  believe  it  ?  Coagu- 
lated tea  in  cold  cups,  with  frozen  cake 
and  petrified  bread  and  butter,  and  jugs 
full  of  luke-warm  water  to  weaken  the  tea ; 
and  all  the  girls  and  boys  who  had  beeii 
vigorously  playing  now  crowded  round 
the  tea-table,  rubbing  their  blue  hands, 
and  saying, — 

"  Isn't  it  jolly?  Isn't  it  awfully  jolly  ? 
Why,  this  is  real  summer  weather  at 
last  I " 

After  my  one  attempt  at  plav,  T  sat  me 
down  on  an  elaborately  knobbly  rustic 
seat  under  a  bush,  wrapped  in  a  warm 
cloak,  and  talked  inanities,  trying  occa- 
sionally to  gather  from  my  neighbors' 
conversation  something  of  the  game, 
though  it  was  difficult  to  arrive  at  any 
distinct  knowledge  by  means  of  scraps  of 
information  such  as  these :  — 

"Did  you  see  that?" 

•♦  What  a  splendid  service,  eh  ? 

"Ah,  bravo,  bravo  !  " 

"  Well  done.  Tommy ! " 

"  Now,  have  at  him,  have  at  him !  ** 

"  Fifteen  love,  thirty  love." 

"  Deuce." 

"  Is  it  game  and  game  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;   now  for  the  conqueror." 

"There's  Miss  Smith  ;  now  for  a  little 
pretty  play." 

"  That's  a  good  one  !  Why,  she's  set- 
tled poor  George ! " 

"  Yes  1  he's  dead  and  buried." 

And  so  on,  dear  Gussie,  so  on,  ad 
libitum. 

Then  came  my  curate,  shyly :  — 

"You  don't  play.  Miss  Maxwell  ?  " 

"  You  have  suffered  enough  already, 
through  my  ignorance,  I  think." 

"Ah  —  yes — no  —  but  I  mean  nev- 
er?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Do  you  care  for  hunting  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued. 

"No,  indeed." 

"  Then  you  must  be  sadly  dull  in  these 
parts.  But,  perhaps,  you  love  the  coun- 
try ?  " 

"  Not  much,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Possibly  you  think  of  serious 
things?"  was  the  next  question,  in  a 
somewhat  lower  tone. 

"  I  am  afraid  not." 

Then  I  laughed,  for  I  could  say  yes  to 
nothing  that  my  father  confessor  had 
asked.    Thereupon  he  blushed. 


TOWN   MOUSE  AND   COUNTRY   MOUSE. 


SI 


"  Have  I  offended  you,  Miss  Max- 
well ?  " 

**0h,  no;  on  the  contrary,  I  must  have 
offended  you.  Is  not  your  hat  irretriev- 
ably injured  ?  " 

"It  has  a  very  soft  crown," replied  the 
curate,  smiling;  "only  my  head  is  hard/' 
and  I  felt  so  grateful  to  him  for  viewing 
the  matter  in  this  light  that  I  invited  him 
to  sit  down  on  the  rustic  bench,  and  we 
had  quite  a  pleasant  conversation  on  va- 
ried subjects.  His  society  was  an  abso- 
lute relief  to  me,  and  formed  an  agree- 
able contrast  to  the  sport-loving  circle  in 
which  1  have  lately  been  plunged.  He  is 
a  simple-minded  fellow,  earnest  and  en- 
thusiastic. His  greatest  hope  is  a  parish 
in  the  east  end  of  London,  his  ideal  of 
luxury  is  college  life  at  Oxford.  Judging 
from  his  general  appearance  and  conver- 
sation, I  should  imagine  his  stipend  to  be 
something  between  twenty-five  and  thirty 
pounds  a  year. 

My  'conscience  pricks  me  a  little,  dear 
Gussie,  in  that  I  allowed  my  new  friend 
to  read  my  character  in  the  light  that 
pleased  his  honest,  simple  eyes  the  best. 
Towards  the  close  of  our  conversation,  he 
was  fully  impressed  with  the  notion  that 
he  had  met  a  truly  serious-minded  girl  for 
whom  the  world  could  offer  no  attraction 
so  great  as  a  black  alpaca  gown  and  a 
straw  bonnet,  with  a  visiting  district  of 
her  own  amongst  the  savages  of  eastern 
London. 

But  our  talk  came  at  last  to  an  abrupt 
end,  for  Tony,  whose  face  was  shining 
like  the  faces  of  the  kings  of  Israel  — 
Tony  in  a  white  duffle  suit,  with  a  great- 
coat buttoned  tightly  across  his  broad 
chest,  apd  a  large  white  woollen  comforter 
coiled  about  his  massive  throat  —  Tony 
bustled  me  off  without  further  ado,  hoisted 
me  up  into  the  dog-cart,  flung  the  racquets 
and  rugs  and  himself  in  after  me,  cracked 
bis  whip,  shouted  his  joyous  farewells, 
and  off  we  went,  spinning  along  at  almost 
a  gallop,  leaving  the  towers  of  our  neigh- 
bor's mansion  behind  us  amongst  the 
trees,  where  the  startled  crows  circled 
and  eddied  noisily  over  their  nests,  and 
where  a  silvery,  misty,  chilly  twilight  was 
already  gathering. 

And  abruptly  also  must  my  letter  end, 
dear  Gussie,  for  Jane  tells  me  that  our 
village  postman  is  growing  impatient,  and 
1  dare  not  anger  so  important  an  oflicial. 
I  cannot  conclude,  however,  without  one 
word  of  warning,  which,  as  your  faithful 
monitor,  I  feel  myself  compelled  to  give. 

I  don't  altogether  like  your  Mr.  Tre- 
▼elyan,    I   mistrust  him  somewhat;  for- 


give me,  dearest,  but  assuredly,  he  is  not 
the  prince. 
And  now  farewell,  and  benison. 

Your  Beatrice. 

LETTER  IX. 

(From  the  Lady  Augusta  Dacre  to  Afiss 
Beatrice  MaxivelL) 

Bruton  Street    June,  i88-b 

Dear  Beattie, — 

I  must  hasten  to  assure  you  that  you 
misunderstood  what  I  said  about  Mr. 
Trevelyan.  There  is  no  need  to  warn  me 
against  him.  Of  course  I  cannot  help 
being  proud  of  the  friendship  of  one  who 
is  immeasurably  superior  to  all  the  people 
I  have  ever  known.  But  indeed,  he  is 
so  cold,  so  great,  so  "  far  away  "  (if  I  may 
use  the  term)  from  .silly,  girlish  thoughts 
and  trivialities,  that  I  could  not  think  of 
him  in  the  light  of  what  is  vulgarly  called 
"an  admirer."  He  has  outlived  the  pas- 
sions which  sway  hearts  of  a  meaner 
mould,  and  this  is,  no  doubt,  what  gives 
him  a  peculiar  charm.  He  seems  to  be 
one  of  those  men  to  whom  the  sympathy 
of  women  is  absolutely  essential,  and  that 
is  not  uncommon,  I  fancy,  amongst  flne, 
grave  natures  such  as  his ;  nevertheless, 
his  powerful  intellect  makes  me  often  pos- 
itively afraid  of  him. 

I  have  met  Mr.  Trevelyan  often  of  late, 
but  it  is  a  source  of  unceasing  regret  to 
me,  dear  Beattie,  that  mamma,  though  she 
does  not  actually  disapprove  of  my  seeing 
him,  certainly  fails  to  appreciate  him  as  I 
should  wish.  However,  mamma,  good 
and  kind  as  she  always  is,  shows  at  times 
a  curious  preference  for  the  most  com- 
monplace people. 

I  have  made  several  new  acquaintances 
since  I  last  wrote  to  you,  but  they  are 
none  of  them  worth  mentioning.  We 
seem  to  see  Lord  Warner  more  often  than 
any  one  else;  perhaps  the  reason  of  this 
is  that  mamma  likes  him  so  much.  He  is 
certainly  very  obliging,  and  has  a  delicate 
tact  in  bestowing  little  attentions  and  kind- 
nesses that  leaves  no  uncomfortable  sense 
of  obligation  on  the  recipient,  and  is  very 
surprising  in  a  man  of  his  ordinary  appear- 
ance. The  worst  of  it  is  that  I  constantly 
find  myself  forgetting  him  altogether  I  It 
is  only  when  he  has  fairly  taken  his  leave 
that  I  recollect  how  amiable  he  was ! 
Then  I  feel  ashamed  of  my  ingratitude, 
and  make  fresh  resolutions  without  any 
better  result. 

Nor  is  the  poor  little  man  wanting  in 
courage.  The  other  evening,  as  mamma 
and  1  were  coming  away  from  a  party,  a 


5^ 


TOWN  MOUSE  AND  COUNTRY  MOUSE. 


stranger  pushed  rudely  against  us.  He 
Dearly  knocked  me  down,  and  he  also 
tore  the  edge  of  mamma's  gown.  Lord 
Warner,  who  was  standing  beside  us, 
spoke  up,  and  showed  fight  (as  boys  say) 
in  so  bold  a  manner  that  the  aggressor, 
who  was  a  giant,  ended  by  answering  his 
smail  opponent  with  apologetic  meekness. 

When  we  found  ourselves  safely  in  the 
carriage,  mamma  clapped  her  hands  and 
said, — 

"  That^  my  dear,  is  a  thorough  gentle- 
man !  You  needn't  tell  me  he  is  ugly, 
Gussie  ;  he  knows  it  himself,  poor  fellow, 
better  than  any  one  can  teach  it  him,  but 
he  has  a  granaer  spirit  than  all  your  fine 
grenadiers." 

**  But  I  don't  think  I  know  any  grena- 
diers," said  I,  remonstrating. 

**  Well,  if  not  grenadiers,  big  tall  men," 
replied  mamma  somewhat  evasively. 

Yesterday  afternoon,  dear  Beattie,  we 
went  to  a  musical  tea-party.  We  heard 
a  specially  gifted  family  from  Italy,  who 
played  solemnly  and  sadly  on  various  in- 
struments, as  they  sat  in  the  centre  of  the 
tiny  drawing-room,  whilst  a  patient  but 
unappreciative  audience  was  glued  in 
rows  against  the  wall. 

Towards  the  middle  of  the  performance, 
in  walked  Lord  Warner.  I  was  at  that 
moment  deep  in  an  interesting  conversa- 
tion with  Mr.  Johnson,  the  celebrated 
amateur  tenor,  who  was  explaining  to  me 
the  slight  but  evident  superiority  of  his 
method  of  vocalization  over  that  of  Mr. 
Sims  Reeves,  and  many  other  singers. 

**  Dear,  dear ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Johnson 
suddenly.  "Wonders  will  never  cease. 
Why,  here's  Warner,  in  the  name  of  all 
that's  marvellous ! " 

•*  And  why  not,  Mr.  Johnson  ?  " 

•♦  Why  not,  my  dear  young  lady  —  why 
not?  Why,  because  he  doesn't  know  a 
hurdy-guroy  from  a  trombone,  nor  recog- 
nize a  difference  between  Wagner  and 
Offenbach  I  This  is  indeed  a  sign  of  the 
times!" 

I  tried  to  turn  the  conversation  into 
another  direction,  being  uncomfortably 
conscious  that  I  blushed ;  but,  a  moment 
later.  Lord  Warner  approached  us,  and 
Mr.  Johnson  jumped  up  from  his  seat  and 
took  his  leave  with  an  absurd  affectation 
of  alacrity  that  annoyed  me  greatly. 

Lord  Warner  made  himself  very  pleas- 
ant, however,  and  (in  spite  of  the  tenor's 
disparaging  remarks),  whilst  he  owned  to 
an  ignorant  though  ardent  love  of  music, 
proved  to  be  really  far  less  ignorant  than 
he  chose  to  appear. 

I  fancy  that,  during  this  conversation,  I 


sometimes  caught  an  amused  glance  from 
Mr.  Johnson's  eyes.  He  was  sitting  at  a 
little  distance,  discoursing  to  two  elderly 
ladies.  We  all  talked,  dear  Beattie,  as  it 
is  the  right  thing  to  talk  at  musical  par* 
ties,  I  do  assure  you !  and  when  I  go  to  a 
concert  I  try  as  hard  to  avoid  listening 
as  I  endeavor  to  disguise  my  knowledge 
of  dancing  at  a  ball ! 

Mr.  Trevelyan  does  not  like  music ; 
he  told  me  so  the  other  day.  He  says 
there  is  no  harmony  like  an  intellectual 
conversation  between  two  kindred  spirits, 
and  I  fancy  somehow  that,  as  I  grow 
older,  1  shall  feel  more  and  more  that  he 
is  right  in  this,  as  in  many  theories  that 
sound,  perhaps,  a  little  startling  at  first. 
Certainly  his  own  voice,  when  he  speaks, 
is  melody  itself. 

But  I  hear  mamma  calling  me.  For- 
give so  hasty  an  ending  to  my  letter, 
dearest  Beattie. 

Your  loving 

Augusta  Dacre. 

LETTER  X. 

{From  Miss  Beatrice  Maxwell  to  the  Lady 
Augusta  Dacre.) 

Greenleal  Manor.    June,  iSS-w 

Dearest  Gussie,— 

Who  is  to  be  the  winner?  By  dint  of 
questioning  papa,  as  well  as  arduous  re- 
search amongst  the  most  useful  books  in 
his  library,  I  find  that  Lord  Warner  is  the 
owner  of  two  or  three  country  houses  and 
a  family  residence  in  Belgrave  Square. 
His  great-grandfather  was  in  the  iron 
trade ;  however,  the  fire  of  London  society 
applied  for  three  generations  may  have 
sufficiently  purified  the  iron.  Anyhow, 
there  seems  to  be  plenty  of  gold  mixed 
with  the  baser  metal. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Trevelyan  has 
a  lodging  in  the  Albany,  is  a  member  of 
fifteen  clubs,  cherishes  a  family  pedigree 
of  ancient  growth,  and  is  the  owner  of  a 
charming  estate  in  Cornwall. 

By  Tre,  Pol  and  Pen, 

You  may  know  the  Cornish  men. 

Summer  is  coming  on  apace ;  the  bushes 
are  glowing  with  wild  roses  :  the  gardeo 
is  full  of  lovely  flowers.  I  long  to  pin 
them  on  ball  dresses  1 

Shall  I  ever  go  to  a  ball,  I  wonder? 
Tony  says  there  are  lots  of  balls  about 
here  in  the  autumn,  and  they  are  no  end 
of  fun ;  but  his  ideas  and  mine  are  lamen* 
tably  different  I 

I  have  made  friends  with  some  Miss 
Tomliosons.    They  are  very  nice  girls )  sc 


TOWN   MOUSE   AND   COUNTRY   MOUSE. 


SS 


enthusiastic.  They  do  the  most  dreadful 
art-neediework  you  can  possibly  conceive  ; 
they  dress  dishearteningly;  but  they  do 
not  ride  or  play  lawn-tennis  quite  so  much 
as  the  rest  of  our  neighbors.  The  young- 
est, Flossie,  is  a  favorite  with  my  brother 
Tony,  who  in  her  eyes  appears  to  be  a 
demigod.  To  please  him  she  has  learnt 
carpentering,  and  has  just  succeeded  in 
making  a  preternaturally  heavy  wooden 
work-box  for  her  sister.  The  work-box 
will  neither  open  nor  shut,  and  stands 
higher  on  one  foot  than  on  the  other ;  but 
these  are  details.  Furthermore,  poor 
Flossie  last  week  nearly  cut  off  her  thumb 
with  a  saw  in  the  making  of  that  very 
box;  but  Tony,  who  was  fortunately  pres- 
ent, bound  up  the  wound,  and  dressed  it 
carefully,  and  has  ridden  over  to  the 
Tomlinsons'  everyday  since  the  accident 
to  ascertain  the  progress  of  his  patient. 

I  have  nothing  more  to  tell  you. 
Sometimes  I  see  my  curate,  and  trv  to 
practise  the  art  of  mild  flirtation  on  dim, 
in  case  I  should  ever  have  an  admirer 
worthy  of  the  name.  But  I  weary  of  him 
a  little;  besides,  my  heart  smites  me. 
He  is  so  simple-minded  ;  he  takes  every- 
thing that  I  say  for  gospel,  and  ruminates 
or  frets  over  it  (as  the  case  may  be,)  for  a 
week  at  least.  Afterwards,  he  comes  to 
call,  and  expostulate  or  explain  ;  and  I,  as 
1  listen  to  him,  became  aware  that  I  have 
cast  my  joke  upon  the  waters  to  find  it 
after  many  days;  he  has  a  tenacious 
memory. 

This  morning  papa  pinched  my  cheek 
and  laughed  because  he  met  me  on  my 
way  to  church,  a  weekday.  But  you  will 
easily  understand  that  the  mornings  here 
are  very  long  and  dull. 

As  for  papa,  he  reads  his  newspaper  or 
walks  about  the  grounds  with  a  thing 
called  a  spud,  a  sort  of  small  hoe  at  the 
end  of  a  long  stick,  with  which  he  pokes 
out  the  weeds  on  the  estate.  It  is  not 
very  amusing  to  walk  with  him,  for  at 
every  dandelion  he  stops  and  exclaims, — 

♦•Ha,  mine  enemy  I  off  with  his  head, 
Trixy  !  There,  there,  Til  teach  the  fellow 
to  choke  up  the  nice  soft  grass  ! '' 

Meanwhile,  I  stand  and  wait,  like  a  duti- 
ful daughter,  and  stare  up  at  the  clouds, 
or  else  follow  meekly  whilst  papa  talks  to 
the  bailiff  atK>ut  the  turnips  which  the  cows 
should  or  should  not  eat  in  the  by-and-by 
of  next  winter.  Cows  !  I  dread  them  ! 
They  are  always  peering  aggressively 
over  low  wooden  fences,  making  hideous 
mooing  noises,  or  else  galloping  full  tilt 
down  narrow  lanes,  driving  me  into  igno- 
miaious  places  of  refuge,  from  whence  I 


see  the  cowboy  gazing  at  me  and  grin- 
ning contemptuously.  I  am  constantly 
reminded  of  the  delightfully  grammatical 
nursery  rhyme  of  our  childhood :  — 

A  very  young  lady. 
With  Susan  the  maid. 
Who  carried  the  baby. 
Was  one  day  afraid. 

Good-bye,  dear.  I  have  promised  to 
take  the  Tomlinsons  a  pattern  of  some 
lace,  and  Tony,  who  is  to  drive  me  over 
in  the  cart,  is  shouting  lustily  for  me. 
Merciful  heavens !  how  that  boy  can^ 
shout ! 

Your  Beatrice. 


LETTER  XI. 

(From  the  Lady  A  n^usta  Dacre  to  Afiss 
Beatrice  MaxwelL) 

Bruton  Street.    July,  i88*. 

I  have  not  written  to  you  for  a  long 
time,  dear  Beattie,  for  my  Aunt  Julia, 
mamma's  sister,  has  been  ill,  and  both 
mamma  and  I  have  been  constantly  with 
her.  She  is  better  now,  I  am  thankful 
to  sav,  and  will,  the  doctors  assure  us, 
speedily  recover. 

Ah,  dear  Beattie,  in  a  sick-room  the 
pleasures  of  life  appear  small  and  insig- 
nificant, and  what  is  good  and  true  does 
really  seem  the  beautiful,  and  that  which 
lies  beyond  this  world  becomes  the  only 
goal  worth  trying  for.  And  yet  I  return 
almost  joyfully  to  mundane  gaieties ;  I 
blame  myself  tor  my  frivolity.  Why  are 
we  so  organized  that,  even  whilst  we  rec- 
ognize and  appreciate  what  is  noble  and 
lofty,  we  cannot  live  altogether  in  the 
highest  mental  altitudes  ?  , 

I  found  myself  yesterday  positively 
dancing  on  my  way  down-stairs.  Really, 
absolutely  pirouetting,  through  mere  joy 
of  existence ;  happy  because  Aunt  Julia  is 
better;  happy  because  I  am  my  own  happy 
self;  happy  because  of  an  unaccountable 
conviction  that  something  delightful  must 
quickly  come.  Youth  Is  a  good  thing, 
and  sometimes,  dear  Beattie,  it  seems  as 
though  life  were  opening  out  round  about 
me  like  a  beautiful,  tenderly  scented  rose, 
full  of  loveliness  and  delight,  and  my 
heart  throbs  and  my  pulses  beat  with  a 
sense  of  unutterable  gladness. 

Dancing  on  I  made  my  way  to  the  li- 
brary, where  I  wanted  to  fetch  a  book, 
and  meantime  (I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you) 
I  was  singing, — 

Little  Lord  Warner, 
Sat  in  a  corner  —^ 


54 


TOWN   MOUSE  AND  COUNTRY  MOUSE, 


**  Really!"  exclaimed  a  voice  at  my 
elbow,  and,  turning  quickly,  I  was  amazed 
to  see  Mr.  Trevelyan. 

**  Let  his  lordship  remain  in  his  corner, 
pieless,"  said  Mr.  Trevelyan,  smiling. 
"  But  to  speak  truth,  Lady  Augusta,  my 
literary  ear  does  not  altogether  approve 
of  your  rhvme.  It  is  like  the  'cfawn* 
and  *  morn  ^that  inferior  poetasters  are  so 
prone  to  combine." 

I  could  not  answer ;  I  could  only  blush, 
and  feel  ashamed  of  my  childishness. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  Scotchman's 
objection  to  our  English  pronunciation," 
continued  Mr.  Trevelyan,  **  founded  on 
the  fact  that  we  make  backdoor  rhyme 
with  jackdaw?  But  it  needs  a  tongue 
from  the  'north  countrie*  properly  to  ex- 
press that  subtle  difference,  and  I  am  a 
southerner.  Besides,  I  ought  rather  to 
use  my  best  efforts  to  gain  your  forgive- 
ness, Lady  Augusta,  for  my  intrusion 
here.  The  butler  told  me  that  your 
mother  is  out,  but  I  persuaded  him  to  go 
in  search  of  you,  to  ask  if  I  might  see 
you  for  a  few  minutes. 

"I  don't  know  —  I  am  not  sure,**  I 
stammered  foolishly. 

"  Give  me  one  moment  or  two,"  pleaded 
Mr.  Trevelyan,  with  a  smile ;  **  I  have  not 
seen  you  for  so  long." 

**  1  have  been  very  busy  nursing  Aunt 
Julia." 

"  Happy  Aunt  Julia !  However,  nurs- 
ing seems  to  agree  with  you,  Ladv  Au- 
gusta.    You  look  wonderfully  well." 

"I  —  I  am  very  well,  Mr.  Trevelyan." 

**  Yes ;  you  are  at  that  heartless  age 
(forgive  my  saying  so)  when  you  can 
wound  others  without  receiving  a  wound 
yourself." 

•*  I  wound  others,  Mr.  Trevelyan  ?  " 

**Do  you  not  understand.^  Ah,  well, 
your  kind  little  hand  binds  up  the  wounds 
immediately.  Will  you  lay  your  hand 
(metaphorically)  on  my  troubles?  I  have 
been  ill  and  unhappy  myself  lately." 

*•  I  am  so  sorrv." 

'*Are  you?  Well,  that  is  something; 
nay,  a  great  deal.  You  women  lose  in  so 
far,  Lady  Augusta,  that  you  cannot,  like  a 
man,  appreciate  the  soothing  influence  of 
women." 

**  Of  all  women  ?"  I  asked  with,  I  really 
think,  a  touch  of  sarcasm. 

**  No,  no,  Lady  Augusta.  I  was  allud- 
ing to  one  woman ;  but  I  scarcely  liked  to 
express  myself  so  positivelv.  You  spoil 
me,  you  see,  for  your  mincl  always  goes 
au  devant  de  mes  pensies^  and  when  1  am 
with  you  I  do  not  talk,  I  only  think  our 
mutual  thoughts  aloud.    Will  you  try  to 


miss  roe  a  very  little.  Lady  Augusta?    I 
am  going  into  the  country. 

"  Going  away!" 

Oh,  Beattie,  a  pain  shot  through  my 
heart ;  it  was  all  I  could  do  not  to  burst 
into  tears. 

•*  I  have  seen  you  very  seldom  lately," 
continued  Mr.  Trevelyan,  rather  sacily. 
*'  You  know  I  have  often  called,  but  you 
have  not  been  at  home." 

"  I  am  so  sorry," 

"  You  will  soon  forget  me.  Lady  Au- 
gusta. Ah,  you  will  forget  me  more  easily 
than  I  can  forget  you  I  " 

He  si<;hed,  and  a  mist  seemed  to  pass 
over  his  eyes. 

Then  he  resumed  incoherently, — 

*'  I  remember  the  first  time  I  saw  you  at 
a  ball;  you  were  dressed  in  (white,  your 
neck  was  bare.  You  should  never  wear 
a  necklace,  believe  me ;  leave  pearls  and 
diamonds  to  those  who  are  older  and 
less  fair.  But  you  are  still  standing;  I 
detain  you,  I  must  go.  Forgive  my  per- 
tinacity in  forcing  myself  upon  you;  for- 
give my  idle  talk.  May  I  see  you  once 
again  before  I  leave  London  ? " 

Oh,  Beattie,  I  could  not  say  otherwise 
than  that  he  might  come.  I  stammered 
my  affirmative  reply ;  I  longed  to  detain 
him,  but  I  knew  not  how.  He  bowed  his 
noble  head  in  silent  farewell ;  he  went, 
and  I  remained  standing  where  he  left 
me,  listening  to  his  firm,  slow  step  as  he 
crossed  the  vestibule.  Then  I  heard  the 
front  door  bang,  and  knew  that  he  was 
really  gone.  I  hurried  to  the  window  to 
catch  a  last  glimpse  of  him,  and  there, 
hidden  in  the  muslin  curtains,  I  watched 
him,  tall,  grand,  and  beautiful,  king  of 
men,  passing  slowly  down  the  street. 

Dearest  Beattie,  I  have  confided  to  your 
affectionate  ear  every  word  he  has  ut- 
tered ;  I  have  repeated  to  you  even  his 
flattering  speeches,  and  tried  to  convey 
to  you  his  very  looks  and  manner;  I  have 
done  all  this  because  I  am  anxious,  so 
anxious,  that  you  should  answer  me  some- 
thing. I  have  seen  Mr.  Trevelyan  sel- 
dom lately,  it  is  true,  but  I  have  thought 
of  him  much,  oh,  very,  very  much.  He 
has  grown  to  be  the  dearest  friend  I 
have  in  the  world.  Will  you,  who  are 
also  my  friend,  forgive  me  for  saying  this  ? 
I  think  you  will.  And  will  you  tell  me  if 
you  think  it  is  at  all  possible  that  he  can 
care  for  me  ?  I  never  dreamed  till  to-dav 
that  I  should  want  him  to  care,  but  now  it 
has  all  come  upon  me  suddenly. 

I  went  up-stairs  to  the  drawing-room 
with  heavy,  lagging  steps.  It  had  grown 
strangely  clear  to  me  why  the  sunshine 


TOWN   MOUSE   AND   COUNTRY   MOUSE. 


55 


of  life  bad  seemed  so  singularly  bright 
before,  when  I  bad  no  tbought  of  parting. 
I  knew  now  why  my  heart  bad  danced 
within  me  of  late,  even  whilst  I  stood  be- 
side Aunt  Julia's  bed,  holding  her  thin 
band,  and  gazing  into  her  sad  face.  The 
whole  world  has  been  glorified,  signed 
with  the  name  of  Trevelyan ;  I  have 
thought  of  him,  dreamed  of  him,  smiled 
for  him,  night  and  day.  I  cannot  get  the 
thought  of  him  out  of  my  head  now ;  it  is 
a  sweet,  overwhelming  thought,  and  yet 
I  am  half-afraid,  of  what?  —  of  him,  per- 
chance ;  and  yet  far  more,  surely,  of  my- 
self. 

Do  you  think  he  likes  me,  Beattie  ?  I 
have  told  you  more  than  I  have  told  mam- 
ma, confessed  to  you  more  truly  than  to 
her,  for,  down  in  the  depths  of  my  mind, 
there  lurks  an  uncomfortable  suspicion 
that  mamma  can  never  appreciate  Mr. 
Trevelyan  as  I  would  she  could.  She  is 
prejudiced  against  him,  certainly,  and  she 
has  never  allowed  him  the  opportunity 
he  has  often  sought  of  making  himself 
better  acquainted  with  her. 

Beattie,  dear,  I  shall  await  your  an- 
swer with  the  greatest  anxiety.  Of 
course  it  is  not  right  for  a  girl  to  think 
of  a  man  until  she  has  positive  knowl- 
edge that  he  likes  her,  but  surely,  though 
Mr.  Trevelyan  has  not  as  yet  actually 
proposed,  he  has  said  so  much,  so  very 
much,  that  he  cannot  delay  for  long.  It 
were  impossible  for  him  to  speak  or  look 
as  he  does  unless  his  heart  were  given  to 
me.  Oh,  write,  do  write,  dear  Beattie ! 
Write  by  return  of  post  I  shall  count 
the  hours  till  I  can  receive  your  letter. 

Your  loving  friend, 
Augusta  Dacre. 

letter  xil 

{From  Miss  Beatrice  Maxwell  to  the  Lady 
Augusta  Dacre.) 

Greenleaf  Manor.    Jnly,  i88-w . 

Dearest  Gussie, — 

What  would  you  have  me  say?  I 
scarcely  know;  I  hold  my  idle  pen  be- 
twixt irresolute  fingers,  being  anxious  to 
please  you,  yet  desirous  as  ever  to  speak 
the  truth. 

Could  I  but  see  Mr.  Trevelyan,  read 
his  face,  watcb  bis  manner  with  the  im- 
partial and  keen  observation  of  a  friendly 
feminine  outsider,  I  should  answer  your 
questionings  without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion. Reflect,  dear  Gussie,  I  have  seen 
this  hero  through  your  eyes  only,  and 
yet  you  require  me  to  analyze  him 
closely  within  my  own  mind.    For  your 


comfort,  dear,  nevertheless,  I  will  say 
that  he  seems  to  be  decidedly  in  ear- 
nest. No  man,  as  serious  by  nature  as 
you  describe  Mr.  Trevelyan  to  be,  could 
speak  to  any  girl  as  he  has  spoken  to 
you  unless  he  were  led  on  by  an  unusual 
and  deep  interest. 

Moreover  (and  this  is  for  your  very 
greatest  comfort),  take  patience  during 
one  short  week.  I  shall  see  your  Tre- 
velyan with  my  own  eyes;  I  will  watch 
him  closely,  converse  with  him,  try  his 
paces  in  various  ways,  and  let  you  know 
the  result.  Do  not  fear,  dear  Gussie; 
you  shall  have  news  of  him  speedily, 
and  speedily  learn  whether,  as  you  say, 
and  as  I  truly  believe,  his  somewhat 
chill  and  sedate  heart  is  in  your  fond 
keeping. 

The  world  is  very  narrow,  my  child. 
The  Tomlinsons  are  related  to  Mr  Tre- 
velyan, and  he  is  coming  immediately  to 
spend  two  or  three  weeks  with  these  dear 
cousins  of  his.  So,  you  perceive,  I  shall 
have  ample  opportunities  of  studying  him, 
and  thus  obeying  your  behest. 
Your  affectionate 

Beatrice  Maxwell. 

letter  XIII. 

(From  the  Lady  Augusta  Dacre  to  Miss 
Beatrice  Maxwell,) 

Bruton  Street.    July,  18S-. 

My  darling  Beattie,  — 

Thank  you,  oh,  thank  you,  a  thousand 
times  for  your  promise  ! 

Mr.  Trevelyan  called  to-day,  and  bid 
us  good-bye.  We  were  in  the  drawing- 
room,  mamma  and  I ;  Lord  Warner  was 
sitting  with  us.  He  is  very  tiresome 
sometimes,  this  Lord  Warner  I 

I  had  been  thinking  so  long  and  so 
much  of  what  I  should  say  to  Mr.  Tre- 
velyan that,  when  the  time  came  at  last 
for  me  to  speak  to  him,  I  could  scarcely 
utter;  I  found  myself  discoursing  inco- 
herently of  temperance  societies,  a  subject 
I  do  not  understand,  and  concerning  which 
he  is  utterly  indifferent.  My  hands  trem- 
bled so  terribly  that  I  with  difficulty  gave 
him  the  cup  of  tea  mamma  had  poured 
out  for  him. 

Mr.  Trevelyan  himself  spoke  but  little. 
His  eyes  were  unutterably  sad  as  he 
looked  into  mine  with  a  depth  of  meaning 
that  was  at  once  painful  and  delightful,  I 
know  not  why.  As  for  me,  I  became  al- 
most hysterical,  getting  up  from  my  chair 
and  reseating  myself  continually,  fetch- 
ing things  I  did  not  want,  growing  restless 
and  silly  with  an  overwhelming  conscious« 


TOWN  MOUSE  AND  COUNTRY  MOUSE. 


5« 

ness  that  our  time  together  was  miserably 
short,  and  that,  nevertheless,  I  was  wast- 
ing it  and  shortening  it  by  my  very  silence 
and  foolishness. 

In  the  midst  of  this  constraint,  Lord 
Warner  fortunately  took  his  leave.  He 
had  an  important  business  engagement, 
he  said,  as  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

I  was  grateful  to  him  for  his  uninten- 
tional kindness  in  leaving  us,  but  my 
gratitude  was  scarcely  needed,  for  after 
his  departure  things  went  from  bad  to 
worse.  Mamma  drew  her  chair  towards 
me,  as  though  purposely,  and  immediately 
entered  into  a  long  conversation  with  Mr. 
Trevelyan  on  taxes  and  taxation  in  gen- 
eral. 

This  lasted  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour ; 
I  sat  on  thorns,  wretched  and  powerless. 
At  last  Mr.  Trevelyan  rose  to  say  good- 
bye. He  shook  hands  with  mamma,  then, 
coming  up  to  me,  he  held  my  hand  in  his 
for  a  long,  long  minute;  he  pressed  it  so 
tightly  in  his  own  that  my  little  turquoise 
ring  deeply  indented  my  fingers. 

•*  Farewell,  Lady  Augusta,"  he  said 
impressively,  gazing  into  my  eyes  with  a 
look  I  can  never  cease  to  remember. 
"You  will  not  forget  me  altogether,  will 
you  ?  And  I,  as  soon  as  I  return  to  town 
—  I  will  come  and  pay  my  respects.  I 
hope  you  will  enjoy  the  end  of  this  your 
first  season.  Meanwhile  I  go,  to  'babble 
of  green  fields.'  But  our  English  land- 
scape is  like  a  fresh  young  girl  itself,  and 
when  I  leave  you  for  it,  I  can  almost  say 
to  myself :  *  A  uf  Wicdersehen  I ' " 

"Goodbye,"  I  murmured  stupidly, 
scarcely  following  or  comprehending  his 
speech;  "good-bye,  Mr. Trevelyan."  The 
tears  rose  to  my  eves,  and  I  felt  suffo- 
cated, not  by  what  I  tried  to  say,  but  by 
all  I  might  not  say.  He  paused  a  mo- 
ment lono:er,  I  think,  but  I  was  silent,  and 
then,  suddenly,  I  seemed  to  know  that  my 
hand  had  dropped  out  of  his,  and  he  was 
gone,  and  the  room  grew  quite  dark  and 
chilly.  Then  mamma,  as  she  got  up  from 
her  chair,  and  shook  out  the  folds  of  her 
gown,  turned  to  me,  and  said  somewhat 
coldly, — 

"  That  remark  of  Mr.  Trevelyan's  about 
a  landscape  was  in  rather  doubtful  taste, 
I  think.  I  cannot  say  that  I  altogether 
approve  of  his  tone  when  he  talks  to  you, 
Gussie;  it  is  really  a  good  thing  he  has 
taken  himself  ofE  at  last !  " 

Oh,  lieattie,  never  mind  his  tone  !  I 
long  already  for  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
for  the  echo  of  his  tread  upon  the  stair. 
I  miss  him  somehow  from  everything, 
though  I  have  been  with  him  so  little ; 


from  the  house,  though  he  has  been  in  it 
so  seldom.  Yesterday  I  passed  through 
the  hall,  and  saw  a  great-coat  lying  on  one 
of  the  chairs ;  my  heart  gave  a  sudden 
throb,  as  though  it  were  possible  he  had 
returned.  But  the  coat  was  not  Mr.  Tre- 
velyan's ;  it  was  Lord  Warner's. 

I  grudge  it  to  you,  dearest  Beattie,  that 
you  will  see  him,  and  yet  (I  am  so  incon- 
sistent) I  am  glad  that  he  is  to  see  you 
rather  than  any  one  else,  for  you  will  hold 
him  for  me,  you  will  keep  my  memorv 
green,  as  poets  say,  within  his  mind,  will 
you  not  ?  I  am  certain  now  that  he  loves 
me,  for  that  last  look  of  his  has  betrayed 
more  than  a  dozen  passionate  sentences 
could  have  told.  And  yet  I  want  to  hear 
from  you,  I  want  you  to  endorse  all  I 
have  said ;  yes,  more,  a  great  deal  more. 

I  feel  dull  and  dreary.  Ah,  how  ten 
times  more  desolate  than  before  the  ball 
must  Cinderella  have  felt  when  she  re- 
turned to  her  rags  and  her  lonely  hearth  ! 

Good-bye,  you  enviable  Beattie.  I  envy 
you  ;  I  envy  the  Tomlinsons ;  I  envy  the 
woods  that  will  hear  his  dear  voice,  and 
the  grass  that  will  learn  to  know  his  step, 
and  the  birds  who  come  to  sing  around 
him,  and  the  flowers  which  put  on  their 
gayest  summer  array  to  welcome  him. 

Vour  foolish 

Gussie. 

LETTER   XrV. 

{From  Miss  Beatrice  Maxwell  to  the  Lady 
Augusta  Dacre.) 

Greenleaf  Manor.    Jaly,  i88-b 

Dearest  Gussie,— 

I  like  him,  yes,  a  little,  scarcely  more; 
no,  really  not  more  as  yet.     He  is  hand- 
some, certainly;  massive  and  tall  (a  cu- 
bit or  two,  I  should  think,  taller  than  my 
curate);  pleasant,  though  supercilious,  in 
conversation.     I    can   see  at  once   what 
your    mother  dislikes  in   him.     Tony  is 
actuated  by  the  same  dislike.     And  your 
mother  and  Tony   (forgive   my  coupling 
them  thus  together),  possess  a  few  mutual 
peculiarities.      They    are    both    equally^ 
straightforward  and  clear-seeing.       Now' 
you,  dear  Gussie,  are  straightforward,  but 
not  clear-seeing.     I    know  that  you  will 
hereupon  cry  out,  and  bid  me   worship 
with  you,  unconditionally,  at  the  shrine  of 
your  hero.     Well,  1  cannot,  alto^^ether;  I 
bend  one   knee  willingly,  but  the  other 
remains  somewhat  stiff  and  recalcitrant. 
Nevertheless,  time  may  work  marvels. 

Mr.  Trevelyan  arrived  here  at  an  auspi* 
cious  moment.  We  had  one  of  our  many 
lawn-tennis  parties  this  afternoon,  and  he 


TOWN   MOUSE   AND   COUNTRY  MOUSE. 


57 


drove  over  with  the  Tomlinsons.  He 
does  not  play  himself;  nay,  notbiog  so 
commonplace.  He  came  and  sat  beside 
me,  and  we  talked,  of  the  weather  first,  (like 
^ood  English  people.)  afterwards  of  you. 
He  told  me  a  great  deal  about  you  ;  filled 
in,  so  to  speak,  many  little  gaps  in  your 
narrative,  explained  (often  unconsciouslv) 
many  things  I  needed  to  know.  I  told 
him  at  once  that  we  were  friends,  and  had 
been  friends  for  years.  He  smiled,  and 
asked  if  our  friendship  commenced  in  our 
cradles. 

Papa  has  taken  a  great  liking  to  Mr. 
Trevelyan ;  indeed,  the  latter,  though  I 
strongly  suspect  him  of  an  amiable  hy- 
pocrisy, evinces  so  deep  an  interest  in 
agricultural  questions  that  papa,  as  Tony 
says,  cottoned  to  him  directly.  Mr.  Tre- 
velyan can  be  very  amiable  on  occasion. 
He  is  selfish  by  nature,  and  for  this  rea- 
son he  cultivates  an  aspect  of  mental 
strength,  which  is  a  convenient  loophole. 
Like  most  men,  however,  he  is  really  very 
weak,  and  wants  ruling.  I  am  quite  sure 
that,  contrary  to  all  you  have  told  me  of 
him,  contrary  also  to  his  splendid  exterior, 
he  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  one  of 
the  many  excellent  and  useful  creatures 
whom  Providence  has  benevolently  cre- 
ated for  us  women  to  turn  round  our  little 
fingers ! 

You  spoil  him,  Gussie;  you  have 
adored  in  him  the  ideal  of  your  own 
mind;  surely  there  exists  no  Trevelyan 
such  as  you  describe  ? 

Well,  he  is  coming  to-morrow  to  lunch- 
eon, and  afterwards  he  is  to  take  a  long 
walk  with  papa,  and  converse  with  the 
bailifiE  about  manure.  I  am  sure  to  have 
some  opportunity  of  seeing  him  ;  anyhow, 
you  may  be  certain  that  I  shall  before 
long  extract  from  him  the  real  state  of  his 
manly  mind. 

Yours  ever, 
Beatrice  Maxwell. 

letter  xv. 

{From  Godfrey  Trevelyan^  Esq.,  to  Philip 
Graham^  Esq,.,  Pump  Court,  Temple,) 

Bramble  Dell.    August,  18&-. 

Dear  old  Man,— 

1  came  down  to  these  country  wilds  a 
couple  of  weeks  ago,  with  the  intention  of 
recruiting.  I  was  hipped  and  seedy,  and 
found  myself  forced  to  send  for  old  Pi- 
lulus  at  last.  He  insisted  on  thorough 
change  and  quiet,  so  I  accepted  Aunt  So- 
phia's invitation,  and  came  here.  1 
needed  rest  in  every  way,  partly  because 
I  bad  been  overdoing  my  brain,  writing 


stinging  articles  at  high  pressure  for  the 
Thursday  Gazette ,  partly  because  I  need- 
ed to  pull  myself  together,  to  go  through 
the  difficult  and  trying  process  of  making 
up  my  mind. 

As  I  think  you  know,  I  had  lately  been 
much  taken  with  a  little  girl,  Lady  Augus- 
ta Dacre,  a  dear  child,  all  sentiment  and 
enthusiasm,  and  she  certainly  became  des- 
perately devoted  to  me. 

But  there  are  drawbacks,  Phil.  Above 
all,  the  Ascalons,  or  rather  the  Dacres, 
are  an  unbearably  proud  set,  and,  though 
we  Trevelyan s  have  a  pretty  good  idea  of 
our  own  merits,  I  am  not  sure  that  the 
alliance  I  have  sometimes  contemplated 
would  be  looked  upon  with  favor  by  the 
fair  one's  family,  her  mother  most  espe- 
cially ;  furthermore,  the  fair  one  herself  is 
accustomed  to  a  good  deal  of  admiration, 
and  she  is  on  the  highroad  to  be  spoiled. 
Rich,  well-born,  and  more  than  pretty, 
she  is  surrounded  by  innumerable  suitors, 
that  insufferable  cad  Warner  (whose 
grandfather  was  an  ironmonger)  being 
foremost  in  the  throng.  I  could  never 
stand  that  sort  of  thing,  as  you  know,  and 
I  prefer  to  seek  out  some  lonely  wild 
blossom  in  a  shady  nook,  some  flower 
that,  but  for  me,  were  born  to  blush  un- 
seen. Certainly,  Lady  Augusta  is  very 
charming,  so  charming  that  she  wooed  me 
from  my  cynical  solitude,  and,  for  a  short 
time,  I  found  myself  plunged  in  the  very 
midst  of  London  balls  and  other  unaccus- 
tomed gaieties  for  her  sake.  But  ah,  my 
dear  fellow,  it  is  not  in  the  vortex  of  society 
that  a  poetical  and  single-hearted  affec- 
tion can  flourish,  or  that  the  absolute  and 
perfect  freshness  of  girlhood  can  remain 
in  its  first  bloom. 

It  is  only  in  the  country,  the  sweet,  pure, 
though  somewhat  dull  country.  Dulness 
is,  without  doubt,  wholesome,  even  neces- 
sary, for  women,  and  the  monotonous  and 
unexciting  life  of  the  midland  counties 
that  would  goad  most  men  into  madness, 
if  not  into  crime,  appears  to  foster  and 
encourage  the  tenderest  virtues  of  the 
gentler  sex. 

The  day  after  I  came  down  here  I  drove 
with  the  Tomlinsons  to  a  pretty  gabled 
house  belonging  to  some  country  neigh* 
bors,  the  Maxwells. 

Maxwell  p}re  is  a  mild  old  fool,  devoted 
to  agriculture,  and  absolutely  under  the 
thumb  of  his  bailiff;  the  sons  are  cubs, 
but  there  is  a  daughter  —  a  daughter  who 
is  the  most  delightful  country  maiden  I 
have  ever  seen.  Her  name  —  it  should 
be  Betty  or  Prue  —  is  Beatrice;  her  face 
and  figure  are  perfect ;  her  mind  (though 


TOWN  MOUSE  AND  COUNTRY  MOUSE. 


S8 

Still  somewhat  unformed)  is  elevated,  and 
she  has,  together  with  a  most  poetical 
organization,  a  sincere  desire  for  intellec* 
tual  improvement. 

I  cannot  easily  forget  my  first  introduc- 
tion to  this  prettv  damsel.  The  whole 
scene  was  one  of  Arcadian  simplicity;  in 
the  foreground,  roses  and  strawberries 
and  syllabub,  presided  over  by  Miss  Bea- 
trice; in  the  background,  lawn-tennis,  and 
the  usual  elements  of  rural  festivity. 

My  little  hostess,  arrayed  in  simple 
white  cotton,  needed  but  one  thing— •  a 
pet  lamb,  garlanded  with  blue  ribbon,  to 
gambol  at  her  feet.  She  is  quite  young, 
only  eighteen,  and  very  childish  in  man- 
ner, though  she  sometimes  tries  to  put  on 
the  pretty  gracious  airs  of  womanhood. 
Her  large  blue  eyes  thrill  me  with  their 
innocent  appeal,  her  hair  curls  in  natural 
rings  (I  would  lay  my  life,  Phil,  they  are 
natural). 

1  found  to  my  surprise  that  Miss  Max- 
well and  Lady  Augusta  have  long  been 
friends;  they  are  like,  and  yet  very  un- 
like. They  are  both  young  and  pretty, 
but,  whilst  Lady  Augusta's  high  position 
and  worldly  surroundings  bid  fair  to  de- 
stroy the  simplicity  of  her  first  impres- 
sions, her  rustic  friend,  in  her  complete 
guilelessness,  has  preserved  a  candor  that 
is  infantine  and  yet  divine,  and  charms  me 
with  a  potent  charm.  Lady  Augusta  and 
I  would  not  easily  have  suited  each  other; 
I  am  glad  now  to  think  that,  whilst  with 
her,  I  did  not  allow  my  feelings  of  admira- 
tion to  lead  me  into  a  foolish  proposal. 
Beatrice  is  not  fond  of  country  sports,  she 
tells  me;  yet  she  makes  herself  happy 
here.  She  is  delicate  and  cannot  take 
long  walks  or  rides,  but  she  lives  con- 
tentedly amidst  her  birds  and  flowers, 
whilst  her  father  and  brothers,  despite  a 
certain  roughness  of  manner,  worship  the 
very  ground  she  treads  on,  as  I  can  easily 
see.  But  indeed,  who  could  do  otherwise 
than  so  worship?  I  can  scarcelv  think 
that  even  women  would  be  jealous  of 
Beatrice  Maxwell.  I  imagine  that  she  is 
the  sort  of  girl  whose  sole  ambition  in 
life  is  to  fill  one  roan's  heart,  and,  having 
filled  it,  to  remain  there  forever,  regard* 
less  of  the  world  and  its  glories,  regard- 
less of  all  but  him,  except  perhaps  her 
children  and  their  training.  She  would 
be  a  good  wife  for  a  poor  man,  for  she 
has  no  regard  for  money;  in  fact,  it  seems 
to  me  that  she  scarcely  knows  the  value 
of  it.  In  some  things  she  is  as  ignorant 
as  a  child,  but  hers  is  a  blessed  ignorance. 
If  1  can  win  her,  she  will  not  be  a  poor 
man's  wife,  as  you  know  well,  but  shi  does 


not  know.  Who  shall  say?  Perchance 
if  she  knew  she  would  not  marry  me. 
Between  us,  no  worldlv  questions  are  dis- 
cussed; this  is  an  idyll,  Phil,  a  thing  not 
of  this  earth,  earthy.  Little  Beattie's 
mind  is  more  eager  to  watch  the  flight  of 
the  swallows  or  inquire  into  the  growth 
of  her  roses  than  to  learn  the  distinction 
of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  and  I 
would  not  have  her  different. 

I   am  a  changed  man   already,   Phil; 
under  this  sweet  influence  I  have  altered. 
You    will    perhaps    scarcely    recognize 
through  these  lovesick  wanderings 
Your  cynical  friend, 

Godfrey  Trevelyan. 

letter  xvi. 
{From  the  same  to  the  same,) 

Bramble  DelL    August,  18^ 

Dear  Phil,— 

You  say  I  have  changed  for  the  worse ; 
you  say  I  maunder;  you  imply  that  I 
drivel.  You  add  that  1  have  been  and 
gone  and  done  for  myself;  lastly,  yoa 
pity  me.  You  are  certain  that  Lady 
Augusta  is  worth  ten  of  Miss  Maxwell; 
3*ou  assert  that  I  have  made  love  in  haste 
and  shall  repent  at  leisure.  Well,  I  accept 
all  you  say,  and  take  it  as  kindly  meant; 
I  am  too  happy  to  resent,  or  even  to  argue. 

You  do  not  know  my  Beatrice ;  /,  Phil, 
pity  yoNf  because  of  your  ignorance. 
Above  all,  I  would  have  you  know  that 
she  has  one  of  those  essentially  gentle, 
pliant  natures  which,  as  you  know,  I  most 
admire  in  women;  it  will  be  my  happy 
task  to  mould  her  young  mind,  to  be  her 
guide  in  the  future.  She  is  an  angel,  and 
yet,  even  more,  a  child.  But  I  will  cease 
to  "drivel."  When  the  time  comes  for 
you  to  make  Miss  Maxwell's  acquain* 
tance,  you  will  hastily  change  your  tune. 

Meanwhile,  dear  Phil,  make  ready  to 
officiate  as  best  man,  for  Beattie  and  I 
are  to  be  married  this  day  month. 
Yours  always, 
Godfrey  Trevelyan. 

letter  xvil 

{From  the  Countess  of  Ascalon  to  thg 
Lady  Julia  Cli/tonvUle,) 

Dearest  Julia, — 

1  am  glad,  truly  glad,  to  learn  that  yoa 
are  gaining  strength  and  health,  and  that 
Hastings  seems  to  a^ree  with  you.  I 
think  it  is  auite  possible  that  we  shall  join 
you  there  almost  immediately.  My  little 
Gussie  wants  change ;  she  needs  to  hide 
her  poor  little  sore  heart  somewhere  out 


IVAN   TOURGENIEF. 


S9 


of  sight,  whilst  she  leans  her  head  on  her 
mother's  shoulder,  and  fights  a  brave  tight 
with  grief.  For  tt  is  a  sad  grief,  poor 
dear;  a  double  grief,  very  hard  to  bear. 
Her  lover  is  false  and  her  friend  deceitful. 
Bad  luck  to  thein  both,  say  1.  But  I 
never  liked  that  fellow  Trevelyan.  He 
was  always  hanging  about  my  darling,  and 
she  admired  him  for  the  sake  of  his  broad 
chest  and  his  six  feet  of  falsity,  for  his 
grand  sentimental  speeches,  and  insinu- 
ating manners.  The  poor  child  believed 
ID  him ;  my  warnins^s  were  useless,  and 
merely  added  fuel  to  the  flame,  as,  indeed, 
such  warnings  usually  do. 

I  saw  that  she  grew  to  care  for  this 
man,  and  it  made  my  heart  ache  for  her, 
though  she  tried  to  hide  her  feelings  from 
roe,  as  if  mothers  did  not  see,  even  when 
thev  are  supposed  to  be  as  blind  as  moles, 
and  about  as  interesting  I 

Well,  the  gay  Trevelyan  one  fine  morn- 
ing rode  away,  and  Gussie  expected  to 
hear  news  of  him  from  that  nasty  little 
Beattie  Maxwell,  near  whose  home  in  the 
country  he  had  gone  to  stay;  and  she 
waited,  and  waited,  pining  and  fretting  for 
a  letter,  poor  love,  making  all  sorts  of 
little  subterfuges  for  my  edification  when 
she  heard  the  postman's  knock,  and  grow- 
ing more  anxious  and  feverishly  unhappy 
every  day.  Weeks  passed,  yet  she  bore 
up  pretty  well,  poor  child,  and  I  honored 
her  for  her  courage,  and  kept  silence  on 
my  part  also.  At  last,  in  an  evil  hour,  she 
opened  the  Morning  Posty  and  read  the 
announcement  of  Mr.  Trevelyan's  engage- 
ment to  Miss  Maxwell.  She  gave  me  a 
look  that  was  piteous  to  see,  and  then  she 
tried  to  smile,  and  then  in  one  minute,  1 
don't  know  how  it  was,  she  and  I«  were 
sobbing  together,  locked  in  each  other's 
arms,  and  1  felt  just  as  foolish  and  wretch- 
ed, I  think,  as  she  did. 

But  she  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

When  she  grew  a  little  quieter,  I  held 
her  on  my  knee,  just  as  when  she  was  a 
little  child,  and  she  hid  her  face  against 
mine,  and  whispered, — 

"  Mamma,  can  you  forgive  me  ?  Once, 
just  once,  I  thought  you  were  not  quite 
kind  —  when  he  went  away,  you  know. 
But  now  I  see  that  nothing  could  have 
made  it  different.*' 

'*  Nothing,  darling,  nothing,"  I  mur- 
mured, as  I  shook  my  head ;  and  inwardly 
I  thanked  God  that  nothing  had  made  it 
different,  for  it  is  far  better  for  a  tender 
woman's  heart  to  suffer  before  than  after 
marriage.  Had  my  darling  married  Tre- 
velyan, and  he  bad  forsaken  her,  I  could 


never  have  forgiven  him,  not  to  my  dying 
day,  nor  myself  either.  'It  is  hard  enough 
now  to  forgive  him  for  her  grief;  even 
thous:h  the  child  is  free,  my  own  dear,  in- 
nocent, loving  child!  and  is  only  hurt  in 
so  far  that  for  a  time,  for  a  time  only, 
I  trust,  her  young  heart  must  ache  and 
moan.  I  would  that  I  could  bear  the  pain 
for  her,  and  shield  her  from  it;  I  cannot 
endure  that  she  should  so  soon  learn  the 
sadness  of  life. 

I  think  we  must  certainly  go  to  you  at 
Hastings  for  a  little  while,  dear  Julia. 
We  shall  hope  to  start  to-morrow,  or  next 
day. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Jane  Ascalon. 

P.S.  —  I  reopen  my  letter  to  tell  you 
that  a  note  has  this  moment  been  brought 
to  me  from  Lord  Warner.  This  is  what 
he  writes :  — 

"  Dear  Lady  Ascalon,  —  I  have 
heard  of  Trevclyan's  engagement.  For- 
give me  if  I  oughtn't  to  allude  to  it.  I 
only  do  so  just  to  tell  you  quite  privately 
that's  the  reason  for  my  leaving  town 
to-day.  I  leave  for  a  week.  I  don't  fancy 
Lady  Augusta  would  care  to  see  me  just 
now,  somehow,  and  I  couldn't  be  in  Lon- 
don, you  know,  and  stay  away  from  her, 
really.  Do  you  think  a  week  is  about  the 
right  sort  of  time?  It  will  be  awfully 
hard  to  stop  away  so  long,  but  I  mean  to, 
because  that  seems  best.  Afterwards  I 
may  come  again,  mayn't  I  ? 

*•  Yours  sincerely, 

"  Warner." 

P.S.  No.  2.  —  By-the-bye,  dear  Julia, 
don't  expect  us  at  Hastings  any  parttcu^ 
lar  dzy.  It  is  possible  we  may  ^nd  our- 
selves obliged  to  defer  our  visit  to  you  for 
a  little  while,  perhaps  for  a  week,  or  even 
two. 


From  The  Spectator. 
IVAN  TOURGENIEF. 

On  September  2nd,  Ivan  Tourg^nief, 
after  a  long  and  painful  illness,  died  in 
the  sixty-fifth  year  of  his  age,  at  Bougival, 
near  Paris.  The  Thackeray  of  Russian 
literature  deserves  more  than  slight  no- 
tice. Ivan  Tourg^nief  was  born  at  Orel, 
in  i8i8,  and  belonged  by  birth  to  the 
class  of  landed  gentry.  For  generations, 
men  of  his  name  and  blood  have,  as  ear- 
nest reformers,  played  a  part  in  Russian 
politics.  According  to  the  custom  of  the 
Russian  gentry,  the  boy  Ivan  received  his 


6o 


IVAN  TOURGENIEF. 


first  instruction  from  foreign  tators.  After 
studying  from  1834  to  1838  at  Moscow 
and  St.  Petersburg,  he  passed  two  years 
as  a  student  in  Berlin,  where  he  had  for 
at  least  one  winter  Michael  Bakounine, 
the  notorious  Nihilist,  as  room-mate. 
Here  the  young  Tourg^nief  studied  chiefly 
history  and  philosophy,  which  latter  sub- 
ject he  often  laughed  at  in  his  later  works 
as  unprofitable  and  unpractical.  Tourg^- 
nief  then  returned  to  St.  Petersburg,  and 
accepted  a  place  in  the  Home  Office, 
which  he  soon  relinquished,  to  devote 
himself  to  literature. 

His  first  attempts  were  scarcely  more 
than  imitations  of  Poushkin  and  Lermon- 
toff,  and  passed  unnoticed.  In  1846, 
however,  he  wrote  a  short  story,  which 
was  accepted  by  Belinski  and  appeared  in 
the  Contemporary^  and  this  was  sufficient 
to  direct  public  attention  to  his  talent.  A 
little  later,  Tourg^nief  went  to  Paris, 
where  in  the  following  years  he  wrote  his 
'*  Recollections  of  a  Sportsman,"  which 
at  once  made  him  famous.  Although 
every  one  of  these  sketches  was  written 
with  a  social  tendency,  although  they  were 
all  published  in  the  Contemporary^  under 
the  editorship  of  the  suspected  Belinski, 
the^  passed  the  censor  without  difficulty. 
Official  wisdom  evidentlv  saw  in  them 
nothing  but  landscape-painting  and  good 
descriptions  of  a  sportsman's  life.  In 
1852,  the  sketches  appeared  in  book  form. 
In  the  same  year,  Gogol,  the  Russian 
Dickens,  died,  and  the  cemetery  of  the 
Donskoi  Monastery,  near  Moscow,  could 
DOt  hold  the  concourse  of  the  people  of  all 
ranks  which  streamed  thither  to  do  honor 
to  the  first  Russian  novelist  of  real  power. 
The  outburst  of  mingled  admiration  and 
sorrow  alarmed  officialdom,  and  when 
Tourg^nief  shortly  afterwards  published 
an  article  praising  Gogol,  he  was  banished 
to  his  own  property.  It  was  only  the  en- 
treaties of  the  liberal-minded  Alexander 
which,  two  years  later,  restored  him  to 
freedom.  Tourg^nief  spent  the  next  years 
in  Germany,  France,  and  Russia;  in  1863 
he  settled  and  built  himself  a  house  at 
Baden-Baden,  in  order  to  live  near  his 
friends,  the  Viardots.  After  the  events 
of  1870,  the  Viardots  removed  to  France, 
and  Tourg^nief  followed  them.  His  later 
life  and  sad  end  are  familiar  to  all. 

Tourg^niefs  first  large  work,  *•  Recol- 
lections of  a  Sportsman,"  is  perhaps  his 
best.  The  "  Recollections "  are  thrown 
into  the  form  of  short  sketches,  of  whfch 
the  ablest  are  '*  Khor  and  Kalinitsh," 
"The  Devil's  Dale,"  "The  Singers," 
"  Kasjao,"  "  Two  Days  in  the  Forest,"  and 


"  Forest  and  Steppe.'*  As  a  landed  gen- 
tleman, Tourgdnief  naturally  took  much 
pleasure  in  hunting;  he  has,  besides,  all 
the  passionate  love  of  nature  of  the  Slav, 
and  shows  warm  sympathy  with  the  peo- 
ple. In  spite,  however,  of  the  patriotism 
which  colors  these  sketches,  their  writer 
is  evidently  a  man  who  has  lived  among 
foreign  nations,  and  freed  himself  of  all 
local  prejudices.  We  shall  first  consider 
his  power  of  interpreting  nature,  for  this 
is  a  faculty  inherent. in  his  blood,  and 
many  of  these  sketches,  such  as  "  Forest 
and  Steppe,"  are  nothing  but  landscape 
paintings  in  words.  The  Slav,  impres- 
sionable and  sympathetic,  has  a  more  in- 
timate connection  with  nature  than  other 
races;  he  still  believes  in  spirits  of  field, 
and  fell,  and  stream,  still  hears  the  wail 
of  suffering  in  the  wind,  or  the  roll  of 
anger  in  the  thunder.  These  feelings 
have  been  wonderfully  depicted  by  Tour- 
g^nief.  He  is  of  his  day  a  realist,  a  hater 
of  empty  phrases,  and  he  has  not  only 
observed  long  and  closely  the  different 
moods  of  nature,  but  is  sympathetic 
enough  to  be  able  to  represent  them  with 
touches  of  "natural  magic,"  which  give 
life  even  to  scenes  sometimes  lacking  ia 
human  interest.  In  "The  Devil's  Dale," 
some  shepherd  boys  are  sitting  round  a 
watchfire,  telling  each  other  ghost-stories 
or  fairy-tales.  One  is  about  a  sheep 
which  talks,  another  about  a  landowner 
who  cannot  find  peace  even  in  the  grave, 
etc.  Now  and  then  the  dogs  shiver  with 
fear,  and  then  with  a  howl  rush  forth  into 
the  darkness.  "  Suddenly,  somewhere  ia 
the  distance,  rose  up  a  long,  piercing, 
sobbing  sound,  one  of  those  incompre- 
hensible sounds  peculiar  to  the  night, 
which  often  come  in  the  deepest  silence, 
and  wax  nearer  till  they  seem  to  stand 
still  in  the  air  above^  and  then  at  once  die 
away,  as  if  in  flight."  Some  of  these  pic- 
tures, too,  are  of  rare  and  ideal  beauty : 
"  The  dry  warmth  of  midnight  spread 
over  the  sleeping  fields  its  soft  coverlet; 
the  moon  had  not  yet  risen,  and  the  num- 
berless files  of  golden  stars  seemed  to 
move  in  slow  order  towards  the  Milky 
Way.  As  my  eye  followed  their  move- 
ment, I  realized  the  slow  and  rhythmic 
progress  of  the  world."  But  generally  he 
is  impressed  rather  with  the  untamable 
power  than  with  the  beauty  of  nature. 
"  Out  of  the  forest  the  deep  voice  of  na- 
ture speaks  to  man, '  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  thee ;  I  am,  and  rule,  but  thou  mast 
struggle,  even  in  order  to  live.' " 

His  numerous  sketches  of  animals  are 
almost  perfect*    We  like  best  the  ugly 


IVAN  TOURGENIEF. 


6t 


dog,  Valetica,  who  always  carried  his 
stump  of  a  tail  between  his  legs,  and  who 
was  always  chased  from  kitchen  and  from 
yard.  "In  hunting  he  was  tireless,  and 
had  a  keen  sense  of  smell.  His  master 
never  thought  of  feeding  him.  But  when- 
ever Valetka  caught  a  hare,  he  devoured 
it  to  the  last  shred  with  the  keenest  pleas- 
ure, lying  somewhere  in  the  cool  shade  of 
a  green  bush,  or  at  a  polite  distance  from 
his  master,  who  then  cursed  him  in  all 
known  and  unknown  languages." 

This  book,  too,  contains  almost  a  nat- 
ural history  of  the  Russian  people.  Nearly 
all  the  sketches  are  taken  from  among 
the  dwellers  in  the  country;  Tourg^nief 
pictures  the  houseless  serf,  shows  peas- 
ant after  peasant,  gives  type  after  type  of 
landowner  and  aristocrat.  The  peasant 
is,  in  his  pages,  an  extremely  good-na- 
tured, easily  satisfied  man,  clever,  ready, 
and  of  robust  health.  By  nature  endowed 
with  cunning,  with  wit  and  humor,  the 
Slav  resembles  the  English  idea  of  the 
Irish  Celt.  Tourg^nief  looks  upon  the 
peasant  as  the  stay  and  prop  of  his  coun- 
try; he  dwells  with  preference  upon  the 
peasant's  rooted  love  of  home,  shows  his 
reverence  of  tsar  and  Church,  and  his 
ready  self-sacrifice  to  either,  describes 
again  and  again  his  love  of  family  and  the 
sacred  strength  of  the  old-fashioned  tie 
of  kinship,  as  seen  in  the  commune.  The 
people  is  a  religious  one,  with  love  of 
peace  and  depth  of  pity.  Take  the  free 
peasant,  Ovssianikof.  Childless,  he  looks 
upon  himself  as  a  patriarch,  and  although 
be  is  held  in  honor  by  the  highest  and  by 
the  lowest,  he  yet  knows  his  place.  In 
bis  clothing  ancl  manners  he  follows  the 
old  customs,  and  although  conscious  of 
his  worth,  he  seems  as  devoid  of  vanity 
as  of  self-assertion ;  he  does  not  praise 
the  past,  for  although  not  entirely  satis- 
fied with  the  present,  he  yet  acknowledges 
progress,  but  can  see  **no  new  order.'' 
**Tbe  old  is  dying  out,  and  the  young  has 
not  yet  been  born.'*  But  in  sketching 
character  Tourg^nief  seldom  gives  us 
ideals,  he  prefers  to  paint  nature  as  it  is. 
The  prosaic  peasant,  Khor,  who  has  never 
been  to  school,  grumbles  that  the  dreamer 
Kalinitsh  succeeds  with  bees  because  the 
idler  has  learned  to  write.  Another  serf, 
Stiopushka,  was  related  to  no  one,  no  one 
knew  him  ;  they  saw  him,  it  is  true,  kicked 
him  now  and  again,  but  never  spoke  to 
him,  and  his  mouth  seemed  never  to  have 
been  opened  since  his  birth.  In  the 
sketch  "  Death  "  Tourg^nief  shows  "  how 
strangely  the  Russian  dies,"  without  fear 
or  complaint  be  awaits  the  stroke  as  ii  it 


were  about  to  fall  upon  another.  There 
is  a  miller  who,  while  carting  some  mill- 
stones, is  mortally  hurt ;  but  not  till  much 
later  does  he  go  to  the  doctor,  who  pre* 
scribes  absolute  rest  and  quiet,  "for  the 
worst  is  to  be  feared."  But  the  miller  will 
not  stay  and  be  treated  by  the  surgeon. 
"  No.  I  must  go  home  ;  a  man  must  die, 
it's  better  to  die  at  home  ;  if  I  died  here, 
who  would  see  that  affairs  at  home  were 
set  straight  ?  "  Sutschock,  who,  when  his 
boat  disappears  under  his  feet,  and  the 
hunter,  whom  he  has  been  rowing,  is  im- 
patient, keeps  winking  with  his  eyes,  and 
seems  about  to  go  to  sleep,  although  up 
to  his  neck  in  the  stream.  He  has  to  be 
ordered  to  keep  his  head  above  water. 

But  if  Tourg^nief,  when  painting  the 
peasant,  colors  his  portrait  too  darkly,  he 
may  be  said  to  leave  out  all  the  lights  in 
his  pictures  of  landowners  and  aristocrats. 
One  landlord  is  good-humored,  but  hard- 
hearted ;  he  looks  upon  his  serfs  as  upon 
his  cows,  and  kills  one  animal,  when  un- 
profitable, as  readily  as  the  ^ther.  An- 
other gentleman  cares  for  them  but  as 
instruments  of  pleasure,  etc.  The  aristo- 
crats employed  at  court  or  in  the  public 
service  live  in  his  pages  as  Tartars,  with 
a  slight  exterior  polish  of  manner.  They 
are  all  either  spendthrifts,  who  ruin  others 
as  well  as  themselves,  or  fools  honored 
with  servile  reverence.  Debauchees,  ty- 
rants, wild  beasts  of  all  sorts  have  sat  t6 
him  for  their  picture.  Of  their  extrava- 
c^ance,  debauchery,  and  cruelty,  he  gives 
fearful  instances.  The  book  is  one  long 
protest  against  serfdom,  and  the  evil  ef- 
fects of  the  system  upon  enslavers  and 
enslaved  are  portrayed  with  a  master- 
hand.  It  is  said  that  this  book  decided 
Alexander  to  abolish  slavery.  But  Tour- 
g^nief  does  not  hope  that  this  measure  or 
that  any  measure  will  be  effectual ;  for 
"the  Russian  peasant  is  capable  of  steal- 
ing from  himself."  This  book,  however, 
shows  less  pessimism,  less  fatalism,  than 
any  of  his  later  writings ;  it  is  not  only  as 
a  book  well  worth  the  reading,  it  was  a 
deed  well  worth  the  doing. 

As  he  grows  older  and  takes  his  models 
from  the  drawing-room,  the  gloom  deep- 
ens. His  novels  which  deal  with  prob- 
lems of  love  and  marriage  may  now  be 
referred  to.  Here,  he  shows  himself  a 
man  of  his  time ;  either  the  sensuality  is 
somewhat  more  pronounced  than  is  nat- 
ural, as  in  his  "  First  Love,"  or  it  is 
feverish  and  unhealthy,  as  in  "  H^l^ne," 
or  mad,  as  in  "The  Three  Portraits." 
His  women  often  declare  themselves  first, 
as  in  bis  "  Faust."    '*  To  what  have  yoa 


6) 


THE    RABBIT   PEST  IN   AUSTRALASIA. 


broaght  me?"  cried  Vera;  ** don't  you 
know  that  I  love  you?"  And  most  of 
these  women  have  something  of  the  cat, 
or  snake,  or  elf.  Tourg^nief  loves  ab- 
normal characters ;  he  does  not  see  life 
fairly,  he  is  a  pessimist.  "  Love  is  never 
the  free  union  of  free  souls  of  which  Ger- 
man professors  dream ;  no,  in  love,  the 
one  person  is  slave, ^the  other  lord  !  " 

Up  to  the  close  of  this  period,  that  is, 
up  to  l86i,  Tourg^nief's  works,  whatever 
may  be  their  faults,  had  reflected  the  best 
spirit  of  his  race.  In  **  Fathers  and 
Sons,"  however,  published  in  1861,  Tour- 
g^nief  loses  touch  of  the  people.  As  we 
have  seen,  he  hoped  but  little  from  the 
abolition  of  serfdom,  and  the  bitter  disap- 
pointment of  the  youth  of  Russia  at  the 
results  of  the  measure  seemed  to  him  in- 
sane. This  is  the  more  unfortunate,  in- 
asmuch as  this  novel  in  regard  to  form  is 
perhaps  the  best  of  all  his  works,  as  it  is 
certainly  the  most  widely  known.  He 
who  aforetime  protested  against  serfdom 
now  protests  against  the  materialism  and 
Nihilism  of  the  Russian  youth.    Tour- 

f^nief  treats  Socialism  as  mere  ignorance, 
n  order  to  understand  this  movement, 
therefore,  it  will  be  necessary  for  the  En- 
glishman to  read  not  only  Tourgdnief,  but 
also  that  book  on  *'  Underground  Russia" 
which  shows  the  passionate  self-abnega- 
tion and  heroism  of  the  dreamers  whom 
Tourg^nief  depicts  as  "mostly  fools." 
Take  his  treatment  of  the  principal  char- 
acter, the  student  Bazarof,  who  is  the 
apostle  of  the  new  creed.  Bazarof  does 
not  die  upon  the  scaffold,  but  of  blood- 
poisoning,  contracted  while  dissecting  a 
corpse.  His  death  is  entirely  accidental, 
and  entirely  useless.  For  Bazarof  has 
given  up  his  wild  dreams  and  conquered 
his  strong  passions;  he  has  returned 
home,  and  is  resolved  to  practise  medi- 
cine and  play  the  part  of  a  useful  citizen, 
and  just  when  we  can  hope  all  from  so 
strong  a  character,  he  dies,  a  prey  to 
blind  chance.  No  wonder  the  book  was 
badly  received  in  Russia,  and  its  author 
censured. 

But  Tourgdnief  heeded  neither  warning 
nor  blame.  I  n  1867  he  published  "  Dym." 
Nihilism  seemed  to  him  nothing  but 
"smoke;"  " the  desperate  hope"  of  the 
youth  of  Russia  was  incomprehensible  to 
the  pessimist,  to  the  man  of  the  world, 
who  had  long  ceased  to  believe  that  any- 
thing unseltish  could  come  from  human 
nature.  In  his  latest  works,  however, 
Tourg^nief  has  not  lost  his  humor;  al- 
though his  pictures  have  become  carica- 
tures, his  hand  has  not  lost  its  cunning. 


How  he  describes  the  art  enthusiasts  of 
today,  —  the  men  who  never  speak  of 
Raphael  or  Correggio,  but  of  the  "  divine 
Sanzio"  and  the  "inimitable  Alleg^ri"! 
"  They  adore,"  he  writes,  "  every  doubtful, 
obscure,  or  mediocre  talent  as  a  '  genius,' 
and  phrases  such  as  *the  blue  Italian 
heaven,'  'the  lemon-trees  of  the  sunny 
south,'  *the  scented  mist  of  the  sea- 
shore,' are  the  stock  in  trade."  "Ah, 
Ivan  I  Ivan  !"  cries  Michael,  enraptured, 
"let  us  go  to  the  south  1  let  us  go  to  the 
south  !  for  in  soul  we  are  indeed  Greeks, 
ancient  Greeks  1 " 

With  all  his  faults,  Tourg^nief  has  en- 
larged our  estimate  of  the  talent  of  the 
Slav.  Unfortunately,  the  best  faculty  of 
his  race  was  somewhat  lacking  in  him: 
he  was  deficient  in  sympathy.  The  en- 
thusiastic love  of  the  Slav  for  the  ideal, 
had  he  possessed  it,  would  have  softened 
the  harshness  of  his  pessimistic  realism, 
would  have  given  him  mental  and  moral 
balance,  and  made  him  healthy.  This 
was  not  to  be.  The  Slav  genius,  feminine 
in  its  sympathy,  idealism,  and  faith,  most 
of  all  in  its  passionate  self-abnegation, 
still  awaits  the  coming  of  an  adequate  in- 
terpreter. 


From  Cassell's  Magazine. 
THE  RABBIT  PEST  IN  AUSTRALASIA. 

BY  C   F.  GORDON-CUMMING. 

"Behold  how  great  a  matter  a  little 
fire  kindleth ! " 

Who  could  have  foreseen,  when  about 
a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  the  first  rabbits 
were  imported  to  South  Australia,  as  deli- 
cacies for  the  table,  that  today  their  ex- 
termination would  form  one  of  the  most 
serious  problems  for  the  legislature? 

New  Zealand  did  not  receive  this  gift 
till  some  years  later,  when  it  unfortunately 
occurred  to  a  colonist  in  the  southern 
isle  to  turn  adrift  some  rabbits  on  the 
bleak  sand-hills  along  the  coast  at  Inver- 
cargill.  Accordingly  he  imported  a  little 
family  of  seven  from  the  old  country,  and 
very  soon  he  and  his  friends  were  able  to 
indulge  in  some  pleasant  shooting,  and 
found  a  change  from  constant  mutton  very 
satisfactory. 

But  thev  soon  found  that  their  sport 
could  not  keep  pace  with  the  increase  of 
the  rabbits.  Soon  every  blade  of  grass 
was  consumed,  and  then  the  hungry  crea- 
tures nibbled  the  roots  which  bound  the 
light  sand-hills  and  prevented  them  from 
blowing  over  the  arable  land. 


THE   RABBIT   PEST   IN  AUSTRALASIA. 


The  farmers  began  shootinc:  and  trafx- 
ping  with  all  their  might,  but  the  rabbits 
oad  DOW  been  introduced  to  Otago, 
whence  they  spread  in  every  direction, 
defying  all  efforts  of  the  widely  scattered 
settlers,  who  for  the  most  part  live  ei$;ht 
or  ten  miles  apart,  half  a*dozen  men  suf- 
ficing to  herd  flocks  which  range  over  per- 
haps fifty  thousand  acres. 

As  it  was  obvious  that  these  could  in 
BO  wise  check  the  ever-increasing  evil,  it 
became  necessary  to  hire  men  to  trap, 
shoot,  and  ferret  professionally.  These 
trappers  required  the  aid  of  large  packs 
of.  doors,  and  it  was  soon  found  that  the 
disturbance  thus  caused  among  the  flocks 
resulted  in  greater  mischief  than  even  the 
ravages  of  the  rabbits.  Moreover,  the 
trappers  were  paid  at  the  rate  of  twopence 
a  skin,  but  the  market  became  so  over- 
stocked  that  skins  sold  for  less  than  they 
cost. 

When  you  consider  that  the  rabbit  be- 
gins to  Dreed  at  the  early  age  of  six 
months,  and  thenceforth  has  about  six 
litters  a  year,  of  from  six  to  eight  young, 
it  is  evident  that  the  increase  of  the  spe- 
cies must  necessarily  be  excessive.  It 
has  been  reckoned  that  one  ancestral 
couple,  having  attained  to  the  age  of  four 
and  a  half  years,  may  very  well  see  around 
them  a  prosperous  clan  of  descendants, 
numbering  upwards  of  one  million  two 
hundred  and  seventy  thousand. 

Among  the  many  efforts  made  to  sub- 
doe  the  rabbit  pest,  none  has  more  sig- 
nally failed  than  the  introduction  of  cats, 
which,  from  the  days  of  the  Marquis  of 
Carrabas  down  to  the  present  time,  have 
proved  such  succcessful  rabbiters  when 
working  on  their  own  account.  In  New 
Zealand,  however  (where  so  many  things 
go  by  contraries),  they  seem  to  object 
to  sport,  and  to  prefer  a  purely  domestic 
life. 

In  Victoria  it  was  at  first  hoped  that  the 
Dative  cat,  which  is  a  kind  of  weasel, 
would  have  proved  a  useful  ally;  but, 
strange  to  say»  it  at  once  fraternized  with 
the  rabbits,  and  now  these  singular  friends 
are  said  to  share  the  same  burrows. 

All  manner  of  remedies  have  been  tried, 
and  successively  given  up  as  useless  in 
the- face  of  so  wide-spread  an  evil.  The 
extent  of  the  ravages  could  scarcely  be 
credited  were  it  not  for  the  clear  statistics 
of  the  Rabbit  Nuisance  Committee. 

Thus,  in  South  Canterbury,  New  Zea- 
land, Messrs.  Cargill  and  Anderson  state 
that  in  the  previous  year  they  had  killed 
five  hundred  thousand  rabbits  by  poison, 
and  in  the  following  spring  their  sheep- 


6i 

I  run  was  just  as  densely  peopled  by  them 
as  ever. 

Mr.  Kitchen  says  that  he  kept  nearly  a 
hundred  men  working  as  rabbit-killers  for 
four  months,  and  actually  cleared  his 
land.  Very  soon,  however,  newcomers 
arrived,  and  entered  into  possession  of 
this  vacant  tract,  and  now  they  are  worse 
than  ever. 

Still  the  plague  spreads,  and  the  whole 
land  is  more  or  less  infested  with  the 
pest,  and  many  districts  are  reduced  to 
mere  warrens,  on  which  it  is  impossible 
to  feed  sheep  at  all.  Many  sheep-farmers 
have  been  forced  to  abandon  runs  of  from 
fifteen  to  sixteen  thousand  acres.  Mr.  R. 
Campbell  has  been  compelled  to  abandon 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  acres  I 
In  one  year  he  expended  ;£ 3,000  in  the 
endeavors  to  clear  about  half  this  land. 
Mr.  Rees  reports  having  killed  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty  thousand  rabbits  within 
twelve  months. 

In  1878  the  total  number  of  sheep  in 
New  Zealand  was  upwards  of  thirteen 
million,  but  so  terrible  have  been  the  rav- 
ages of  this  *'  feeble  people,"  that  the  offi- 
cial returns  for  1880  and  1881  show  a 
diminution  of  two  million  in  the  number 
of  sheep,  and  the  last  quarter  of  188 1 
shows  a  falling  off  of  ten  per  cent,  in  the 
export  of  wool  as  compared  with  the  pre- 
vious year. 

As  a  slight  compensation,  but  one  not 
approaching  to  the  loss,  it  is  found  that 
the  value  of. rabbit-skins  exported  in  the 
same  period  shows  an  increase  of  ;^36,ooo, 
the  number  of  skins  exported  averan:ing 
ten  million  a  year,  while  one  hundred 
thousand  rabbits  were  exported  to  En- 
gland by  the  New  Zealand  Meat  Preserv- 
ing Company,  which  has  found  the  experi- 
ment so  popular  that  it  now  announces  its 
readiness  to  receive  ten  thousand  rabbits 
a  day  to  be  preserved  for  the  foreign  mar- 
ket. 

Whether  this  last  expedient  for  utilizing 
the  foe  is  altogether  safe,  it  were  hard  to 
tell.  I  confess  that,  for  my  own  part,  I 
should  seriously  object  to  eating  New 
Zealand  rabbits,  considering  that  the  cure 
now  in  vogue  is  wholesale  poisoning  by 
means  of  grain  saturated  with  phospho- 
rus. (Perhaps  phosphorus  in  this  form 
may  prove  beneficial  to  human  beings,  but 
one  would  like  some  certain  information 
on  this  point.) 

How  the  sheep  can  be  prevented  from 
eating  the  poisoned  grain  is  to  me  a  mys- 
tery. It  seems,  however,  to  be  practicable, 
and  the  sheep-owners  are  now  beginning 
to  take  heart  again. 


THE   RABBIT  PEST  IN   AUSTRALASIA. 


64 

How  one  man's  poison  may  be  another 
man*s  meat  has  been  abundantly  shown  in 
Austrah'a,  where  several  enterprising  col- 
onists have 'established  rabbi t-preserving 
factories  on  so  large  a  scale  that  they  may 
well  be  described  as  rabbit-exterminators. 
In  western  Victoria  there  are  two  such 
factories  —  one  at  Colac,  and  another  at 
Camperdown.  The  returns  of  the  former 
for  one  week  were  eighteen  thousand 
pairs  of  rabbits,  while  in  the  same  time 
the  latter  received  ten  thousand.  Thus 
nearlv  sixty  thousand  rabbits  were  dis- 
posed of  in  one  week  by  these  two  estab- 
lishments, and  one  carter  alone  received 
from  the  Colac  factorv  a  cheque  for  ;£f28 
1 6s.  Sr/.  for  six  days*  work.  This  estab- 
lishment employs  about  three  hundred 
hands  in  out-door  work  and  about  ninety 
in-doors.  Camperdown  gives  work  to  as 
many  more.  The  trappers  employed  by 
these  two  firms  range  over  an  area  of 
ground  about  seventy  miles  in  length  by 
twenty  in  width.  Yet  this  only  covers  one 
little  spot  of  the  vast  region  where  the 
irrepressible  rabbits  mock  at  the  combined 
wisdom  of  all  the  legislative  powers. 

A  very  important  ally   has,  however, 


now  been  secured,  and  great  hopes  are 
entertained  that  it  may  prove  a  more  suc- 
cessful rabbit-destroyer  than  any  hitherto 
thouprht  of.  This  is  the  Indian  mongoose 
i^Hcrpestis  griseus\  which  in  the  last  ten 
years  has  oone  such  good  service  in  Ja- 
maica as  a  wholesale  rat-killer.  The  rats, 
attracted  by  the  sugar-fields,  had  increased 
in  such  multitudes  as  to  threaten  the 
desolation  of  that  fertile  isle.  It  occurred 
to  one  of  the  planters  to  introduce  this 
notorious  ratter,  and  the  results  have  sur- 
passed his  highest  hopes.  These  active 
little  creatures,  resemoling  large  ferrets, 
multiplied  with  extraordinary  velocity, 
and  waged  a  deadly  war  of  extermination 
against  the  rats. 

It  is  hoped  that  they  may  prove  equally 
efficacious  in  the  destruction  of  rabbits, 
so  the  New  Zealand  and  Australian  gov* 
ernments  have  applied  to  the  government 
of  India  for  a  supply  of  mongooses. 
These  are  accordingly  being  collected  in 
Bengal  and  sent  to  the  Zoological  Gardens 
at  Calcutta,  whence,  when  a  hundred 
couples  have  been  secured,  they  will  be 
despatched  to  their  new  homes,  where 
we  may  well  wish  them  success. 


Animal  IrrrELLiGENCK.  —  One  who  knew 
nature  and  animals  well  and  loved  them  dearly, 
the  Hon.  Grantley  F.  Berkeley,  of  Alderney 
Manor,  has  told  us  that  a  little  dog  had  been 
cured  of  a  painful  malady  by  having  dropped 
into  his  eye  from  a  quill,  aaily,  some  irritating 
liquid.  No  one  but  his  master  could  persuade 
him  to  submit ;  but  in  him.  Jack  bad  perfect 
confidence.  When  the  cure  was  complete,  Mr. 
Berkeley  saw  the  dog  steal  out  of  the  house, 
and,  after  looking  cautiously  round,  bury  in 
the  flower  border  the  quill  which  had  been  an 
instrument  of  wholesome  discipline ;  but  the 
animal  waited  tilt  the  case  was  complete.  On 
another  occasion,  when  his  kind  master,  then 
an  invalid,  missed  his  slippers,  it  was  found 
that  the  same  favorite  dog  had  carried  them 
and  placed  them  in  front  of  the  fire,  exactly 
where  the  servant  was  in  the  habit  of  arranging 
them.  After  that  time  this  office  was  always 
faithfully  performed  by  Jack.  A  Skye  terrier 
of  our  own,  though  not  a  lover  of  cats,  became 
so  much  attached  to  a  breed  kept  at  our  lodge, 
that  one  evening  when  he  was  taking  a  walk 
with  our  female  servants,  Rough  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  pass  the  root  of  a  fir-tree  beside 
a  cross-road  at  some  distance.  On  examina- 
tion it  proved  that  one  of  the  domestic  kittens, 
which  had  been  given  away  in  the  neighboring 


village,  had  tried  to  find  its  way  home,  but  had 
probably  got  into  difficulties,  and  was  literally 
"up  a  tree"  mewing  pitifully  —  the  dog  and 
cat  marched  home  together  lovingly.  A  squir- 
rel .which  had  escaped  came  back  to  the  win- 
dow where  its  cage  had  stood,  and  pleaded  so 
eloquently,  by  jumping  on  a  bird-cage,  and 
trying  to  run  round  as  if  in  its  accustomed 
swing,  that  its  own  house  of  captivity  was  re- 
placed. For  several  days  it  returned,  daily 
gave  itself  a  swing,  ate  its  nuts,  and  no  attempt 
being  made  to  detain  it,  seemed  to  enjoy  the 
society  of  the  family.  It  constantly  returned, 
and  brought  with  it  various  friends  to  be  fed 
at  our  windows.  I  once  took  care  of  a  little 
spaniel  pup,  which  could  not  feed  itself.  Its 
mother  used  to  come  at  the  same  time  daily, 
to  fetch  me  from  the  house  to  the  stables, 
where  she  watched  jealously  over  the  delicate 
creature,  .suffering  no  one  but  myself  to  ap- 
proach it.  For  months  afterwards,  long  after 
my  ^poor  fragile  nursling  was  dead,  I  used  to 
fancy,  at  the  same  hour,  that  I  heard  the  low, 
appealing  cry  with  which  its  mother  used  to 
call  me  to  the  yard,  and  afterwards  her  glad 
bark,  which  I  had  not  heard  again,  when  the 
puppy  had  received  nourishment.  It  is  only 
the  voices  of  nature  which  are  never  out  of 
harmony.  Colburv't  New  Monthly  Magaxinc 


LITTELL'S  LIYING  AGE. 


Fiftli  8«riM, 
Vduit  XLIVi 


I  }  No.  2051.— October  13,  188a 


{Prom  Beginning! 
VoL  OLIZ. 


L 

II. 

IIL 

IV. 

V. 

VL 

VII. 

VIIL 

IX. 

X. 


CONTENTS. 
Politics  in  the  Lebanon,  .       .       •       •    Fortnightly  Rtview,     • 
Along  the  Silver  Streak.    Part  VIIL,  .    All  Tfu  Year  Rounds  . 
Colors  and  Cloths  of  the  Middle  Ages,    Contemporary  Review^ . 


Summer  Sport  in  Nova  Zemla, 
A  Polish  Love-Story, 
Fielding's  Bust,  • 
Some  Economic  Plants, 
Driving  Tours,    . 
The  Relief  of  Vienna, 
Faculties  of  Birds,     . 


Blackwood's  Magaune^ 
Blackwood's  MtsgasinCf 
Saturday  Review^ 
Leeds  Mercury ^     . 
Saturday  Review^ 
Times, . 

AfOMtk, 


67 

73 
83 
91 

lOI 

118 
121 

126 

127 


A  City  Pastoral, 
The  Ruin.     . 


POETRY. 

66 1  At  the  Pit-Mouth,     . 
66 1  An  Hellespont  of  Cream, 


66 
66 


C  I 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  CO.,  BOSTON 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  DoLLAits,  renuiled  iUreetfy  to  tk4  PmUuktrt,  the  Livino  Agx  will  be  ponctually  forwarded 
far  9jv»Xt/rte  ofpo»Uu[e. 

KemttUDces  thould  be  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-oflSce  money-order,  if  possible.  If  neither 
of  tliese  can  be  procured,  the  moneyshonldbe  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  postmastera  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  aok  Drafts,  checks  and  moneyKxrdera  slkoald  bo  made  payable  to  the  ordarol 
Lrrm.L&  Co. 

Siqste  Mambfln  of  Thb  LnmG  Ao^  iSoenli. 


64 


THE   RABBIT   PEST   IN   AUSTRALASIA. 


How  one  man's  poison  may  be  another 
man^s  meat  has  been  abundantly  shown  in 
Australia,  where  several  enterprising  col- 
onists have 'established  rabbit-preserving 
factories  on  so  large  a  scale  that  they  may 
well  be  described  as  rabbit-exterminators. 
In  western  Victoria  there  are  two  such 
factories — one  at  Colac,  and  another  at 
Camperdown.  The  returns  of  the  former 
for  one  week  were  eighteen  thousand 
pairs  of  rabbits,  while  in  the  same  time 
the  latter  received  ten  thousand.  Thus 
nearly  sixty  thousand  rabbits  were  dis- 
posed of  in  one  week  by  these  two  estab- 
lishments, and  one  carter  alone  received 
from  the  Colac  factory  a  cheque  for  ;£i28 
i6x.  8//.  for  six  days'  work.  This  estab- 
lishment employs  about  three  hundred 
hands  in  out-door  work  and  about  ninety 
in-doors.  Camperdown  gives  work  to  as 
many  more.  The  trappers  employed  by 
these  two  firms  range  over  an  area  of 
ground  about  seventy  miles  in  length  by 
twenty  in  width.  Yet  this  only  covers  one 
little  spot  of  the  vast  region  where  the 
irrepressible  rabbits  mock  at  the  combined 
wisdom  of  all  the  legislative  powers. 

A  very  important  ally   has,  however, 


now  been  secured,  and  great  hopes  are 
entertained  that  it  may  prove  a  more  suc- 
cessful rabbit-destroyer  than  any  hitherto 
thought  of.  This  is  the  Indian  mongoose 
{Herpestes  griseus\  which  in  the  last  tea 
years  has  done  such  good  service  in  Ja- 
maica as  a  wholesale  rat-killer.  The  rats, 
attracted  by  the  sugar-fields,  had  increased 
in  such  multitudes  as  to  threaten  the 
desolation  of  that  fertile  isle.  It  occurred 
to  one  of  the  planters  to  introduce  this 
notorious  ratter,  and  the  results  have  sur- 
passed his  highest  hopes.  These  active 
little  creatures,  resembling  large  ferrets, 
multiplied  with  extraordinary  velocity, 
and  waged  a  deadly  war  of  exterminatioa 
against  the  rats. 

It  is  hoped  that  they  may  prove  equally 
efficacious  in  the  destruction  of  rabbits, 
so  the  New  Zealand  and  Australian  gov- 
ernments have  applied  to  the  government 
of  India  for  a  supply  of  mongooses. 
These  are  accordingly  being  collected  ia 
Bengal  and  sent  to  the  Zoological  Gardens 
at  Calcutta,  whence,  when  a  hundred 
couples  have  been  secured,  they  will  be 
despatched  to  their  new  homes,  where 
we  may  well  wish  them  success. 


Animal  Intelligence,  —  One  who  knew 
nature  and  animals  well  and  loved  them  dearly, 
the  Hon.  Grantley  F.  Berkeley,  of  Alderney 
Manor,  has  told  us  that  a  little  dog  had  been 
cured  of  a  painful  malady  by  having  dropped 
into  his  eye  from  a  quill,  daily,  some  irritating 
liquid.  No  one  but  his  master  could  persuade 
him  to  submit ;  but  in  him,  Jack  bad  perfect 
confidence.  When  the  cure  was  complete,  Mr. 
Berkeley  saw  the  dog  steal  out  of  the  house, 
and,  after  looking  cautiously  round,  bury  in 
the  flower  border  the  quill  which  had  been  an 
instrument  of  wholesome  discipline;  but  the 
animal  waited  till  the  case  was  complete.  On 
another  occasion,  when  his  kind  master,  then 
an  invalid,  missed  his  slip[>ers,  it  was  found 
that  the  same  favorite  dog  had  carried  them 
and  placed  them  in  front  of  the  fire,  exactly 
where  the  servant  was  in  the  habit  of  arranging 
them.  After  that  time  this  office  was  always 
faithfully  performed  by  Jack.  A  Skye  terrier 
of  our  own,  though  not  a  lover  of  cats,  became 
so  much  attached  to  a  breed  kept  at  our  lodge, 
that  one  evening  when  he  was  taking  a  walk 
with  our  female  servants,  Rough  could  not  be 
persuaded  to  pass  the  root  of  a  fir-tree  beside 
a  cross-road  at  some  distance.  On  examina- 
tion it  proved  that  one  of  the  domestic  kittens, 
which  had  been  given  away  in  the  neighboring 


village,  had  tried  to  find  its  way  home,  but  had 
probably  got  into  difficulties,  and  was  literally 
•*up  a  tree"  mewing  pitifully  —  the  dog  and 
cat  marched  home  together  lovingly.  A  squir- 
rel which  had  escaped  came  back  to  the  win- 
dow where  its  cage  had  stood,  and  pleaded  so 
eloquently,  by  jumping  on  a  bird-cage,  and 
trying  to  run  round  as  if  in  its  accustomed 
swing,  that  its  own  house  of  captivity  was  re- 
placed. For  several  days  it  returned,  daily 
gave  itself  a  swing,  ate  its  nuts,  and  no  attempt 
being  made  to  detain  it,  seemed  to  enjoy  the 
society  of  the  family.  It  constantly  returned, 
and  brought  with  it  various  friends  to  be  fed 
at  our  windows.  I  once  took  care  of  a  little 
spaniel  pup,  which  could  not  feed  itself.  Its 
mother  used  to  come  at  the  same  time  daily, 
to  fetch  me  from  the  house  to  the  stables, 
where  she  watched  jealously  over  the  delicate 
creature,  .suffering  no  one  but  myself  to  ap- 
proach it.  For  months  afterwards,  long  after 
my  ^poor  fragile  nursling  was  dead,  I  used  to 
fancy,  at  the  same  hour,  that  I  heard  the  low, 
appealing  cry  with  which  its  mother  used  to 
call  me  to  the  yard,  and  afterwards  her  glad 
bark,  which  I  had  not  heard  again,  when  the 
puppy  had  received  nourishment.  It  is  only 
the  voices  of  nature  which  are  never  out  of 
harmony.  Colburp's  New  Monthly  Magaainc 


LITTELL'S  LIVING-  AGE. 


Fifth  BeriM, 
Yoluit  XLIV( 


.  }  No.  2051. -October  13,  188a 


5  From  B^guuiingi 
Vol.  OLIX. 


L 

11. 

IIL 

IV. 

V. 

VL 

VII. 

VIIL 

IX. 

X. 


CONTENTS. 

POLITTCS  IN  THE  LEBANON,  .        .        •        •    Fortnightly  Rofituf, 
Along  the  Silver  Streak.    Part  VIIL,  .    All  Tfu  Year  Rounds  . 
Colors  and  Cloths  of  the  Middle  Ages,    Contemporary  Review^ . 


Summer  Sport  in  Nova  Zemla, 
A  Polish  Love-Story, 
Fielding's  Bust,  • 
Some  Economic  Plants, 
Driving  Tours,    . 
The  Relief  of  Vienna, 
Faculties  of  Birds^     • 


Blackwood*  s  Magatine, 
Blackwood's  Maganne^ 
Saturday  Review^ 
Leeds  Mercury^     , 
Saturday  Review^ 
Times, . 
Month, 


67 
73 
83 
91 

lOI 

118 
121 

123 
126 
127 


A  City  Pastoral, 
The  Ruin,     .       • 


POETRY. 

66 1  At  the  Pit-Mouth,     .       , 
66 1  An  Hellespont  of  Cream, 


66 
66 


G  i 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  CO.,  BOSTON 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 
For  Eight  DoLLAits,  remitttd  direetiy  to  the  PiMuk^t,  the  Livino  Agx  will  be  ptmctoally  forwarded 

RemtttaDces  thottld  be  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-office  money-order,  if  possible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  moneyshould  be  sent  i  n  a  registered  letter.  All  poetmasten  are  obliged  to  reeister 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so^  Drafts,  checks  and  mooejNMrders  should  be  made  payable  to  the  orowol 
LiTTBLL  St  Co. 

Siogle  Numben  of  Ths  Lnrmo  Aa^  i8 1 


66 


A   CITV   PASTORAL,   ETC. 


A  CITY  PASTORAL. 
BY  JAMES  HENDRY. 

Look  down,  white  summer  moon,  look  down 
From  out  thy  place  of  starry  quiet ; 

See  !  where  the  red  lights  of  the  town 
Throb  through  the  midnight  riot 

There,  on  the  still  slope  of  the  night. 
Thy  stars  about  thee  touched  with  pallor, 

How  seems  it  from  that  deep,  calm  height, 
This  coil  of  human  squalor  ? 

Thy  soft  clear  radiance  slants  the  street, 
Sifts  down  these  dark,  unhappy  places ; 

Shines,  through  the  gas-glare  and  the  heat, 
On  haggard,  sin-grimed  faces. 

Say,  since  thy  climbing  slackens  where 

Orion  may  not  follow  after. 
Say,  dost  thou  hear  strike  on  the  air 

Shrieks,  ravelled  up  with  laughter  ? 

O  summer  moon,  how  looks  it  then, 
Seen  from  these  dusk-soft,  dreamy  levels  ? 

Doth  it  not  cross  thy  calm  that  men 
Reel,  maddened  into  devils  ? 

Nay :  though  a  woman's  shriek  yet  shrills, 

In  stifled  echoes  down  this  alley. 
Thy  white  flame  tops  the  twilight  hills 

High  in  a  northern  valley. 

Sure  it  is  peace  to  look  upon 

Thy  slow  light  sloping  down  the  passes ; 
Gleams  of  thy  going  on  grey  stone, 

With  shimmer  on  wet  grasses. 

Thy  presence  keeps  the  quiet  sky ; 

Thy  glimmered  light  goes  on  the  meadows, 
Where  drowsv  sheep  together  lie 

Silent  beside  their  shadows. 

So,  while  the  valley  seems  to  swim 

Spacious  beneath  thy  loosened  splendor, 

There  spreads  a  sound  of  evening  hymn. 
Treble,  and  clear,  and  tender. 

With  children's  voices;  and  the  song 

Is  that  old  Galilean  story 
Which  Bethlehem*s  shepherds  heard  the  throng 

Chant,  in  the  sudden  glory. 

"Peace  and  good-will  o'er  all  the  earth" 
Along  the  moon-lit  slope  is  drifted, 

By  voices  at  a  cotter's  hearth, 
On  northern  hills,  uplifted. 

And  thou  art  heret  white  summer  moon, 

Radiant  above  this  city*s  riot ; 
Thou  who  hast  heard  the  children's  tune 

Drift  on  that  valley's  quiet 

Good  Words. 


THE  RUIN. 


Where  now  o'er  crumbling  walls  clouds  sail 

along. 
Through  yonder  time-touched  arch  no  splendor 

glows, 
Its  stone-spun  frame  the  shelt'ring  hills  en- 
close. 
Those    mournful    shafts,    enclasp'd   by   ivies 

strong, 
When  echoed  they  the  final  strong-voiced  song. 
Or  mutely  witness'd  sacrilegious  blows  ? 
'Twixt  earth  and  sky  I  see  the  dwindled  men 
Working  for  God ;  beneath,  the  master-mind. 
Whose  boundless  artist-soul  no  creed  can  bind* 
Planning  undying  fame  with  rule  and  pen. 
His  tonnl)  lies  shadow'd  by  yon  buttress  gray : 
Go,  muse  how  men,  and  all  men's  words,  de- 
cay. 
Specutor.  W.  H.  Harper. 


AT  THE  PIT-MOUTH. 

'Neath  yon  bleak  hills  that  spread  across  the 

shire, 
Like  earth-waves  heaved  by  some  convulsion 

strong,  — 
Where  shrubs  refrain  from  flower  and  birds 

from  song. 
And  daily  riseth  smoke,  and  nightly  fire, 
And  burrowers  in  the  blackness  never  tire, — 
In  the  mine's  jagged  pathways  sleeps  a  throng 
O'er  whose  prone  bodies  Death  hath  swept 

along. 
While  at  the  pit-mouth  roars  their  funeral 

pyre. 

Grind  with  thine  heel  yon  ant-hill ;  crush  their 

town. 
And,  stooping,  mark  swift  journeyings  to  and 

fro. 
Why  doth  the  Unseen  deal  so  fierce  a  blow. 
Strives  he  in  doubt's  dark  sea  our  faith  to 

drown  ? 
O  preacher  1  quoting  texts  with  soothing  zest, 
Whispered  yon  emmets :  "All  is  for  the  best "  ? 
Specutor.  W.  H.   HaRPER. 


Before  my  mind  an  old-world  vision  grows,  ^ 
Dim  aisles,  bright  altars,  priests,  a  rev'rent 
thrpng,  — 


AN  HELLESPONT  OF  CREAM. 

If  there  were,  O  I  an  Hellespont  of  cream 
Between  us,  milk-white  Mistress,  I  would  swim 
To  you,  to  show  to  both  my  love's  extreme, 
Leander-like,  —  yea,  dive  from  brim  to  brim. 
But  met  I  with  a  butter'd  pippin-pie 
Floating  upon't,  that  would  I  make  my  boat. 
To  waft  me  to  you  without  jeopardy : 
Though  sea-sick  I  might  be  while  it  did  float 
Yet  ifa  storm  should  rise,  by  night  or  day. 
Of  sugar  snows  or  hail  of  care-aways. 
Then  if  I  found  a  pancake  in  my  way. 
It  like  a  plank  should  bear  me  to  your  quays, 
Which  having  found,  if  they  tobacco  kept. 
The  smoke  should  dry  me  well  before  I  slept 
An  Old  Sonnet.    John  Davies  of  Her^rd. 


POLITICS  IN   THE   LEBANON. 


67 


From  The  Fortnightly  Reriew. 
POLITICS   IN  THE  LEBANON. 

The  attitude  assumed  by  France,  in 
regard  to  the  recent  appointment  of  a 
successor  to  Rustem  Pasha  as  g^overnor- 
general  of  the  Lebanon,  has  differed  so 
widely  from  that  of  the  other  five  Euro- 
pean powers  who  are  co-signatory  with  her 
to  the  Riglement  du  Liban,  that  she  can 
scarcely  be  surprised  if  the  nature  of  her 
pretensions  in  that  province  are  exam- 
ined, or  the  methods  to  which  she  has 
resorted  in  order  to  sustain  them  are  criti- 
cised. Indeed,  the  blatant  character  of 
her  diplomacy  would  almost  lead  one  to 
suppose  that  it  was  designed  to  court  in- 
quiry, and  to  challenge  criticism,  were  it 
not  that  another  more  obvious,  though 
scarcely  more  reasonable,  motive  is  easy 
to  find.  After  the  Egyptian  fiasco,  the 
amour propre  of  the  nation  required  sat- 
isfaction, not  merely  in  the  remote  and 
inaccessible  parts  of  the  world  in  which 
it  is  now  being  sought,  but  especially  in 
that  Turkish  province,  contiguous  to 
Egypt,  to  which  some  of  the  most  cher- 
ished traditions  of  French  policy  have  at- 
tached ever  since  the  days  of  the  Crusades 
and  King  Louis  of  saintly  memory.  Par^ 
tant  pour  la  Syrie^  though  Napoleonic, 
is  an  air  which  never  fails  to  find  a  re- 
sponse in  the  breasts  of  the  most  rabid 
republicans,  just  as  the  most  ardent  per- 
secutors of  the  faith  in  France  become  its 
most  devout  champions  in  the  Lebanon, 
and  the  identical  monks  whom  they  have 
violently  expelled  from  their  monasteries 
at  home  are  feted  and  honored  by  the 
officials  of  the  government  which  ejected 
them,  so  soon  as  they  have  transferred 
their  obnoxious  personalities  to  those 
religious  retreats  which  contribute  their 
picturesque  interest  to  the  wild  valleys  of 
**the  Mountain."  Questions  of  religion 
and  dynastic  prejudices  fade  alike  from 
the  Gallic  mind  before  the  absorbing  fas- 
cination of  the  predominant  influence  of 
France  in  Syria;  but  in  order  to  arouse 
the  national  enthusiasm,  a  no\&y /an/are 
of  political  and  diplomatic  trumpets  is 
necessary.  Hence  it  was  that,  in  April 
last,  the  Marquis  de  Noailles  was  in- 
structed to  inform  the  Porte  that,  unless 
on  the  24th  of  that  month,  which  was  the 


day  on  which  Rustem  Pasha's  term  of 
office  expired,  that  functionary  did  not 
leave  the  country  —  the  government  of  the 
province  being  put  in  commission  until 
his  successor  was  appointed  —  the  French 
government  would  seriously  consider  the 
expediency  of  a  rupture  of  diplomatic  rela- 
tions. 

The  fact  that  this  was  a  pure  piece  of 
bounce,  which  the  Porte  treated  with  con- 
temptuous indifference  by  continuing 
Rustem  Pasha  in  his  governorship  until 
the  6th  of  the  following  June,  naturally 
did  not  strike  the  French  imagination  so 
much  as  the  threat  itself.  It  was  a  public 
announcement  on  behalf  of  the  republic 
to  all  Europe  that  it  exercised  rights  and 
enjoyed  privileges  in  Syria  which  the 
other  co-signatory  powers  did  not,  and  it 
called  attention  to  the  fact  that  circum- 
stances might  arise  when  France  would 
be  prepared  to  go  to  war  in  defence  of 
those  rights  and  privileges.  .  Coming  after 
the  virtual  extinction  of  her  influence  in 
Egypt,  it  was  a  decided  relief  to  have  let 
of{  this  political  firework,  and  it  was  suffi- 
ciently applauded  by  the  nation  to  inspire 
a  certain  amount  of  confidence  in  the  gov- 
ernment There  was  another  public, 
however,  upon  whom  this  announcement 
was  calculated  to  produce  a  powerful 
effect,  and  this  was  none  other  than  that 
of  Syria  itself.  For  years  past  the  French 
diplomatic  representatives  in  the  Lebanon 
had  been  exciting  the  popular  mind, 
through  clerical  agents  under  their  con- 
trol, to  look  forward  to  the  expiry  of  Rus- 
tem Pasha's  term  of  office  as  to  the  in- 
auguration of  a  new  era,  when  Maronite 
predominance  would  be  secured,  and 
when  the  governor-general,  who  would  be 
a  French  nominee,  would  be  their  willing 
instrument;  and  with  a  singular  lack  of 
adroitness  they  contrived  so  to  narrow  the 
issue  between  Rustem  Pasha  and  his 
traducers,  that  the  justification  of  the 
former,  or  the  triumph  of  the  latter, 
hinged  entirely  upon  the  man  who  should 
finally  be  forced  by  France  upon  the  Porte 
for  the  appointment.  In  other  words, 
Rustem  Pasha  had  represented  the  prin- 
ciple of  impartial  and  just  administration, 
and  had  steadily  resisted  the  Maronite 
pretensions  backed  by  France,  where  they 


68 


POLITICS   IN  THE   LEBANON. 


were  contrary  to  the  R}glemenU  The 
appointment  of  a  nominee  of  France 
meant  the  defeat  of  the  sultan  himself  in 
the  person  of  his  governor-general ;  it 
meant  the  dismissal  of  every  one  of  the 
officials  who  had  served  under  him;  it 
meant  the  complete  reversal  of  his  policy, 
and  the  transference  of  the  supreme  au- 
thority of  the  Lebanon  into  the  hands  of 
the  French  consul-general  and  two  or 
three  Maronite  bishops. 

When  the  bold  announcement  was 
made  that  France  would  insist  upon  Rus- 
tem  Pasha's  retirement  on  the  day  his 
term  of  office  expired,  the  clerical  party 
considered  the  victory  won,  and  were  only 
prevented  from  celebrating  it  with  insult- 
ing manifestations  by  the  determined 
attitude  of  the  pasha,  who  gave  them  to 
understand  that  so  long  as  he  remained 
in  power  he  would  not  shrink  from  the 
most  uncompromising  exercise  of  his  au- 
thority. 

As  time  went  on  and  the  emptiness  of 
the  French  threat  became  apparent,  a  se- 
cret uneasiness  took  possession  of  the 
minds  of  those  who  had  pinned  their  faith 
to  its  fulfilment,  and  when  Nasri  Bey,  the 
French  candidate,  was  unceremoniously 
thrust  aside  by  the  Porte,  with  the  con- 
sent of  the  powers,  as  one  utterly  disqual- 
ified by  inherent  incapacity  for  so  impor- 
tant a  position,  no  less  than  by  his  well- 
known  ultra-clerical  tendencies,  French 
influence  received  a  blow  which  might 
have  been  avoided,  had  a  less  ostenta- 
tious attitude  at  the  outset  been  assumed 
at  Constantinople,  had  a  more  reasonable 
candidate  been  proposed,  and  had  the 
expectations  of  the  Maronite  clergy  not 
been  unduly  worked  up  by  a  long  course 
of  intrigue  which  it  was  evident .  might 
DOW  recoil  upon  themselves.  For  it  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  the  Turkish  gov- 
ernment was  ignorant  of  the  nature  of  the 
clerical  campaign  which  had  been  entered 
upon  by  certain  Maronite  bishops  at 
French  instigation  against  Rustem  Pasha, 
or  of  the  activity  which  had  recently  been 
exhibited  by  accredited  agents  in  Syria. 
It  was  perfectly  well  known  that  the  ob- 
ject of  Major  de  Torcy*s  mission  to  that 
country  three  years  ago  had  been  to  ob- 
tain  from  the  Metanalis  and  Ansaryiis, 


numbering  together  about  four  hundred 
thousand  souls,  a  petition  to  come  under 
French  protection;  that  this  officer, 
through  a  major  in  the  French  army,  trav- 
elled in  the  uniform  of  a  Turkish  mushir, 
or  full  general,  thus  imposing  upon  the 
country  people,  and  claiming  for  himself 
honors  corresponding  to  his  supposed 
rank  from  caimakanys  and  small  ignorant 
local  officials.  This  mission  was  fol- 
lowed, eighteen  months  ago,  by  the 
French  consul-general,  who  entertained 
the  Metanali  chiefs,  and  openly  prom- 
ised them  the  support  of  France  under 
certain  contingencies.  Since  then,  in 
order  to  discredit  Rustem  Pasha's  gov- 
ernment, both  Maronites  and  Metanalis 
in  different  parts  of  the  country,  sure  of 
French  protection,  organized  themselves 
into  brigand  bands,  and  the  French  news- 
papers contained  telegrams  from  Syria, 
dwelling  upon  the  disturbed  state  of  the 
country,  and  containing  the  most  exag- 
gerated and  utterly  false  accounts  of  the 
terror  which  reigned  among  the  Chris- 
tians. Fortunately  neither  Rustem  Pasha 
nor  Hamdi  Pasha,  the  vali  at  Damascus, 
were  men  to  be  trifled  with,  and  so  far, 
the  policy  which  suceeded  so  well  with 
Russia  in  Bulgaria,  and  with  the  Kroa- 
mirs  in  Tunis,  and  which  is  again  being 
attempted  by  the  Russians  in  Armenia, 
has  failed  signally. 

In  the  face  of  these  undisguised  in- 
trigues, and  of  the  pronounced  and  dimly 
veiled  efforts  which  are  being  made  at 
the  present  time  by  France  in  Syria  to 
impress  upon  the  population  of  all  reli- 
gions that  the  manifest  destiny  of  the 
country  is  its  ultimate  annexation  to  the 
republic,  it  was  not  unnatural  that  the 
personality  of  the  successor  to  Rustem 
Pasha  should  be  a  matter  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  the  sultan.  There  was  one 
man  in  the  Turkish  government  service 
who,  while  he  was  eligible  as  being  a 
Christian,  had  earned  a  character  for  loy- 
alty and  for  a*  stern  and  uncompromising 
impartiality  in  former  important  adminis- 
trative posts  which  eminently  qualified 
him  for  the  position  now  vacant ;  a  man, 
moreover,  of  tried  courage,  and  of  a  liter- 
ary and  intellectual  capacity  rare  among 
Turkish  officials.    This  man  was  Wassa 


POLITICS   IN   THE   LEBANON. 


Pasha,  a  Catholic  Albanian,  who  was  se- 
lected for  the  post  from  the  first,  though 
be  was  not  put  forward  until  the  patience 
of  the  powers  was  exhausted  by  a  series 
of  impossible  candidates,  and  the  nomina- 
tion of  Strecker  Pasha,  a  German,  alarmed 
the  French  into  a  hurried  acquiescence. 
Moreover,  the  delay  which  had  already 
been  protracted  over  six  weeks,  during 
which  time  Rustem  Pasha  had  continued 
to  rule  in  spite  of  the  threat  of  the  French 
ambassador  at  Constantinople,  was  daily 
weakening  the  French  position  in  the 
Lebanon,  and  an  attempt  to  induce  the 
Porte  to  reduce  the  term  of  office  from 
ten  years  to  three  proved  fruitless,  and  the 
only  alternative  now  was  to  appear  satis- 
fied with  the  new  appointment  and  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  It  was  still  possible 
that  the  new  governor-general  might  be 
open  to  blandishments,  and  might  be  cap- 
tured by  official  compliments  and  soft 
sawder.  The  consequence  was  that,  at 
five  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  6th  of 
June,  the  inhabitants  of  Beyrout  were 
awakened  out  of  their  slumbers  by  a  sa- 
lute of  twenty-one  guns,  an  hour  when, 
according  to  all  naval  regulations,  salutes 
are  never  fired,  and  they  were  still  more 
surprised  to  find  that  the  one  in  question 
proceeded  from  a  French  frigate,  in  honor 
of  the  steamer  which  was  then  entering 
the  harbor  with  Wassa  Pasha  on  board. 
As  if  still  more  to  accentuate  this  effusive 
welcome  to  a  Turkish  official  in  Turkish 
waters,  coming  to  assume  a  local  official 
position  to  which  he  had  been  named  by 
his  sovereign,  the  captain  of  the  frigate 
placed  his  launch  at  the  disposal  of  the 
governor-general  and  endeavored  to  per- 
suade him  to  make  his  state  landing  in  it. 
This  offer  was  politely  refused,  and  Was- 
sa Pasha  landed  in  a  proper  manner  two 
hours  afterwards,  under  a  salute  of  nine- 
teen guns  from  the  Turkish  battery.  In 
the  evening,  the  French  frigate  illumi- 
nated in  honor  of  the  joyful  occasion. 
Meantime  the  clerical  pafty  ha*d  been 
privately  warned  to  be  moderate  in  their 
attitude,  and  not  to  make  any  of  the  de- 
mands with  which  it  was  intended  to  as- 
sail the  new-comer,  had  he  been,  as  was 
fondly  hoped,  a  more  pliable  person. 
These  consisted  in,  first,  the  dismissal  of 


69 

all  the  persons  who  had  formed  Rustem 
Pasha's  administration ;  a  clean  sweep  of 
officials  who  had  rendered  themselves 
obnoxious  during  the  term  of  Rustem 
Pasha*s  able  and  impartial  government, 
was  the  prime  essential  to  the  inaugura- 
tion of  the  new  rifrime  which  had  been 
provisional  for  so  many  months.  But 
this  demand,  together  with  others  which 
should  advance  the  policy  of  France,  was 
to  be  postponed  until  the  new-comer 
should  declare  himself.  This  he  promptly 
proceeded  to  do,  in  terms  which  were 
calculated  utterly  to  extinguish  whatever 
sparks  of  hope  were  still  slumbering  in 
the  clerical  breast.  To  the  deputations 
of  all  sects  and  classes,  to  Druse  chiefs, 
to  Metanali  sheikhs,  to  orthodox  priests 
and  Maronite  bishops,  Wassa  Pasha  held 
only  one  language,  and  boldly  pronounced 
his  intention — first,  of  respecting  the 
sovereign  rights  of  the  sultan,  and  caus- 
ing them  to  be  respected;  secondly,  of 
adhering  strictly  to  the  letter  of  the  ^^- 
glement^  which  he  was  bound  to  follow; 
thirdly,  of  applying  to  the  administration 
of  justice  and  the  government  of  the  peo- 
ple generally  the  principles  of  an  absolute 
equality  of  rights,  and  of  perfect  and 
uncompromising  impartiality  to  all  nation- 
alities and  religious  sects;  and,  fourthly 
—  but  this  was  a  hint  delicately  conveyed 
^  he  announced  his  intention  of  govern- 
ing himself,  and  of  not  allowing  himself 
to  be  governed  by  anybody  else. 

It  will  be  seen  from  the  foregoing  sum- 
mary of  the  record  of  the  last  four  months 
that  France  makes  no  secret  of  her  politi- 
cal designs  on  Syria;  that,  in  fact,  partly 
to  satisfy  the  national  amour  propre  at 
home,  and  partly  to  increase  her  influence 
in  the  Lebanon,  she  has  ostentatiously 
called  public  attention  to  them  by  claim- 
ing a  position  in  regard  to  that  country 
which  differs  from  that  of  the  other  co- 
signatory European  powers,  and  by  insist- 
ing that  the  Porte  should  recognize  her 
right  to  assume  this  distinctive  attitude. 
Indeed,  so  little  have  her  pretensions 
been  disputed  that  many  people  are  under 
the  impression  that  special  privileges 
were  secured  to  her  in  the  Rlglement  du 
Libatiy  or  some  other  international  docu- 
ment, and  that  she  has  some  legal  basts 


70 


POLITICS  IN  THE  LEBANON. 


to  stand  upoD  in    ber    late  determined 
efiEorts  to  extend  her  protecting  aegis  over 
the  various  sects  and    races    in    Syria. 
But  no  mention  is  made  of  France  in  this 
document,  and  the  only  protection  which 
it  is  admitted  by  Europe  that  she  has  a 
right  to  exercise  in  the  countrv  is  of  a 
purely  religious  character,  and  has  refer- 
ence to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  and  to 
the  Latin  monasteries  and  holy  places  in 
Syria  and  Palestine.     If  Roman  Catholic 
priests  of  any  nationality  have  cause  of 
complaint  against  the  Turkish  officials,  it 
is  not  to  the  consular  agents  of  their 
country,  but  to  those  of  France  that  they 
appeal,  and  it  is  the  French  consul  who 
comes  to  the  rescue  when  Turkish  sub- 
jects, if  they  happen  to  be  Roman  Catho- 
lics, are  hindered  in  the  exercise  of  their 
religion.     But  the  fact  that  an  Arab  or  a 
Syrian  happens  to  be  a  Roman  Catholic 
does  not  give  him  a  right  to  French  pro- 
tection, except  where  matters  of  his  reli- 
gion   are    concerned ;    indeed,    strictly 
speaking,  the  French  authorities   would 
have  no  right  to  interfere  unless  such 
interference  was  either  sanctioned  or  ap- 
plied for  by  the  papal  delegate.    The  func- 
tions of  the  papal  delegate  are  to  watch 
over  the  interests  of  all  Christian  sects 
owning  spiritual  allegiance  to  the  pope. 
And  outside  of  those  sects,  and  of  the 
purely  religious   matters  which   concern 
them,  France  has  no  rights  of  protection 
whatever.     It  is,  therefore,  to  the  papal 
delegate  that  the  governor-general  natu- 
rally appeals  in  all    cases    of    religious 
dispute  between  Christian  sects  owning 
allegiance  to  the  pope ;  and  where  that 
functionary  does  not  consider  the  interests 
of  his  religion  in  peril,  there  can  be  no 
excuse  for  any  action  on    the   part   of 
France.     This  is  a  position  which  is  not 
only  extremely  embarrassing  to  a  repub- 
lican government  which  violently  repudi- 
ates at  home  the  religion  it  so  exclusively 
champions  abroad,  but  it  has  the  effect 
politically  of  limiting  the  scope  of  its  in- 
fluence.    The  effort,  therefore,  of  late 
vears  on  the  part  of  French  officials  has 
been  to  transform  this  religious  protecto- 
rate into  a  political  one,  and  extend  it 
over  as   many  of  the  communities  and 
sects  which  compose  the  population  of 
the  country  as  possible. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  so  com- 
plete a  transformation  of  the  character  of 
the  French  protectorate  in  Syria  should 
be  viewed  with  dislike  at  Rome,  and  that 
unanimity  of  sentiment  becomes  impossi- 
ble between  the  papal  delegate  in  the 
Lebanon  and  the  French  consul-general ; 


the  more  especially  as  in  all  matters  of 
dispute  between  the   Maronite    bishops 
and  the  papal  delegate,  the  former  have  of 
late  invariably  been  supported  by  France 
in  their  insubordination  to  papal  authority. 
Among  the  higher  Maronite  clergy,  two 
bishops  have  made  themselves  especially 
conspicuous   by  their  opposition   to  the 
late  governor-general,  and    by  their  in- 
trigues against  his  authority.      Both  of 
these  have  at  different  times  refused  to 
acknowledge  the  authority  of  Rome  in  re- 
ligious questions,  generally  arising  out  of 
mixed   marriages,  and    which    were    re- 
ferred  by  the   governor-general    to    the 
papal  delegate  for  decision.      And  their 
grievance  and  that  of  the  clerical  party 
who  adhere    to    them    against    Rustem 
Pasha,  was  that  he  supported   the  deci- 
sion of  the  delegate  against  the  bishops. 
When    France   was  under  the  Catholic 
rigime  of  McMahon,  this  conduct  on  the 
part  of  the  governor-general  gave  no  of- 
fence; but  since  it  has  been  succeeded 
by  a  free-thinking  Cabinet  the  tendency 
of  French  policy  has  been  to  encourage 
the  Maronites  in  their  attitude  of  insubor- 
dination to  Rome,  with  a  view  to  chang- 
ing the  purely  religious  character  of  the 
protectorate,  which  is  limited  in  its  scope 
and  embarrassing  from  its  inconsistency, 
into  a  political  one;  and  now  that  Mos- 
lem heretical  sects  share  the  honors  of 
this    protectorate    with    Maronites     and 
Melchites,  it  is  evident  that  the  pope  and 
his  delegate  regard  the  attitude  recently 
assumed  by  France  in  this  country  with 
almost  as   much  disfavor  as  the  sultan 
himself.    The  Latin  Church  has  become 
aware  that  its  interests  are  protected  by  a 
power  treacherous  and  fundamentally  hos- 
tile to  it,  and  which  only  seeks  to  exploiter 
ecclesiastical  insubordination  to  its  own 
political  ends.    As,  in  a  population  of  two 
hundred  thousand  Maronites,  there  are  no 
fewer  than  eighty-two  convents  containing 
over  two  thousand  monks  and  nuns,  a 
mutiny  has  a  large  field  to  work  in,  and 
the  result  has  been  that  among  the  Maro- 
nite clergy  and  people  there  are  two,  if  not 
three  parties;  there  are,  first,  the  active 
leaders  who  rely  upon  the   French  aad 
rebel  against  the  authority  both  of  the 
pope  and  the  sultan,  who  aim  at  complete 
political  control  of  the  Lebanon,  and  who 
are  at  the  head  of  the  ecelesiastical  hie- 
rarchy.   Secondly,  the  clerical  party,  who 
desire  to  retain  an  attitude  of  entire  sub- 
mission to  Rome,  who  were  perfectly  sat- 
isfied with  the  rule  of  Rustem  Pasha;  and 
thirdly,  the  Maronite  peasantry,  who  only 
desire    peace    and   prosperity,  and  whc 


POLITICS   IN  THE  LEBANON. 


7« 


were  also  entirely  satisfied  with  the  ad- 
ministratioQ  of  the  late  ^overnor-geoeral 
becaase  he  protected  them  against  exac- 
tion, not  to  say  robbery,  by  their  own 
clergy.  The  system  of  sending  a  sick 
man's  relations  out  of  the  room  when  he 
was  iH  extremis^  and  then  forging  a  will 
by  which  he  left  all  his  property  to  the 
Church,  was  one  which  Rustem  Pasha  set 
his  face  against.  Again,  the  payment  of 
bribes  to  bishops  in  cases  of  lawsuits  in 
order  that  the  judges  might  be  influenced 
by  spiritual  authority  to  give  the  decision 
in  favor  of  the  briber,  and  many  other 
abases  of  a  like  nature,  which  had  the 
efiFect  of  seriously  diminishing  episcopal 
iocomes,  were  put  a  stop  to  by  Rustem 
Pasha,  who  thereby  gained  the  good-will 
of  the  Maronite  peasantry,  whose  silence 
during  the  more  recent  period  has  been 
the  result  of  fear  lest  their  ecclesiastical 
rulers  backed  by  France  should  triumph, 
and  their  last  state  should  be  worse  than 
their  first,  if  thev  did  not  make  to  them- 
selves friends  ot  the  mammon  of  episco- 
pacy. That  the  papal  delegate,  in  his 
e£fort  to  bring  order  into  such  a  Church, 
should  find  his  ally  rather  in  the  Turkish 
governor-general,  when  the  latter  is  an 
honest  roan,  than  in  the  Maronite  bishops 
and  their  French  backers,  is  only  natural. 
That  a  government  which  believes  in  noth- 
ing should  lend  the  weight  of  its  political 
influence  and  national  prestige  to  encour- 
age insubordination  against  the  Church 
which  it  is  bound  to  protect,  is  more  logi- 
cal than  to  protect  the  Church  in  which 
it  disbelieves,  and  the  political  iour  de 
force  in  which  France  is  now  engaged  in 
Syria  is  to  effect  her  escape  from  a  posi- 
tion which  is  alike  false  morally  and  un- 
profitable materially,  and  exchange  it  for 
one  which,  if  it  is  internationally  illegal, 
is  less  hypocritical,  and  may  be  turned  to 
most  profitable  account  materially. 

It  cannot  be  too  often  pointed  out  that 
the  interests  of  the  Maronite  episcopal 
clique,  supported  by  France,  are  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  the  interests  of  the 
Church  of  Rome,  as  well  as  to  those  of  the 
entire  population  of  Lebanon.  It  is  sim- 
ply an  attempt  on  the  part  of  an  ambitious 
clerical  oligarchy  to  govern  a  country  con- 
taining seven  dinerent  sects  autocratically 
for  their  own  political  and  pecuniary  ben- 
efit, without  any  regard  to  justice,  or  to 
the  rights  of  either  of  those  other  sects,  or 
of  their  own  priest-ridden  population,  from 
which  at  the  present  day  they  squeeze  an 
admitted  annual  revenue  of  ^ 70,000  ster- 
lingyto  say  nothing  of  clerical  perquisites, 
the  amount  of  which  no  man  can  tell. 


Not  long  since  France  increased  her  sub- 
sidy  to  the  Maronite  Church  by  fifty 
thousand  francs  annually  —  merely  as  a 
mark  of  sympathy  and  good-will,  for  infi- 
del republics  cannot  afford  large  donations 
for  clerical  purposes.  It  is  evident  that  if 
the  rule  of  the  Maronite  bishops  became 
supreme  —  in  other  words,  if  a  governor- 
general  like  Nasri  Bey,  who  was  their  nom- 
inee, had  been  appointed  —  an  outbreak 
among  the  other  sects  would  have  been 
inevitable.  Neither  the  Druses,  the  Mos- 
lems, nor  the  Orthodox  Greek  could  have 
tolerated  the  persecution  to  which  they 
would  in  that  case  have  been  subjected; 
nor  will  they  tolerate  it,  should  the  apathy 
of  Europe  ever  allow  the  present  policy 
of  France  to  succeed  in  the  Lebanon. 
The  day  that  a  governor-general  rules 
that  province  at  the  behest  of  the  Maro- 
nite bishops  under  the  instigation  and 
segis  of  France,  another  massacre  will 
occur  like  that  of  i860,  when  fourteen 
thousand  Christians  perished,  and  which 
originated  in  the  aggression  of  the  Maro- 
nites  upon  the  Druses. 

At  present  the  peasant  population  of 
the  Lebanon  live  in  peace  and  harmony ; 
there  is  no  ill-feeling  among  them  ;  there 
is  no  reason  why  law  and  order  should  be 
disturbed,  or  why  the  country  should  not 
go  on  prospering  during  the  ten  years  to 
come  as  it  has  during  the  ten  that  have 
gone  by.  That  all  classes  of  the  popula- 
tion, except  the  small  but  influential  clique 
of  clerical  ambitieux  already  alluded  to, 
were  thoroughly  satisfied  with  Rustem 
Pasha's  administration  is  evident  from 
the  series  of  ovations  which  have  been 
showered  upon  him  during  the  last  weeks 
of  his  stay  in  the  country,  and  especiallv 
now  that  they  dare  express  their  real  feel- 
ings, on  the  part  of  that  very  Maronite 
population  amongst  whom  he  was  sup- 

Cosed  to  be  most  unpopular.  Never 
efore  has  a  governor-general  left  the 
country  with  such  overpowering  evidences 
of  a  widespread  and  well-deserved  popu- 
laritv.  All  classes  and  all  religions  have 
combined  to  do  him  honor,  and  to  bear 
testimony  to  the  success  of  an  adminis- 
tration which  had  for  its  most  salient 
feature  the  exile  from  the  country  of  the 
episcopal  ringleader  of  the  clerical  fac- 
tion—  the  man  who,  since  his  return  to 
the  country,  has  been  more  honored  and 
saluted  by  the  French  than  any  other 
bishop  in  the  country.  It  was  impossible 
not  to  perceive  in  these  cordial  demon- 
strations in  favor  of  Rustem  Pasha  a 
protest  against  Maronite  supremacy  un- 
der French  auspices,  and  a  hint  to  his 


72 


POLITICS   IN  THE   LEBANON. 


saccessor  that  the  policy  which  would 
find  most  support  in  the  country  would 
be  the  continuation  of  that  which  the 
French  government  have  so  loudly,  so 
bitterly,  and  so  vainly  complained  against. 
If  Europe,  and  more  especially  England, 
clearly  understood  that  the  triumph  of 
French  policy  in  Svria  meant  Maronite 
supremacy  in  the  Lebanon,  and  that  Maro* 
nite  supremacy  in  the  Lebanon  meant  a 
massacre  of  Cfhristians  which  should  af- 
ford the  desired  excuse  for  French  military 
intervention,  and  the  subsequent  occupa- 
tion and  6nal  annexation  of  the  country 
from  Carmel  to  Aleppo,  they  would  watch 
more  narrowly  the  political  progress  of 
events  in  that  country  than  they  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  doing.  It  is  significant 
that  the  one  European  power  which  has 
shown  some  sign  of  life  on  the  subject  is 
Russia.  A  diplomatic  note  has  just  been 
handed  to  the  Porte  by  the  Russian  gov- 
ernment upon  the  affairs  of  the  Lebanon, 
calling  attention  to  four  points,  in  regard 
to  which  it  alleged  that  the  R^glement 
has  been  infringed  by  the  Ottoman  au- 
thorities. Although  these  are  of  minor 
importance,  and  can  be  explained  as  de- 
viations from  the  strict  letter  of  the  law 
which^have  been  forced  upon  successive 
governors  as  matters  of  convenience, 
while  they  in  no  way  affect  the  principle 
of  the  Rlglement^  or  work  injustice  or 
injury  to  any  one,  it  is  significant  that, 
after  having  tolerated  them  in  silence  for 
so  long,  Russia  should  have  chosen  this 
critical  moment  for  bringing  them  for- 
ward. 

It  will  be  a  subject  for  British  dipio-, 
macy  to  decide  under  what  inspiration 
this  action  has  been  suggested ;  whether 
it  is  the  result  of  an  agreement  with 
France,  which  includes  both  the  Arme- 
nian and  Syrian  questions,  under  which 
Russia  is  to  allow  France  perfect  freedom 
in  the  prosecution  of  her  designs  in  Syria, 
on  condition  that  Russia  meets  with  no 
opposition  in  the  annexation  of  Armenia, 
and  the  advance  of  her  eastern  frontier 
almost  to  the  confines  of  Syria.  In  that 
case  it  must  be  as  an  evidence  of  her  will- 
ingness to  assist  France  in  the  Lebanon, 
that  she  has  handed  in  a  note  of  her  com- 
plaints in  regard  to  the  present  mode  of 
administering  the  province  which  should 
break  the  unanimitv  which  has  hitherto 
existed  betwen  all  the  powers,  excepting 
France,  on  the  subject,  and  strengthen 
the  position  of  the  latter  power  bv  reliev- 
ing her  from  that  attitude  of  isolation 
which  constituted  her  weakness;  or  this 
note  may  have  been  conceived  in  a  sense 


altogether  hostile  to  France,  as  a  re- 
minder on  the  part  of  Russia  that  she 
also  has  an  important  Christian  Church 
—  the  Greek  orthodox  —  of  which  she  is 
the  recognized  protector,  which  counts  a 
large  number  of  adherents  in  the  Leb- 
anon, but  the  members  of  which  find 
themselves  in  a  state  of  perpetual  antago- 
nism to  the  Maronites,  and  who  would 
undoubtedly  be  subjected  to  persecution 
and  injustice  should  Jhe  policy  of  France 
triumph.  Indeed,  one  of  the  points  o£ 
complaint  in  the  note  is  the  partiality 
shown  to  the  Maronites  in  certain  ad- 
ministrative appointments,  which,  consid- 
ering that  the  French  complain  of  the 
injustices  heaped  upon  them  by  the  late 
governor-general,  forms  a  singular  com- 
mentary on  the  general  situation.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  members  of  the  Greek 
orthodox  community  were  amongst  the 
most  enthusiastic  of  Rustem  Pasha's  sup- 
porters. Whatever  may  have  been  the 
exciting  causes  of  this  note,  whether  it  is 
meant  as  a  reminder  to  France  that  Rus- 
sia has  interests  in  Syria,  and  a  policy  IQ 
that  country,  and  ulterior  designs  upon  it, 
or  whether  it  is  the  result  of  an  under- 
standing with  France,  and  intended  as  a 
support  to  her  in  her  complaints  of  Leb- 
anon mal-administration,  its  appearance 
at  this  juncture  is  in  the  highest  degree 
significant.  It  means  something,  and 
the  manner  of  the  development  of  the 
whole  Eastern  question  turns  upon  what 
it  means. 

It  is  of  vital  interest,  not  only  to  En- 
gland but  to  all  Europe,  to  know  whether 
this  appropriation  of  territory  is  to  take 
place  under  an  amicable  arrangement 
which  is  being  entered  into  between  the 
two  powers,  or  whether  they  are  going  to 
fight  over  their  spoils.  In  the  former 
case  it  is  possible  that,  with  Russia  at  her 
back,  France  may  seek  to  recover  the 
prestige  which  she  has  lost  during  the  last 
two  months,  and  escape  from  the  humili- 
ating position  in  which  she  has  been 
placed  bv  the  egregious  failure  of  her  pol- 
icy, by  forcing  on  a  crisis  with  as  little 
delay  as  possible.  If  Wassa  Pasha  car- 
ries out  his  declared  intention  of  govern- 
ing independently,  and  upon  principles  o£ 
justice  and  equality  to  all  races  and  reli- 
gions, the  position  of  the  Maronite  epis- 
copacy, who  have  swaggered  so  much  in 
anticipation,  will  soon  become  unbearable, 
while  that  of  France,  by  whom  they  have 
been  compromised,  will  be  no  less  intoler- 
able. Under  these  circumstances  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at  if  the  exigencies  of 
the  situation  should  force  her  to  seek  an 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


73 


alliance  with  Russia,  and  that  the  two 
qaestions  of  Armenia  and  Syria  may  arise 
simultaneously.  Whatever  apathy  in  re- 
gard to  the  fate  of  Armenia  may  reign  in 
England,  it  is  not  likely  that  the  country 
will  be  indifferent  to  the  destiny  of  Syria 
and  Palestine,  for  the  pretensions  of 
France  embrace  the  whole  of  Galilee  to 
Carmel  and  the  mountains  of  Samaria, 
and,  indeed,  she  has  never  repudiated 
designs  on  Jerusalem  itself,  though  no 
power  would  dare  openly  to  avow  such  an 
ambition.  To  judge  by  recent  events  in 
England,  the  British  public  seems  to  one 
who  is  not  of  it  to  be  governed  by  senti- 
ment, and  what  it  believes  to  be  religious 
feeling,  rather  than  bv  any  considerations 
of  practical  policy.  It  is  possible,  there- 
fore, that  they  may  be  induced,  by  the 
sacred  associations  which  attach  to  this 
country,  to  adopt  a  determined  and  even 
bellicose  attitude,  from  which  they  would 
shrink  on  grounds  of  economy  and  hu- 
manity, if  the  question  at  issue  merely 
involved  the  safety  of  our  Indian  posses- 
sions or  our  position  as  a  great  Asiatic 
power. 


From  All  The  Year  Round. 
ALONG  THE  SILVER  STREAK. 

The  Count  de  St.  Pol  has  revealed  him- 
self in  a  new  light.  He  presents  himself 
as  a  formal  suitor,  and  demands  the  hand 
of  Hilda  from  her  father.  The  count  has 
seen  Mr.  Chancellor,  who,  he  under- 
stands, has  abandoned  his  pretensions. 
The  old  squire,  although  a  little  puzzled, 
for  Hilda  has  not  yet  spoken  to  him  about 
new  arrangements  —  the  old  squire  pro- 
fesses himself  to  be  quite  prepared  to 
accept  the  count  as  a  son-in-law,  if  Hilda 
really  has  a  preference  for  him.  Person- 
ally Mr.  Chudleigh  would  prefer  the  count 
indeed,  for  he  has  no  great  liking  for 
John  Chancellor;  but  there  are  business 
matters  to  be  considered,  settlements  and 
so  on,  as  to  which  he  does  not  see  his 
way.  The  count  explains  that  this  action 
of  bis  is  only  a  preliminary.  He  is  not 
yet  five-and-twenty  years  o!  age,  and  al- 
though bis  father  and  mother  are  dead, 
yet  be  has  an  aged  grandmother  in  Brit- 
tany whose  consent  must  be  obtained 
before  he  can  marry.  As  the  old  lady  is 
almost  blind,  very  deaf,  and  obstinate  be- 
yond expression,  and  as  she  is,  moreover, 
extremely  devout,  it  is  quite  possible  that 
he  may  have  some  difficulty  in  persuading 
her  to  consent  to  his  marriage  with  a  for- 


eigner and  a  Protestant ;  but  he  is  pre- 
pared to  face  these  difficulties  if  he  has 
the  assurance  that  Miss  Chudleiofh  will 
receive  him  favorably.  And  so  Hilda  is 
sent  for  by  her  father,  who  insists  that 
she  shall  grant  the  count  an  interview. 

And  this  interview  resulted  in  some 
embarrassment  for  Hilda.  The  count  did 
his  best  to  make  his  peace  with  her;  he 
assured  her  that  he  had  conceived  a  sud- 
den and  violent  passion  for  her,  and  that 
he  meant  to  win  her  at  any  price.  If  his 
conduct  had  ever  been  rash  and  blame- 
worthy, the  warmth  of  his  passion  must 
excuse  it.  It  was  vain  for  Hilda  to  tell 
him  that  her  heart  was  entirely  given  to 
another;  the  count  received  her  state- 
ments with  polite  incredulity.  It  was  the 
custom  of  English  young  ladies,  he  be- 
lieved, to  raise  difficulties.  And  as  for  this 
affection  Miss  Chudleigh  spoke  of,  had  it 
the  sanction  of  her  father?  Hilda  could 
not  truthfully  say  that  it  had.  Where- 
upon the  count  triumphantly  rejoined  that 
he  was  satisfied  that  it  rested  with  him  to 
kindle  the  great  passion  of  her  life  —  only 
let  him  have  the  opportunity  of  trying  to 
please  her.  Hilda  might  tell  him  that  he 
was  only  wasting  his  time,  but  that  was 
his  affair;  he  was  quite  content  to  waste 
his  time  in  such  a  quest.  On  one  point 
the  count  won  Hilda^s  good  opinion  —  he 
declared  that  he  was  quite  ready  to  shake 
hands,  after  the  English  fashion,  with  the 
man  who  had  struck  him,  and  to  dismiss 
the  matter  from  his  mind.  It  was  but  a 
faithful  bouldowg,  said  the  count,  who  had 
bitten  hard  in  defence  of  his  mistress. 

Without  feeling  much  cordial  approval 
of  the  count's  estimate  of  my  character, 
still  I  felt  bound  at  Hilda's  request  to 
accept  the  proffered  olive-branch.  The 
opportunity  soon  occurred,  for  Tom  and 
I,  who  had  settled  ourselves  in  a  comfort- 
able old-fashioned  hotel,  where  we  were 
completely  at  our  ease,  were  presently 
pounced  upon  by  our  director,  who  had 
all  kinds  of  plans  for  our  entertainment. 
First  of  all  there  was  a  charming  dinner 
arranged  for  this  evening,  and  at  the  very 
house  in  which  we  were  staying,  the 
Hotel  St.  Pierre,  the  host  of  which  was  a 
brave  gargon  after  the  director's  own 
heart,  with  an  enthusiasm  for  the  history 
and  antiquity  of  his  town  which  it  is  quite 
rare  to  meet  with.  And  the  dinner  to- 
night would  inaugurate  a  grand  salU 
Louis  treize^  which  the  director  had  just 
seen  and  pronounced  exquisite.  The 
selectest  notabilities  of  Caen  would  be 
there,  the  chiefs  of  the  garrison,  somq 
distinguished  artists  from  Paris,  the  edi- 


74 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


tors  of  ODe  or  two  of  the  leadiDg  jourDals, 
and  last,  not  least,  cried  the  director  with 
enthusiasm,  our  charming  friend  the 
Count  de  St.  Pol. 

The  promises  of  our  director  were 
abundantly  realized.  The  dinner  was 
charming,  the  guests  in  their  best  vein, 
and  full  of  the  liveliness  that  is  the  native 
growth  of  their  country. 

Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease. 
Pleased  with  thyself  whom  all  the  world  can 
please. 

And  the  salU  was  a  marvel  of  unique 
antiquity;  carved  oak  panels  and  dado, 
with  buffets  and  presses  elaborately 
wrought,  and  the  faience  of  Nevers  and 
Rouen  all  of  the  same  period.  Cinq  Mars 
would  have  felt  himself  at  home  amotJgus, 
except  for  the  swallow-tails  and  shirt- 
fronts,  which  he  would  have  considered, 
and  perhaps  justly,  as  dowdy  garments 
for  gentlemen,  and  Richelieu  might  have 
come  and  emptied  a  botile  with  us,  with- 
out causing  much  surprise. 

It  was  Tom's  notion  to  introduce  Za- 
mora  with  her  tambourine,  to  dance  a 
gipsy  dance  and  sing  a  song.  The  child 
pleased  the  critics,  who  were,  perhaps,  in 
a  complacent  mood.  But  when  our  direc- 
tor told  her  little  story,  there  was  a  gen- 
eral outcry  that  the  Englishmen  must  not 
be  allowed  to  provide  for  her.  A  general 
levy  was  made,  and  the  amount  placed  in 
the  hands  of  the  director ;  and  then  and 
there  the  proprietor  of  the  circus  was 
summoned,  who,  when  he  appeared,  de- 
clared himself  willing  to  take  charge  of 
a  child  so  powerfully  recommended,  and 
teach  her  all  the  mysteries  of  the  ring. 
And  so  Zamora  is  in  a  fair  way  of  realiz- 
ing her  ambition;  but  she  is  a  grateful 
little  thing,  and  seems  sorry  to  part  with 
us. 

When  the  partv  breaks  up,  some  are  for 
the  prefecture,  where  there  is  an  evening 
reception,  while  others  adjourn  to  a  neigh- 
boring cafd,  and  among  these  last  Tom 
and  myself,  the  Count  de  St.  Pol,  and  a 
certain  Colonel  Peltier,  who  is  a  great 
ally,  it  seems,  of  the  count.  Cards  are 
brought,  and  Tom  and  I  are  matched  with 
the  count  and  his  friend  at  whist.  We 
should  not  be  rated  as  third<Ias8  players 
at  home,  but  we  manage  to  hold  our  own 
with  the  Frenchmen,  who  are  very  indif- 
ferent performers.  Still  our  adversaries 
seem  to  fancy  themselves,  and  they  go  on 
till  Tom  and  I  have  won  four  or  nve  na- 
poleons. 

•*  You  will  give  us  our  revenge?"  says 
the  count  rather  significantly. 


Of  course  we  must  give  the  others  their 
revenge,  and  then  follows  a  comparing  of 
dates  and  engagements.  The  count  and 
his  friend  are  going  on  to  Trouville  pres- 
ently, and  there  we  have  engaged  to  meet 
Redmond  on  the  third  day  from  this. 

'*  And  so  on  the  third  day  from  now.  It 
is  a  bargain  I "  say  our  adversaries,  as  they 
make  an  exact  note  of  the  date. 

There  are  few  pleasanter  places  than 
Caen,  that  within  easy  reach  from  England 
is  at  once  gay  and  bright  in  itself,  full  of 
interest  to  archaeologist,  historian,  archi- 
tect, rich  in  charming  works  for  the  artist, 
and  shows  fresh  pleasant  glimpses  of  un- 
sophisticated country  life,  and  —  what  is 
even  more  often  sought  than  found  — the 
picturesque  costume,  the  tall  Norman 
caps,  and  short  jaunty  skirts  of  other 
days.  Lumbering  diligences  roll  into  the 
town,  loaded  on  market-days  with  red- 
faced  jolly  country  folk,  and  the  markets, 
crammed  with  vegetables  and  fruit  from 
the  fertile  country  round  about,  echo  with 
the  din  of  Babel,  a  confusion  of  tongues 
not  without  the  kindly  northern  burr,  as 
the  steward  of  some  Scotch  boat  cheap* 
ens  vegetables  for  the  captain's  mess. 
Or  it  is  the  corn-market  in  a  quaint  old 
church,  with  the  fresh  earthy  perfume  of 
oats  and  beans,  and  the  loud  shouts  of 
sellers  and  buyers,  instead  of  the  faint 
perfume  of  incense  and  the  roll  of  the 
organ's  notes.  But  if  it  comes  to  church- 
es, there  are  plenty  still  left,  and  yoa 
may  roam  about  all  day  long  from  one 
cool,  solemn  vault  to  another,  till  you  get 
so  used  to  the  atmosphere  that  the  world 
outside  feels  like  a  hot-house,  and  the 
summer  breeze  seems  to  scorch  your 
cheeks. 

This  morning  we  went  —  Hilda  and  I 
-—  to  a  round  of  churches,  beginning  with 
the  Conqueror's  church,  the  Church  of 
St.  Stephen,  belonging  to  the  Abbaye  aux 
Hommes,  which  he  founded.  The  secular 
buildings  of  the  abbey,  cloisters,  refec- 
tory, dormitories,  are  now  occupied  by 
troops  of  schoolboys  in  their  smart  mili- 
tary uniforms  and  kdpis.  These  buildings 
are  mostly  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  although  of  merit  architecturally,  do 
not  much  interest  us  English.  But  the 
church  is  another  matter,  with  its  grand 
simplicity  of  rounded  arch  and  massive 
column,  its  solemn  stillness,  now  broken 
by  the  still  more  solemn  chant  of  the 
priest  who  intones  the  service  for  the 
dead.  A  funeral  is  being  performed  in 
the  choir,  lights  are  burning,  censers 
swinging.  We  can  realize  the  scene  of 
eight  hundred  years  ago.  The  same  glim- 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


7S 


mer  of  irax-lights  in  the  noontide  g[loom, 
the  same  solemn  cadence  of  priests  and 
acolytes.  The  perfume  of  incense  has 
lingered  here  all  these  years,  all  is  much 
the  same  in  outward  aspect  as  when  thev 
laid  the  mighty  victor  in  the  narrow  tomb 
where  still  his  dust  reposes.  But  to-day 
there  is  grief  and  heartfelt  sorrow  in  the 
pale,  tear  stained  faces  which  are  clustered 
about  the  coffin,  while  for  the  mighty 
Conqueror  there  was  not  one  sad,  faithful 
heart  to  grieve,  and  instead  of  the  sobs  of 
roonrners,  the  shrill  cry  of  Haro,  over  his 
grave.  The  very  ground  in  which  the 
body  is  to  be  laid,  is  claimed  by  a  peasant 
who  raises  that  strange,  all-potent  cry  of 
Haro,  that  all  must  listen  to  —  the  barons 
with  their  long  swords,  the  bishops  with 
their  pastoral  staffs,  none  of  them  daring 
to  lay  a  hand  upon  the  man  who  raises 
this  cry  for  justice.  And  they  say  there 
IS  only  a  single  bone  left  of  this  uncon- 
quered  William,  under  the  marble  slab 
that  bears  his  name,  but  that  is  enough  to 
moralize  over,  if  one  were  in  the  mood. 
But  the  funeral  is  over,  the  mourners  61e 
awav,  and  are  lost  in  the  cheerful  living 
world  outside. 

The  incident  of  the  funeral  makes  Hilda 
rather  grave. 

*'It  is  not  right  to  be  so  happy,  Frank, 
when  other  people  are  suffering." 

And  then  we  go  to  another  church, 
Matilda's  this  time,  where  a  wedding  is 
going  on  in  a  little  side-chapel;  a  working 
people's  wedding,  the  bride  in  a  bright 
Paisley  shawl,  and  kneeling  a  long  way 
apart  from  the  bridegroom,  who  looks 
sheepish  enough  in  his  glossy  black  suit. 
The  ceremony  finishes  as  we  are  waiting, 
the  white-robed  priest  vanishes  into  the 
sacristy,  and  the  acolyte,  in  his  red  sou- 
tane, comes  and  puts  out  the  candles. 
One  of  the  candles  smokes  a  long  while 
after  it  has  been  extinguished,  the  smoke 
rising  in  a  long  twisted  column,  that  winds 
at  last  into  a  ray  of  sunlight  shining 
through  a  painteci  window,  and  becomes 
glorified.  We  both  of  us  have  been  watch- 
ing the  smoke  intently,  and  the  little  gleam 
of  radiance  pleases  us.  It  seems  to  be 
recognized  by  Hilda  as  a  good  omen  ;  and 
then  the  wedding  has  counteracted  the  de- 
pressing effect  of  the  funeral. 

As  well  as  churches  there  are  plenty  of 
fine  old  houses  in  Caen,  in  little  courts, 
and  squares,  and  out-of-the-way  places ; 
and  among  these  the  morning  flies  pleas- 
antly enough,  till  we  meet  Master  Tom, 
who,  it  seems,  is  wandering  about  discon- 
tentedly, and  wants  to  know  when  we  are 
going  to  do  something. 


"  I  vote  for  a  cruise,"  cried  Tom ;  "  say 
to  the  Isle  of  Wight  and  back,  just  to 
freshen  us  up." 

Hilda  looked  at  Tom  in  some  surprise. 

•*  Have  you  got  your  yacht  here,  Tom  ?  " 
she  asked  ;  and  added  :  "  1  don*t  think  I 
shall  ever  sail  in  the  *  Sea-Mew'  again." 

It  was  Tom's  turn  to  look  surprised  and 
mystified. 

**  Have  you  quarrelled  already,  you 
two?"  he  asked.  "Oh,  1  see,"  he  con- 
tinued in  a  low  tone,  '*  it  is  a  surprise  — 
eh?" 

The  fact  was  that  the  "  Sea-Mew  "  was 
beginning  to  weigh  upon  my  mind  a  good 
deal.  1  did  not  know  how  to  break  the 
matter  to  Hilda.  It  had  been  so  delight* 
fultofind  that  Hilda  was  ready  to  take 
me,  thinking  me  still  poor  Frank  Lyme, 
and  so  I  had  ventured  a  little  way  in  the 
path  of  deceit,  and  found  it  hard  to  retrace 
my  steps.  Hilda  might  possibly  take  um- 
brage, and  consider  that  I  had  treated  her 
like  a  child.  At  that  moment  I  would 
gladly  have  given  the  "  Sea-Mew  "  to  any- 
body  who  would  have  taken  her  out  into 
the  Channel  and  away  out  of  sight.  And 
Tom  was  frowning  and  nodding  at  me 
in  the  most  significant  way,  meaning,  as  I 
understood  his  signals,  "  I  know  Hilda 
better  than  you,  and  it  won't  do." 

**  Let  us  go  and  have  a  look  at  her,"  I 
cried  in  desperation,  and  we  took  zjiacre 
and  drove  now  to  the  port. 

But  Hilda  took  the  matter  better  than  I 
expected.  In  fact,  she  looked  at  me 
rather  tenderly  than  otherwise  when  I  had 
made  my  explanation  in  a  very  awkward, 
bungling  fashion. 

"  You  will  soon  be  poor  again,  Frank," 
she  said,  *'  unless  you  have  somebody  to 
look  after  you." 

And  then  Hilda  began  to  rummage 
about  the  yacht,  proposing  that  this  thing 
and  the  other  should  be  done,  feeling,  as 
she  said,  more  at  home  in  it  than  she  had 
ever  done  before. 

**  And  now,  Frank,"  began  Hilda,  when 
she  had  tired  herself  a  little  and  thor- 
oughly stupefied  the  skipper  and  his  crew 
with  her  Questions  and  suggestions  —  for 
Hilda  priaed  herself  on  her  seamanship, 
or  its  feminine  equivalent,  and  meant  to 
have  things  shipshape  now  that  she  felt 
herself  in  command  —  "and  now,  Frank," 
she  said  with  determination,  "you  must 
take  me  to  Dives,  where  the  Conqueror 
sailed  from,  you  know,  and  we  must  land 
there ;  so  let  us  call  up  the  skipper." 

The  skipper  came  and  overhauled  his 
charts,  and  rubbed  his  chin  meditatively, 
as  be  said,  — 


76 

•*  I'm  doubting,  miss,  we'll  no  have  wai- 
ter enough  to  land  ye  at  Dives." 

"If  there  was  water  enough  for  Wil- 
liam the  Conqueror,"  replied  Hilda  tartly, 
"surely  there  is  for  me." 

Captain  Macrubbits  —  he  hails  from  the 
north,  and  is  not  quite  a  Scotchman,  per- 
haps, but  something  very  near  it  —  grins 
contemptuously  as  he  replies,  — 

"I'm  thinking  the  Conaueror  never 
navigated  a  three -hundred -ton  yacht. 
They  were  just  bits  o'  galleys  like  — 
smacks,  we  should  ca'  them  now  —  that 
were  navigated  in  those  days." 

Hilda  made  a  face  expressive  of  impa- 
tience. 

"Then,  Captain  Mac,  if  there  isn't 
water  enough  at  Dives,  how  are  we  to  get 
there  ?  " 

"  Ye'd  just  better  go  by  rail,  miss,"  re- 
plied the  skipper  with  alacrity.  "Aye, 
ye  shall  go  by  rail,  and  I'll  pick  ye  up  at 
Trouville ;  there's  a  decent  kina  of  port 
there.  And  then  ye  might  like  to  run  up 
the  Seine.  I'd  take  ye  up  to  Roan  now 
with  the  flood  — like  that!"  cried  the 
skipper,  snapping  bis  fingers  with  em- 
phasis. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Hilda,  shrugging  her 
shoulders  in  token  of  resignation,  "  that 
IS  how  it  must  be  then." 

As  we  returned  to  the  city,  Tom  had  a 
boon  to  beg  of  Hilda  ^  would  she  try  to 
keep, the  party  together?  Wyvern  was 
already  recalled,  and  was  going  back  to 
London  with  his  sister,  from  Havre.  But 
Miss  Chancellor  now  and  Mrs.  Bacon,  as 
inseparable  from  Miss  Chancellor,  why 
should  they  not  go  on  with  us  ? 

"  You  know,"  continued  Tom  malicious- 
ly, "it  will  be  precious  dull  for  me  now 
that  you  and  Frank  are  so  thick  togeth- 
cr. 

Hilda  replied,  with  a  slightly  sarcastic 
inflection  of  the  voice,  that  she  was  sure 
Miss  Chancellor  would  be  quite  ready  to 
go  on  with  us  if  she  knew  that  Tom  was 
BO  anxious  about  the  matter. 

Whatever  inducements  Hilda  may  have 
ofiFered  to  induce  Miss  Chancellor  and  her 
aunt  to  continue  their  journey  with  us, 
they  must  have  proved  sufficient,  for  we 
all  assembled  at  the  station  —  a  party  re- 
duced in  numbers,  but,  if  anything,  in 
better  spirits  than  before.  Even  Con- 
tango kicked  up  his  heels  in  a  still  more 
lively  fashion  than  usual,  and  he  called 
forth  showers  of  sacris  from  the  railway 
officials  as  they  tried  to  haul  him  by  main 
force  into  his  box.  Our  destination  in 
the  first  instance,  it  seemed,  was  Dozuld- 
Putot,  and  Tom  made  merry  at  the  ex- 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


pense  of   people  who  could  give   such 
ridiculous  names  to  their  places. 

"Where  is  our  director,"  cried  Tom, 
"to  read  us  these  riddles  ?  " 

As  it  happened,  our  director  was  close 
at  hand.  Yes,  he  had  come  to  the  station 
with  his  Stephanie  to  bid  us  bon  voyage* 
The  director's  wife  did  not  care  to  go  to 
Dives,  which  was  triste  —  oh,  and  so 
stupid.  But  we  should  meet  at  Trouville, 
no  doubt.  And  so,  with  waving  of  hands 
and  cries  of  "  A  bient6t "  we  pass  out  of 
the  station  into  the  pleasant  green  coun- 
try. 

There  is  nothing  on  the  way  to  tempt 
us  to  stop,  unless  it  be  at  Troarn,  pleas- 
antly placed  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  with 
some  small  remains  of  a  famous  old  ab- 
bey, founded  in  the  eleventh  century  by 
one  Montgomery,  who  was  heard  of  after- 
wards on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel. 
Old  Talbot  pillaged  and  ruined  the  abbey, 
we  read,  uhder  our  Harry  the  Fifth,  be- 
cause the  men  of  the  abbey  had  broken 
down  the  bridge  over  the  Dives  to  hinder 
the  march  of  Hie  English  upon  Caen,  and 
the  Revolution  finally  extinguished  it, 
while  the  buildings  are  now  utilized  for  a 
kind  of  stud-farm  belonging  to  the  gov- 
ernment. A  little  farther  on,  we  cross 
the  Dives  just  above  the  bridge  about 
which  Talbot  made  himself  so  unpleas- 
ant. And  we  cross  the  river  again  to 
make  a  halt  at  Cabourg-^-a  watering- 
place  that  is  coming  into  note  —  and  yet 
again  we  cross  the  river  in  full  view  of 
the  wide-spreading  marshes,  all  now  re- 
claimed and  made  into  fertile  meadows, 
with  Dives  lying  pleasantly  in  a  crook  of 
the  river. 

But,  after  all,  now  that  we  have  seen 
the  place,  there  is  nothing  in  the  quiet 
little  village,  with  its  picturesque,  half- 
ruinous  church,  to  tempt  us  to  stop.  In 
fact,  we  had  rather  not,  for,  taking  a  turn 
round  the  churchyard,  we  find  abundant 
evidence  that  the  rude  forefathers  of  the 
hamlet  are  not  allowed  to  sleep  beyond  a 
certain  time,  but  are  after  a  while  turned 
out  to  make  room  for  new<omers.  A 
general  disturbance  of  this  kind  must 
have  taken  place  not  long  before,  and  we 
have  no  fancy  to  witness  possibly  an  in* 
dignation  meeting  of  perturbed  spirits, 
whose  remains  have  thus  been  evicted 
from  what  it  would  be  a  figure  of  speech 
to  call  their  last  homes. 

And  so  we  leave  our  baggage  to  come 
on  by  the  next  train,  and  walk  over  the 
hill  towards  the  coast.  Looking  back  we 
see  Dives  snugly  lying  in  the  valley  with 
a  great  plain  stretching  beyond,  dotted 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


77 


with  cattle  and  homesteads,  the  river  wind- 
ing through,  with  a  bridge  here  and  there, 
and  hamlets  showing  among  the  trees. 
But  the  road  proposes  to  take  us  a  good 
many  miles  inland,  and  then  we  try  a 
footpath,  which  brings  us  out  on  the  very 
lawn  of  a  modern  ch&teau,  where  the  gar- 
dener is  mowing  the  grass,  and  where  the 
people  of  the  house  are  taking  the  air 
upon  the  terrace.  But  the  gardener  throws, 
down  his  scythe  and  volunteers  to  take  us 
across  the  grounds,  and  we  come  out  at  a 
little  gate  close  by  a  broken  column,  which 
some  enthusiastic  Norman  has  erected  as 
a  memorial  of  the  great  invasion.  We 
happen  to  know  the  date  of  this  event,  so 
that  there  is  no  use  in  repeating  that  part 
of  the  inscription,  but  the  column  goes 
more  into  detail  than  such  objects  gener- 
ally do,  and  tells  us  that  during  a  month 
the  fleet  of  Duke  William  moored  in  the 
port  of  Dives,  and  his  army,  composed 
of  fifty  thousand  men,  encamped  in  the 
neighborhood. 

Then  we  throw  ourselves  down  on  the 
grass  at  the  foot  of  the  column,  a  little 
oat  of  breath  with  the  pull  up  the  hill, 
and  watch  the  evening  glow  as  it  spreads 
over  sea  and  sky  and  wide  green  plain, 
and  discuss  the  Norman  Conquest. 

Here  is  the  scene  where  the  affair  be- 
gan; the  sea  dimpling  and  sparkling,  a 
hog  line  of  coast  running  out,  with  a 
tower  or  spire  here  and  there,  marking  the 
site  of  one  of  the  little  towns  we  have 
recently  passed.  Just  below,  the  river 
makes  a  sharp  elbow  caused  by  a  great 
bank  of  sand  half  overgrown  with  herb- 
age; a  crescent-shaped  bank,  with  its 
farther  horn  connected  with  the  general 
coast-line ;  and  on  this  horn  stands  Ca- 
bourg,  with  its  big  hotels  and  fine  villas. 
Once  upon  a  time,  no  doubt,  the  river 
made  its  way  straight  to  the  sea,  near 
where  Cabourg  now  stands,  as  it  might  do 
again  in  some  conjunction  of  storm  and 
flood ;  just  as  the  river  at  Newhaven 
straightened  itself  and  left  Seaford  high 
and  dry,  a  port  only  in  name.  Rivers  are 
continually  playing  such  pranks  when  left 
to  their  own  sweet  will.  But  to  return 
to  our  Dives.  Probably,  then,  this  great 
sandbank,  and  a  good  deal  of  the  ground 
between  the  village  of  Dives  and  the 
present  little  port  which  lies  in  the  bend 
of  the  river  just  below  us  —  probably  all 
this  has  been  formed  by  the  action  of 
stream  and  tide  in  the  centuries  that  have 
elapsed  since  the  Conquest.  But  the 
general  features  of  the  scene  are  the 
same;  the  wide  green  plain  affording  for- 
age for  countless  horses  and  cattle,  the 


winding  river   and  the    long   coast-line 
stretching  into  the  sea. 

The  tide  is  out  now,  and  we  can  en- 
dorse Captain  Mac's  opinion  as  to  the 
quantitv  of  water  here.  Ribs  of  yellow 
sand  divide  the  slender  current  —  you 
might  easily  wade  over  the  Conqueror's 
river  just  now ;  boats  are  lying  high  and 
dry,  their  masts  at  any  angle  you  please. 
Still,  at  high-water,  a  good  big  ship  might 
find  her  way  into  the  river ;  though  when 
she  could  get  out  again  would  be  prob- 
lematical. And  now  a  train  rumbles  along 
at  leisurely  speed  below  us,  along  the 
river  bank,  and  then  cutting  off  the  great 
bend,  and  speeding  along  towards  Caen. 
Altogether  a  vast  farm  is  this  of  lower 
Normandy,  right  away  from  Carentan  to 
Dives,  well  watered  and  wooded,  and  with 
abundance  written  in  every  part  of  it. 
No  wonder  that  the  Conqueror  did  great 
things  with  such  a  heritage  to  start  with. 

It  takes  us  only  a  few  minutes  from  the 
tops  of  the  cliffs  to  reach  the  long-drawn 
town  of  Beuzeval  Houlgate,  with  its  one 
street  that  follows  the  winding  of  the 
shore  —  a  mixture  of  grand  villas,  and 
big  ch&lets,  and  humble  booths.  The 
eastern  end,  or  Beuzeval,  is  the  more 
fashionable,  but  Houlgate  is  the  pleas* 
anter,  with  the  river  winding  in  to  the 
haven  under  the  hill  —  a  happy,  friendly- 
looking  haven,  backed  by  green  trees, 
against  which  the  white  sails  look  charm- 
ingly fresh  and  pare.  The  tide  is  begin- 
ning to  make  now,  and  all  the  boats  are 
afloat,  and  the  fisher-craft  are  running  for 
home.  It  is  pleasant,  too,  to  find  a  good 
dinner  awailing  us  in  a  room  open  on 
three  sides  to  the  sea  breezes. 

When  dinner  is  over  we  follow  the 
example  of  all  the  world,  and  pitch  our 
seats  on  the  margin  of  the  rising  tide, 
to  be  driven,  like  King  Canute,  from  one 
position  to  another.  The  children  are 
making  big  embankments  to  resist  the 
tide,  which  ever  and  again  tumbles  in 
amid  great  laughter  and  shouting  from 
the  beholders.  Our  end  of  the  beach 
has  the  reputation  of  being  almost  exclu- 
sively French  Protestant,  and  the  Temple 
certainly  occupies  a  very  prominent  posi- 
tion in  the  street.  But  there  is  little 
difference  to  be  noticed  between  the  two 
populations,  and  where  Beuzeval  ends 
and  Houlgate  begins  nobody  seems  to 
know.  But  both  are  charming  places  and 
would  be  still  more  charming  if  it  were 
not  that  the  drains  have  their  outfalls  un- 
der people's  noses.  As  night  comes  on 
the  stenches  begin. 

*^lt  is  not  dangerous,"  cried  a  French 


78 

friend ;  **  it  is  all  auite  fresh  smell,  that  do 
DO  harm."  But  all  the  same  a  smell  is  a 
smell. 

The  something  bitter  that  is  said  to 
rise  to  the  surface  of  the  cup  of  life,  even 
when  it  seems  filled  to  the  brim  with  en- 
joyment—  this  flavor  of  bitterness  was 
supplied  by  Hilda's  brother.  Hilda  her 
self  looked  forward  to  meeting  him  with 
some  dread,  for  she  felt  sure  that  he 
would  bitterly  resent  the  change  that  had 
occurred  in  her  prospects.  Mr.  Chancel- 
lor no  doubt  had  sundry  good  things  at 
his  command,  which  he  might  have  be- 
stowed on  Redmond  without  being  the 
poorer  himself.  But  such  was  not  the 
case  with  me,  and  although  Hilda  had  sug- 
gested that  we  should  do  something  for 
poor  Redmond  —  it  was  difficult  to  see 
what  form  that  something  could  assume 
—  my  own  notion  was  that  sufficient  bad 
already  been  done  for  him  by  Hilda,  and, 
indeecf,  a  great  deal  too  much.  Not  only 
bad  Redmond  eaten  his  own  cake,  but  a 
good  portion  of  his  sister's,  and  still  he 
wanted  more. 

Already  we  had  received  a  telegram 
from  Redmond  announcing  bis  arrival  at 
Trouville,  and  that  he  was  stopping  at  the 
Roches  Noires,  and  advised  bia  father 
and  Hilda  to  join  him  there. 

"  Well,"  said  Tom  when  he  heard  the 
news,  "  I  am  glad  we  have  come  upon 
these  Roches  Neires  at  last,  for  we  have 
been  chasing  them  all  along  the  coast 
without  coming  upon  them." 

And  this  indeed  had  been  the  case.  At 
all  the  sea-bathing  places  we  had  heard 
of  these  terrible  Roches  Noires  as  the 
dread  of  mariners  and  regular  ship-break- 
ing rocks,  but  always  just  out  of  sight 
along  the  coast. 

"And  is  your  poor  brother  living  on 
those  dreadful  rocks  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Bacon, 
in  full  sympathy  for  the  hardship  of  his 
lot,  imagining  that  he  supported  himself 
on  the  crabs  and  periwinkles  he  found  in 
the  crevices. 

But  her  mind  was  relieved  when  she 
found  that  the  Roches  Noires  was  a  fash- 
ionable hotel,  where  the  only  hardship  to 
be  leared  was  in  the  evil  quarter  of  an 
hour  when  the  reckoning  was  settled. 

But  our  next  news  of  Redmond  was  not 
uearly  so  satisfactory.  It  was  in  the  form 
of  a  telegram  to  say  that  he  had  been  play- 
ing baccarat  with  the  Prince  de  B— —and 
the  Count  de  St.  Pol  the  night  before,  and 
had  lost  two  thousand  francs.  Hilda  muse 
telegraph  the  money  to  him  —  his  honor 
was  involved. 

There   was  nothing  for  it  but  to  tele- 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


I  graph  to  Rothschilds'  to  send  the  money. 
But  it  was  evident  that  Redmond,  once 
loose  again  upon  the  world,  would  prove 
a  fearful  sieve,  through  which  a  fortune 
would  soon  percolate. 

**  Perhaps  he  will  win  next  time,  poor 
fellow  ! "  suggested  Hilda  hopefully. 

On  the  other  hand,  Redmond  might  lose 
a  great  deal  more;  and  if  the  Count  de 
St.  Pol  should  thus  happen  to  get  him  in 
his  power,  he  might  use  his  power  in  a 
very  awkward  manner.  However,  we 
should  be  all  at  Trouville  on  the  following 
day,  and  we  could  only  trust  to  the  chance 
that  he  would  not  meantime  get  into  any 
very  serious  scrape. 

If  it  had  not  been  that  overmastering 
destiny  urged  us  on  to  Trouville,  we 
should  probably  have  remained  where  we 
were,  notwithstanding  the  smells,  which, 
after  all,  vanished  for  a  time  after  each 
flood-tide,  to  return,  perhaps,  in  the  still 
small  hours  of  the  night,  when  the  wind 
was  hushed,  while  the  sea  could  hardly  be 
heard  to  murmur  in  the  distance.  To  us 
the  great  charm  was  in  the  cool  and  pleas- 
ant-looking haven,  with  the  indications  it 
gives  of  groves  and  fields  behind,  and  in 
the  broao,  smooth  strand  that  is  made  up 
entirely  of  pounded  sea-shells,  while  myr- 
iads ot  shells  more  or  less  in  progress 
towards  a  pounded  state  line  the  margin 
of  the  waves. 

And  our  hotel  is  pleasant  and  brisk 
with  its  shaded  terrace  overlooking  the 
sea,  where  we  sit  after  breakfast  and 
smoke  and  talk  to  the  parrot,  and  try  to 
gain  the  attention  of  the  big  dog,  who  is 
generally  too  sleepy  to  notice  anybody. 
He  is  a  democratic  dog  this,  for  we  have 
seen  him  early  in  the  morning  dashing 
about  and  joyously  barking  among  the 
fishermen  and  old  women  with  their  bas- 
kets. If  there  is  a  truck  to  be  wheeled 
or  a  load  to  be  carried.  Bayard  is  sure  to 
be  in  the  front,  encouraging  the  honest 
porters  with  his  most  approving  accents. 
But  as  the  day  wears  on  and  the  breakfast 
hour  of  the  visitors  at  the  hotel  ap- 
proaches. Bayard  assumes  an  aspect  of 
lazy  indifference ;  stretched  at  full  length 
under  a  bench  he  is  proof  against  blan- 
dishments that  the  strongest  men  would 
auccumb  to;  pretty  lingers  caress  hira, 
sweet  voices  appeal  to  him  in  the  most 
eudtarujg  accents,  but  little  he  recks,  if 
ihey'li  let  him  sleep  on,  while  cakes  do  not 
excite  his  interest  in  the  least,  and  he  ia 
j  not  to  be  tempted  by  the  choicest  morsel 
from  the  breakfast  table. 

And  then  it  is  pleasant  to  watch  the 
gradually  rising  tide  of  visitors.    As  the 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


79 


penny-trumpet-like  squeak  from  the  level- 
crossing  announces  the  approach  of  a 
train,  the  old  lady  at  the  crossing  having 
rolled  to  the  gates,  draws  herself  up  in 
front  of  them  with  her  flag,  as  if  she  in 
her  own  person  guaranteed  alike  the 
safety  of  the  public  and  the  railwav  ser- 
vice, the  train  glides  quietly  by,  and  spec- 
ulation is  rife  as  to  the  number  of  heads 
to  be  observed  in  the  carriage  windows. 
Thei^the  omnibus  rumbles  down  from 
the  station,  more  luggage  than  omnibus, 
the  driver  clinging  to  some  coin  of  van* 
tage  on  the  baggage.  These  are  the  peo- 
ple for  the  Chalet  Millefleurs,  with  its 
overhanging  gables,  its  verandahs  of 
pitch-pine,  and  its  rustic  porches,  and 
presently  the  house  wakes  up  from  its 
ten  months'  sleep,  there  are  gay  dresses 
on  the  balconies,  and  children  and  little 
dogs  scamper  about  the  terrace.  The 
men  of  the  party  appear,  transformed 
from  smart  Parisians  to  equally  smart- 
looking  fishermen,  their  shrimping-nets 
over  their  shoulders,  eager  for  the  excit- 
ing sport  of  la  chasse  aux  fcrMsses, 
Travelling-vans  come  in  loaded  with  dra- 
peries, shoes  —  everything  you  want.  The 
place  is  a  kind  of  summer  encampment. 
And  while  the  long  rows  of  elaborate  and 
fanciful  houses  on  the  sands  are  filling  up 
with  visitors,  all  the  cottages  on  the  roads 
leading  into  the  country  —  the  pleasant 
cottages  almost  hidden  in  shrubs  and 
creepers  —  are  occupied  by  colonies  of 
Parisians,  who  enter  into  primitive  modes 
of  life  with  great  relish.  Monsieur  draws 
the  water  from  the  well,  and  madame 
arranges  the  table  with  flowers  from  the 
garden.  Then  there  follows  a  great  pop- 
ping of  corks  and  an  odor  of  ragout  and 
fricandeauy  and  soon  through  the  open 
door  you  may  see  monsieur  taking  his 
caf^  in  great  content,  framed  in  vine- 
leaves,  and  metaphorically  crowned  with 
roses. 

The  evening  is  charming — the  sun 
going  down,  round  and  red,  into  the  sea  ; 
an  infinite  softness  about  the  haven 
mouth,  a  white  sail  stealing  gently  in. 
As  darkness  comes  on  —  the  light  in 
darkness  of  a  summer  night,  the  brilliant 
gleam  from  the  lighthouse  of  Cape  la 
H^ve  throws  a  pencil  of  lambent  light 
across  the  placid  sea.  Havre  lies  below, 
invisible  except  that  we  fancv  we  catch  a 
faint  glow  on  the  horizon  from  its  gas- 
lamps  and  streets  of  brilliant  shops ; 
nearer  at  hand,  glitters  over  the  waters 
the  long  sea-front  of  Trouville,  set  in  dia- 
mond sparkles,  while  its  casino,  brilliantly 
iUttminated,  flashes  and  gleams  an  invita- 


tion to  the  carnival.  Can  we  hear  the 
band?  No,  it  is  too  far  off,  ten  miles  or 
so  as  the  crow  flies,  and  yet  there  is  a 
feeling  of  music  in  the  air.  Is  Redmond, 
we  wonder,  sitting  in  that  fairy-like  pal- 
ace, watching  with  inward  fever  the  turn 
of  a  card,  with  all  that  he  has  left  of 
money  and  reputation  hanging  upon  the 
result  ? 

We  have  a  little  mild  gambling  going 
on  here,  at  the  itablissement  at  Houlgate  : 
whist  and  ^cartd,  at  which  a  few  five-franc 
pieces  change  hands,  and  there  are  invet- 
erate bezique  players,  who  will  play  on 
well  into  the  nis[ht.  But  all  this  in  the 
most  respectable  way,  the  chief  gainers 
being  the  proprietors  of  the  itablissement^ 
who  levy  a*heavy  tax  on  the  cards  and 
other  paraphernalia  of  play.  And  people 
go  to  bed  early,  being  generally  rather 
sleepy  from  their  exploits  in  shrimping 
and  fishing,  and  from  their  open-air  life  on 
the  sands,  and  everything  is  quiet  long 
before  midnight.  But  when  all  our  lights 
are  turned  out  we  can  still  see  Trouville 
flaring  at  us  over  the  bay. 

To-night  as  the  glare  of  lights  died 
away  the  sea  took  up  the  illumination, 
breaking  in  waves  of  lambent  flame  over 
the  sand ;  and  the  fisher-boats  came  home, 
leaving  a  trail  of  mystic  light  behind  them. 
All  was  glamor,  nought  was  truth,  for  the 
sky  seemed  to  share  in  the  phosphores- 
cent flare,  the  stars  twinkling  doubtfully 
through  thin  flakes  of  luminous  clouds. 
We  sat  out  till  late  watching  the  fairy 
scene,  and  Hilda  and  I  fell  into  serious 
talk  about  the  future. 

"  I  want  to  go  home,  Frank,'*  said  Hil- 
da; "  I  want  to  see  the  old  place  while  I 
can  still  call  it  home.  I  want  to  talk  to 
the  old  people  and  tell  them  all  about  you, 
and  to  say  good-bye  to  the  children,  who 
will  have  to  acknowledge  another  lady  of 
the  manor  with  smiles  and  greetings.  But 
just  to  see  them  all  once  and  say  good-bye 
to  the  old  life  —  I  must  go,  Frank." 

And  then  it  struck  me  for  the  first  time, 
forcibly  and  strongly,  how  much  Hilda 
resigned  when  she  gave  up  the  Chancellor 
alliance.  What  could  ever  make  up  to  her 
for  the  loss  of  the  old  home,  that  was  now 
passing  into  the  hands  of  strangers  ?  And 
then  it  did  not  seem  possible  to  prevent 
this  loss.  It  was  not  likely  that  Mr.  Chan- 
cellor would  part  with  his  bargain,  and 
give  up  the  Combe  Chudleigh  property  to 
his  successful  rival.  Human  nature  could 
not  be  expected  to  remain  so  entirely  free 
from  resentful  feelings.  But  it  would  be 
easy  enough  to  fulfil  Hilda's  present  d»> 
sire. 


8o 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


We  could  run  over  to  Dartmouth,  Hilda 
and  I,  and  the  old  squire,  while  the  others 
aroused  themselves  at  Trouville. 

"  Then  we  will  start  to-morrow  night," 
cried  Hilda  eagerly,  **and  we  shall  see  the 
old  place  by  morning  light." 

And  then  I  had  to  explain  how  it  was 
impossible  we  could  sail  that  next  night, 
as  I  was  pledged  to  meet  the  Count  de  St. 
Pol,  to  give  him  hisvevenge  at  whist. 

It  seemed  a  trivial  thing;  but  the  meet- 
ing had  been  arranged  before  witnesses 
with  something  like  solemnity,  and  if  I 
failed  to  appear  it  would  be  said  that  I 
was  afraid  to  meet  him. 

**  And  you  will  not  run  this  little  risk 
for  my  sake  then?"  urged  Hilda. 

To  which  I  replied,  with  thtf  trite  quo- 
tation, — 

**  I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  well, 
loved  I  not  honor  more." 

Hilda  suddenly  turned  pale. 

*' Frank,"  she  said,  laying  a  hand  upon 
my  arm,  "do  you  mean  to  say  that  if  this 
Count  St.  Pol  thrusts  a  quarrel  upon  you 

—  and  1  have  a  presentiment  that  he  will 

—  you  will  fight  him?" 

The  question  was  not  easy  to  answer. 
A  few  years  ago,  when  I  was  poor  and 
rather  hopeless,  with  nothing  to  make  life 
particularly  desirable,  I  would  have  gone 
out  and  been  run  through  by  the  count 
without  scruple.  But  now,  with  wealth 
and  mv  heart's  desire,  and  the  prospect 
of  a  liie  heightened  by  a  woman's  faith- 
ful love,  the  matter  assumed  a  very  differ- 
ent aspect.  I  should  gladly  have  enter- 
tained a  conscientious  scruple  against 
fighting.  But  then  I  felt  no  such  scruple. 
I  could  certainly  plead  that  in  my  own 
country  such  affairs  were  condemned  by 
public  opinion,  and  practically  obsolete. 
But  being  in  France,  and  engaged  in  al- 
tercation with  a  Frenchman,  was  I  not 
rather  bound  by  the  customs  of  his  coun- 
try? 

Hilda  saw  by  ray  hesitation  that  her 
presentiment  was  not  altogether  unrea- 
sonable. But  she  was  too  staunch  to  ex- 
act any  promise  from  me  to  decline  any 
challenge. 

"  Only  remember,  Frank,"  she  said,  **  if 
anything  happens  to  you  I  shall  die  of 
grief  and  remorse.  So  you  will  do  your 
best  to  keep  out  of  danger." 

And  I  promised  this  readily  enough, 
reminding  her,  too,  how  these  afiFairs  were 
generally  harmless  enough,  and  rarely  re- 
sulted in  a  serious  casualty. 

*'But  this  is  different,  Frank,"  said 
Hilda  mournfully.  **  I  saw  his  face  when 
you  struck  him,  and  be  meant  what  be 


said  —  that  you  should  pay  for  it  with 
your  life.    And  I  could  not  see  it  all  till 


II 


now. 

Altogether  it  would  have  been  better  if 
Hilda  had  remained  in  the  dark  as  to  mv 
appointment  with  the  count,  for  the  knowl- 
edge made  her  anxious  and  restless,  al- 
though she  put  a  brave  face  upon  the 
matter,  and  tried  to  appear  easy  and 
unconcerned.  We  were  to  go  on  to  Trou- 
ville in  the  morning,  and  Hilda  and  I  had 
determined  to  walk  over  to  the  station  at 
Villers-sur-Mer,  while  Tom  had  under- 
taken to  drive  Contango,  by  easy  stages, 
all  the  way  to  Trouville,  taking  Miss 
Chancellor  with  him,  with  Justine  as  a 
makeweight  on  the  back  seat.  The  oth* 
ers  were  to  come  on  by  omnibus  with  the 
baggage.  Very  soon  —  by  next  season 
probably  —  the  coast-line  will  be  finished 
all  along,  and  people  will  be  able  to  get  to 
Trouville  from  any  point  along  the  coast 
without  making  a  long  ddtour.  But  for 
the  present,  there  is  an  awkward  little 
break  in  the  line  of  communication. 

The  walk  to  Villers  proved  rather  hot 
and  tiring,  first  along  the  coast,  where  the 
clifiFs,  of  no  great  height,  are  of  a  clavey, 
crumbly  nature,  and  then,  as  the  sun  oeat 
down  upon  us  hot  and  fiery,  we  took  to 
the  inland  road,  cooler  and  more  shaded, 
a  dusty,  arable  country  all  about  us  till  we 
descended  into  the  Vale  of  Villers,  well- 
wooded  and  luxuriant.  Villers  itself  is  of 
the  quaint,  fantastic  order,  showing  a 
studied  quaintness,  a  regulated  fantasy. 
Thatched  roofs  are  fashionable,  with  lilies 
and  flags  growing  on  the  ridges,  as  ia 
some  ol  the  old  farmhouses.  Here  are 
cottages  as  costly  as  palaces,  and  a  stud- 
ied simplicity  which  is  the  very  refinement 
of  luxury.  A  place,  too,  evidently  on  the 
rapid  increase,  where  life  is  more  reserved 
and  exclusive  than  at  Trouville,  but  a  gay, 
pleasant  place  all  the  same,  and  of  a  clean- 
liness quite  remarkable  among  French 
coast  towns.  The  road  from  the  town  to 
the  station  is  quite  charming,  with  trees, 
and  stream,  and  gracious  curves  that  raise 
an  expectation  of  pleasanter  scenes  round 
the  corner.  It  is  quite  a  disappointment 
to  come  at  last  upon  a  commonplace  little 
wooden  station ;  but,  however,  the  works 
are  progressing  rapidly,  and  soon  we  shall 
have  stations  as  smart  and  coquettish  as 
the  towns  they  are  to  serve. 

Indeed,  this  brightness  and  coquetry 
are  the  main  charms  of  these  watering- 
places.  As  far  as  scenery  is  concerned, 
the  English  coast,  it  must  be  said,  is  far 
superior,  but  then  the  life  and  gaiety  o£ 
the  scene,  the  absence  of  noise  and  val- 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


8i 


l^arity,  of  pretence  and  assumption  — 
these  latter  attributes,  indeed,  not  alto- 
gether absent,  but  more  skilfully  veiled  — 
all  these  things  make  the  sojourn  by  the 
sea  in  France  very  enjoyable.  And  then 
there  is  the  almost  certainty  of  getting 
somethini;  fit  to  eat  wherever  you  may  go, 
and  of  not  being  fleeced  beyond  reason. 
The  hotel  bills  no  longer,  indeed,  cause 
amazement  at  their  smallness,  as  we  read 
in  the  volumes  of  earlier  days,  but  on  the 
other  hand,  they  do  not  affright  by  their 
extravagance. 

Trouville  is  different  again.  We  feel 
the  change  in  a  moment,  as  we  alight  in 
the  brisk,  noisy  station,  amid  the  shouts 
of  the  drivers  of  voitures,  the  commis- 
sionaires of  hotels,  and  a  generally  ex- 
cited public.  Tom  meets  us  at  the  sta- 
tion; he  was  the  first  to  arrive,  after  all. 
He  reports  the  "Sea-Mew"  as  lying  in 
port,  and  awaiting  orders.  But  as  yet  he 
has  not  been  able  to  hear  anything  of 
Redmond.  He  was  not  at  the  Roches 
Noires,  but  had  been  there,  and  was 
tbooght  to  have  gone  to  the  chftteau  of 

his  friend,   the   Prince  de  B ,  some 

twenty  miles  away,  near  Pont  I'Ev^que. 
But  our  brigandish  friends  with  the  Pyre- 
oean  sheep  had  arrived.  Tom  had  met 
them,  but  alas  !  in  charge  of  the  police  of 
Trouville,  who  had  condemned  their  pro- 
posed entertainment,  as  not  being  suffi- 
ciently polite  or  refined.  But  the  police, 
embarrassed  with  the  charge  of  two  head- 
strong sheep,  which  refused  to  be  driven 
except  by  their  masters,  and  not  much  at 
that'the  police  were  very  much  inclined 
to  let  them  go,  on  their  giving  a  promise 
to  perform  only  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town. 

Tom  had  still  more  news  for  us.  He 
had  passed  on  the  road  a  select  troupe 
from  the  circus  at  Caen,  who  were  to  per- 
form to-night  in  a  temporary  erection  on 
the  beach,  and  among  the  troupe  was  Za- 
mora,  looking  very  bright  and  happy,  who 
had  been  chosen  on  account  of  her  good 
looks  for  some  subordinate  part  in  the 
entertainment.  As  for  the  Count  de  St. 
Pol,  he  was  thought  to  have  left  the  town, 
and  had  probably  forgotten  all  about  his 
engagement  to  meet  us  at  whist. 

As  we  leave  the  station  our  first  impres- 
sion of  Trouville  is  rather  as  a  bustling 
little  port  than  a  fashionable  watering- 
place.  We  were  not  prepared  to  see  so 
much  life  and  animation  apart  from  the 
flocks  of  summer  visitors.  Behind  us  is 
Deauville,  with  its  sea-front  of  monu- 
mental houses,  heavy  and  rather  desolate- 
looking;  and  then   there  is  a  vista  of  a 

UVIi«G  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2242 


long  harbor,  crowded  with  fisher-boats 
and  other  small  craft,  with  here  and  there 
a  foreign  steamer,  and,  conspicuous  among 
them  all,  our  own  smart-looking  "Sea- 
Mew."  As  we  cross  the  bridge  into  the 
town  it  is  dead  low  water,  and  a  big  mud- 
bank  is  left  exposed  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream.  And  upon  this  bank  are  gathered 
quite  .a  little  crowd  of  people,  police,  dou- 
aniers,  and  other  officials.  Another  crowd 
is  clustered  about  the  parapets  of  the 
guay,  and  some  people  who  have  been 
fishing  from  the  shore  with  rod  and  line, 
have  suspended  operations,  and  are  watch- 
ing the  scene  with  interest.  Something 
is  lying  stark  and  stiff  in  the  midst  of  the 
people  upon  the  mudbank,  and  that  some- 
thing is  the  corpse  of  a  drowned  man, 
whose  legs,  stiff  and  sodden,  are  pain- 
fully conspicuous.  Only  Tom  and  I  have 
caught  sight  of  this,  and  we  hurry  the 
ladies  on  to  spare  them  the  painful  scene. 
Hilda  and  the  rest  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  they  will  be  more  comfortable 
on  board  the  ** Sea-Mew"  than  in  a 
crowded  hotel,  and  we  soon  reach  the 
yacht's  berth  in  the  outer  harbor,  and  go 
on  board.  Tom  comes  up  presently,  look- 
ing rather  anxious.  He  has  just  heard 
that  the  body  found  in  the  river  was  that 
of  a  young  stranger,  who  was  supposed 
to  have  committed  suicide.  **  I f  it  should 
be  Redmond,"  murmured  Tom,  "  who  has 
lost  a  big  pile,  and  ended  the  matter 
thus  ! " 

Hilda*s  first  care  when  she  got  oa 
board  the  ** Sea-Mew"  was  to  summon 
Captain  Mac  and  interrogate  him  as  to  his 
being  prepared  to  cross  the  Channel. 
The  captain  was  reluctantly  brought  ta 
acknowledge  that  everything  was  in  readi- 
ness  to  sail  that  night,  if  necessary.  The 
tide  would  serve  from  midnight  up  tO' 
three  or  four  in  the  morning ;  the  sea  was 
calm  outside,  with  every  prospect  of  tine 
weather,  and,  if  need  were,  we  could  make 
the  Isle  of  Wight  before  breakfast,  and 
then  run  along  the  coast  to  Dartmouth  in 
another  eight  hours  or  so. 

**Then  you  will  get  steam  up.  Captain 
Mac,"  cried  Hilda  joyfully, "  and  be  ready 
to  start  at  any  time  after  midnight." 

**  Aye,  aye,  miss,"  said  the  captain,  who- 
seemed  to  recognize  her  as  the  ruling 
spirit. 

**  And  now,  FVank,"  said  Hilda,  turning 
to  me,  *'  if  you  must  go  ashore  and  play 
cards  to-night,  I  shall  send  a  boat's  crew 
at  midnight  to  bring  you  away,  whether 
you  will  or  no."  But  Hilda  confessed  that 
she  hoped  very  much  the  Count  de  St.  Poi 
would  break  his  engagement.     I  also  be- 


83 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


gan  to  think  that  we  should  hear  no  more 
of  the  count,  when,  as  I  crossed  the  gang* 
way  to  go  ashore  with  Tom,  I  saw,  rising 
head  and  shoulders  over  the  crowd,  the 
well-set-up  torso  of  Colonel  Peltier.  The 
colonel  was  delighted  to  come  on  board 
and  pay  his  compliments  to  the  ladies. 
Hilda,  however,  did  not  appear  to  be  very 
well  pleased  at  his  appearance,  though 
she  tried  her  best  to  be  gracious  in  man- 
ner. 

"  We  sail  to-night,  colonel,  and  shall  be 
glad  to  take  you  across  with  us.*' 

The  colonel  would  have  been  delighted, 
but  the  exigences  of  military  duties,  and 
so  on 

'*Then  I  shall  have  to  break  up  your 
whist-party,  I  am  afraid,''  said  Hilda.  **  I 
can't  spare  my  cousin  and  Mr.  Lyme.'* 

The  colonel  looked  grave  at  this. 

**  But  that  would  be  a  little  --  a  little  —  " 

Our  colonel  cannot  find  the  exact  epi- 
thet to  add  to  his  *'  little,"  when  I  relieve 
him  from  his  embarrassment  by  assuring 
him  I  shall  certainly  appear  at  the  tryst- 
ing-place,  which  is  to  be  the  salon  de  jeu 
at  the  casino.  And  so  be  takes  bis  leave 
vtx^  politely. 

When  the  colonel  was  gone,  Hilda's 
face  assumed  an  expression  of  despair. 

"  Frank,"  she  said,  '*  I  am  sure  these 
people  mean  to  assassinate  you — not 
openly  to  assassinate  you,  perhaps,  but  to 
draw  you  into  a  duel,  when  the  count, 
who  is,  they  say,  a  magnificent  swords- 
man, will  kill  you." 

I  could  only  comfort  her  by  saying  that 
I  did  not  intend  to  be  killed  quietly,  and 
that  if  the  count  insulted  me  publicly,  as 
might  possibly  be  his  intention,  I  should, 
as  the  aggrieved  party  in  the  contest, 
have  the  choice  of  weapons,  and  certainly 
would  not  choose  swords.  But  Hilda  felt 
sure  there  was  some  trap  laid  for  me 
which  would  deprive  me  even  of  this  ad- 
vantage. And  then  the  poor  girl  said  she 
would  go  with  me,  and  not  lose  sight  of 
roe  till  she  had  got  me  on  board  again. 
'*  They  can't  fix  a  quarrel  upon  you, 
Frank,  if  I  am  there."  All  the  same,  I 
could  not  take  refuge  behind  a  petticoat, 
and  Hilda  saw  this,  and  was  still  in  de- 
spair. 

Meantime,  Tom  had  undertaken  the 
disagreeable  duty  of  going  to  the  Morgue 
to  see  if  he  could  recognize  the  features 
of  the  drowned  man.  He  returned  very 
soon,  and  with  a  brighter  face.  He  did 
not  think  that  Redmond  was  the  drowned 
man,  although  the  features  were  too  much 
swollen  to  be  easily  recognized. 

That  oi£:ht   we   dined  at  the  Roches 


Noires ;  the  roches  themselves,  which  are 
only  a  black-looking  cliff,  are  visible  a 
little  farther  along  the  coast,  although 
some  will  have  it  that  the  originals,  still 
more  black,  are  to  be  found  elsewhere. 
There  was  rather  a  brilliant  gathering  at 
the  table  d'h6te,  fresh  toilettes,  and  nice- 
looking  women  of  all  nationalities,  and 
among  the  rest  we  saw  our  count  and  the 
colonel,  looking  out  for  their  prey.  And 
then  we  adjourned  to  the  casino  and 
found  the  grand  salon  brilliantly  lighted 
up,  and  a  concert  going  on.  Outside  it 
was  pleasant  to  sit  on  the  terraces,  while 
the  music,  mellowed  by  distance,  mingled 
with  the  plash  of  waves.  In  the  west 
showed  a  bright  sunset  glow,  and  against 
that  the  dark  sails  of  fishing-boats  racing 
for  the  harbor.  All  the  beach  was  lighted 
up,  that  grand  sweep  of  sands  which 
makes  Trouville  unapproachable  as  a 
watering-place.  Cafds  shone  out  in  lines 
of  light,  booths,  and  shops,  and  places  of 
entertainment,  all  brilliantly  illuminated  ; 
while  beyond  faintly  shone  the  phospho- 
rescent sea,  and  the  pale  stars  which 
looked  quite  dim  in  contrast  with  all  the 
brightness  close  at  hand. 

Tom,  I  think,  was  in  a  sentimental 
mood  that  night.  He  was  walking  up  and 
down  with  Miss  Chancellor,  talking  very 
earnestly.  The  girl,  perhaps,  was  a  little 
puritanic  She  had  probably  been  re- 
proaching Tom  with  his  gambling  pro- 
clivities ;  for  she  had  been  told  of  the 
contest  that  was  impending. 

*'  I  can't  sneak  out  of  this,"  Tom  was 
saying,  **but  I'll  promise  you  for  the 
future  —  look  here,  I  never  play  beyond 
half-crowns  and  five  shillings  on  the  rub, 
and  laying  the  long  or  short  odds.  Come, 
you  won't  mind  that,  will  you  ?  " 

"But  why  should  you  promise  me?'* 
asked  Miss  Chancellor  demurely.  **  If 
it's  wrong  you  know  you  shouldn't  do  it." 

The  rest  of  their  conversation  was  lost, 
but  Tom  seemed  prouder  of  being  scolded 
than  in  an  ordinary  way  he  would  feel  at 
the  most  lavish  praise.  And  he  had  no 
misgivings  that  the  match  we  were  booked 
for  was  anything  more  than  a  trial  of  skill 
in  trumping  and  finessing. 

Between  Hilda  and  me  few  words  were 
spoken,  but  our  silence  was  more  expres- 
sive than  words.  The  touch  of  danger  in 
the  future  brought  us  closer  together  than 
any  number  of  fair-weather  days  could 
have  done.  As  yet  neither  the  count  nor 
his  friend  had  appeared  in  the  casino,  and 
I  had  promised  Hilda  that  if  they  did  not 
show  themselves  by  midnight  we  would 
come  away.    But  just  as  the  towo-clock 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


struck  ten,  Hilda  shivered  as  if  a  chill 
had  come  over  her,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw 
the  bullet-head,  closely  cropped,  of  Colo- 
oel  Peltier. 

**0h,  mademoiselle,  I  am  looking  for 
joa  on  behalf  of  your  father,  who  is  anx- 
ious to  leave,*'  cried  the  colonel,  and  sure 
enough  just  behind  him  was  the  old  squire, 
who  looiced  quite  brisk  and  debonair  in 
bis  evening  costume.  Hilda  took  leave 
of  me  with  an  expressive  pressure  of  the 
6Dgers  that  sent  a  responsive  thrill 
through  my  veins,  and  then  I  followed  the 
bullet-headed  colonel  to  the  salon  dtjeu^ 
a  qaiet,  solemn  apartment  where  the  sun- 
lights shone  upon  many  bald  heads  bend- 
ing over  their  cards,  with  a  calm  silence 
occasionally  broken  by  a  gentle  clatter  of 
counters,  or  the  shuffling  of  a  pack  of 
cards. 

Up  to  midnight  nothing  had  occurred  to 
mar  the  harmony  of  the  evening,  but  Tom 
aod  1  had  been  carrying  all  before  us,  and 
our  opponents  were  perhaps  a  little  net- 
tled. Midnight  was  striking,  and  I  had 
promised  Hilda  that  we  would  leave  and 
go  00  board  at  that  hour  if  practicable. 
A  hoarse  whistle  sounded  from  the  port. 
It  was  a  gentle  hint,  no  doubt,  from  the 
•*Sca-Mew."  But  Tom  and  I  were  win- 
oers  each  of  a  couple  of  thousand  francs, 
aod  we  could  not  possibly  give  up  if  our 
adversaries  wanted  to  go  on. 


From  The  Contemponry  Review. 
COLORS   AND   CLOTHS  OF   THE   MIDDLE 

AGES. 

The  extreme  difficulty  of  identifying 
medizval  colors,  and  even  those  of  the 
Renascence  time,  has  perplexed  many 
historical  painters,  and  even  antiquaries 
from  the  same  cause  are  apt  to  miss  the 
point  of  many  graphic  verses  in  the  old 
writers.  Chaucer  and  his  contemporaries 
are  as  careful  as  Van  £yck  in  realizing 
an  exact  and  brilliant  picture,  and  in  try- 
ing to  put  it  before  our  eyes  as  definitely 
as  they  saw  it  themselves.  They  at- 
tached more  importance  to  the  outer  man, 
perhaps,  as  an  index  to  the  inner  man, 
than  we  do :  hence  every  color  is  named 
and  placed,  every  pattern  and  motto  on 
border  and  penaant  noted.  By-the-by, 
the  fashion  of  embroidering  mottoes  on 
borders  would  never  have  come  in  but  for 
this  habit  of  scrutinizing  dress,  for  a 
motto  would  have  had  no  sense  if  never 
read. 

The  difficulties  of  future   antiquaries 


83 

will  be  as  great  as  ours  if  they  try  to  dis- 
cover what  shades  of  color  were  known 
by  such  names  z^feu  tTenfer,  eau  de  Nil^ 
Magenta,  Alexanara  blue,  azuline,  and  a 
hundred  others.  When  we  say  blue,  do 
we  mean  light,  dark,  or  middling  blue? 
turquoise,  indigo,  or  peacock  blue?  that 
is,  blue  with  a  shade  of  red  in  it,  a  shade 
of  yellow  in.it,  or  a  shade  of  deep  green 
in  it?  When  we  say  green,  who  is  to 
distinguish  between  dark  sage  green,  pale 
grey  green,  harsh  arsenic  green,  yellow 
mossy  green,  sea-green,  pea-green,  emer- 
ald green,  etc.,  unless  such  words  as  sas^e, 
pea,  sea,  arsenic,  help  us  out  ?  The  name 
of  a  princess  or  of  a  town  gives  no  idea  of 
a  shade  of  color.  Nothing  could  do  it  but 
a  natural  object  which  is  likely  to  remain 
always  with  us,  like  the  poor. 

But  such  are  the  elegancies  of  trade  in 
this  commercial  country,  that  I  suppose  a 
thing  could  scarcely  sell  by  its  own  En- 
glish name,  or  by  some  simple  epithet 
which  described  it.  If  a  beautiful  thing 
with  a  sensible  name  occurs  by  chance,  it 
never  lasts  long.  Peacock,  terra-cotta, 
and  cream-color,  have  been  spoilt,  and  are 
much  ill-used.  R^sdda,  for  instance,  a 
pretty  pale  green  which  came  in  some 
seven  years  ago,  was  soon  degraded  into 
dark  greens  and  slates,  and  ultimately 
into  an  ugly  reddish-brown  —  all  called 
"  r^s^da,  newest  shades  "  —  and  the  soft 
tint  of  mignonette  was  not  recalled  any 
longer. 

Why,  it  is  thought  infra  di^.  to  use 
such  expressions  as  *' black  as  thunder,'* 
**red  as  fire,"  and  the  rising  generation 
are  checked  for  such  vulgarisms  !  I  do 
not  know  what  we  should  make  of  our 
historical  colors,  even  the  commonest  of 
them,  if  dear  old  Chaucer,  who  mostly 
calls  a  spade  a  spade,  had  not  helped  us 
with  continual  happy  *'  vulgarisms,'* show- 
ing us  the  franklin's  beard  *'  white  as  a 
daisy,"  "white  as  morning  milk;"  the 
monk's  horse  '*  as  brown  as  a  berry ; " 
Alison's  eyebrows  as  "black  as  any 
sloe ; "  the  miserable  face  of  Avarice 
"green  as  a  leek."  How  clearly  and 
speedily  we  frame  a  mental  image  from 
such  pictorial  terms!  and  how  they  add 
to  our  pleasure ! 

Chaucer  uses  numerous  other  expres- 
sions in  describing  his  people,  which  are 
meant  to  be  as  graphic  as  the  others  :  but 
the  names  are  obsolete,  and  we  no  longer 
catch  his  drift.  The  pretty  woman  with 
eyes  "grey  as  glass,"  the  dainty  Sir 
Thopas,  with  his  face  as  white  as  "  pande- 
maine,"  the  summoner  with  his  evil  coun- 
tenance "  like  the  fiery  cberubin  "  —  these 


84 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


we  do  not  understand  without  a  little 
consideration,  which  interrupts  the  train 
of  thought,  and  seems  to  blur  the  picture. 
Does  he  mean  a  woman  with  whitish, 
glassy  goggle-eyes  ?  how  frightful  1  Or 
why  had  the  cherubin  the  reputation  of 
evil  and  vicious  faces?  and  how  can  we 
realize  a  doughty  knight  with  the  chalky 
face  of  a  coward  ?  We  shall  see  pres- 
ently. 

Something  is  gained  by  an  examination 
of  color  in  connection  with  fabric;  the 
one  often  throws  light  upon  the  other. 
Certain  brilliant  colors  often  gave  in  time 
their  names  to  particular  fabrics  in  which 
they  were  oftenest  employed ;  this  hap- 
pened with  "ciclatoun,"  "burnet,"  "rus- 
set,*' and  other  webs,  once  merely  names  of 
colors,  as  our  *•  Turkey-red  "  means  a  cer- 
tain twilled  cotton  material,  not  only  the 
color  of  its  dye.  Baize  (orig.  bays,  bay- 
color,  red  brown  ?)  is  another  instance. 
Sometimes  certain  fabrics  christened  the 
colors,  ^.4^,  sable,  which  became  an  equiv- 
alent for  black;  plunket  (blue),  now  blan- 
ket, and  many  more. 

But  it  has  unfortunately  been  so  long 
the  custom  to  christen  colors  after  some 
obscure  but  once  celebrated  person  who 
was  in  the  habit  of  wearing  them,  or  after 
the  town  or  country  where  the  color  was 
first  sold,  that  it  is  in  some  cases  next  to 
impossible  to  identify  the  hue;  and  so  it 
always  will  be.  Yet  it  would  certainly  be 
wiser,  usefuller,  more  poetic,  to  call  a  robe 
or  mantle  after  the  flower  which  suggested 
its  shape,  or  the  gorgeous  mineral  which 
gave  it  its  color,  or  the  variea:ated  moss, 
or  dancing  butterfly,  or  drifting  cloud, 
that  originated  some  idea  connected  with 
its  texture,  etc.,  for  the  flower,  and  the 
mineral,  and  the  race  of  insects  would  re- 
main forever  as  an  explanation.  Colors 
and  forms  ought  always  to  be  named  after 
some  common  effect,  so  that  the  idea  may 
not  be  lost.  There  is  a  great  deal  in  a 
name,  though  Juliet  did  not  think  so.  A 
name  may  carry  the  prettiest  or  the  ugliest 
associations  with  it,  may  recall  happy  or 
horrible  images;  and  popular  names,  like 
all  fashions,  are  to  some  extent  a  chroni- 
cle of  their  time  and  an  index  to  the  man- 
ners of  the  age.  Naming  colors,  however, 
is  difficult,  as  the  words  themselves,  al- 
though expressive  once,  change  and  cease 
to  represent  the  same  ideas.  The  slight- 
est liberty  with  the  word  opens  the  door 
to  oblivion.  The  classics  used  the  term 
purple^  for  the  sea,  for  a  maiden's  blush, 
for  a  cucumber,  for  something  bright  and 
shining,  and  for  something  dark  and 
gloomy.     How?    Crimson   is    allied    to 


blue,  and  a  rich  tint  of  either  was  pro- 
duced from  the  same  fish,  Murex  truncu" 
ius.  This  was  the  famous  Tvrian  dye, 
and  it  is  easy  to  trace  how  a  dark,  "em* 
purpled  ''  (we  must  say  it)  cucumber,  and 
the  other  contradictory  objects  were  de- 
scribable  by  the  one  word  used  in  various 
senses.  Do  we  not  take  the  like  liberties, 
we  moderns,  with  our  words  ?  Do  not  our 
colors  still  get  confused  with  each  other, 
the  last  meaning  being  as  far  from  the 
first  as  in  the  old  game  of  scandal  ? 

No  word  has  more  exercised  antiqua- 
ries than  the  above-named  old  word  cicla- 
toun—  spelt  siglaton,  checklatoun,  etc., 
etc.  This  is  not  a  bad  instance  of  (he 
difficulties  besetting  such  studies.  Some 
say  the  word  was  first  cyclas^  a  certain 
round  gown.  Skeat  derives  it  from  the 
Persian  saqaldt,  scarlet  stuff,  and  saqla^ 
(dn^  scarlet  cloth.  Guillaume  le  Breton 
says  it  was  a  rich  silk  made  in  the  Cy- 
clades. 

At  any  rate,  the  East  produced  a  rich 
stuff  suitable  for  certain  garments  called 
cyclas,  as  we  might  say,  coat-cloth,  Judith 
of  Bohemia  wore  a  cyclas  worked  with 
gold,  in  1083.  The  knights'  surcoats  were 
called  by  the  same  word  in  the  thirteenth 
century :  — 

Armez  d'un  haubergeon 
Couvert  d'un  singlaton. 

Some  ancient  writers  seem  to  use  sygla- 
ton  as  an  equivalent  for  any  kind  of  man- 
tle. 

Chaucer  savs  Sir  Thopas*s  robe  was 
made  of  ciclatoun,  or  checklatoun,  in 
some  MSS. ;  and  checklatoun  was  early 
confounded  with  a  certain  chequered 
cloth,  properly  called  checkaratus,  knotted 
in  diaper  design.  Strutt  considers  them 
identical.  Which  came  first,  the  place, 
the  garment,  or  the  color?  Here  is  a 
mesh  which  no  consideration  for  the  after- 
borns  could  perhaps  have  evaded.  It  is 
one  instance  among  many. 

Of  course  one  of  the  obstacles  in  dis- 
covering the  old  colors  by  name  is  the 
oddness  and  variability  of  the  old  spelling 
—  not  to  say,  the  obstructive  blinkers  we 
have  put  upon  ourselves  with  our  new 
ordinance  of  a  fixed  orthographical  stan- 
dard. We  never  spell  phonetically,  ac- 
cording to  the  proper  pronunciation,  or 
individual  accent.  But  that  is  just  what 
our  forefathers  //rV/do;  and  so  when  in 
old  English  and  French  we  see  the  same 
word  spelt  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  even  in  a 
single  page,  we  are  verv  much  impeded 
in  our  progress  towards  light. 

It  is,  however,  very  interesting  to  dig 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


8S 


oat  the  half  buried  bit  of  antiquity,  and 
charming  little  "  finds  "often  occur  by  the 
way,  which  we  do  not  expect.  Whilst  we 
are  scratciiing  for  a  proper  name,  some 
flower's  scent  is  wafted  to  us,  some  strong 
and  pithy  term  delights  us,  or  a  gem  from 
a  maiden's  crown  slips  under  our  hands. 
And  whilst  we  beat  the  great  coverts  for 
so  small  a  thing  as  the  meaning  of  a  color 
or  a  fold,  from  this  side  and  that  seeds 
quick  for  future  wealth  fall  silently  into 
our  empty  basket  —  a  witty  old  proverb, 
or  a  little  geographical  hint,  or  some  curi- 
osity of  lingering  word  or  lost  token.  It 
is  pretty  play,  on  Tom  Tiddler's  ground, 
like  mining. 

Chaucer  is  of  course  the  main  reference 
for  all  mediaeval  Questions.  He  goes  over 
so  much  ground,  and  his  tales  are  so 
crowded  with  allusions  and  similes,  that 
he  is  a  well  of  information.  From  him 
we  mi^ht  almost  compute  the  extent  of 
the  scientific  and  art  knowledge  of  his 
day.  From  him  we  get  exact  and  telling 
pictures  of  fourteenth-century  people  in- 
side and  out,  and  implied  pictures  of 
Eogland  during  the  century  or  so  before, 
as  well  as  not  a  few  promises  for  time 
coming  —  just  as  we  find,  in  some  of 
Giotto*s  pictures,  foreshadowings  of  Fra- 
Ao^elico  and  Signorelli. 

There  were  a  great  many  colors  used  in 
Chaucer's  day,  and  there  were  a  great 
many  materials.  Velvet,  satin,  samite, 
silk  ~  plain  and  figured  and  painted  — 
crape  and  gauze,  with  ribbons  and  fringes, 
and  purflings  of  all  sorts,  with  various 
Hnen  and  woollen  webs,  were  all  in  use 
and  all  mentioned  by  Chaucer.  Leather 
and  atir  bouilli  were  already  employed. 
Bright  colors  were  in  vogue  for  the  dresses 
of  both  sexes  and  for  the  decoration  of 
**  houses  of  worship."  Chaucer  describes 
the  fat  dyer  and  tapiser  in  his  prologue. 
They  could  well  afford  to  take  their  pri- 
vate cook  about  with  them  —  not  that  he 
was  any  better  than  other  cooks,  it  was 
all  ostentation.  We  do  not  hear  much  of 
white  materials,  probably  the  old  white, 
e?en  of  linen,  w^as  less  perfectly  bleached 
than  our  own.  The  white  skin  of  a  very 
fair  person  was  quaintly  called  by  Chau- 
cer (**  Sir  Thopas  ")  after  pain  de  Maine. 
Maine  bread,  as  the  cleanest  white  he 
could  think  of  —  perhaps  the  most  tempt- 
ios:  morsel,  for  all  his  similes  have  a 
raisan  d^eire.  Chaucer  names  many  dyes, 
among  them  Brazil-wood  and  grain  of 
Port ingale  ("Nun's  Priest's  Epilogue"), 
madder,  weld,  and  woad  (Isaiis  prima). 
Weld  was  a  plant  producing  a  yellow  dye 
(Reseda  luteola } ;  madder  would  yield  reds, 


such  as  Turkey-red,  purples,  lilac,  and 
pink,  and  woad  a  red-blue.  With  these, 
numberless  shades  could  be  produced. 
Among  the  most  popular  were  *'  royal 
grene,  which  from  ancient  minatures  we 
should  judge  to  have  been  a  fine  grass- 
green  with  a  distinct  dash  of  yellow  in  it, 
like  the  color  of  a  sunlit  leaf.  The  chief 
reds  were  scarlet^  named  by  the  wife  of 
Bath,  etc.;  sanguine^  or  crimson,  and 
grain^  imported  from  Portugal  —  /.^., 
"vermus  or  vermilion"  —  in  fact  cochi- 
neal, a  red  so  fast  and  permanent  that  the 
word  "ingrained"  had  become  in  the 
fourteenth  century,  and  still  remains,  a 
general  term  for  a  fast  color  of  any  kind. 
And  here  I  may  say  a  word  for  the  fiery 
cherubin  as  likened  to  the  red-faced  sum- 
moner  by  Chaucer,  in  many  old  pictures 
the  childish  art  of  the  time  depicted  these 
spirits  wholly  in  red,  the  color  of  love; 
rows  of  them  surmounted  rows  of  blue 
seraphim,  the  spirits  of  knowledge  and 
truth,  of  which  the  color  was  held  blue. 
It  had  doubtless  become  a  proverb  already 
in  Chaucer's  time,  "as  red  as  the  fiery 
cherubin,"  as  blue  as  the  seraphim,  from 
the  pictures  in  the  churches;  and  no  in- 
sult was  meant  to  the  cherubin,  nothing 
even  blasphemous,  by  the  quaint  simile. 

So  much  for  the  reds.  Russet,  mur- 
rey, musterdevelers,  watchet,  vair,  may  be 
quoted  among  the  commonest  mediaeval 
colors,  which  1  must  treat  separately. 

RUSSET. 

That  the  leather  employed  for  jerkins 
was  reddish,  we  can  infer  from  "russet" 
apples  having  been  called  "  leather-coats." 
Russet  and  grey  seem  almost  convertible 
terms,  though  russet  was  a  very  "  warm  " 
color  (Fr.  roussette\  whilst  grey  is  decid- 
edly "  cold."  Russet  was  fox-color ;  Chau- 
cer speaks  of  the  fox  as  Dan  Russel,  from 
his  red  coat.  Probably  the  red  was  often 
very  dull  in  russet,  and  the  grey  imper- 
fect, with  a  drab  or  brown  tendency,  like 
undyed  wool  —  that  is,  when  woven  in 
coarse,  friezes,  or  iynse-wolse,  such  as 
were  worn  by  working  people,  children, 
etc.  None  of  the  old  colors  were  quite 
as  pure  as  our  own,  I  imagine,  and  were 
therefore  more  beautiful ;  for  when  a  color 
is  too  pure,  it  is  usually  unpicturesque. 
Modern  distillation  had  made  most  colors 
painful  till  art-Protestants  insisted  on  re- 
introducing softer  shades.  A  color  may 
be  bright  without  being  pnre^  that  is,  it 
may  partake  of  some  other  hue  just  enoui^h 
to  take  off  the  edge  of  its  sharpness,  like 
crimson,  peacock,  grass-green  and  some 
of  the  new  (old)  yellows.    These  are  all 


36 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


imperfect  colors.  We  may  judge  from  the 
pictures  by  Van  £yck,  Quentin  Matsys, 
etc.,  how  rich  were  the  pinks  and  scarlets ; 
and  yet  there  seemed  to  be  a  certain  soft- 
ness present,  owing  to  the  scarlet  having 
a  hint  of  yellow,  the  pink  being  touched 
with  blue  or  salmon,  the  yellow  either 
reddish  like  orange,  or  greenish  like  mus- 
tard, or  earthy  like  clay. 

But  it  is  probable  that  ''russet"  and 
"  g''^)' "  had  become  the  regular  names  of 
homespun  wool  —  irrespective  of  their 
precise  color  —  when  Margaret  Paston 
was  ordering  it  both  for  the  children  and 
the  servants'  liveries.  The  useful  linsey 
that  was  fashionable  fifteen  years  ago, 
never  took  any  strong  dye;  and  russet 
was  probably  similar.  We  read  in  old 
stories  of  grey  russet.  "  We  are  country- 
folks, grey  russet  and  good  hempe-spun 
cloth  doth  best  become  us."  (Deloney's 
*'  Pleasant  History  of  Thomas  of  Read- 
ing.") Peasants  wore  the  cloth  called 
russet,  till  they  themselves  were  called 
**russetings,"  and  their  garments  in  gen- 
eral their  russets  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. In  this  case  the  color  certainly 
named  the  stuff;  and  the  stuff  named  the 
wearers. 

MURREY. 

The  above  hypothesis  of  the  dulness 
of  colors  in  coarse  woollens  may  account 
for  "  russet "  or  "grey"  representing " ar- 
gent" in  the  Paston  liveries  (a  metal  usu- 
ally signified  by  white  in  heraldry),  just  as 
drab  liveries  arc  carried  now.  But  it  is 
less  clear  how  murrey  (Fr.  murier^  mul- 
berry), which  was  ^  dull  lilac  color,  much 
like  claret  spilt  on  a  white  tablecloth, 
could  have  stood  for  "or"  in  the  same 
arms,  as  we  gather  from  one  letter  that  it 
did;  unless  there  were  as  many  shades  of 
murrey  as  the  berry  passes  through  on 
the  tree. 

We  can  only  account  for  "red  gold" 
being  represented  in  liveries  by  murrey, 
if  the  murrey  was  distinctly  redijxoX,  lilac) 
—  a  very  unripe  mulberry. 

Murrey  is  repeatedly  spokep  of  in  the 
Paston  letters  (1434-85),  and  painted  in 
ancient  pictures,  from  Giotto  up  to  Mat- 
sys and  his  school.  It  was  sometimes 
dark,  sometimes  pale,  unmistakably  mul- 
berry-color. I  do  not  find  that  the  mul- 
berry-tree was  growing  in  England  before 
1434;  thus  the  color  is  likely  to  have  been 
imported  from  Italy  or  south  France, 
where  the  fingers  of  the  fruit-gatherers 
were  stained  by  the  purplejuice,  for  some 
time  before  we  had  mulberries  of  our 
own. 


It  is  an  odd  color  to  place  next  blue; 
but  in  the  Paston  arms  they  stood  to- 
gether, and  they  were  also  the  livery-col- 
ors of  the  house  of  York.  We  should 
think  murrey  and  blue  would  go  better 
together  if  the  murrey  were  decidedly 
red.  But  the  mixture  was  popular.  In 
Quentin  Matsys'  pictures  blue  and  true 
murrey  are  often  combined,  not  disagree- 
ablv.  I  remember  in  the  Amsterdam 
Gallery  a  Madonna  in  a  blue  dress  cut 
square,  a  high  white  smock  and  mur- 
rey sleeves.  She  wears  a  green  girdle, 
and  the  child  rests  on  a  deep  murrey 
cushion.  In  the  great  Matsys'  triptych 
at  Antwerp,  Herod  has  a  murrey  veil  from 
his  head,  and  a  pale  blue  mantle  shot  with 
pink.  But  a  great  colorist  can  harmonize 
the  strangest  combinations,  and  Quentin 
Matsys  is  the  master  of  the  rainbow. 

There  is  a  figure  in  the  MS.  Hist,  of 
Alexandria,  temp.  Rich.  II.  (fourteenth 
century),  wearing  a  "  syde  \wi(ic'\  gown  '• 
particolored,  of  blue  and  murrey;  here 
the  murrey  is  decidedly  lilac.  His  cap  is 
blue,  and  his  hose  respectively  scarlet 
and  white  —  the  scarlet  leg  on  the  murrey 
side.  Scarlet  and  crimson  were  often 
worn  together  also,  strange  to  say.  Burne 
Jones  is  the  only  modern  painter  who  caa 
reconcile  them. 

I  will  now  give  three  extracts  from  the 
interesting  Paston  letters.  Margaret  P. 
writes:  — 

As  touching  for  your  liveries,  there  can  none 
be  gotten  here  of  that  color  that  ye  would  have 
of,  neither  murrey,  nor  blue,  nor  good  russet, 
underneath  y,  the  yard  at  the  lowest  price,  and 
yet  is  there  not  enough  of  one  cloth  and  color 
to  serve  you :  and  as  for  to  be  purveyed  in 
Suffolk,  it  will  not  be  purveyed  not  now  against 
the  time,  without  they  had  had  warning  at 
Michaelmas,  as  I  am  informed.  —  Norwich, 
November  25,  1455  (?). 

Before  1459 :  — 

I  pray  you  .  .  .  that  ye  will  do  buy  me  some 
frieze  to  make  of  your  children's  gowns.  Ye 
shall  have  best  cheap  and  best  choice  of  Hays^s 
wife,  as  it  is  told  me.  And  that  ye  will  buy  a 
yard  of  broad  cloth  of  black  for  one  hood  for 
me,  of  44^.  or  four  shillings  a  yard,  for  there 
is  neither  good  cloth  nor  good  frieze  in  this 
town  (Norwich). 

Agnes  Paston  writes,  January  28, 
1457:  — 

Item,  to  see  how  many  gowns  Clement  hath, 
and  that  they  be  bare,  let  them  be  raised. 

He  hath  a  short  green  gown.  And  a  short 
musterdevelers  gown,  were  never  raised. 

And  a  short  blue  gown,  that  was  raised,  and 
made  of  a  side  \wide\  gown,  when  I  was  last  at 
London. 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES, 


And  a  side  russet  gown  furred  with  beaver 
was  made  this  time  two  years. 

And  a  side  murray  gown  was  made  this  time 
twelve  month. 

MUSTERDBVELERS. 

In  this  letter  we  have  "a  musterdevel- 
ers  gown  "  spoken  of  perhaps  as  a  mate- 
rial, not  a  color,  inasmuch  as  it  was 
"never  raised,"  says  the  thrifty  house- 
wife. The  word  is  very  variously  spelt. 
In  a  later  letter  the  briae,  Margery  Pas- 
ton,  writes,  *^  My  mother  sent  to  my  father 
to  London  for  a  gown  cloth  of  mustyrd- 
dcvyllers."  In  Rymer's  "  Fcedera,"  in  a 
list  of  articles  shipped  from  England  for 
the  use  of  the  king  of  Portugal  and  the 
countess  of  Holland,  in  1428,  two  pieces 
of  mustrevilers  and  two  pieces  of  russet 
mustrevilers  occur.  Some  suppose  the 
word  to  be  a  corruption  of  tnoitU  de  ve» 
loursy  **a  kind  of  mixed  grey  woollen 
cloth,"  says  Halliwell,  evidently  with  a  nap 
of  some  sort  —  mestis  de  velours^  a  bas- 
tard velvet,  say  others.  There  was  a  town, 
however,  spoken  of  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
V^  called  Moustier  de  Villiers,  near  Hon- 
fleur,  and  this  may  have  given  its  name  to 
a  cloth  there  made. 

Whichever  was  the  original  word.  Stow 
uses  the  name  in  his  "  Survey  of  Lon- 
don "  distinctly  as  a  color ^  not  a  material. 
"  In  the  nineteenth  year  of  King  Henry 
VI,  there  was  bought  for  an  officer's  gown 
two  yards  of  cloth  coloured  mustard  vil- 
lars^  a  color  now  out  of  use,  and  two  yards 
of  cloth  coloured  blue,  price  two  shillings 
the  yard."  Here  it  is  pretty  clear  that  the 
place  named  the  stuffs  and  the  stuff  named 
iht color.  And  what  was  the  color  ?  Mus- 
tard-colored cloth  was  much  used  for  offi- 
cial dresses  and  liveries  in  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  stockings 
of  the  blue-coat  scholars  may  be  an  in- 
stance of  it.  It  is  by  no  means  clear  that 
the  manufacture  of  Moustier  de  Villiers 
was  not  as  probably  mustard-color  as 
grey.  The  glossarists  are  fond  of  calling 
most  woollen  fabrics  that  they  know  little 
about,  *'grey  mixtures."  But  dull  grey 
colors  are  the  rarest  seen  in  the  old  pic- 
tures and  miniatures ;  every  one,  poor  and 
rich,  loved  bright  tints.  And  I  am  much 
inclined  to  attribute  Stow's  evidently  cor- 
rupted term  to  the  tradition  of  its  yellow 
color.  This  is  precisely  the  way  in  which 
a  word  so  often  becomes  corrupted,  espe- 
cially among  ignorant  people.  They  at- 
tach no  meaning  to  the  original  word,  and 
it  slides  into  one  that  has  some  sort  of 
meaning  to  them  —  e,j^»,  Lete-rede  (Wise 
Council),    DOW    Leatherbead;    the    ship 


87 

*•  Bellerophon,"  called  "  Billy  Ruffian."  I 
have  known  countless  instances  of  proper 
names  being  lost  in  terms  that  seem  to 
detter  describe  the  object  —  ^.j^.,  bouffetier 
beef-eater,  the  dress  being  red  as  beef; 
^crevisse,  cr ay-fish,  for  it  / >  a  fish  ;  huy' 
senblas^  (sturgeon-bladder)  isinglass,  for 
it  is  glassy  and  transparent. 

Let  us  suppose,  then,  that  musterdevel- 
ers  was  a  handsomely  napped  cloth,  gen- 
erally yellow,  sometimes  foxy  yellow  {cf» 
russet  mustrevilers),  in  which  we  so  often 
see  ladies  of  position,  such  as  Margery 
Paston  was,  arrayed  in  fourteenth  and 
iifteenth  century  pictures  by  Fra  Angelico 
and  earlier  masters,  and  worn  also  by 
officials  who  are  commonly  required  to  be 
conspicuous. 

METALLIC  COLORS. 

The  exact  color  of  the  common  metal 
latoun,  often  spoken  of  in  mediaeval  liter- 
ature, does  not  seera  clear  yet.  All  the 
glossaries  describe  it  as  a  mixed  metal, 
not  unlike  brass.  But  brass  is  yellow,  as 
yellow  as  gold,  and  one  allusion  alone  in 
Chaucer  seems  to  mark  it  as  a  very  differ- 
ent metal. 

Phcebus  was  old,  and  hewed  like  latonn. 
That  in  his  hote  declination 
Shone  as  the  burned  gold,  with  stremes  bright ; 
But  now  in  Capricorne  adoun  he  light 
Whereas  he  shone  f  ul  pale. 

Does  pale  here  mean  dull  ?  Here  is  a 
pointed  contrast  drawn  between  gold  and 
latoun. 

In  another  place  Chaucer  uses  the 
simile,  yellow,  "as  any  bason  scoured 
newe,"  perhaps  brass:  and  in  "Piers 
Plowman  "  we  read  of  a  cloister  with  con- 
duits of  "clene  tyn"  and  "lavoures  of 
laton,"  which,  being  not  tin,  might  have 
been  yellow  metal.  The  use  of  laton  by 
common  people  as  the  mounting  for  false 
relics  (Prologue  to  the  "  Pardoner's  Tale  ") 
points  to  its  cheapness;  the  purse  of  co- 
quettish Alison,  the  miller's  pretty  wife, 
being  pearled  with  laton,  points  to  its 
brightness,  as  a  copy  of  silver  or  gold, 
like  the  brazen  armlets  found  in  Etruscan 
tombs,  so  goldlike  beneath  the  rust.  Let 
us  remember,  too,  the  beautiful  delicate 
hammered  copper  and  pewter  work  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  There  are  hammered  ves- 
sels of  a  pale  kind  of  brass,  and  latoun 
may  have  been  used  in  several  colors, 
according  to  the  amount  of  alloy  used. 
Latten  stands  in  French  dictionaries  as 
laiton^cuivre  laminS — wrought  or  hard- 
ened copper,  distinct  from  Pitain^  tin ; 
and  latten  is  a  name  which  before  the  re* 


88 


COLORS   AND   CLOTHS   OF  THE   MIDDLE   AGES. 


form  in  the  customs  tariff  was  applied 
here  to  sheet-brass.  But  the  **  mines  of 
latten  "  mentioned  in  the  time  of  Henry 
VIII.  remain  an  arch  sol  ogical  cmx.  If 
latoun  was  copper,  it  is  curious  that 
Chaucer  names  '*  coper  "  as  well  as  **  tin  ** 
in  "The  House  of  Fame"  — though  the 
sunken  sun  above  quoted  might  be  cop- 
pery. If  it  was  brass,  as  we  understand 
it,  how  could  Chaucer,  the  accurate,  call 
it  paUf  and  where  shall  we  find  mines  of 
brass,  save  in  the  half  mythical  Corinthian 
conflagration?  Chaucer  uses  the  word 
"brass,"  too,  in  the  "Squire's  Tale," 
"  the  horse  of  brass."  I  have  been  shown 
a  vessel  dated  very  early  in  the  sixteenth 
century  of  a  very  pale  kind  of  brass  ;  and 
I  am  told  by  a  good  antiquary  that  there 
are  mines  in  England  of  a  sort  of  bastard 
copper,  poor  in  color  —  either  of  which 
may  be  Chaucer*s  latoun.  The  word  lat- 
ten, indeed,  is  derived  by  Skeat  from 
latte^  a  thin  plate ;  and  copper  and  brass, 
and  even  tin  {cf.  Port,  lata^  tin  plate)  may 
all  have  been  called  latoun  when  ham- 
mered and  perforated  in  a  thin  form.  At 
any  rate,  it  was  markedly  less  deep  in 
color  than  **  red  gold." 

By-the-by,  conventional  terms,  such  as 
"  red  gold,"  "teeres  blew  "  (an  expression 
used  by  Chaucer  in  his  "  Complaint  of 
Mars  and  Venus  "),  are  still  more  confus- 
ing. Gold  was  called  red  because  it  had 
decidedly  **  warm  "  shadows  :  it  was  ap- 
parently deeper  in  color  than  ours,  and  it 
was  represented  in  tapestries  by  a  red 
color.  The  rich  gilding  of  letters  in  the 
old  missals  looks  quite  red  against  mod- 
ern gilding.  Not  only  is  the  gold  thicker, 
but  really  it  seems  to  me  deeper  in  color ; 
and  that  it  must  always  have  been  so,  the 
term  red  gold,  especially  when  applied  to 
red  hair,  etc.,  seems  to  assure  us.  The 
two  were  always  linked.  "Blood  beiok- 
cneth  gold,  as  me  was  taught,"  babbles 
the  wife  of  Bath.  Often  purposely,  gold 
was  laid  over  red,  as  we  see  upon  ancient 
picture-frames. 

Blue,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  «*cold" 
color,  and  seemed  to  the  ancients  (not 
heralds)  the  nearest  thing  to  describe  sil- 
ver, which  is  certainly  neither  white  nor 
black.  The  old  tapestries  represent  sil- 
ver vessels  always  by  blue  threads.  And 
the  "leeres  blew"  of  the  lovers  in  Chau- 
cer's poem  were  silvery  —  with  the  cold 
glittering  color  of  white  metal  and  water. 

VAIR. 

"Eyes  of  vair,"  praised  so  often  in 
medixval  poetry,  have  exercised  many 
minds.    For  my  part,  1  was  years  before 


I  realized  that  there  was  any  point  in  the 
expression.    But  at  last  I  "  saw  "  it. 

Vair  was  the  name  of  the  fur  of  the 
grey  squirrel,  from  variiy  because  the 
belly  of  the  squirrel,  which  was  white,  was 
mixed  with  the  grey  back  in  ovaUshaped 
compartments  —  variegated.  Probably 
the  same  confusion  occurred  betweea 
this  word  vair  and  verre^  glass,  as  that  in 
the  old  tale  of  Cinderella,  whose  "glass 
slipper"  was  indubitably  the  shoe  of  vair 
fur  worn  by  nobles,  according  to  Mr.  Rals- 
ton. 

This  confusion  of  two  similar  words  in 
a  French-speaking  country  such  as  En- 
gland was,  is  the  less  curious,  as  grey  was 
commonly  considered  the  nearest  color  to 
glass  —  not  then  the  clear  white  crystal 
which  now  rivals  the  diamond.  Glass 
was  then  just  white  enough  to  show  grey 
when  thick  enough  to  have  any  tint  o7  its 
own,  with  white  and  variegated  reflec- 
tions. Chaucer  plainly  says  the  prioresses 
eyes  were  "grey  as  glass,"  —  "grey  as  a 
goose,"  he  says  of  Absolon*s.  Eyes  of 
vair  were  the  soft  light-grey  eyes  common 
in  England,  with  or  without  blue  in  them, 
and  the  lashes  giving  a  sort  of  furry  soft- 
ness to  the  glance.  When  we  see  how 
the  mediaeval  artist  represented  vair  fur, 
in  escallop-shaped  compartments  on  a 
white  ground, and  how  it  is  still  "diversi- 
fied with  argent  and  azure  "  in  heraldry 
(in  fact,  the  white  and  grey  squirrel  fur 
commonly  used  now)  we  may  see  at  once 
that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  point  in 
the  expression,  and  a  very  pretty  com- 
pliment, seeing  that  vair  was  the  next 
costliest  fur  to  the  white  ermine,  and 
sacred  to  the  crime  de  la  crime.  The 
iris  of  the  eye  showed  a  grey  escallop  on 
a  white  ground,  and  heralds  represented 
grey  by  "  azure,"  as  the  tapissier  used  his 
dark-blue  threads  for  silver,  for  conven- 
ience* sake. 

WATCHET. 

Watchet  is  regarded  by  Tyrwhitt  as  a 
kind  of  cloth,  on  account  of  some  MSS. 
reading  "  whit "  instead  of  "  light "  in  the 
portrait  of  Absolon  in  the  "Miller's 
Tale ;  "  and  probably  the  name  emanates 
from  the  town  of  Watchet  in  Somerset- 
shire. But  it  is  usually  held  to  be  a  color, 
pale  blue,  which  is  precisely  the  sort  of 
color  the  dandified  church  clerk  would 
have  worn  with  red  hose.  It  is  common 
to  see  light-blue  coats  and  gowns  with 
red  hose  in  the  missal  pictures.  But 
in  Barntield's  "  AflFectionate  Shepherd," 
(1594),  we  hear,— 

The  saphyre  stone  is  of  a  watchet  blue. 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


89 


Nowy  sapphires  are  dark  blue :  not  un> 
like  the  cassocks  which  Roman  Catholic 
Charch  officials  wear,  and  Absolon's  **kir- 
tle  "  was  probably  a  cassock,  not  a  coat, 
for  be  wore  his  surplice  over  it.  Still 
Cbaucer  distinctly  says  Absolon  went 

AH  in  a  kirtle  of  a  li^ki  waget, 

whereas  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen 
any  old  picture  of  acolytes  robed  in  really 
pale  blue,  though  plenty  of  pale  blue  ex- 
isted  {cf,  Giotto's  pictures).  I  suggest, 
then,  that  Absolon's  "light  waget*'  was 
the  lightest  shade  of  a  blue  which  is  mor- 
ally certain  to  have  been  sold  in  more 
than  one  shade:  not  turquoise,  though 
described  by  Cotgrave  as  **plunket  or 
skie-blue,"  but  a  red  blue  liker  ultrama- 
rine  or  cobalt,  which  in  the  darkest  shade 
would  be  sapphire,  or  that  almost  violet 
shade  still  used  for  cassocks  in  great  fes- 
tal services  in  foreign  cathedrals.  The 
sky  is  not  seldom  of  a  deep,  ultramarine 
color  —  a  red  blue  as  opposed  to  a  yellow 
blue  —  in  i^iCi  jacinciusy  one  of  the  names 
for  plunket-blue.  And  pluoket  is  said  to 
have  been  taken  from  the  name  of  one 
Thomas  Blanket,  who  in  1340  set  up  a 
loom  in  Bristol,  Somerset.  Our  **  blanket " 
is  said  to  come  from  **  plunket,''  blue ; 
whether  from  a  bluey-grey  qualitv  of  the 
wool  does  not  seem  clear :  probably  yes, 
the  color  naming  the  cloth.  Meantime, 
Blanket  may  have  worked  at  Watchet,  or 
the  neighbor  towns  may  have  produced 
a  very  similar  azure;  and  a  blue  manv 
shades  deeper  than  what  we  should  call 
pale,  might  have  been  reasonably  spoken 
of  as  'Myght  blewe  or  skie-color"  when 
compared  with  the  common  dark  Prus- 
sian or  navy  blue  appropriated  by  sailors 
from  very  early  times.  We  cannot  do 
better  than  consult  the  old  missals  them- 
selves, or  an  institution  happily  (for  anti- 
quaries) so  conservative  as  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  in  some  of  its  great  fes- 
tal shows,  for  the  explanation  of  many 
shapes  and  colors  in  garb,  and  manner  of 
use. 

I  have  now  shown  that  both  fabrics  and 
tints  were  multifarious  in  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries,  as  is  natural  in 
every  highly  civilized  age.  Weavers  from 
abroad  were  greatly  encouraged  under 
Edward  1 1 1.,  and  all  native  manufactures 
received  a  new  stimulus  from  the  royal 
interest. 

The  embroideries:  England  had  been 
long  so  famed  for  them  that  they  were 
known  as  the  unrivalled  opus  Anglica" 
num^  and  the  ancient  painters  show  us 
bow  perfect  they  were.    Heavy  bullion 


work,  and  the  daintiest  imagery  produced 
by  the  needle  —scenes,  portraits,  inscrip- 
tions, etc.,  were  seen  on  the  Church  robes, 
on  the  coat-hardy  of  the  young  noble,  and 
the  royal  mantle.  Nay,  sumptuary  laws 
in  vain  tried  to  prevent  their  use  by  any- 
body else  who  could  get  hold  of  them,  or 
make  them.  Moreover,  these  ss^xt painted 
dresses,  not  unlike  those  that  came  in  a 
season  or  two  ago.  In  **The  Romaunt  of 
the  Rose,"  the  robe  of  the  god  of  Love 
is  described  as  not  silk  —  /.^.,  I  supposet 
a  plain,  palpable  silk,  — 

But  all  in  floures  and  flourettes, 

I  painted  all  with  amorettes, 

And  with  lozenges  and  scoch6ns  {eseutchetms)^ 

With  birdes,  libardes  {leopards),  and  lidos. 

And  other  beastes  wrouKbt  ful  wel. 

His  garment  was  every  del 

Ipurtraied,  and  ywrought  with  floures, 

By  divers  medeling  of  coloures — 

/./.,  paint  and  needlework  were  blended. 

As  this  was  the  period  of  elaborately 
painted  tapestries,  in  which  the  subordi- 
nate parts  were  woven,  the  heads  and 
hands,  etc.,  of  the  figures  being  left  to 
the  artist's  brush,  it  was  natural  that  so 
easy  a  mode  of  decoration  should  have 
become  popular  for  dress.  How  much 
less  time  it  would  take  to  paint  a  pretty 
border  or  motto,  or  to  renew  by  such 
means  a  worn  part,  than  to  embroider  or 
weave  itl  Both  fashions  then  were  in  at 
once  —  embroidery,  as  of  the  squire's 
coat  (Chaucer's  Prol.),  and  painted  fab- 
rics, as  above. 

SAMITE  AND  SATIN. 

One  word  upon  a  much-discussed  and 
still  mysterious  material  —  samite.  The 
Germans  sav  that  it  was  satin,  and  that 
the  two  words  are  the  same.  It  is  impos- 
sible, however,  to  believe  this,  when 
Chaucer  actually  uses  both  words  more 
than  once.  In  "The  Romaunt  of  the 
Rose,"  mirth  is  described  as  clad 

In  a  samette  with  birdes  wroughte ; 

and  he  later  speaks  of  **  an  overgilt  samy." 
In  the** Death  of  Blanch"  he  promises 
Morpheus  a  feather  bed  in  fine  black  satin 
rayed  with  gold.  The  mediaeval  Latin 
words  differed,  examitum^  samite,  sett- 
muSf  satin ;  and  the  chief  glossaries  enter 
the  words  apart,  though  each  simply  as 
**a  rich  silk  stuff."  That  satin  of  old  was 
precisely  like  satin  of  to-day  many  old 
pictures  assure  us ;  but  if  samite  is  what 
1  believe  it,  painting  could  not  make  the 
web  clear,  it  would  only  look  like  silk. 
The  surface  of  satin  is  absolutely  smooth, 
slippery,   with   long   threads,  from   the 


90 


COLORS  AND   CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE   AGES. 


Latin  seta^  a  hair;  that  identifies  satin,  as 
the  Latin  viihsus,  shaggy,  identifies  vel- 
vet. 

Now,  I  remember,  when  a  child,  wear- 
ing a  cloak  of  rich  antique  Oriental  silk, 
Persian,  I  think,  of  a  web  I  have  never 
since  seen,  either  in  museum  or  Oriental 
warehouse.  It  had  a  silk,  not  satin,  sur- 
face, simple,  not  twilled,  with  right  side 
and  wrong,  and  was  damasked  in  a  minute 
pattern  on  stripes  of  ^old  color  and  vio- 
let—  I  think  other  colors  as  well  —  and, 
I  think,  with  little  birds  and  beasts  min- 
gled. Its  peculiarity  which  delighted  me 
was,  that  in  whatever  direction  you  cut  it 
you  found  a  double  web,  as  ot  two  rich 
silks  made  together.  Cut  it  any  way,  the 
two  were  quite  distinct,  and  yet  insepara- 
ble, like  the  Siamese  twins.  I  loved  to 
clip  odd  bits  of  this  silk  for  my  dolls,  alas  ! 
which  I  would  gladly  see  again  now,  for  it 
was  an  excessively  rich,  soft  fabric,  rather 
loosely  woven,  and  easy  to  ravel,  but  as 
firm  and  strong  and  immovable  as  many 
a  silken,  yielding  nature,  taken  edgewise. 

The  low- Latin  word  examitum  means 
a  stuff  woven  with  six  kinds  of  thread, 
and  if  we  give  samite  credit  for  some 
more  mysterious  quality  than  the  varie- 
gations nf  six  mere  colors,  at  a  time  when 
all  fabrics  were  frequently  figured  and 
variegated,  I  think  the  subtly  woven  an- 
cient silk  I  have  described  is  more  than 
likely  to  be  samite. 

The  thickness,  and  the  curiosity  of  de- 
sign, possible  in  a  material  so  woven  en 
jumelle^  may  be  imagined  at  an  epoch 
whose  days  might  be  called,  from  one 
point  of  view  at  least,  des  jours  filis  d^or 
ei  de  soie.  And  the  samites  "  with  birdes 
wroughte,"  and  r^>^^^ (striped);  and  over- 
gilt^  which  is  likely  to  have  meant  trimmed 
with  jewellery  in  parts  —  the  black  samite, 
the  white  samite,  and  the  "  vermeil  samit," 
of  which  was  made  the  sacred  oriflamme^ 
may  all  have  been  a  similar  web  to  that  I 
have  in  mind,  of  everlasting  wear,  strong 
as  fate. 

Satin,  on  the  other  hand,  is  likely  to 
have  been  identical  with  the  Chinese 
zatayn,  of  Zaitun,  which,  like  many  Celes- 
tial manufactures,  may  carry  us  back  to 
the  remotest  antiquity;  thus  setinus  would 
be  a  comparatively  modern  name  for  it. 

It  is  remarkable  how  elaborate  the 
mediaeval  love  of  dress  rendered  the  trade- 
products;  also  how  like  the  present  day 
were  the  commercial  shifts  and  tricks. 
In  the  "Vision  of  Piers  Plowman,"  Cov- 
etousness  says :  — 

My  wyf  was  a  webber  *  and  woollen  cloth  made ; 
She  spake  to  spynnesters  *  to  tpynnet  it  oate  ; 


But  the  pound  that  she  payed  by  *  poised  a 

qaarteroun  more 
Than    myne    owne  auncere  {scales'^   *  whoso 

weighed  treathe  {JairY 

Again,  he  says  he  learned  another 
trick :  — 

« 

To  draw  the  lyser  [sdvc^)  along  '  the  longer 
it  seem{^d : 

Among  the  riche  rays  (striped  cloths)  *  I  ren- 
dered a  lessoun. 

To  broche  them  with  a  packneedle  *  and  plaited 
them  together. 

And  put  them  in  a  press  *  and  pinned  them 
therein. 

Till  ten  yards  or  twelve  *  had  tolled  oat  thir- 
teen. 

There  <(ras  probably  no  "dodge"  of 
modern  commerce  unknown  to  the  ingen- 
ious inventors  of  the  Middle  Ages,  as 
there  was  hardly  any  one  of  the  rich  and 
dainty  fabrics  and  colors  known  to  the 
classics  unknown  to  them,  from  the  cost- 
liest cloth  of  gold  to  the  filmiest  veils, 
such  as  the  little  kerchief  of  Valence 
(5;ome  infant  lace  of  Valenciennes  ?)  that 
did  not  hide  the  charms  of  Venus  ('*  Par- 
liament of  Birds").  Persia,  India,  the 
whole  East  supplied  silks;  Flanders  sup- 
plied fine  linen,  "cloth  of  Lake,"  "cloth 
of  Rennes,"  etc.  The  average  worth  of 
good  common  cloths,  when  the  respective 
values  of  money  are  computed,  did  not 
vary  greatly  with  our  own,  as  political 
economists  will  easily  understand,  be- 
cause the  prices  of  necessaries  are  regu- 
lated by  unalterable  social  laws.  But  the 
qualities  may  have  been  coarser,  like  the 
fitting  and  the  making  of  clothes.  Rich 
materials,  however,  fetched  an  enormous 
price.  People  probably  spent  more  to  be- 
gin with  on  their  clothes ;  but  they  lasted 
longer.  Indeed,  dress  has  never  been  so 
cheap  as  now,  never  so  undurable;  and 
that  is  commonly  the  result  of  a  highly 
civilized  state.  In  the  ancient  times  the 
best  materials  were  demanded,  and  were 
hand-wrought;  and  though  cheatery  and 
deceit  were  busy,  there  were  not  so  much 
adulteration  and  waste  as  now,  when  me- 
chanical and  chemical  means  combine  to 
assist  the  ever-freer  circulation  of  money, 
by  producing  rapidly  and  often  helping  to 
destroy. 

Space  forbids  any  digression  here ;  but, 
in  conclusion,  I  must  express  surprise 
that  more  use  is  not  made  by  persons  en- 
gaged in  compiling  glossaries  of  cos- 
tume, or  verifying  facts  in  mediaeval  man- 
ners, of  the  beautiful  mediaeval  pictures 
in  foreign  and  English  galleries.  The 
old  painters,  like  the  old  poets,  were  more 
exact  in  knowledge  and  expression  than 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN  NOVA  ZEMUL 


9» 


their  critics  sometimes  give  them  credit 
for.  Van  Eyck's  ••  Worship  of  the  Lamb" 
is  a  whole  glossary  in  itself:  the  same 
might  be  said  of  the  Memlings  at  Burges, 
and  the  Matsys  at  Louvain  and  Antwerp. 
And  putting  aside  our  own  rich  collec- 
tions, the  above  painters  alone,  with  the 
help  of  Chaucer,  carefully  examined, 
would  almost  suffice  to  answer  many  of 
the  questions  which  I  have  been  dealing 
with.  M.  £.  Haweis. 


'  From  BlackwoocTs  Maxuinc. 
SUMMER  SPORT  IN  NOVA  ZEMLA. 

In  this  over-populated  kingdom  of 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  with  its  still 
ever-increasing  millions  of  human  beings 
who  must  somewhere  find  shelter  from 
the  fickle  elements,  we  see  new  settle- 
ments <;radually  springing  up  in  formerly 
uninhabited  places  as  the  growing  rail- 
road  system  throws  its  iron  web  over  the 
face  of  the  land,  whilst  old  villages  near 
the  lines  rapidly  assume  the  dimensions 
of  towns,  and  towns  develop  themselves 
into  cities.  The  widening  circles  of  brick 
and  mortar  constantly  encroach  on  the 
surrounding  country,  till  the  latter  is  no 
longer  able  to  supply  the  towns  with  the 
necessaries  of  life  in  sufficient  quantity; 
the  result  being  that  we  are  driven  to  pro- 
cure from  abroad  that  which  we  cannot 
produce  for  ourselves. 

As  in  the  case  of  the  necessaries  of 
life,  so  is  it  also  with  its  luxuries,  more 
especially,  perhaps,  with  that  which,  once 
a  necessity,  has  at  length  become  one  of 
the  luxuries  most  sought  after  and  hard- 
est to  obtain  —  that,  namely,  of  wild 
sport. 

Tradition  and  history  alike  tell  us  that 
the  ancient  inhabitants  of  these  islands 
were  obliged  to  wage  constant  war  against 
the  denizens  of  the  forests  which  then 
overspread  the  country,  not  only  with  the 
object  of  providing  themselves  with  food 
and  clothing,  but  also  in  self-defence.  In 
this  —  from  a  sportsman's  point  of  view  — 
happy  state  of  things,  our  forefathers 
were  able  to  gratify  the  long-inherited  in- 
stincts of  man  the  hunter,  whilst  provid- 
ing for  their  other  wants.  We,  their 
descendants,  inheriting  all  the  old  wants 
and  a  host  of  others  which  have  sprung 
up  with  the  advance  of  civilization,  have 
in  no  degree  lost  the  old  hunting  instinct; 
but  by  increasing  and  multiplying  at  such 
a  prodigious  rate,  we  have  lost  the  means 
of  satisfying  it  in  our  native  land.    Even 


where  game  still  runs  wild,  its  pursuit  is 
necessarily  hedged  in  by  endless  formal- 
ities of  law  and  etiquette  ;  and  the  result 
is,  that  there  is  an  annual  and  ever-in- 
creasing exodus  of  restless  spirits,  bent 
upon  gratifying  their  hunting  instincts  ia 
other  lands  after  their  own  fashion. 

Those  who  have  become  accustomed  to 
wild  sport  abroad  find  it  irksome  to  con- 
form to  the  restrictions  of  modern  British 
sport,  and  get  into  what  are  called  loose 
habits.  A  case  within  my  own  knowledge 
occurs  to  me,  in  which  an  American,  tak- 
ing part  in  a  grouse-drive  on  a  Yorkshire 
moor,  wounded  one  of  the  beaters,  and 
was  looked  upon  as  no  sportsman  in  con- 
sequence. He  certainly  was  careless,  but 
as  a  sportsman  he  was^  probably  the  equal 
of  any  man  present,  for  he  was  well  ac- 
customed to  track  and  shoot  game,  with 
perhaps  only  one  companion,  in  regions 
where  there  was  no  other  human  being 
within  many  miles;  and  so,  forgetting 
that  he  was  now  surrounded  by  a  host  of 
guns  and  beaters,  he  made  a  mistake 
which  might  rather  have  been  expected  of 
a  novice. 

Those,  then,  who  have  once  tasted  the 
sweets  of  pursuing  and  killing  game  after 
their  own  fashion,  are  apt  to  prefer  that 
kind  of  sport  rather  than  what  they  can 
obtain  in  these  islands,  and  consequently 
spread  themselves  over  the  world  in 
search  of  it.  Almost  every  known  coun- 
try on  this  planet  annually  resounds  to 
the  crack  of  the  rifle  of  the  British 
sportsman,  or  to  the  bang  of  his  fowling- 
piece;  and  his  twin  brother  the  explorer 
still  finds  new  hunting-grounds  as  the 
better -known  ones  become  used  up. 
Amongst  the  least  known  and  least  fre- 
quented of  all  there  is  Nova  Zemla,  which 
has  lately  been  mentioned  a  good  deal  in 
connection  with  the  rescue  of  Mr.  Leigh 
Smith  and  his  merry  men,  and  is  likely  to 
be  mentioned  a  good  deal  more  in  con- 
nection with  future  attempts  to  reach  the 
north  pole. 

Being  far  out  of  Jthe  way  of  all  our  mer- 
chant routes,  and  only  approachable  dur- 
ing the  summer  over  the  even  then  ice- 
encumbered  sea,  Nova  Zemla  will  prob- 
ably long  remain  one  of  the  last  refuges 
of  the  reindeer;  whilst  its  ice-choked 
fiords  and  frozen  seas  will  still  be  haunted 
by  the  white  whale,  the  seal,  the  walrus, 
and  the  polar  bear. 

Frequented,  until  of  late,  only  by  some 
dozen  Russian  schooners,  who  visit  its 
shores  every  year  chiefiy  for  white  whale 
and  salmon,  and  by  a  few  roaming  families 
of  Samoyedes  from  the  mainland,  these 


9S  £UM1S£E   SPOKT  IK  SfOVA  ZBTA. 

arctic  shores  have  bttbertD  afiorded  as  mtraltT  Peninmla  -tiis  marvcv  ako  be- 
uodisiurbed  asylutn  durm^  the  wisurr  id  coines  laiher  wiid^ami  b  not  to  be  trust- 
the  game  of  all  kiodfi,  marine  or  lerre»-  ed.  This  of  coinse  means  that  the  sar- 
trials  vbich  there  abonnds.  i<ecenth%  ve\*orE  wcrt  iteis  detensd  inmi  complet- 
bowei'er,  the  Russian  government  has  mg  their  work  bf  ice  and  weather;  and 
seen  fit  to  plant  a  colony  consisting  of  a  litt  remaric  applies  equally  to  the  east 
few  families  of  Samoyedes — it  is  sup-  coast,  which  may  be  said  to  be  ice-bonnd 
posed  with  the  i*iew  of  occupying  the  luroughoui  tiie  year,  suh)ect  to  occasional 
country  in  the  Russian  name  —  and  tu^»e  open  states  in  lavorabic  seasons.  Cape 
skilful  hunters,  of  whom  1  shall  have  oc-  Nassau,  tlie  pnmt  between  Admiralty 
casion  to  speak  further  on,  harry  the  game  Peninsula  and  Cape  Maurttins  the  north 
throughout  the  year  with  great  vigor,  point,  has  traditionally  acquired  an  evil 
Beyond  visits  from  JBnropean  sportsnften  reputation  amongst  tnc  walros^hunlers,  as 
or  explorers,  so  rare  that  thej  might  al-  bein^  a  sort  of  bewitched  headland,  to 
most  be  counted  on  the  fingers,  no  other  round  which  meais  to  say  farewell  to  the 
human  intruders  ever  invade  these  wild  world;  for  it  was  believed  that  vessels 
refions.  were  mrstcrionsiv  dntted  liience  into  the 

Having  not  long  ago  returned  from  tiii^  Arctic  Ocean,  beset  by  the  ice,  and  never 
happy  hunting-^jround  in  the  **  Hope,"  wiih  l>eard  of  again.  Thai  there  is  some  foan- 
the  crew  of  the  ill  fated  '^Eira,''  i  have  dation  for  tnis  tradiiion,  is  proved  by  the 
obtained  a  glimpse  of  the  country,  wiiicb  fate  of  the  Anstriaa  polar  expedition  of 
I  hope  will  enable  me  to  give  an  inteiiigi-  We}-precbt  and  Payer  in  the  steamer 
ble  and  not  uninteresting  account  of  uhal  **Tegetho2,"  which  was  bsset  near  this 
is  to  be  seen  and  done  there  in  the  way  cape  m  the  antnmn  of  iS7^and  never  got 
of  sport  and  adventure.  '  free  a^in,  being  drifted  abom  the  Arctic 

Till  the  present  century  the  contour  of  Ocean  for  two  years,  during  which  the  ex- 
the  two  large  islands  which  form  what  is  <  pediiion  iovolontariiy  discovered  Fran»> 
now  known  as  Noi'a  Zemla  m-as  very  dif-  Josef  Land,  and  on:y  at  last  got  free  by 
ferently  represented  upon  the  rarions  :  abandoning  their  ship,  and  undertaking  a 
manuscript  charts  in  existence,  thefe  ,  mo&t  periions  and  labarions  journey  over 
having  been  compiled  from  the  obserra-  the  ice  mi th  their  boats,  which  lasted  three 
tions  of  Dutch,  Norwegian,  and  Russian  i  months,  when  they  had  the  good  fortune 
navigators.  Barents  led  oS  in  1598  m^ith  '  to  reach  the  shores  of  Nova  Zemla,  and 
a  chart  representing  the  m-est  coast  and  ;  to  encounter  a  Russian  scboonCT-  which 
that  part  of  the  north-east  coast  which  be  '  was  just  leaving  for  home, 
had  visited;  this,  though  terribly  out  in  The  Russian  survey,  tbea,  gives  ns  a 
longitude,  was  very  good  as  to  latitude;  very  fair  idea  of  the  size  and  shape  of  the 
and  since  the  days  of  this  old  explorer,  country.  Lying  between  the  parallels  of 
his  maps,  with  many  additions  and  a  few  •  yj^  35^  N.  and  70**  40'  N.,  it  will  be  seen 
correction!*,  have  been  generally  adhered  that  the  conred  direction  oi  the  two  main 
to,  some  representing  the  north  coast  as  islands  covers  a  space  of  aboot  four  bun- 
taking  an  abrupt  turn  to  the  east,  and  dred  and  fifty  English  miles,  vhilst  their 
thus  continuing  ad infiniium^  the  authors  '  average  breadth  may  be  taken  as  sixty 
of  these  interesting  documents  veiling !  miles.  The  two  islands  are  di\^ded  by 
their  perplexity  by  drawing  a  meridian !  a  strait  called  Matotchkin  Sharr,  which 
line  down  the  chart  and  thereby  cutting  it  ■  also  well  marks  a  central  position  in  the 
short,  leaving  the  rest  to  the  imagination  <  physical  configuration  of  the  country;  for 
of  the  beholder.  I  it  is  in  this  locality  that  the  highest  moun- 

For  our  present  knowledge  of  the 
shape  and  dimensions  of  the  islands  we 
are  chiefly  indebted  to  the  Russian  gov- 
ernment coast-survey,  made  during  the 
early  part  of  the  present  century,  and 
continued  by  subsequent  explorers,  %vhich 
is  generally  considered  to  be  pretty  accu- 
rate as  far  north  as  Admiralty  Peninsula, 
the  most  prominent  headland  on  the  west 
coant  of  the  north  island.  There  is  one 
remarkable  exception,  however :  an  error 
of  nine  miles  has  somehow  crept  into 
the  latitude  assigned  to  the  centre  of 
M6der  Bay.    To  the  northward  of  Ad- 


tains  and  wildest  and  roost  magnificent 
scenery  are  to  be  found,  the  land  thence 
sinking  to  lower  levels  both  to  the  north- 
ward and  southward.  Matotchkin  Sharr 
may  likewise  be  said  to  be  a  central  posi- 
tion as  to  the  distribution  of  the  various 
objects  of  sport;  for  it  is  on  the  slopes 
of  the  snow  and  glacier  clad  mountains 
of  this  part  of  the  country  that  reindeer 
are  most  plentiful,  whilst  wild  fowl  of  all 
kinds  prefer  the  south  island.  Bears, 
walrus,  and  seals,  on  the  other  hand,  may 
be  looked  for  with  greater  confidence  on 
the  shores  of  the  north  islandi  and  more 


SUMMER  SPORT   IN   NOVA   ZEMLA. 


93 


particularly  on  the  eastern  and  northern 
parts  of  it.  I  will  not  presume  to  narrate 
any  adventures  of  my  own  in  pursuit  of 
polar  bears;  but  if  I  could  only  remem- 
ber half  the  varus  the  old  whalers  of  the 
**  Hope  "  told  me  on  this  head,  1  could  fill 
a  book  with  wondrous  tales  not  to  be  sur- 
passed even  by  the  feats  of  the  valiant 
Munchausen;  of  how  they  frequently 
fired  into  these  ferocious  quadrupeds  vol- 
leys of  marlingspikes,  knives,  and  leaden 
slugs,  not  to  speak  of  bullets,  but  that 
often  the  only  effect  of  this  rough  treat- 
ment was  that  the  monster  "rubbed. him- 
self with  snaw  —  yes,  that  he  did  —  and 
went  away  geroulin',  an*  lookin*  back." 
All  the  same,  other  travellers  speak  of  this 
habit  of  polar  bears  rubbing  themselves 
with  snow  when  hurt.  Another  funny  and 
perhaps  equally  useful  habit  of  the  bear, 
is  that  of  swallowing  large  stones,  for 
these  may  assist  his  digestion !  but  we 
cannot  see  what  nourishment  the  bear 
which  robbed  a  depot  erected  by  one  of 
the  Franklin  search  expeditions  could 
have  derived  from  the  whole  stock  of 
sticking-plaster,  which  was  found  in  his 
stomach.  Modern  sporting  narratives 
always  seem  to  me  to  lack  the  vigor  and 
freshness  of  the  productions  of  the  ear- 
lier writers;  and  as  we  are  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Nova  Zemla  bears,  I  cannot  resist 
quoting,  for  the  benefit  of  those  of 
••  Maga's  "  readers  who  have  not  had  the 
felicity  of  perusing  '*  Purchas  his  Pil- 
grimes,"  an  account  of  a  thrilling  bear 
adventure  which  occurred  on  the  north 
island  of  Nova  Zemla  three  hundred  years 
ago,  during  the  second  voyage  of  William 
Barents. 

The  6th  of  September  some  of  our  men  went 
on  shore  upon  the  firme  land  to  seek  for  stones, 
which  are  a  kind  of  diamond,  whereof  there 
are  many  also  in  the  States  Island ;  and  while 
they  were  seeking  the  stones,  two  of  our  men 
lying  together  in  one  place,  a  great  leane  white 
oeare  came  suddenly  stealing  out,  and  caught 
one  of  them  fast  by  the  necke  ;  who,  not  know- 
ing what  it  was  that  tooke  him  by  the  necke, 
crycd  out  and  sayed,  "  Who  is  it  that  pulU  me 
so  by  the  necke  ?"  Wherewith  the  other  that 
lay  not  farre  from  him  lifted  up  his  head  to  see 
who  it  was;  and  perceiving  it  to  be  a  mon- 
strous bear,  cryed  out  and  sayed,  "  Oh  mate  ! 
it  is  a  Ixare  ; "  and  therewith  presently  rose  up 
and  ran  away.  The  beare  at  the  first  falling 
upon  the  man  bit  his  head  in  sunder,  and  suckt 
out  his  blood  ;  wherewith  the  rest  of  the  men 
that  were  on  the  land,  being  about  twenty  in 
number,  ranne  presently  thither,  either  to  save 
the  man,  or  else  to  drive  the  beare  from  the 
body;  and  having  charged  their  pieces,  and 
bent  their  pikes,  set  upon  her,  that  still  was 
devouring  the  man;  but  perceiving  them  to 


come  towards  her,  fiercely  and  cruelly  ranne  at 
them  and  got  another  of  them  out  from  the 
company,  which  she  tore  in  pieces,  wherewith 
all  the  rest  ran  away.  We,  perceiving  out  of 
our  ship  and  pinnasse  that  our  men  ranne  to 
the  seaside  to  save  themselves,  with  all  speed 
entered  into  their  boats  and  rowed  as  fast  as 
we  could  to  relieve  our  men.  Where,  being 
on  land,  we  beheld  the  cruel  I  spectacle  of  our 
two  dead  men  that  had  been  so  cruelly  killed 
and  tome  in  pieces  by  the  beare.  We,  seeing 
that,  encouraged  our  men  to  goe  back  again 
with  us,  and  with  pieces,  curtel-axes,  and  halfe- 
pikes,  to  set  upon  the  beare;  but  they  would 
not  all  agree  thereunto,  some  of  them  saying, 
**  Our  men  are  already  dead,  and  we  shall  get 
the  beare  well  enough  though  we  oppose  our- 
selves into  so  open  danger.  If  we  might  save 
our  fellowes'  lives,  then  we  would  make  haste  ; 
but  now  we  need  not  make  such  speed,  but 
take  her  at  an  advantage,  for  we  have  to  doe 
with  a  cruell,  fierce,  and  ravenous  beast." 
Whereupon  three  of  our  men  went  forward, 
the  beare  still  devouring  her  prey,  not  once 
fearing  the  number  of  our  men,  and  yet  they 
were  thirtie  at  the  least  The  three  that  went 
forward  in  that  sort  were  Cornelius  Jacobson, 
William  Geysen,  and  Hans  Van  Mitlen,  Wil- 
liam Barentz*  purser ;  and  after  that  the  sayd 
master  and  pylat  had  shot  three  times,  and 
mist,  the  purser,  stepping  somewhat  further 
forward,  and  seeing  the  beare  to  be  within  the 
length  of  a  shot,  presently  levelled  his  piece, 
and  discharc^ing  it  at  the  beare,  shot  her  into 
the  head,  between  the  eyes,  and  yet  she  held 
the  man  still  fast  by  the  necke,  and  lifted  up 
her  head  with  the  man  in  her  mouth  ;  but  she 
began  somewhat  to  stagger,  wherewith  the  pur- 
ser and  a  Scottish  man  drew  out  their  curtel- 
axes  and  strooke  at  her  so  hard  that  their 
curtel-axes  burst,  and  yet  she  would  not  leave 
the  man.  At  last  William  Geysen  went  to 
them,  and  with  all  his  might  strook  the  beare 
upon  the  snout  with  his  piece,  at  which  the 
beare  fell  to  the  ground,  making  a  great  noise, 
and  William  Geysen,  leaping  upon  her,  cut 
her  throat 

This  graphically  described  tragedy  is 
unique  of  its  kind,  so  far  as  I  know  ;  for 
though  a  man  here  and  there  may  have 
been  killed  at  long  intervals  of  time,  yet 
this  sometimes  fierce,  but  always  eccen- 
tric animal  is  not,  as  a  rule,  looked  upon 
with  much  fear.  He  is  so  easily  duped 
into  approaching  quite  close  to  the  hunter, 
who,  if  he  only  remains  calm  and  is  able 
to  hit  a  haystack  at  a  hundred  yards,  may 
then  slay  him  with  a  single  bullet. 

Bears  not  only  feed  upon  seals,  walrus, 
large  stones,  and  sticking-plaster,  but  al.so 
have  a  weakness  for  any  vegetable  sub- 
stance  which  they  may  come  across,  such 
as  seaweed,  grass,  lichens,  etc. ;  they  are 
in  fact,  like  pigs  and  men,  omnivorous, 
and  are  of  such  an  inquisitive  nature 
moreover,  that  in  search  of  food,  or  out 


8o 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


We  could  run  over  to  Dartmouth,  Hilda 
and  I,  and  the  old  squire,  while  the  others 
amused  themselves  at  Trouville. 

"  Then  we  will  start  to-morrow  night," 
cried  Hilda  eagerly,  *'  and  we  shall  see  the 
old  place  by  morning  light." 

And  then  I  had  to  explain  how  it  was 
impossible  we  could  sail  that  next  night, 
as  I  was  pledged  to  meet  the  Count  de  St. 
Pol,  to  give  him  hisvevenge  at  whist. 

It  seemed  a  trivial  thing;  but  the  meet- 
ing had  been  arranged  before  witnesses 
with  something  like  solemnity,  and  if  I 
failed  to  appear  it  would  be  said  that  I 
was  afraid  to  meet  him. 

**And  you  will  not  run  this  little  risk 
for  my  sake  then  ?  "  urged  Hilda. 

To  which  I  replied,  with  thtf  trite  quo- 
tation, — 

**  I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  well, 
loved  I  not  honor  more." 

Hilda  suddenly  turned  pale. 

**  Frank,"  she  said,  laying  a  hand  upon 
my  arm,  "do  you  mean  to  say  that  if  this 
Count  St.  Pol  thrusts  a  quarrel  upon  you 

—  and  I  have  a  presentiment  that  he  will 

—  you  will  fight  him?" 

The  question  was  not  easy  to  answer. 
A  few  years  ago,  when  I  was  poor  and 
rather  hopeless,  with  nothing  to  make  life 
particularly  desirable,  I  would  have  gone 
out  and  been  run  through  by  the  count 
without  scruple.  But  now,  with  wealth 
and  my  heart's  desire,  and  the  prospect 
of  a  lite  heightened  by  a  woman's  faith- 
ful love,  the  matter  assumed  a  very  differ- 
ent aspect.  I  should  gladly  have  enter- 
tained a  conscientious  scruple  against 
fighting.  But  then  I  felt  no  such  scruple. 
I  could  certainly  plead  that  in  my  own 
country  such  affairs  were  condemned  by 

Sublic  opinion,  and  practically  obsolete, 
iut  being  in  France,  and  engaged  in  al< 
tercation  with  a  Frenchman,  was  I  not 
rather  bound  by  the  customs  of  his  coun- 
try? 

Hilda  saw  by  my  hesitation  that  her 
presentiment  was  not  altogether  unrea- 
sonable. But  she  was  too  staunch  to  ex- 
act any  promise  from  me  to  decline  any 
challenge. 

**  Only  remember,  Frank,"  she  said,  "  if 
anything  happens  to  you  I  shall  die  of 
grief  and  remorse.  So  you  will  do  your 
best  to  keep  out  of  danger." 

And  I  promised  this  readily  enough, 
reminding  her,  too,  how  these  affairs  were 
generally  harmless  enough,  and  rarely  re- 
sulted in  a  serious  casualty. 

**But  this  is  different,  Frank,"  said 
Hilda  mournfully.  "  I  saw  his  face  when 
you  struck  him,  and  he  meant  what  he 


said  —  that  you  should  pay  for  it  with 
your  life.  And  I  could  not  see  it  all  till 
now," 

Altogether  it  would  have  been  better  if 
Hilda  had  remained  in  the  dark  as  to  mv 
appointment  with  the  count,  for  the  knowl- 
edge made  her  anxious  and  restless,  al- 
though she  put  a  brave  face  upon  the 
matter,  and  tried  to  appear  easy  and 
unconcerned.  We  were  to  go  on  to  Trou- 
ville in  the  morning,  and  Hilda  and  I  had 
determined  to  walk  over  to  the  station  at 
Villers-sur-Mer,  while  Tom  had  under- 
taken to  drive  Contango,  by  easy  stages, 
all  the  way  to  Trouville,  taking  Miss 
Chancellor  with  him,  with  Justine  as  a 
makeweight  on  the  back  seat.  The  oth- 
ers were  to  come  on  by  omnibus  with  the 
baggage.  Very  soon  —  by  next  season 
probably  —  the  coast-line  will  be  finished 
all  along,  and  people  will  be  able  to  get  to 
Trouville  from  any  point  along  the  coast 
without  making  a  long  ditour.  But  for 
the  present,  there  is  an  awkward  little 
break  in  the  line  of  communication. 

The  walk  to  Villers  proved  rather  hot 
and  tiring,  first  along  the  coast,  where  the 
cliffs,  of  no  great  height,  are  of  a  clavey, 
crumbly  nature,  and  then,  as  the  sun  beat 
down  upon  us  hot  and  fiery,  we  took  to 
the  inland  road,  cooler  and  more  shaded, 
a  dusty,  arable  country  all  about  us  till  we 
descended  into  the  Vale  of  Villers,  well« 
wooded  and  luxuriant.  Villers  itself  is  of 
the  quaint,  fantastic  order,  showing  a 
studied  quaintness,  a  regulated  fantasy. 
Thatchecl  roofs  are  fashionable,  with  lilies 
and  flags  growing  on  the  ridges,  as  in 
some  of  the  old  farmhouses.  Here  are 
cottages  as  costly  as  palaces,  and  a  stud- 
ied simplicity  which  is  the  very  refinement 
of  luxury.  A  place,  too,  evidently  on  the 
rapid  increase,  where  life  is  more  reserved 
and  exclusive  than  at  Trouville,  but  a  gay, 
pleasant  place  all  the  same,  and  of  a  clean- 
liness quite  remarkable  among  French 
coast  towns.  The  road  from  the  town  to 
the  station  is  quite  charming,  with  trees, 
and  stream,  and  gracious  curves  that  raise 
an  expectation  of  pleasanter  scenes  round 
the  corner.  It  is  quite  a  disappointment 
to  come  at  last  upon  a  commonplace  little 
wooden  station ;  but,  however,  the  works 
are  progressing  rapidly,  and  soon  we  shall 
have  stations  as  smart  and  coquettish  as 
the  towns  they  are  to  serve. 

Indeed,  this  brightness  and  coquetry 
are  the  main  charms  of  these  watering- 
places.  As  far  as  scenery  is  concerned, 
the  English  coast,  it  must  be  said,  is  far 
superior,  but  then  the  life  and  gaiety  of 
the  scene,  the  absence  of  noise  and  vul- 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


8l 


^rity,  of  pretence  and  assumption  — 
these  latter  attributes,  indeed,  not  alto- 
gether absent,  but  more  skilfully  veiled  — 
all  these  things  make  the  sojourn  by  the 
sea  in  France  very  enjoyable.  And  then 
there  is  the  almost  certainty  of  getting 
something  fit  toeat  wherever  you  may  go, 
and  of  not  being  fleeced  beyond  reason. 
The  hotel  bills  no  longer,  indeed,  cause 
amazement  at  their  smallness,  as  we  read 
io  the  volumes  of  earlier  days,  but  on  the 
other  hand,  they  do  not  affright  by  their 
extravagance. 

Trouviile  is  different  again.  We  feel 
the  change  in  a  moment,  as  we  alight  in 
the  brisk,  noisy  station,  amid  the  shouts 
of  the  drivers  of  voitures,  the  commis- 
sionaires of  hotels,  and  a  generally  ex- 
cited public.  Tom  meets  us  at  the  sta- 
tion; he  was  the  first  to  arrive,  after  all. 
He  reports  the  "Sea-Mew"  as  lying  in 
port,  and  awaiting  orders.  But  as  yet  he 
has  not  been  able  to  hear  anything  of 
Redmond.  He  was  not  at  the  Roches 
Noires,  but  had  been  there,  and  was 
thought  to  have  gone  to  the  chftteau  of 

his  friend,   the   Prince  de  B ,  some 

twenty  miles  away,  near  Pont  PEvSque. 
But  our  brigandish  friends  with  the  Pyre- 
Dean  sheep  had  arrived.  Tom  had  met 
them,  but  alas  !  in  charge  of  the  police  of 
Trouviile,  who  had  condemned  their  pro- 
posed entertainment,  as  not  being  suffi- 
ciently polite  or  refined.  But  the  police, 
embarrassed  with  the  charge  of  two  head- 
strong sheep,  which  refused  to  be  driven 
except  by  their  masters,  and  not  much  at 
that  — the  police  were  very  much  inclined 
to  let  them  go,  on  their  giving  a  promise 
to  perform  only  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town. 

Tom  had  still  more  news  for  us.  He 
had  passed  on  the  road  a  select  troupe 
from  the  circus  at  Caen,  who  were  to  per- 
form to-night  in  a  temporary  erection  on 
the  beach,  and  among  the  troupe  was  Za- 
mora,  looking  very  bright  and  happy,  who 
had  been  chosen  on  account  of  her  good 
looks  for  some  subordinate  part  in  the 
entertainment.  As  for  the  Count  de  St. 
Pol,  he  was  thought  to  have  left  the  town, 
and  had  probably  forgotten  all  about  his 
engagement  to  meet  us  at  whist. 

As  we  leave  the  station  our  first  impres- 
sion of  Trouviile  is  rather  as  a  bustling 
little  port  than  a  fashionable  watering- 
place.  We  were  not  prepared  to  see  so 
much  life  and  animation  apart  from  the 
flocks  of  summer  visitors.  Behind  us  is 
Deauville,  with  its  sea-front  of  monu- 
mental houses,  heavy  and  rather  desolate- 
looking;  and  then   there  is  a  vista  of  a 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2242 


long  harbor,  crowded  with  flsher-boats 
and  other  small  craft,  with  here  and  there 
a  foreign  steamer,  and,  conspicuous  among 
them  all,  our  own  smart-looking  **  Sea- 
Mew."  As  we  cross  the  bridge  into  the 
town  it  is  dead  low  water,  and  a  big  mud- 
bank  is  left  exposed  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream.  And  upon  this  bank  are  gathered 
quite  .a  little  crowd  of  people,  police,  dou- 
aniers,  and  other  ofiiciats.  Another  crowd 
is  clustered  about  the  parapets  of  the 
ouay,  and  some  people  who  have  been 
fishing  from  the  shore  with  rod  and  line, 
have  suspended  operations,  and  are  watch- 
ing the  scene  with  interest.  Something 
is  lying  stark  and  stiff  in  the  midst  of  the 
people  upon  the  mudbank,  and  that  some- 
thing is  the  corpse  of  a  drowned  man, 
whose  legs,  stiff  and  sodden,  are  pain- 
fully conspicuous.  Only  Tom  and  I  have 
caught  sight  of  this,  and  we  hurry  the 
ladies  on  to  spare  them  the  painful  scene. 
Hilda  and  the  rest  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  they  will  be  more  comfortable 
on  board  the  '*  Sea-Mew'*  than  in  a 
crowded  hotel,  and  we  soon  reach  the 
yacht's  berth  in  the  outer  harbor,  and  go 
on  board.  Tom  comes  up  presently,  look- 
ing rather  anxious.  He  has  just  heard 
that  the  body  found  in  the  river  was  that 
of  a  young  stranger,  who  was  supposed 
to  have  committed  suicide.  "  If  it  should 
be  Redmond,"  murmured  Tom,  "  who  has 
lost  a  big  pile,  and  ended  the  matter 
thus ! " 

Hilda's  first  care  when  she  got  on- 
board the  ** Sea-Mew"  was  to  summon 
Captain  Mac  and  interrogate  him  as  to  his 
being  prepared  to  cross  the  Channel. 
The  captain  was  reluctantly  brought  to^ 
acknowledge  that  everything  was  in  readi- 
ness  to  sail  that  night,  if  necessary.  The 
tide  would  serve  from  midnight  up  to> 
three  or  four  in  the  morning ;  the  sea  was 
calm  outside,  with  every  prospect  of  fine 
weather,  and,  if  need  were,  we  could  make ' 
the  Isle  of  Wight  before  breakfast,  and 
then  run  along  the  coast  to  Dartmouth  in 
another  eight  hours  or  so. 

"Then  you  will  get  steam  up.  Captain 
Mac,"  cried  Hilda  joyfully,  **  and  be  ready 
to  start  at  any  time  after  midnight." 

**  Aye,  aye,  miss,"  said  the  captain,  who 
seemed  to  recognize  her  as  the  ruling 
spirit. 

"  And  now.  Prank,"  said  Hilda,  turning 
to  me,  **  if  you  must  go  ashore  and  play 
cards  to-night,  I  shall  send  a  boat's  crew 
at  midnight  to  bring  you  away,  whether 
you  will  or  no."  But  Hilda  confessed  that 
she  hoped  very  much  the  Count  de  St.  Pol 
would  break  his  engagement.     I  also  be- 


83 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


gan  to  think  that  we  should  hear  do  more 
of  the  count,  when,  as  I  crossed  the  gang- 
way to  go  ashore  with  Tom,  I  saw,  rising 
head  and  shoulders  over  the  crowd,  the 
well-set-up  torso  of  Colonel  Peltier.  The 
colonel  was  delighted  to  come  on  board 
and  pay  his  compliments  to  the  ladies. 
Hilda,  however,  did  not  appear  to  be  very 
well  pleased  at  his  appearance,  though 
she  tried  her  best  to  be  gracious  in  man* 
Der. 

"  We  sail  to-night,  colonel,  and  shall  be 
glad  to  take  you  across  with  us." 

The  colonel  would  have  been  delighted, 
but  the  exigences  of  military  duties,  and 
so  on 

''Then  I  shall  have  to  break  up  your 
whist-party,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Hilda.  **  I 
canU  spare  my  cousin  and  Mr.  Lvme.'* 

The  colonel  looked  grave  at  this. 

"  But  that  would  be  a  little  ~  a  little  —  " 

Our  colonel  cannot  find  the  exact  epi- 
thet to  add  to  his  '*  little,"  when  1  relieve 
him  from  his  embarrassment  by  assuring 
him  I  shall  certainly  appear  at  the  tryst- 
ing-place,  which  is  to  be  the  salon  de  jeu 
at  the  casino.  And  so  he  takes  his  leave 
very  politely. 

When  the  colonel  was  gone,  Hilda's 
face  assumed  an  expression  of  despair. 

'*  Frank,"  she  said,  "  I  am  sure  these 
people  mean  to  assassinate  you  —  not 
openly  to  assassinate  you,  perhaps,  but  to 
draw  you  into  a  duel,  when  the  count, 
who  is,  they  say,  a  magnificent  swords- 
man, will  kill  you." 

I  could  only  comfort  her  by  saying  that 
I  did  not  intend  to  be  killed  quietly,  and 
that  if  the  count  insulted  me  publicly,  as 
might  possibly  be  his  intention,  I  should, 
as  the  aggrieved  party  in  the  contest, 
have  the  choice  of  weapons,  and  certainly 
would  not  choose  swords.  But  Hilda  felt 
sure  there  was  some  trap  laid  for  me 
which  would  deprive  me  even  of  this  ad- 
vantage. And  then  the  poor  girl  said  she 
would  go  with  me,  and  not  lose  sight  of 
me  till  she  had  got  me  on  board  again. 
**They  can't  fix  a  quarrel  upon  you, 
Frank,  if  I  am  there."  All  the  same,  I 
could  not  take  refuge  behind  a  petticoat, 
and  Hilda  saw  this,  and  was  still  in  de- 
spair. 

Meantime,  Tom  had  undertaken  the 
disagreeable  duty  of  going  to  the  Morgue 
to  see  if  he  could  recognize  the  features 
of  the  drowned  man.  He  returned  very 
soon,  and  with  a  brighter  face.  He  did 
not  think  that  Redmond  was  the  drowned 
man,  although  the  features  were  too  much 
swollen  to  l^  easily  recognized. 

That  oi£:ht   we   dined  at  the  Roches 


Noires ;  the  roches  themselves,  which  are 
only  a  black-looking  cliff,  are  visible  a 
little  farther  along  the  coast,  although 
some  will  have  it  that  the  originals,  still 
more  black,  are  to  be  found  elsewhere. 
There  was  rather  a  brilliant  gathering;  at 
the  table  d'hdte,  fresh  toilettes,  and  nice- 
looking  women  of  all  nationalities,  and 
among  the  rest  we  saw  our  count  and  the 
colonel,  looking  out  for  their  prey.  And 
then  we  adjourned  to  the  casino  and 
found  the  grand  salon  brilliantly  lighted 
up,  and  a  concert  going  on.  Outside  it 
was  pleasant  to  sit  on  the  terraces,  while 
the  music,  mellowed  by  distance,  mingled 
with  the  plash  of  waves.  In  the  west 
showed  a  bright  sunset  glow,  and  against 
that  the  dark  sails  of  fishing-boats  racing 
for  the  harbor.  All  the  beach  was  lighted 
up,  that  grand  sweep  of  sands  which 
makes  Trouville  unapproachable  as  a 
watering-place,  Cafds  shone  out  in  lines 
of  light,  booths,  and  shops,  and  places  of 
entertainment,  all  brilliantly  illuminated ; 
while  beyond  faintly  shone  the  phospho- 
rescent sea,  and  the  pale  stars  which 
looked  quite  dim  in  contrast  with  all  the 
brightness  close  at  hand. 

Tom,  I  think,  was  in  a  sentimental 
mood  that  night.  He  was  walking  up  and 
down  with  Miss  Chancellor,  talking  very 
earnestly.  The  girl,  perhaps,  was  a  little 
puritanic.  She  had  probably  been  re- 
proaching Tom  with  his  gambling  pro- 
clivities ;  for  she  had  been  told  of  the 
contest  that  was  impending. 

*'  I  can't  sneak  out  of  this,"  Tom  was 
saying,  '*but  I'll  promise  you  for  the 
future  —  look  here,  I  never  play  beyond 
half-crowns  and  five  shillings  on  the  rub, 
and  laying  the  long  or  short  odds.  Come, 
you  won't  mind  that,  will  you  ?  " 

"But  why  should  you  promise  me?'* 
asked  Miss  Chancellor  demurely.  "If 
it's  wrong  you  know  you  shouldn't  do  it." 

The  rest  of  their  conversation  was  lost, 
but  Tom  seemed  prouder  of  being  scolded 
than  in  ai)  ordinary  way  he  would  feel  at 
the  most  lavish  praise.  And  he  had  no 
misgivings  that  the  match  we  were  booked 
for  was  anything  more  than  a  trial  of  skill 
in  trumping  and  finessing. 

Between  Hilda  and  me  few  words  were 
spoken,  but  our  silence  was  more  expres- 
sive than  words.  The  touch  of  danger  in 
the  future  brought  us  closer  together  than 
any  number  of  fair-weather  days  could 
have  done.  As  yet  neither  the  count  nor 
his  friend  had  appeared  in  the  casino,  and 
I  had  promised  Hilda  that  if  they  did  not 
show  themselves  by  midnight  we  would 
come  away.    But  just  as  the  town-clock 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


struck  ten*  Hilda  shivered  as  if  a  chill 
had  come  over  her,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw 
the  bullet-head,  closely  cropped,  of  Colo- 
nel Peltier. 

**Oh,  mademoiselle,  I  am  looking  for 
vou  on  behalf  of  your  father,  who  is  anx- 
ious to  leave,"  cried  the  colonel,  and  sure 
enough  just  behind  him  was  the  old  squire, 
who  looked  quite  brisk  and  debonair  in 
his  evening  costume.  Hilda  took  leave 
ol  me  with  an  expressive  pressure  of  the 
fingers  that  sent  a  responsive  thrill 
through  my  veins,  and  then  I  followed  the 
bullet-headed  colonel  to  the  sahn  dcjeUy 
a  quiet,  solemn  apartment  where  the  sun- 
lights shone  upon  many  bald  heads  bend- 
ing over  their  cards,  with  a  calm  silence 
occasionally  broken  by  a  gentle  clatter  of 
counters,  or  the  shuffling  of  a  pack  of 
cards. 

Up  to  midnight  nothing  had  occurred  to 
mar  the  harmony  of  the  evening,  but  Tom 
and  1  had  been  carrying  all  before  us,  and 
our  opponents  were  perhaps  a  little  net- 
tled. Midnight  was  striking,  and  I  had 
promised  Hilda  that  we  would  leave  and 
goon  board  at  that  hour  if  practicable. 
A  hoarse  whistle  sounded  from  the  port. 
It  was  a  gentle  hint,  no  doubt,  from  the 
**  Sea-Mew."  But  Tom  and  I  were  win- 
ners each  of  a  couple  of  thousand  francs, 
and  we  could  not  possibly  give  up  if  our 
adversaries  wanted  to  go  on. 


From  The  Contemporary  Review. 
COLORS   AND   CLOTHS  OF   THE    MIDDLE 

AGES. 

The  extreme  difficulty  of  identifying 
mediaeval  colors,  and  even  those  of  the 
Renascence  time,  has  perplexed  many 
historical  painters,  and  even  antiquaries 
from  the  same  cause  are  apt  to  miss  the 
point  of  many  graphic  verses  in  the  old 
writers.  Chaucer  and  his  contemporaries 
are  as  careful  as  Van  Eyck  in  realizing 
an  exact  and  brilliant  picture,  and  in  trv- 
log  to  put  it  before  our  eyes  as  definitely 
as  they  saw  it  themselves.  They  at- 
tached more  importance  to  the  outer  man, 
perhaps,  as  an  index  to  the  inner  man, 
than  we  do :  hence  every  color  is  named 
and  placed,  everv  pattern  and  motto  on 
border  and  pencfant  noted.  By-the-by, 
the  fashion  of  embroidering  mottoes  on 
borders  would  never  have  come  in  but  for 
this  habit  of  scrutinizing  dress,  for  a 
'  motto  would  have  bad  no  sense  if  never 
read. 
The  difficulties  of  future    antiquaries 


83 

will  be  as  great  as  ours  if  they  try  to  dis- 
cover what  shades  of  color  were  known 
by  such  names  as //m  ifenfer^  enu  de  Nil^ 
Magenta,  Alexanara  blue,  azuline,  and  a 
hundred  others.  When  we  say  blue,  do 
we  mean  light,  dark,  or  middling  blue? 
turquoise,  indigo,  or  peacock  blue?  that 
is,  blue  with  a  shade  of  red  in  it,  a  shade 
of  yellow  in.it,  or  a  shade  of  deep  green 
in  it?  When  we  say  green,  who  is  to 
distinguish  between  dark  sage  green,  pale 
grey  green,  harsh  arsenic  green,  yellow 
mossy  green,  sea-green,  pea-green,  emer- 
ald green,  etc.,  unless  such  words  as  sas:e, 
pea,  sea,  arsenic,  help  us  out  ?  The  name 
of  a  princess  or  of  a  town  gives  no  idea  of 
a  shade  of  color.  Nothing  could  do  it  but 
a  natural  object  which  is  likely  to  remain 
always  with  us,  like  the  poor. 

But  such  are  the  elegancies  of  trade  in 
this  commercial  country,  that  I  suppose  a 
thing  could  scarcely  sell  by  its  own  En- 
glish name,  or  by  some  simple  epithet 
which  described  it.  If  a  beautiful  thing 
with  a  sensible  name  occurs  by  chance,  it 
never  lasts  long.  Peacock,  terra-cotta, 
and  cream-color,  have  been  spoilt,  and  are 
much  ill-used.  Rds^da,  for  instance,  a 
pretty  pale  green  which  came  in  some 
seven  years  ago,  was  soon  degraded  into 
dark  greens  and  slates,  and  ultimately 
into  an  ugly  reddish-brown — all  called 
•* r^s^da,  newest  shades"  —  and  the  soft 
tint  of  mignonette  was  not  recalled  any 
longer. 

Why,  it  is  thought  infra  dig,  to  use 
such  expressions  as  **  black  as  thunder,** 
"red  as  fire,'*  and  the  rising  generation 
are  checked  for  such  vulgarisms  !  I  do 
not  know  what  we  should  make  of  our 
historical  colors,  even  the  commonest  of 
them,  if  dear  old  Chaucer,  who  mostly 
calls  a  spade  a  spade,  had  not  helped  us 
with  continual  happy  "  vulgarisms,*' show- 
ing us  the  franklins  beard  ** white  as  a 
daisy,"  "white  as  morning  milk;"  the 
monk's  horse  "  as  brown  as  a  berry ; " 
Alison's  eyebrows  as  "black  as  any 
sloe ; "  the  miserable  face  of  Avarice 
"green  as  a  leek."  How  clearly  and 
speedily  we  frame  a  mental  image  from 
such  pictorial  terms!  and  how  they  add 
to  our  pleasure ! 

Chaucer  uses  numerous  other  expres- 
sions in  describing  his  people,  which  are 
meant  to  be  as  graphic  as  the  others  :  but 
the  names  are  obsolete,  and  we  no  longer 
catch  his  drift.  The  pretty  woman  with 
eyes  "grey  as  glass,"  the  dainty  Sir 
Thopas,  with  his  face  as  white  as  "  pande- 
maine,"  the  summonerwith  his  evil  coun- 
tenance "  like  the  fiery  cberubia  "  —  these 


84 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


we  do  not  understand  without  a  little 
consideration,  which  interrupts  the  train 
of  thought,  and  seems  to  blur  the  picture. 
Does  he  mean  a  woman  with  whitish, 
glassy  goggle-eyes  ?  how  frightful !  Or 
why  had  the  cherubin  the  reputation  of 
evil  and  vicious  faces?  and  how  can  we 
realize  a  doughty  knight  with  the  chalky 
face  of  a  coward  ?  We  shall  see  pres- 
ently. 

Something  ts  gained  by  an  examination 
of  color  in  connection  with  fabric;  the 
one  often  throws  light  upon  the  other. 
Certain  brilliant  colors  often  gave  in  time 
their  names  to  particular  fabrics  in  which 
they  were  oftenest  employed;  this  hap- 
pened with  "ciclatoun,"  **burnet,"  "rus- 
set,** and  other  webs,  once  merely  names  of 
colors,  as  our  **  Turkey-red  "  means  a  cer- 
tain twilled  cotton  material,  not  only  the 
color  of  its  dye.  Baize  (orig.  bays,  bay- 
color,  red  brown  ?)  is  another  instance. 
Sometimes  certain  fabrics  christened  the 
colors,  e.i^.,  sable,  which  became  an  equiv- 
alent for  black ;  plunket  (blue),  now  blan- 
ket, and  many  more. 

But  it  has  unfortunatelv  been  so  long 
the  custom  to  christen  colors  after  some 
obscure  but  once  celebrated  person  who 
was  in  the  habit  of  wearing  them,  or  after 
the  town  or  country  where  the  color  was 
first  sold,  that  it  is  in  some  cases  next  to 
impossible  to  identify  the  hue;  and  so  it 
always  will  be.  Yet  it  would  certainly  be 
wiser,  usefuller,  more  poetic,  to  call  a  robe 
or  mantle  after  the  flower  which  suggested 
its  shape,  or  the  gorgeous  mineral  which 
gave  it  its  color,  or  the  variegated  moss, 
or  dancing  butterfly,  or  drifting  cloud, 
that  originated  some  idea  connected  with 
its  texture,  etc.,  for  the  flower,  and  the 
mineral,  and  the  race  of  insects  would  re- 
main forever  as  an  explanation.  Colors 
and  forms  ought  always  to  be  named  after 
some  common  effect,  so  that  the  idea  may 
not  be  lost.  There  is  a  great  deal  in  a 
name,  though  Juliet  did  not  think  so.  A 
name  may  carry  the  prettiest  or  the  ugliest 
associations  with  it,  may  recall  happy  or 
horrible  images;  and  popular  names,  like 
all  fashions,  are  to  some  extent  a  chroni- 
cle of  their  time  and  an  index  to  the  man- 
ners of  the  age.  Naming  colors,  however, 
is  difficult,  as  the  words  themselves,  al- 
though expressive  once,  change  and  cease 
to  represent  the  same  ideas.  The  slight- 
est liberty  with  the  word  opens  the  door 
to  oblivion.  The  classics  used  the  term 
purple^  for  the  sea,  for  a  maiden*s  blush, 
for  a  cucumber,  for  something  bright  and 
shining,  and  for  something  dark  and 
gloomy.     How?    Crimson   is    allied    to 


blue,  and  a  rich  tint  of  either  was  pro* 
duced  from  the  same  fish,  Murex  truncu' 
lus.  This  was  the  famous  Tvrian  dye, 
and  it  is  easy  to  trace  how  a  dark,  "em* 
purpled  "  (we  must  say  it)  cucumber,  and 
the  other  contradictory  objects  were  de- 
scribable  by  the  one  word  used  in  various 
senses.  Do  we  not  take  the  like  liberties, 
we  moderns,  with  our  words  ?  Do  not  our 
colors  still  get  confused  with  each  other, 
the  last  meaning  being  as  far  from  the 
first  as  in  the  old  game  of  scandal? 

No  word  has  more  exercised  antiqua- 
ries than  the  above-named  old  word  cicla- 
toun  —  spelt  siglaton,  checklatoun,  etc., 
etc.  This  is  not  a  bad  instance  of  (he 
difficulties  besetting  such  studies.  Some 
say  the  word  was  first  cyclas^  a  certain 
round  gown.  Skeat  derives  it  from  the 
Persian  saqaldt^  scarlet  stuff,  and  saqla^ 
tdn,  scarlet  cloth.  Guillaume  le  Breton 
says  it  was  a  rich  silk  made  in  the  Cy- 
clades. 

At  any  rate,  the  East  produced  a  rich 
stuff  suitable  for  certain  garments  called 
cyclas,  as  we  might  say,  coat-cloth.  Judith 
of  Bohemia  wore  a  cyclas  worked  with 
gold,  in  1083.  The  knights*  surcoais  were 
called  by  the  same  word  in  the  thirteenth 
century :  — 

Armez  d*un  haubergeon 
Couvert  d'un  singlaton. 

Some  ancient  writers  seem  to  use  sygla- 
ton  as  an  equivalent  for  any  kind  of  man- 
tle. 

Chaucer  says  Sir  Thopas's  robe  was 
made  0/  ciclatoun,  or  checklatoun,  in 
some  MSS. ;  and  checklatoun  was  early 
confounded  with  a  certain  chequered 
cloth,  properly  called  checkaratus,  knotted 
in  diaper  design.  Strutt  considers  them 
identical.  Which  came  first,  the  place, 
the  garment,  or  the  color?  Here  is  a 
mesh  which  no  consideration  for  the  after* 
borns  could  perhaps  have  evaded.  It  is 
one  instance  among  many. 

Of  course  one  of  the  obstacles  in  dis* 
covering  the  old  colors  by  name  is  the 
oddness  and  variability  of  the  old  spelling 
—  not  to  say,  the  obstructive  blinkers  we 
have  put  upon  ourselves  with  our  new 
ordinance  of  a  fixed  orthographical  stan* 
dard.  We  never  spell  phonetically,  ac» 
cording  to  the  proper  pronunciation,  or 
individual  accent.  But  that  is  just  what 
our  forefathers  did  60  \  and  so  when  in 
old  English  and  French  we  see  the  same 
word  spelt  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  even  in  a 
single  page,  we  are  very  much  impeded 
in  our  progress  towards  light. 

It  is,  however,  very  interesting  to  dig 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


oat  the  half  buried  bit  of  antiquity,  and 
charming  little  "  finds  *'  often  occur  by  the 
way,  which  we  do  not  expect.  Whilst  we 
are  scratching  for  a  proper  name,  some 
f)ower*s  scent  is  wafted  to  us,  some  strong 
and  pithy  term  delights  us,  or  a  gem  from 
a  maiden's  crown  slips  under  our  hands. 
And  whilst  we  beat  the  great  coverts  for 
so  small  a  thing  as  the  meaning  of  a  color 
or  a  fold,  from  this  side  and  that  seeds 
quick  for  future  wealth  fail  silently  into 
our  empty  basket  —  a  witty  old  proverb, 
or  a  little  geographical  hint,  or  some  curi- 
osity of  lingering  word  or  lost  token.  It 
is  pretty  play,  oq  Tom  Tiddler's  ground, 
like  mining. 

Chaucer  is  of  course  the  main  reference 
for  all  mediaeval  Questions.  He  goes  over 
so  much  grouncl,  and  his  tales  are  so 
crowded  with  allusions  and  similes,  that 
be  is  a  well  of  information.  From  him 
we  might  almost  compute  the  extent  of 
the  scientific  and  art  knowledge  of  his 
day.  From  him  we  get  exact  and  telling 
pictures  of  fourteenth-century  people  in- 
side and  out,  and  implied  pictures  of 
England  during  the  century  or  so  before, 
as  well  as  not  a  few  promises  for  time 
coming  —  just  as  we  find,  in  some  of 
Giotto*s  pictures,  foreshado wings  of  Fra- 
Angelico  and  Signorelli. 

There  were  a  great  many  colors  used  in 
Chaucer's  day,  and  there  were  a  great 
many  materials.  Velvet,  satin,  samite, 
silk — plain  and  figured  and  painted  — 
crape  and  gauze,  with  ribbons  and  fringes, 
and  purfiings  of  all  sorts,  with  various 
linen  and  woollen  webs,  were  all  in  use 
and  all  mentioned  by  Chaucer.  Leather 
and  cuir  bouilli  were  already  employed. 
Bright  colors  were  in  vogue  for  the  dresses 
of  both  sexes  and  for  the  decoration  of 
**  houses  of  worship."  Chaucer  describes 
the  fat  dyer  and  tapiser  in  his  prologue. 
They  could  well  allord  to  take  their  pri- 
vate cook  about  with  them  —  not  that  he 
was  any  better  than  other  cooks,  it  was 
all  ostentation.  We  do  not  hear  much  of 
white  materials,  probably  the  old  white, 
even  of  linen,  was  less  perfectly  bleached 
than  our  own.  The  white  skin  of  a  very 
fair  person  was  quaintly  called  by  Chau- 
cer ("  Sir  Thopas  ")  after  pain  cU  Mai  fie. 
Maine  bread,  as  the  cleanest  white  he 
could  think  of  —  perhaps  the  most  tempt- 
ing morsel,  for  all  his  similes  have  a 
raisan  d^itre.  Chaucer  names  many  dyes, 
among  them  Brazil-wood  and  grain  of 
Portingale  (** Nun's  Priest's  Epilogue"), 
madder,  weld,  and  woad  (Isaiis  prima). 
Weld  was  a  plant  producing  a  yellow  dye 
{Reseda  luUola  )  \  madder  would  yield  reds, 


8s 

such  as  Turkey-red,  purples,  lilac,  and 
pink,  and  woad  a  red-blue.  With  these, 
numberless  shades  could  be  produced. 
Amon^  the  most  popular  were  **  royal 
grene,"  which  from  ancient  minatures  we 
should  judge  to  have  been  a  fine  grass- 
green  with  a  distinct  dash  of  yellow  in  it, 
like  the  color  of  a  sunlit  leaf.  The  chief 
reds  were  scarUty  named  by  the  wife  of 
Bath,  etc.;  sanguine^  or  crimson,  and 
^raiftt  imported  from  Portugal  —  i.^., 
"vermus  or  vermilion"  —  in  fact  cochi- 
neal, a  red  so  fast  and  permanent  that  the 
word  "ingrained"  had  become  in  the 
fourteenth  century,  and  still  remains,  a 
general  term  for  a  fast  color  of  any  kind. 
And  here  I  may  say  a  word  for  the  fiery 
cherubin  as  likened  to  the  red-faced  sum- 
moner  by  Chaucer.  In  many  old  pictures 
the  childish  art  of  the  time  depicted  these 
spirits  wholly  in  red,  the  color  of  love; 
rows  of  them  surmounted  rows  of  blue 
seraphim,  the  spirits  of  knowledge  and 
truth,  of  which  the  color  was  held  blue. 
It  had  doubtless  become  a  proverb  already 
in  Chaucer's  time,  **as  red  as  the  fiery 
cherubin,"  as  blue  as  the  seraphim,  from 
the  pictures  in  the  churches;  and  no  in- 
sult was  meant  to  the  cherubin,  nothing 
even  blasphemous,  by  the  quaint  simile. 

So  much  for  the  reds.  Russet,  mur- 
rey, musterdevelers,  watchet,  vair,  may  be 
quoted  among  the  commonest  mediaeval 
colors,  which  I  must  treat  separately. 

RUSSET. 

That  the  leather  employed  for  jerkins 
was  reddish,  we  can  infer  from  "russet" 
apples  having  been  called  "  leather-coats.'* 
Russet  and  grey  seem  almost  convertible 
terms,  though  russet  was  a  very  **  warm  " 
color  (Fr.  roussetU\  whilst  grey  is  decid- 
edly "  cold."  Russet  was  fox-color ;  Chau- 
cer speaks  of  the  fox  as  Dan  Russel,  from 
his  red  coat.  Probably  the  red  was  often 
very  dull  in  russet,  and  the  grey  imper- 
fect, with  a  drab  or  brown  tendency,  like 
undyed  wool  —  that  is,  when  woven  in 
coarse,  friezes,  or  lynse-woisiy  such  as 
were  worn  by  working  people,  children, 
etc.  None  of  the  old  colors  were  quite 
as  pure  as  our  own,  I  imagine,  and  were 
therefore  more  beautiful ;  for  when  a  color 
is  too  pure,  it  is  usually  unpicturesque. 
Modern  distillation  had  made  most  colors 
painful  till  art-Protestants  insisted  on  re- 
introducing softer  shades.  A  color  may 
be  bright  without  being  pure^  that  is,  it 
may  partake  of  some  other  hue  just  enou^^h 
to  take  off  the  edge  of  its  sharpness,  like 
crimson,  peacock,  grass-green  and  some 
of  the  new  (old)  yellows.    These  are  all 


S6 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


imperfect  colors.  We  may  judoje  from  the 
pictures  by  Van  £yck,  Quentin  Matsys, 
etc.,  how  rich  were  the  pinks  and  scarlets ; 
and  yet  there  seemed  to  be  a  certain  soft- 
ness  present,  owing  to  the  scarJet  having 
a  hint  of  yellow,  the  pink  being  touched 
with  blue  or  salmon,  the  yellow  either 
reddish  like  orange,  or  greenish  like  mus- 
tard, or  earthy  like  clay. 

But  it  is  probable  that  "russet"  and 
"grey  '*  had  become  the  regular  names  of 
homespun  wool  —  irrespective  of  their 
precise  color  —  when  Margaret  Paston 
was  ordering  it  both  for  the  children  and 
the  servants'  liveries.  The  useful  linsey 
that  was  fashionable  fifteen  years  ago, 
never  took  any  strong  dye;  and  russet 
was  probably  similar.  We  read  in  old 
stories  of  grey  russet.  ••  We  are  country- 
folks, grey  russet  and  good  hempe-spun 
cloth  doth  best  become  us."  (Deloney's 
"Pleasant  History  of  Thomas  of  Read- 
ing.") Peasants  wore  the  cloth  called 
russet,  till  they  themselves  were  called 
"russetings,"  and  their  garments  in  gen- 
eral their  russets  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. In  this  case  the  color  certainly 
named  the  stuff;  and  the  8tu£E  named  the 
wearers. 

MURREY. 

The  above  hypothesis  of  the  dulness 
of  colors  in  coarse  woollens  may  account 
for  *•  russet "  or  "grey  "  representing  "  ar- 
gent" in  the  Paston  liveries  (a  metal  usu- 
ally signified  by  white  in  heraldry),  just  as 
drab  liveries  are  carried  now.  But  it  is 
less  clear  how  murrey  (Fr.  murier^  mul- 
berry), which  was^  dull  lilac  color,  much 
like  claret  spilt  on  a  white  tablecloth, 
could  have  stood  for  "or"  in  the  same 
arms,  as  we  gather  from  one  letter  that  it 
did;  unless  there  were  as  many  shades  of 
murrey  as  the  berry  passes  through  on 
the  tree. 

We  can  only  account  for  "red  gold" 
being  represented  in  liveries  by  murrey, 
if  the  murrey  was  distinctly  r^^/(not  lilac) 
—  a  very  unripe  mulberry. 

Murrey  is  repeatedly  spoken  of  in  the 
Paston  letters  (1434-85),  and  painted  in 
ancient  pictures,  from  Giotto  up  to  Mat- 
sys and  his  school.  It  was  sometimes 
dark,  sometimes  pale,  unmistakably  mul- 
berry-color. I  do  not  find  that  the  mul- 
berry-tree was  growing  in  England  before 
1434;  thus  the  color  is  likely  to  have  been 
imported  from  Italy  or  south  France, 
where  the  fingers  of  the  fruit-gatherers 
were  stained  by  the  purplejuice,  for  some 
time  before  we  had  mulberries  of  our 
own. 


It  is  an  odd  color  to  place  next  blue ; 
but  in  the  Paston  arms  they  stood  to- 
gether, and  they  were  also  the  livery-col- 
ors of  the  house  of  York.  We  should 
think  murrey  and  blue  would  go  better 
together  if  the  murrey  were  decidedly 
red.  But  the  mixture  was  popular.  la 
Quentin  Matsys'  pictures  blue  and  true 
murrey  are  often  combined,  not  disagree- 
ably. I  remember  in  the  Amsterdam 
Gallery  a  Madonna  in  a  blue  dress  cut 
square,  a  high  white  smock  and  mur- 
rey sleeves.  She  wears  a  green  girdle, 
and  the  child  rests  on  a  deep  murrey 
cushion.  In  the  great  Matsys'  triptycli 
at  Antwerp,  Herod  has  a  murrey  veil  from 
his  head,  and  a  pale  blue  mantle  shot  with 
pink.  But  a  great  colorist  can  harmonize 
the  strangest  combinations,  and  Quentin 
Matsys  is  the  master  of  the  rainbow. 

There  is  a  figure  in  the  MS.  Hist,  of 
Alexandria,  temp.  Rich.  II.  (fourteenth 
century),  wearing  a  "  syde  [widel  gown  " 
particolored,  of  blue  and  murrey;  here 
the  murrey  is  decidedly  lilac.  His  cap  is 
blue,  and  his  hose  respectively  scarlet 
and  white  —  the  scarlet  leg  on  the  murrey 
side.  Scarlet  and  crimson  were  often 
worn  together  also,  strange  to  say.  Burne 
Jones  is  the  only  modern  painter  who  can 
reconcile  them. 

I  will  now  give  three  extracts  from  the 
interesting  Paston  letters.  Margaret  P. 
writes:  — 

As  touching  for  your  liveries,  there  can  none 
be  gotten  here  of  that  color  that  ye  would  have 
of,  neither  murrey,  nor  blue,  nor  good  russet, 
underneath  3^.  the  yard  at  the  lowest  price,  and 
yet  is  there  not  enough  of  one  cloth  and  color 
to  serve  you  i  and  as  for  to  be  purveyed  in 
Suffolk,  it  will  not  be  purveyed  not  now  against 
the  time,  without  they  had  had  warning  at 
Michaelmas,  as  I  am  informed.  —  Norwich, 
November  25,  1455  (?)• 

Before  1459 :  — 

I  pray  you  .  .  .  that  ye  will  do  buy  me  some 
frieze  to  make  of  your  children's  gowns.  Ye 
shall  have  best  cheap  and  best  choice  of  Hays's 
wife,  as  it  is  told  me.  And  that  ye  will  buy  a 
yard  of  broad  cloth  of  black  for  one  hood  for 
me,  of  44^.  or  four  shillings  a  yard,  for  there 
is  neither  good  cloth  nor  good  frieze  in  this 
town  (Norwich). 

Agnes  Paston  writes,  January  28, 
1457:  — 

Item,  to  see  how  many  gowns  Clement  hath, 
and  that  they  be  bare,  let  them  be  raised. 

He  hath  a  short  green  gown.  And  a  short 
musterdevelers  gown,  were  never  raised. 

And  a  short  blue  gown,  that  was  raised,  and 
made  of  a  side  \wide\  gown,  when  I  was  last  at 
London. 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


And  a  side  russet  gown  furred  with  beaver 
was  made  this  time  two  years. 

And  a  side  murray  gown  was  made  this  time 
twelve  month. 

MUSTERDEVELERS. 

In  this  letter  we  have  "a  musterdevel- 
ers  gown  ''  spoken  of  perhaps  aa  a  mate- 
rial,  not  a  color,  inasmuch  as  it  was 
**  never  raised,"  says  the  thrifty  house> 
wife.  The  word  is  very  variously  spelt. 
In  a  later  letter  the  bride,  Margery  Pas- 
ton,  writes,  **  My  mother  sent  to  my  father 
to  London  for  a  gown  cloth  of  mustyrd- 
devyllers."  In  Rymer's  "FGBdera,"in  a 
list  of  articles  shipped  from  England  for 
the  use  of  the  king  of  Portugal  and  the 
countess  of  Holland,  in  1428,  two  pieces 
of  mustrevilers  and  two  pieces  of  russet 
mustrevilers  occur.  Some  suppose  the 
word  to  be  a  corruption  of  moitU  de  ve^ 
lours^  **a  kind  of  mixed  grey  woollen 
cloth,''  says  Halliwell,  evidently  with  a  nap 
of  some  sort  —  mestis  de  velours^  a  bas- 
tard velvet,  say  others.  There  was  a  town, 
however,  spoken  of  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
v.,  called  Moustier  de  Villiers,  near  Hon- 
fleur,  and  this  may  have  given  its  name  to 
a  cloth  there  made. 

Whichever  was  the  original  word.  Stow 
uses  the  name  in  his  *'  Survey  of  Lon- 
don "  distinctly  as  a  coior^  not  a  material. 
"  In  the  nineteenth  year  of  King  Henry 
VI.  there  was  bought  for  an  officer's  gown 
two  yards  of  cloth  coloured  mustard  vil- 
lars^  a  color  now  out  of  use,  and  two  yards 
of  cloth  coloured  blue,  price  two  shillings 
the  yard."  Here  it  is  pretty  clear  that  the 
place  named  the  stujf,  Sind  the  stuff  named 
\\\t  color.  And  what  was  the  color  ?  Mus- 
tard-colored cloth  was  much  used  for  offi- 
cial dresses  and  liveries  in  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  stockings 
of  the  blue-coat  scholars  may  be  an  in- 
stance of  it.  It  is  by  no  means  clear  that 
the  manufacture  of  Moustier  de  Villiers 
was  not  as  probably  mustard-color  as 
grey.  The  glossarists  are  fond  of  calling 
most  woollen  fabrics  that  they  know  little 
about,  "grey  mixtures."  But  dull  grey 
colors  are  the  rarest  seen  In  the  old  pic- 
tures and  miniatures ;  every  one,  poor  and 
rich,  loved  bright  tints.  And  I  am  much 
inclined  to  attribute  Stow's  evidently  cor- 
rupted term  to  the  tradition  of  its  yellow 
color.  This  is  precisely  the  way  in  which 
a  word  so  often  becomes  corrupted,  espe- 
cially among  ignorant  people.  They  at- 
tach no  meaning  to  the  original  word,  and 
it  slides  into  one  that  has  some  sort  of 
meanin>;  to  them  —  ^.if.,  Lete-rede  (Wise 
Council),    now    Leath'erbead ;    the    ship 


87 

"  Bellerophon,"  called  "  Billy  Ruffian."  I 
have  known  countless  instances  of  proper 
names  being  lost  in  terms  that  seem  to 
^^//^r  describe  the  object  —  ^.jg'.,  bouffetier 
beef-eater,  the  dress  being  red  as  beef; 
icrevisse^  cray-fish,  for  it  1  >  a  fish  ;  huy^ 
senblas^  (sturgeon-bladder)  isinglass,  for 
it  is  glassy  and  transparent. 

Let  us  suppose,  then,  that  musterdevel- 
ers  was  a  handsomely  napped  cloth,  gen- 
erally yellow,  sometimes  foxy  yellow  {cf. 
russet  mustrevilers),  in  which  we  so  often 
see  ladies  of  position,  such  as  Margery 
Paston  wa.«,  arrayed  in  fourteenth  and 
fifteenth  century  pictures  by  Fra  Angelico 
and  earlier  masters,  and  worn  also  by 
officials  who  are  commonly  required  to  bo 
conspicuous. 

METALLIC  COLORS. 

The  exact  color  of  the  common  metal 
latoun,  often  spoken  of  in  mediaeval  liter- 
ature, does  not  «eera  clear  yet.  All  the 
glossaries  describe  it  as  a  mixed  metal, 
not  unlike  brass.  But  brass  is  3'ellow,  as 
yellow  as  gold,  and  one  allusion  alone  in 
Chaucer  seems  to  mark  it  as  a  very  differ- 
ent metal. 

Phoebus  was  old,  and  hewed  like  latoan. 
That  in  his  hote  declination 
Shone  as  the  burned  gold,  with  stremes  bright ; 
But  now  in  Capricorne  adoun  he  Hgl^ 
Whereas  he  shone  ful  pale. 

Does  pale  here  mean  dull?  Here  is  a 
pointed  contrast  drawn  between  gold  and 
latoun. 

In  another  place  Chaucer  uses  the 
simile,  yellow,  **as  any  bason  scoured 
newe,"  perhaps  brass:  and  in  "Piers 
Plowman  "  we  read  of  a  cloister  with  con- 
duits of  "clene  tyn"  and  'Mavoures  of 
laton,"  which,  being  not  tin,  might  have 
been  yellow  metal.  The  use  of  laton  by 
common  people  as  the  mounting  for  false 
relics  (Prologue  to  the  "  Pardoner's  Tale  '*) 
points  to  its  cheapness ;  the  purse  of  co- 
quettish Alison,  the  miller's  pretty  wife, 
being  pearled  with  laton,  points  to  its 
brightness,  as  a  copy  of  silver  or  gold, 
like  the  brazen  armlets  found  in  Etruscan 
tombs,  so  goldlike  beneath  the  rust.  Let 
us  remember,  too,  the  beautiful  delicate 
hammered  copper  and  pewter  work  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  There  are  hammered  ves- 
sels of  a  pale  kind  of  brass,  and  latoun 
may  have  been  used  in  several  colors, 
according  to  the  amount  of  alloy  used. 
Latten  stands  in  French  dictionaries  as 
laiton^cuivre  laming — wrought  or  hard- 
ened copper,  distinct  from  retain,  tin ; 
and  latten  is  a  name  which  before  the  re* 


88 


COLORS   AND   CLOTHS   OF  THE   MIDDLE   AGES. 


form  in  the  customs  tariff  was  applied 
here  to  siieet-brass.  But  the  **  mines  of 
latten  "  mentioned  in  the  time  of  Henry 
VI H.  remain  an  archaeological  crux.  If 
latoun  was  copper,  it  is  curious  that 
Chaucer  names  *•  coper  "  as  well  as  "  tin  " 
in  "The  House  of  Fame"  —  though  the 
sunken  sun  above  quoted  might  be  cop- 
pery. If  it  was  brass,  as  we  understand 
it,  how  could  Chaucer,  the  accurate,  call 
it  paUf  and  where  shall  we  find  mines  of 
brass,  save  in  the  half  mythical  Corinthian 
conflagration  ?  Chaucer  uses  the  word 
"brass,"  too,  in  the  "Squire's  Tale," 
**  the  horse  of  brass."  I  have  been  shown 
a  vessel  dated  very  early  in  the  sixteenth 
century  of  a  very  pale  kind  of  brass ;  and 
I  am  told  by  a  good  antiquary  that  there 
are  mines  in  England  of  a  sort  of  bastard 
copper,  poor  in  color  —  either  of  which 
may  be  Chaucer*s  latoun.  The  word  lat- 
ten, indeed,  is  derived  by  Skeat  from 
latte^  a  thin  plate ;  and  copper  and  brass, 
and  even  tin  {cf.  Port,  lata^  tin  plate)  may 
all  have  been  called  latoun  when  ham- 
mered and  perforated  in  a  thin  form.  At 
any  rate,  it  was  markedly  less  deep  in 
color  than  **  red  gold." 

By-the-bv,  conventional  terms,  such  as 
"  red  gold,*'  "teeres  blew  "  (an  expression 
used  by  Chaucer  in  his  "  Complaint  of 
Mars  and  Venus  "),  are  still  more  confus- 
ing. Gold  was  called  red  because  it  had 
decidedly  "warm'*  shadows:  it  was  ap- 
parently deeper  in  color  than  ours,  and  it 
was  represented  in  tapestries  by  a  red 
color.  The  rich  gilding  of  letters  in  the 
old  missals  looks  quite  red  against  mod- 
ern gilding.  Not  only  is  the  gold  thicker, 
but  really  it  seems  to  me  deeper  in  color ; 
and  that  it  must  always  have  been  so,  the 
term  red  gold,  especially  when  applied  to 
red  hair,  etc.,  seems  to  assure  us.  The 
two  were  always  linked.  "Blood  betok* 
eneth  gold,  as  me  was  taught,"  babbles 
the  wife  of  Bath.  Often  purposely,  gold 
was  laid  over  red,  as  we  see  upon  ancient 
picture-frames. 

Blue,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  "cold" 
color,  and  seemed  to  the  ancients  (not 
heralds)  the  nearest  thing  to  describe  sil- 
ver, which  is  certainly  neither  white  nor 
black.  The  old  tapestries  represent  sil- 
ver vessels  always  by  blue  threads.  And 
the  "  teeres  blew  "  of  the  lovers  in  Chau- 
cer's poem  were  silvery  —  with  the  cold 
glittering  color  of  white  metal  and  water. 

VAIR. 

"  Eyes  of  vair,"  praised  so  often  in 
mediaeval  poetry,  have  exercised  many 
minds.    For  my  part,  I  was  years  before 


I  realized  that  there  was  any  point  in  the 
expression.     But  at  last  I  "  saw  "  it. 

Vair  was  the  name  of  the  fur  of  the 
grey  squirrel,  from  varii^  because  the 
belly  of  the  squirrel,  which  was  white,  was 
mixed  with  the  grey  back  in  oval-shaped 
compartments  —  variegated.  Probably 
the  same  confusion  occurred  between 
this  word  vair  and  verre^  glass,  as  that  in 
the  old  tale  of  Cinderella,  whose  "  glass 
slipper"  was  indubitably  the  shoe  of  vair 
fur  worn  by  nobles,  according  to  Mr.  Rals- 
ton. 

This  confusion  of  two  similar  words  in 
a  French-speaking  country  such  as  En- 
gland was,  is  the  less  curious,  as  grey  was 
commonly  considered  the  nearest  color  to 
glass  —  not  then  the  clear  white  crystal 
which  now  rivals  the  diamond.  Glass 
was  then  just  white  enough  to  show  grey 
when  thick  enough  to  have  any  tint  of  its 
own,  with  white  and  variegated  reflec- 
tions. Chaucer  plainly  says  the  prioress's 
eyes  were  "grey  as  glass,"  —  "grey  as  a 
goose,"  he  says  of  Absolon's.  Eyes  of 
vair  were  the  soft  light-grey  eyes  common 
in  England,  with  or  without  blue  in  them, 
and  the  lashes  giving  a  sort  of  furry  soft- 
ness to  the  glance.  When  we  see  how 
the  mediaeval  artist  represented  vair  fur, 
in  escallop-shaped  compartments  on  a 
white  ground,  and  how  it  is  still  "  diversi- 
fied with  argent  and  azure  "  in  heraldry 
(in  fact,  the  white  and  grey  squirrel  fur 
commonly  used  now)  we  may  see  at  once 
that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  point  in 
the  expression,  and  a  very  pretty  com- 
pliment, seeing  that  vair  was  the  next 
costliest  fur  to  the  white  ermine,  and 
sacred  to  the  crime  de  la  crime.  The 
iris  of  the  eye  showed  a  grey  escallop  on 
a  white  ground,  and  heralds  represented 
grey  by  "  azure,"  as  the  tapissier  used  his 
dark-blue  threads  for  silver,  for  conven- 
ience' sake. 

WATCHET, 

Watchet  is  regarded  by  Tyrwhiit  as  a 
kind  of  cloth,  on  account  of  some  MSS. 
reading  "  whit "  instead  of  "  light "  in  the 
portrait  of  Absolon  in  the  "Miller's 
Tale ;  "  and  probably  the  name  emanates 
from  the  town  of  Watchet  in  Somerset- 
shire. But  it  is  usually  held  to  be  a  color, 
pale  blue,  which  is  precisely  the  sort  of 
color  the  dandified  church  clerk  would 
have  worn  with  red  hose.  It  is  common 
to  see  light-blue  coats  and  gowns  with 
red  hose  in  the  missal  pictures.  But 
in  Barnfield's  "Affectionate  Shepherd," 
(1594)1  we  hear, — 

The  saphyre  stone  is  of  a  watchet  blue. 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


89 


Now,  sapphires  are  dark  blue :  not  un- 
like the  cassocks  which  Roman  Catholic 
Church  officials  wear,  and  Absolon's  "  kir- 
tle  "  was  probably  a  cassock,  not  a  coat, 
for  be  wore  his  surplice  over  it.  Still 
Chaucer  distinctly  says  Absolon  went 

All  in  a  kirtle  of  a  light  waget, 

whereas  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen 
any  old  picture  of  acolytes  robed  in  really 
pale  blue,  though  plenty  of  pale  blue  ex- 
isted (cf.  Giotto's  pictures).  I  suggest, 
then,  that  Absolon's  "light  waget"  was 
the  lightest  shade  of  a  blue  which  is  mor- 
ally certain  to  have  been  sold  in  more 
than  one  shade :  not  turquoise,  though 
described  by  Cotgrave  as  "plunket  or 
skie-blue,"  but  a  red  blue  liker  ultrama- 
rine or  cobalt,  which  in  the  darkest  shade 
would  be  sapphire,  or  that  almost  violet 
shade  still  used  for  cassocks  in  great  fes- 
tal services  in  foreign  cathedrals.  The 
sky  is  not  seldom  of  a  deep,  ultramarine 
color  —  a  red  blue  as  opposed  to  a  yellow 
blue  —  in  ItlcX  jacinctus^  one  of  the  names 
for  plunket-blue.  And  plunket  is  said  to 
have  been  taken  from  the  name  of  one 
Thomas  Blanket,  who  in  1340  set  up  a 
loom  io  Bristol,  Somerset.  Our  *'  blanket " 
is  said  to  come  from  "  plunket,"  blue ; 
whether  from  a  bluey-grey  qualitv  of  the 
wool  does  not  seem  clear :  probably  yes, 
the  color  naming  the  cloth.  Meantime, 
Blanket  may  have  worked  at  Watchet,  or 
the  neighbor  towns  may  have  produced 
a  very  similar  azure;  and  a  blue  manv 
shades  deeper  than  what  we  should  call 
pale,  might  have  been  reasonably  spoken 
of  as  "lyght  blewe  or  skie-color"  when 
compared  with  the  common  dark  Prus- 
sian or  navy  blue  appropriated  by  sailors 
from  very  early  times.  We  cannot  do 
better  than  consult  the  old  missals  them- 
selves, or  an  institution  happily  (for  anti- 
quaries) so  conservative  as  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  in  some  of  its  great  fes- 
tal shows,  for  the  explanation  of  many 
shapes  and  colors  in  garb,  and  manner  of 
use. 

I  have  now  shown  that  both  fabrics  and 
tints  were  multifarious  in  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries,  as  is  natural  in 
every  highly  civilized  age.  Weavers  from 
abroad  were  greatly  encouraged  under 
Edward  III.,  and  all  native  manufactures 
received  a  new  stimulus  from  the  royal 
interest. 

The  embroideries:  England  had  been 
long  so  famed  for  them  that  they  were 
known  as  the  unrivalled  opus  Anglica- 
num^  and  the  ancient  painters  show  us 
iiow  perfect  they  were.    Heavy  bullion 


work,  and  the  daintiest  imagery  produced 
by  the  needle  — scenes,  portraits,  inscrip- 
tions, etc.,  were  seen  on  the  Church  robes, 
on  the  coat-hardy  of  the  young  noble,  and 
the  royal  mantle.  Nay,  sumptuary  laws 
in  vain  tried  to  prevent  their  use  by  any- 
body else  who  could  get  hold  of  them,  or 
make  them.  Moreover,  these  sstre painted 
dresses,  not  unlike  those  that  came  in  a 
season  or  two  ago.  In  "  The  Romaunt  of 
the  Rose,"  the  robe  of  the  god  of  Love 
is  described  as  not  silk  —  /.<.,  I  suppose, 
a  plain,  palpable  silk, — 

Bat  all  in  floures  and  flourettes, 

Ipainted  all  with  amorettcs. 

And  with  lozenges  and  scoch6ns  {escuicheons)^ 

With  birdea,  Hbardes  (leopards),  and  li6ns, 

And  other  beastes  wrought  ful  wel. 

His  garment  was  every  del 

Ipurtraied,  and  ywrought  with  floures, 

By  divers  medeling  of  coloures  — 

1.^.,  paint  and  needlework  were  blended. 

As  this  was  the  period  of  elaborately 
painted  tapestries,  in  which  the  subordi* 
nate  parts  were  woven,  the  heads  and 
hands,  etc.,  of  the  figures  being  left  to 
the  artist's  brush,  it  was  natural  that  so 
easy  a  mode  of  decoration  should  have 
become  popular  for  dress.  How  much 
less  time  it  would  take  to  paint  a  prettv 
border  or  motto,  or  to  renew  by  sucn 
means  a  worn  part,  than  to  embroider  or 
weave  itl  Both  fashions  then  were  in  at 
once  —  embroidery,  as  of  the  squire's 
coat  (Chaucer's  ^rol.),  and  painted  fab- 
rics, as  above. 

SAMITE  AND  SATIN. 

One  word  upon  a  much-discussed  and 
still  mysterious  material  —  samite.  The 
Germans  say  that  it  was  satin,  and  that 
the  two  words  are  the  same.  It  is  impos- 
sible, however,  to  believe  this,  when 
Chaucer  actually  uses  both  words  more 
than  once.  In  ''The  Romaunt  of  the 
Rose,"  mirth  is  described  as  clad 

In  a  samette  with  birdes  wroughte ; 

and  he  later  speaks  of  *'  an  overgilt  samy." 
In  the ''Death  of  Blanch"  he  promises 
Morpheus  a  feather  bed  in  fine  black  satin 
rayed  with  gold.  The  mediaeval  Latin 
words  differed,  examitum,  samite,  seti* 
muSf  satin ;  and  the  chief  glossaries  enter 
the  words  apart,  though  each  simply  as 
"a  rich  silk  stuff."  That  satin  of  old  was 
precisely  like  satin  of  to-day  many  old 
pictures  assure  us  ;  but  if  samite  is  what 
1  believe  it,  painting  could  not  make  the 
web  clear,  it  would  only  look  like  silk. 
The  surface  of  satin  is  absolutely  smooth, 
slippery,   with   long   threads,  from   the 


90 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


Latin  seia^  a  hair;  that  identifies  satin,  as 
the  Latin  villosus,  shaggy,  identifies  vel- 
vet. 

Now,  r  remember,  when  a  child,  wear- 
ing a  cloak  of  rich  antique  Oriental  silk, 
Persian,  I  think,  of  a  web  I  have  never 
since  seen,  either  in  museum  or  Oriental 
warehouse.  It  had  a  silk,  not  satin,  sur- 
face, simple,  not  twilled,  with  right  side 
and  wrong,  and  was  damasked  in  a  minute 
pattern  on  stripes  of  gold  color  and  vio- 
let—  I  think  other  colors  as  well  —  and, 
I  think,  with  little  birds  and  beasts  min- 
gled. Its  peculiarity  which  delighted  me 
was,  that  in  whatever  direction  you  cut  it 
you  found  a  double  web,  as  of  two  rich 
silks  made  together.  Cut  it  any  way,  the 
two  were  quite  distinct,  and  yet  insepara- 
ble, like  the  Siamese  twins.  I  loved  to 
clip  odd  bits  of  this  silk  for  my  dolls,  alas  ! 
which  1  would  gladly  see  again  now,  for  it 
was  an  excessively  rich,  soft  fabric,  rather 
loosely  woven,  and  easy  to  ravel,  but  as 
firm  and  strong  and  immovable  as  many 
a  silken,  yielding  nature,  taken  edgewise. 

The  low- Latin  word  examitnm  means 
a  stuff  woven  with  six  kinds  of  thread, 
and  if  we  give  samite  credit  for  some 
more  mysterious  quality  than  the  varie- 
gations of  six  mere  colors,  at  a  time  when 
all  fabrics  were  frequently  figured  and 
variegated,  I  think  the  subtly  woven  an- 
cient silk  1  have  described  is  more  than 
likely  to  be  samite. 

The  thickness,  and  the  curiosity  of  de- 
sign, possible  in  a  material  so  woven  en 
jumelU^  may  be  imagined  at  an  epoch 
whose  days  might  be  called,  from  one 
point  of  view  at  least,  des  jours  filis  d^or 
et  de  sou.  And  the  samites  **  with  birdes 
wroughte,"  and  r/?v^// (striped) ;  and  over^ 
gilt^  which  is  likely  to  have  meant  trimmed 
with  jewellery  in  parts  —  the  black  samite, 
the  white  samite,  and  the  '*  vermeil  samit," 
of  which  was  made  the  sacred  oriflamme^ 
may  all  have  been  a  similar  web  to  that  I 
have  in  mind,  of  everlasting  wear,  strong 
as  fate. 

Satin,  on  the  other  hand,  is  likely  to 
have  been  identical  with  the  Chinese 
zatayn,  of  Zaitun,  which,  like  many  Celes- 
tial manufactures,  may  carry  us  back  to 
the  remotest  antiquity;  thus  setinus  would 
be  a  comparatively  modern  name  for  it. 

It  is  remarkable  how  elaborate  the 
mediaeval  love  of  dress  rendered  the  trade- 
products  ;  also  how  like  the  present  day 
were  the  commercial  shifts  and  tricks. 
In  the  **  Vision  of  Piers  Plowman,"  Cov- 
etousness  says :  — 

My  wyf  was  a  webber  *  and  woollen  cloth  made ; 
She  spake  to  spynnesters  *  to  tpynnet  it  oute ; 


But  the  pound  that  she  payed  by  '  poised  a 

quarteroun  more 
Than    myne    owne  auncerc   [scales)   *  whoso 

weighed  treuthe  {/air). 

Again,  he  says  he  learned  another 
trick :  — 

To  draw  the  lyser  {seivage)  along  *  the  longer 
it  seemed : 

Among  the  riche  rays  (striped  cloths)  *  I  ren- 
dered a  lessoun. 

To  broche  them  with  a  packneedle  *  and  plaited 
them  together, 

And  put  them  in  a  press  *  and  pinned  them 
therein. 

Till  ten  yards  or  twelve  *  had  tolled  out  thir- 
teen. 

There  ^as  probably  no  "  dodge "  of 
modern  commerce  unknown  to  the  ingen- 
ious inventors  of  the  Middle  Ages,  as 
there  was  hardly  any  one  of  the  rich  and 
dainty  fabrics  and  colors  known  to  the 
classics  unknown  to  them,  from  the  cost- 
liest cloth  of  gold  to  the  filmiest  veils, 
such  as  the  little  kerchief  of  Valence 
(some  infant  lace  of  Valenciennes?)  that 
did  not  hide  the  charms  of  Venus  (*•  Par- 
liament of  Birds").  Persia,  India,  the 
whole  East  supplied  silks ;  Flanders  sup- 
plied fine  linen,  "cloth  of  Lake,"  *' cloth 
of  Rennes,"  etc.  The  average  worth  of 
good  common  cloths,  when  the  respective 
values  of  money  are  computed,  did  not 
vary  greatly  with  our  own,  as  political 
economists  will  easily  understand,  be- 
cause the  prices  of  necessaries  are  regu- 
lated by  unalterable  social  laws.  But  the 
qualities  may  have  been  coarser,  like  the 
ntting  and  the  making  of  clothes.  Rich 
materials,  however,  fetched  an  enormous 
price.  People  probably  spent  more  to  be- 
gin with  on  their  clothes;  but  thev  lasted 
longer.  Indeed,  dress  has  never  been  so 
cheap  as  now,  never  so  undurable ;  and 
that  is  commonly  the  result  of  a  highly 
civilized  state.  In  the  ancient  times  the 
best  materials  were  demanded,  and  were 
hand-wrought;  and  though  cheatery  and 
deceit  were  busy,  there  were  not  so  much 
adulteration  and  waste  as  now,  when  me- 
chanical and  chemical  means  combine  to 
assist  the  ever-freer  circulation  of  money, 
by  producing  rapidly. and  often  helping  to 
destroy. 

Space  forbids  any  digression  here ;  but« 
in  conclusion,  I  must  express  surprise 
that  more  use  is  not  made  by  persons  en- 
gaged in  compiling  glossaries  of  cos- 
tume, or  verifying  facts  in  mediaeval  man- 
ners, of  the  beautiful  mediaeval  pictures 
in  foreign  and  English  galleries.  The 
old  painters,  like  the  old  poets,  were  more 
exact  in  knowledge  and  expression  than 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN  NOVA  ZEMUL 


9' 


their  critics  sometimes  give  them  credit 
for.  Van  Eyck's  "  Worship  of  the  Lamb  " 
is  a  whole  glossary  in  itself:  the  same 
might  be  said  of  the  MemliDgs  at  Burges, 
and  the  Matsys  at  Louvain  and  Antwerp. 
And  putting  aside  our  own  rich  collec- 
tions, the  above  painters  alone,  with  the 
help  of  Chaucer,  carefully  examined, 
would  almost  suffice  to  answer  many  of 
the  questions  which  I  have  been  dealing 
with.  M.  £.  Haweis. 


'  From  Blackwood's  Maffitine. 
SUMMER  SPORT  IN  NOVA  ZEMLA. 

In  this  over-populated  kingdom  of 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  with  its  still 
ever-increasing  millions  of  human  beings 
who  must  somewhere  find  shelter  from 
the  fickle  elements,  we  see  new  settle- 
ments gradually  springing  up  in  formerly 
uninhabited  places  as  the  growing  rail- 
road system  throws  its  iron  web  over  the 
face  of  the  land,  whilst  old  villages  near 
the  lines  rapidly  assume  the  dimensions 
of  towns,  and  towns  develop  themselves 
into  cities.  The  widening  circles  of  brick 
and  mortar  constantly  encroach  on  the 
surrounding  country,  till  the  latter  is  no 
longer  able  to  supply  the  towns  with  the 
necessaries  of  life  in  sufficient  quantity; 
the  result  being  that  we  are  driven  to  pro- 
cure from  abroad  that  which  we  cannot 
produce  for  ourselves. 

As  in  the  case  of  the  necessaries  of 
life,  so  is  it  also  with  its  luxuries,  more 
especially,  perhaps,  with  that  which,  once 
a  necessity,  has  at  length  become  one  of 
the  luxuries  most  sought  after  and  hard- 
est to  obtain  —  that,  namely,  of  wild 
sport. 

Tradition  and  history  alike  tell  us  that 
the  ancient  inhabitants  of  these  islands 
were  obliged  towage  constant  war  against 
the  denizens  of  the  forests  which  then 
overspread  the  country,  not  only  with  the 
object  of  providing  themselves  with  food 
and  clothing,  but  also  in  self-defence.  In 
this  —  from  a  sportsman*s  point  of  view  — 
happy  state  of  things,  our  forefathers 
were  able  to  gratify  the  long-inherited  in- 
stincts of  man  the  hunter,  whilst  provid- 
ing for  their  other  wants.  We,  their 
descendants,  inheriting  all  the  old  wants 
and  a  host  of  others  which  have  sprung 
up  with  the  advance  of  civilization,  have 
in  no  degree  lost  the  old  hunting  instinct; 
but  by  increasing  and  multiplying  at  such 
a  prodigious  rate,  we  have  lost  the  means 
of  satisfying  it  in  our  native  land.    Even 


where  game  still  runs  wild,  its  pursuit  is 
necessarily  hedged  in  by  endless  formal- 
ities  of  law  and  etiquette  ;  and  the  result 
is,  that  there  is  an  annual  and  ever-in- 
creasing exodus  of  restless  spirits,  bent 
upon  gratifying  their  hunting  instincts  ia 
other  lands  after  their  own  fashion. 

Those  who  have  become  accustomed  to 
wild  sport  abroad  find  it  irksome  to  con- 
form to  the  restrictions  of  modern  British 
sport,  and  get  into  what  are  called  loose 
habits.  A  case  within  my  own  knowledge 
occurs  to  me,  in  which  an  American,  tak* 
ing  part  in  a  grouse-drive  on  a  Yorkshire 
moor,  wounded  one  of  the  beaters,  and 
was  looked  upon  as  no  sportsman  in  con* 
sequence.  He  certainly  was  careless,  but 
as  a  sportsman  he  was  probably  the  equal 
of  any  man  present,  for  he  was  well  ac- 
customed to  track  and  shoot  game,  with 
perhaps  only  one  companion,  in  regions 
where  there  was  no  other  human  being 
within  many  miles;  and  so,  forgetting 
that  he  was  now  surrounded  by  a  host  of 
guns  and  beaters,  he  made  a  mistake 
which  might  rather  have  been  expected  of 
a  novice. 

Those,  then,  who  have  once  tasted  the 
sweets  of  pursuing  and  killing  game  after 
their  own  fashion,  are  apt  to  prefer  that 
kind  of  sport  rather  than  what  they  can 
obtain  in  these  islands,  and  consequently 
spread  themselves  over  the  world  in 
search  of  it.  Almost  every  known  coun* 
try  on  this  planet  annually  resounds  to 
the  crack  of  the  rifle  of  the  British 
sportsman,  or  to  the  bang  of  his  fowling- 
piece;  and  his  twin  brother  the  explorer 
still  finds  new  hunting-grounds  as  the 
better -known  ones  become  used  up. 
Amongst  the  least  known  and  least  fre- 
quented of  all  there  is  Nova  Zemla,  which 
has  lately  been  mentioned  a  good  deal  in 
connection  with  the  rescue  of  Mr.  Leigh 
Smith  and  his  merry  men,  and  is  likely  to 
be  mentioned  a  good  deal  more  in  con- 
nection with  future  attempts  to  reach  the 
north  pole. 

Being  far  out  of  JLhe  way  of  all  our  mer- 
chant routes,  and  only  approachable  dur- 
ing the  summer  over  the  even  then  ice- 
encumbered  sea.  Nova  Zemla  will  prob- 
ably long  remain  one  of  the  last  refuges 
of  the  reindeer;  whilst  its  ice-choked 
fiords  and  frozen  seas  will  still  be  haunted 
by  the  white  whale,  the  seal,  the  walrus, 
and  the  polar  bear. 

Frequented,  until  of  late,  only  by  some 
dozen  Russian  schooners,  who  visit  its 
shores  every  year  chiefly  for  while  whale 
and  salmon,  and  by  a  few  roaming  families 
of  Samoyedes  from  the  mainland,  these 


93 


SUMMER   SPORT  IN   NOVA  ZEMLA. 


arctic  shores  have  hitherto  afforded  an 
undisturbed  asylum  during  the  winter  to 
the  game  of  ail  kinds,  marine  or  terres- 
trial, which  there  abounds.  Recently, 
however,  the  Russian  government  has 
seen  fit  to  plant  a  colony  consisting  of  a 
few  families  of  Samoyedes  —  it  is  sup- 
posed with  the  view  of  occupying  the 
country  in  the  Russian  name  — and  these 
skilful  hunters,  of  whom  I  shall  have  oc- 
casion to  speak  further  on,  harry  the  game 
throughout  the  year  with  great  vigor. 
Beyond  visits  from  European  sportsmen 
or  explorers,  so  rare  that  they  might  al- 
most be  counted  on  the  fingers,  no  other 
human  intruders  ever  invade  these  wild 


regions. 


Having  not  long  ago  returned  from  this 
happy  hunting-ground  in  the  •*  Hope,"  with 
the  crew  of  the  ill-fated  *'  Eira,"  I  have 
obtained  a  glimpse  of  the  country,  which 
I  hope  will  enable  me  to  give  an  intelligi- 
ble and  not  uninteresting  account  of  what 
is  to  be  seen  and  done  there  in  the  way 
of  sport  and  adventure. 

Till  the  present  century  the  contour  of 
the  two  large  islands  which  form  what  is 
DOW  known  as  Nova  Zemla  was  very  dif- 
ferently represented  upon  the  various 
manuscript  charts  in  existence,  these 
having  been  compiled  from  the  observa- 
tions of  Dutch,  Norwegian,  and  Russian 
navigators.  Barents  led  off  in  1598  with 
a  chart  representing  the  west  coast  and 
that  part  of  the  north-east  coast  which  he 
had  visited;  this,  though  terriblv  out  in 
longitude,  was  very  good  as  to  latitude; 
and  since  the  days  of  this  old  explorer, 
bis  maps,  with  many  additions  and  a  few 
corrections,  have  been  generally  adhered 
to,  some  representing  the  north  coast  as 
taking  an  abrupt  turn  to  the  east,  and 
thus  continuing  ad  infinitum^  the  authors 
of  these  interesting  documents  veiling 
their  perplexity  by  drawing  a  meridian 
line  down  the  chart  and  thereby  cutting  it 
short,  leaving  the  rest  to  the  imagination 
of  the  beholder. 

For  our  present  knowledge  of  the 
shape  and  dimensions  of  the  islands  we 
are  chiefly  indebted  to  the  Russian  gov- 
ernment coast-survey,  made  during  the 
early  part  of  the  present  century,  and 
continued  by  subsequent  explorers,  which 
is  generally  considered  to  be  pretty  accu* 
rate  as  far  north  as  Admiralty  Peninsula, 
the  most  prominent  headland  on  the  west 
coast  of  the  north  island.  There  is  one 
remarkable  exception,  however :  an  error 
of  nine  miles  has  somehow  crept  into 
the  latitude  assigned  to  the  centre  of 
Moder  Bay,    To  the  northward  of  Ad- 


miralty Peninsula  this  survey  also  be* 
comes  rather  wild,  and  is  not  to  be  trust* 
ed.  This  of  course  means  that  the  sur- 
veyors were  here  deterred  from  complet- 
ing their  work  by  ice  and  weather;  and 
the  remark  applies  equally  to  the  east 
coast,  which  may  be  said  to  be  ice-bound 
throughout  the  year,  subject  to  occasional 
open  states  in  favorable  seasons.  Cape 
Nassau,  the  point  between  Admiralty 
Peninsula  and  Cape  Mauritius  the  north 
point,  has  traditionally  acquired  an  evil 
reputation  amongst  the  walrus-hunters,  as 
being  a  sort  of  bewitched  headland,  to 
round  which  means  to  say  farewell  to  the 
world;  for  it  was  believed  that  vessels 
were  mysteriously  drifted  thence  into  the 
Arctic  Ocean,  beset  by  the  ice,  and  never 
heard  of  again.  That  there  is  some  foun- 
dation for  this  tradition,  is  proved  by  the 
fate  of  the  Austrian  polar  expedition  of 
Weyprecht  and  Payer  in  the  steamer 
**Tegethoff,"  which  was  beset  near  this 
cape  in  the  autumn  of  1872  and  never  got 
free  again,  being  drifted  about  the  Arctic 
Ocean  for  two  years,  during  which  the  ex- 
pedition involuntarily  discovered  Franz- 
Josef  Land,  and  only  at  last  got  free  by 
abandoning  their  ship,  and  undertaking  a 
most  perilous  and  laborious  journey  over 
the  ice  with  their  boats,  which  lasted  three 
months,  when  they  had  the  good  fortune 
to  reach  the  shores  of  Nova  Zemla,  and 
to  encounter  a  Russian  schooner  which 
was  just  leaving  for  home. 

The  Russian  survey,  then,  gives  us  a 
very  fair  idea  of  the  size  and  shape  of  the 
country.  Lying  between  the  parallels  of 
n^  35'  N.  and  70**  40'  N,,  it  will  be  seen 
that  the  curved  direction  of  the  two  main 
islands  covers  a  space  of  about  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  English  miles,  whilst  their 
average  breadth  may  be  taken  as  sixty 
miles.  The  two  islands  are  divided  bv 
a  strait  called  Matotchkin  Sharr,  which 
also  well  marks  a  central  position  in  the 
physical  configuration  of  the  country;  for 
it  is  in  this  locality  that  the  highest  moun- 
tains and  wildest  and  most  magnificent 
scenery  are  to  be  found,  the  land  thence 
sinking  to  lower  levels  both  to  the  north- 
ward and  southward.  Matotchkin  Sharr 
may  likewise  be  said  to  be  a  central  posi- 
tion as  to  the  distribution  of  the  various 
objects  of  sport;  for  it  is  on  the  slopes 
of  the  snow  and  glacier  clad  mountains 
of  this  part  of  the  country  that  reindeer 
are  most  plentiful,  whilst  wild  fowl  of  all 
kinds  prefer  the  south  island.  Bears, 
walrus,  and  seals,  on  the  other  hand,  may 
be  looked  for  with  greater  confidence  on 
the  shores  of  the  north  islandi  and  more 


SUMMER  SPORT   IN   NOVA  ZEMLA. 


93 


particularly  on  the  eastern  and  northern 
parts  of  it.  I  will  not  presume  to  narrate 
any  adventures  of  my  own  in  pursuit  of 
polar  bears;  but  if  I  could  only  remem- 
ber half  the  yarns  the  old  whalers  of  the 
^  Hope  "  told  me  on  this  head,  1  could  fill 
a  book  with  wondrous  tales  not  to  be  sur- 
passed even  by  the  feats  of  the  valiant 
Munchausen;  of  how  they  frequently 
fired  into  these  ferocious  quadrupeds  vol- 
leys  of  marlingspikes,  knives,  and  leaden 
stu<^s,  not  to  speak  of  bullets,  but  that 
often  the  only  effect  of  this  rough  treat- 
ment was  that  the  monster '* rubbed,  him- 
self with  snaw  —  yes,  that  he  did  —  and 
went  away  geroulin*,  an'  lookin*  back." 
All  the  same,  other  travellers  speak  of  this 
habit  of  polar  bears  rubbing  themselves 
with  snow  when  hurt.  Another  funny  and 
perhaps  equally  useful  habit  of  the  bear, 
is  that  of  swallowing  large  stones,  for 
these  may  assist  his  digestion !  but  we 
cannot  see  what  nourishment  the  bear 
which  robbed  a  depot  erected  by  one  of 
the  Franklin  search  expeditions  could 
have  derived  from  the  whole  stock  of 
stickin«;-plaster,  which  was  found  in  his 
stomach.  Modern  sporting:  narratives 
always  seem  to  me  to  lack  the  vigor  and 
freshness  of  the  productions  of  the  ear- 
lier writers;  and  as  we  are  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Nova  Zemia  bears,  I  cannot  resist 
quotinc:,  for  the  benefit  of  those  of 
••Maga*s"  readers  who  have  not  had  the 
felicity  of  perusing  ••  Purchas  his  Pil- 
grimes,"  an  account  of  a  thrilling  bear 
adventure  which  occurred  on  the  north 
island  of  Nova  Zemla  three  hundred  years 
ago,  during  the  second  voyage  of  William 
Barents. 

The  6th  of  September  some  of  our  men  went 
on  shore  upon  the  Hrme  land  to  seek  for  stones, 
which  are  a  kind  of  diamond,  whereof  there 
are  many  also  in  the  States  Island ;  and  while 
they  were  seeking  the  stones,  two  of  our  men 
lying  together  in  one  place,  a  great  leane  white 
bcare  came  suddenly  stealing  out,  and  caught 
one  of  them  fast  by  the  necke  ;  who,  not  know- 
ing  what  it  was  that  tooke  him  by  the  necke, 
cryed  out  and  saved,  "  Who  is  it  that  pulls  me 
so  by  the  necke  r"  Wherewith  the  other  that 
lay  not  farre  from  him  lifted  up  his  head  to  see 
who  it  was ;  and  perceiving  it  to  be  a  mon- 
strous bear,  cryed  out  and  sayed,  **  Oh  mate ! 
it  is  a  beare  ; "  and  therewith  presently  rose  up 
and  ran  away.  The  beare  at  the  first  falling 
upon  the  man  bit  his  head  in  sunder,  and  suckt 
out  his  blood  ;  wherewith  the  rest  of  the  men 
that  were  on  the  land,  being  about  twenty  in 
number,  ranne  presently  thither,  either  to  save 
the  man,  or  else  to  drive  the  beare  from  the 
Iwdy;  and  having  charged  their  pieces,  and 
bent  their  pikes,  set  upon  her,  that  still  was 
devouring  the  nun;  but  perceiving  them  to 


come  towards  her,  fiercely  and  cruelly  ranne  at 
them  and  got  another  of  them  out  from  the 
company,  which  she  tore  in  pieces,  wherewith 
all  the  rest  ran  away.  We,  perceiving  out  of 
our  ship  and  pinnass^  that  our  men  ranne  to 
the  seaside  to  save  themselves,  with  all  speed 
entered  into  their  boats  and  rowed  as  fast  as 
we  could  to  relieve  our  men.  Where,  being 
on  land,  we  beheld  the  cruell  spectacle  of  our 
two  dead  men  that  had  been  so  cruelly  killed 
and  torne  in  pieces  by  the  beare.  We,  seeing 
that,  encouraged  our  men  to  goe  back  again 
with  us,  and  with  pieces,  curtel-axes,  and  halfe- 
pikes,  to  set  upon  the  beare;  but  they  would 
not  all  agree  thereunto,  some  of  them  saying, 
"Our  men  are  already  dead,  and  we  shall  get 
the  beare  well  enough  though  we  oppose  our* 
selves  into  so  open  danger.  If  we  might  save 
our  fellowes'  lives,  then  we  would  make  haste ; 
but  now  we  need  not  make  such  speed,  but 
take  her  at  an  advantage,  for  we  have  to  doe 
with  a  cruell,  fierce,  and  ravenous  beast." 
Whereupon  three  of  our  men  went  forward, 
the  beare  still  devouring  her  prey,  not  once 
fearing  the  number  of  our  men,  and  yet  they 
were  thirtie  at  the  least.  The  three  that  went 
forward  in  that  sort  were  Cornelius  Jacobson, 
William  Geysen,  and  Hans  Van  Mitlen,  Wil- 
liam Barentz'  purser ;  and  after  that  the  sayd 
master  and  pylat  had  shot  three  times,  and 
mist,  the  purser,  stepping  somewhat  further 
forward,  and  seeing  the  beare  to  be  within  the 
length  of  a  shot,  presently  levelled  his  piece, 
and  discharging  it  at  the  beare,  shot  her  into 
the  head,  between  the  eyes,  and  yet  she  held 
the  man  still  fast  by  the  necke,  and  lifted  up 
her  head  with  the  man  in  her  mouth  ;  but  she 
began  somewhat  to  stagger,  wherewith  the  pur* 
ser  and  a  Scottish  man  drew  out  their  curtel- 
axes  and  strooke  at  her  so  hard  that  their 
curtel-axes  burst,  and  yet  she  would  not  leave 
the  man.  At  last  William  Geysen  went  to 
them,  and  with  all  his  might  strook  the  beare 
upon  the  snout  with  his  piece,  at  which  the 
beare  fell  to  the  ground,  making  a  great  noise, 
and  William  Geysen,  leaping  upon  her,  cut 
her  throat 

This  graphically  described  tragedy  is 
unique  of  its  kind,  so  far  as  I  know  ;  for 
though  a  man  here  and  there  may  have 
been  killed  at  long  intervals  of  time,  yet 
this  sometimes  fierce,  but  always  eccen- 
tric animal  is  not,  as  a  rule,  looked  upon 
with  much  fear.  He  is  so  easily  duped 
into  approaching  quite  close  to  the  hunter, 
who,  if  he  only  remains  calm  and  is  able 
to  hit  a  haystack  at  a  hundred  yards,  may 
then  slay  him  with  a  single  bullet. 

Bears  mot  only  feed  upon  seals,  walrus, 
large  stones,  and  sticking-plaster,  but  also 
have  a  weakness  for  any  vegetable  sub- 
stance which  they  may  come  across,  such 
as  seaweed,  grass,  lichens,  etc. ;  they  are 
in  fact,  like  pigs  and  men,  omnivorous, 
and  are  of  such  an  inquisitive  nature 
moreover,  that  in  search  of  food,  or  out 


84 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


we  do  not  understand  without  a  little 
consideration,  which  interrupts  the  train 
of  thought,  and  seems  to  blur  the  picture. 
Does  he  mean  a  woman  with  whitish, 
glassy  goggle-eyes  ?  how  frightful !  Or 
why  had  the  cherubin  the  reputation  of 
evil  and  vicious  faces?  and  how  can  we 
realize  a  doughty  knight  with  the  chalky 
face  of  a  coward  ?  We  shall  see  pres- 
ently. 

Something  is  gained  by  an  examination 
of  color  in  connection  with  fabric;  the 
one  often  throws  light  upon  the  other. 
Certain  brilliant  colors  often  gave  in  time 
their  names  to  particular  fabrics  in  which 
they  were  oftenest  employed;  this  hap> 
pened  with  ••  ciclatoun,"  "burnet,"  "rus- 
set,'* and  other  webs,  once  merely  names  of 
colors,  as  our  **  Turkey-red  "  means  a  cer- 
tain twilled  cotton  material,  not  only  the 
color  of  its  dye.  Baize  (orig.  bays,  bay- 
color,  red  brown  ?)  is  another  instance. 
Sometimes  certain  fabrics  christened  the 
colors,  e,j^,,  sable,  which  became  an  equiv- 
alent for  black ;  plunket  (blue),  now  blan- 
ket, and  many  more. 

But  it  has  unfortunately  been  so  long 
the  custom  to  christen  colors  after  some 
obscure  but  once  celebrated  person  who 
was  in  the  habit  of  wearing  them,  or  after 
the  town  or  country  where  the  color  was 
first  sold,  that  it  is  in  some  cases  next  to 
impossible  to  identify  the  hue;  and  so  it 
always  will  be.  Yet  it  would  certainly  be 
wiser,  usefuller,  more  poetic,  to  call  a  robe 
or  mantle  after  the  flower  which  suggested 
its  shape,  or  the  gorgeous  mineral  which 
gave  it  its  color,  or  the  variegated  moss, 
or  dancing  butterfly,  or  drifting  cloud, 
that  originated  some  idea  connected  with 
its  texture,  etc.,  for  the  flower,  and  the 
mineral,  and  the  race  of  insects  would  re- 
main  forever  as  an  explanation.  Colors 
and  forms  ought  always  to  be  named  after 
some  common  effect,  so  that  the  idea  may 
not  be  lost.  There  is  a  great  deal  in  a 
name,  though  Juliet  did  not  think  so.  A 
name  may  carry  the  prettiest  or  the  ugliest 
associations  with  it,  may  recall  happy  or 
horrible  images;  and  popular  names,  like 
all  fashions,  are  to  some  extent  a  chroni- 
cle of  their  time  and  an  index  to  the  man- 
ners of  the  age.  Naming  colors,  however, 
is  difficult,  as  the  words  themselves,  al- 
though expressive  once,  change  and  cease 
to  represent  the  same  ideas.  The  slight- 
est liberty  with  the  word  opens  the  door 
to  oblivion.  The  classics  used  the  term 
purple^  for  the  sea,  for  a  maiden's  blush, 
for  a  cucumber,  for  something  bright  and 
shining,  and  for  something  dark  and 
gloomy.     How?    Crimson   is    allied    to 


blue,  and  a  rich  tint  of  either  was  pro- 
duced from  the  same  fish,  Murex  truncw 
ius.  This  was  the  famous  Tyrian  dye, 
and  it  is  easy  to  trace  how  a  dark,  "em* 
purpled  "  (we  must  say  it)  cucumber,  and 
the  other  contradictory  objects  were  de- 
scribable  by  the  one  word  used  in  various 
senses.  Do  we  not  take  the  like  liberties, 
we  moderns,  with  our  words  ?  Do  not  our 
colors  still  get  confused  with  each  other, 
the  last  meaning  being  as  far  from  the 
first  as  in  the  old  game  of  scandal  ? 

No  word  has  more  exercised  antiqua- 
ries than  the  above-named  old  word  cicla- 
toun—  spelt  siglaton,  checklatoun,  etc., 
etc.  This  is  not  a  bad  instance  of  the 
difficulties  besetting  such  studies.  Some 
say  the  word  was  first  cyclns,  a  certain 
round  gown.  Skeat  derives  it  from  the 
Persian  saqaldt^  scarlet  stufiF,  and  saqla* 
tdn,  scarlet  cloth.  Guillaume  le  Breton 
says  it  was  a  rich  silk  made  in  the  Cy- 
clades. 

At  any  rate,  the  East  produced  a  rich 
stuff  suitable  for  certain  garments  called 
cyclas,  as  we  might  say,  coat-cloth,  Judith 
of  Bohemia  wore  a  cyclas  worked  with 
gold,  in  1083.  The  knights*  surcoais  were 
called  by  the  same  word  in  the  thirteenth 
century ;  — 

Armez  d'un  haubergeon 
Couvert  d*un  singlaton. 

Some  ancient  writers  seem  to  use  sygla- 
ton  as  an  equivalent  for  any  kind  of  man- 
tle. 

Chaucer  says  Sir  Thopas's  robe  was 
made  0/  ciclatoun,  or  checklatoun,  in 
some  MSS. ;  and  checklatoun  was  early 
confounded  with  a  certain  chequered 
cloth,  properly  called  checkaratus,  knotted 
in  diaper  design.  Strutt  considers  them 
identical.  Which  came  first,  the  place, 
the  garment,  or  the  color?  Here  is  a 
mesh  which  no  consideration  for  the  after- 
borns  could  perhaps  have  evaded.  It  is 
one  instance  among  many. 

Of  course  one  of  the  obstacles  in  dis* 
covering  the  old  colors  by  name  is  the 
oddness  and  variability  of  the  old  spelling 
—  not  to  say,  the  obstructive  blinkers  we 
have  put  upon  ourselves  with  our  new 
ordinance  of  a  fixed  orthographical  stan- 
dard. W>  never  spell  phonetically,  ac- 
cording to  the  proper  pronunciation,  or 
individual  accent.  But  that  is  just  what 
our  forefathers  did  do  \  and  so  when  in 
old  English  and  French  we  see  the  same 
word  spelt  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  even  in  a 
single  page,  we  are  very  much  impeded 
in  our  progress  towards  fight. 

It  is,  however,  very  interesting  to  dig 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


out  the  half  buried  bit  of  antiquity,  and 
charming  little  "  finds  "  often  occur  by  the 
way,  which  we  do  not  expect.  Whilst  we 
are  scratching  for  a  proper  name,  some 
flower's  scent  is  wafted  to  us,  some  strong 
and  pithy  term  delights  us,  or  a  gem  from 
a  maiden's  crown  slips  under  our  hands. 
And  whilst  we  beat  the  great  coverts  for 
so  small  a  thing  as  the  meaning  of  a  color 
or  a  fold,  from  this  side  and  that  seeds 
quick  for  future  wealth  fall  silently  into 
our  empty  basket  —  a  witty  old  proverb, 
or  a  little  geographical  hint,  or  some  curi- 
osity of  lingering  word  or  lost  token.  It 
Is  pretty  play,  on  Tom  Tiddler's  ground, 
like  mining. 

Chaucer  is  of  course  the  main  reference 
for  all  mediaeval  questions.  He  goes  over 
so  much  ground,  and  his  tales  are  so 
crowded  with  allusions  and  similes,  that 
he  is  a  well  of  information.  From  him 
we  might  almost  compute  the  extent  of 
the  scientific  and  art  knowledge  of  his 
day.  From  him  we  get  exact  and  telling 
pictures  of  fourteenth-century  people  in- 
side and  out,  and  implied  pictures  of 
England  during  the  century  or  so  before, 
as  well  as  not  a  few  promises  for  time 
coming  —  just  as  we  find,  in  some  of 
Giotto*s  pictures,  foreshado wings  of  Fra- 
Angelico  and  Signorelli. 

There  were  a  great  many  colors  used  in 
Chaucer's  day,  and  there  were  a  great 
many  materials.  Velvet,  satin,  samite, 
silk  —  plain  and  figured  and  painted  — 
crape  and  gauze,  with  ribbons  and  fringes, 
and  purflings  of  all  sorts,  with  various 
linen  and  woollen  webs,  were  all  in  use 
and  all  mentioned  by  Chaucer.  Leather 
and  cuir  bouilli  were  already  employed. 
Bright  colors  were  in  vogue  for  the  dresses 
of  both  sexes  and  for  the  decoration  of 
"  houses  of  worship."  Chaucer  describes 
the  fat  dyer  and  tapiser  in  his  prologue. 
They  could  well  alford  to  take  their  pri- 
vate cook  about  with  them  —  not  that  he 
was  any  better  than  other  cooks,  it  was 
all  ostentation.  We  do  not  hear  much  of 
white  materials,  probably  the  old  white, 
even  of  linen,  was  less  perfectly  bleached 
than  our  own.  The  white  skin  of  a  very 
fair  person  was  quaintly  called  by  Chau- 
cer ("  Sir  Thopas  *')  after  pain  de  Afaine. 
Maine  bread,  as  the  cleanest  white  he 
could  think  of  —  perhaps  the  most  tempt- 
ing morsel,  for  all  his  similes  have  a 
raisan  d'*itre.  Chaucer  names  many  dyes, 
among  them  Brazil-wood  and  grain  of 
Poriingale  (*'Nun*s  Priest's  Epilogue"), 
madder,  weld,  and  woad  (Isaiis  prima). 
Weld  was  a  plant  producing  a  yellow  dye 
{Reseda  luteola  ) ;  madder  would  yield  reds, 


8s 

such  as  Turkey-red,  purples,  lilac,  and 
pink,  and  woad  a  red-blue.  With  these, 
numberless  shades  could  be  produced. 
Among  the  most  popular  were  **  royal 
grene,"  which  from  ancient  minatures  we 
should  judge  to  have  been  a  fine  grass- 
green  with  a  distinct  dash  of  yellow  in  it, 
like  the  color  of  a  sunlit  leaf.  The  chief 
reds  were  scarlet^  named  by  the  wife  of 
Bath,  etc.;  sanguine^  or  crimson,  and 
grain^  imported  from  Portugal  —  i.e., 
"vermus  or  vermilion"  —  in  fact  cochi- 
neal, a  red  so  fast  and  permanent  that  the 
word  "ingrained"  had  become  in  the 
fourteenth  century,  and  still  remains,  a 
general  term  for  a  fast  color  of  any  kind. 
And  here  I  may  say  a  word  for  the  fiery 
cherubin  as  likened  to  the  red-faced  sum- 
moner  by  Chaucer.  In  many  old  pictures 
the  childish  art  of  the  time  depicted  these 
spirits  wholly  in  red,  the  color  of  love; 
rows  of  them  surmounted  rows  of  biue 
seraphim,  the  spirits  of  knowledge  and 
truth,  of  which  the  color  was  held  blue. 
It  had  doubtless  become  a  proverb  already 
in  Chaucer's  time,  "as  red  as  the  fiery 
cherubin,'*  as  blue  as  the  seraphim,  from 
the  pictures  in  the  churches;  and  no  in- 
sult was  meant  to  the  cherubin,  nothing 
even  blasphemous,  by  the  quaint  simile. 

So  much  for  the  reds.  Russet,  mur- 
rey, musterdevelers,  watchet,  vair,  may  be 
quoted  among  the  commonest  mediaeval 
colors,  which  I  must  treat  separately. 

RUSSET. 

That  the  leather  employed  for  jerkins 
was  reddish,  we  can  infer  from  "russet" 
apples  having  been  called  "  leather-coats." 
Russet  and  grey  seem  almost  convertible 
terms,  though  russet  was  a  very  "  warm  " 
color  (Fr.  roussette\  whilst  grey  is  decid- 
edly "  cold."  Russet  was  fox-color ;  Chau- 
cer speaks  of  the  fox  as  Dan  Russel,  from 
his  red  coat.  Probably  the  red  was  often 
very  dull  in  russet,  and  the  grey  imper- 
fect, with  a  drab  or  brown  tendency,  like 
undyed  wool  —  that  is,  when  woven  in 
coarse,  friezes,  or  lynse-wolse^  such  as 
were  worn  by  working  people,  children, 
etc.  None  of  the  old  colors  were  quite 
as  pure  as  our  own,  I  imagine,  and  were 
therefore  more  beautiful ;  for  when  a  color 
is  too  pure,  it  is  usually  unpicturesque. 
Modern  distillation  had  made  most  colors 
painful  till  art-Protestants  insisted  on  re- 
introducing softer  shades.  A  color  may 
be  bright  without  being  pure,  that  is,  it 
may  partake  of  some  other  hue  just  enough 
to  take  off  the  edge  of  its  sharpness,  like 
crimson,  peacock,  grass-green  and  some 
of  the  new  (old)  yellows.    These  are  all 


S6 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


imperfect  colors.  We  may  judg^e  from  the 
pictures  by  Van  £yck,  Quentin  Matsys, 
etc.,  how  rich  were  the  pinks  and  scarlets ; 
and  yet  there  seemed  to  be  a  certain  soft- 
ness present,  owing  to  the  scarlet  having 
a  hint  of  yellow,  the  pink  being  touched 
with  blue  or  salmon,  the  yellow  either 
reddish  like  orange,  or  greenish  like  mus- 
tard, or  earthy  like  clay. 

But  it  is  probable  that  "russet"  and 
"  grey  "  had  become  the  regular  names  of 
homespun  wool  —  irrespective  of  their 
precise  color  —  when  Margaret  Paston 
was  ordering  it  both  for  the  children  and 
the  servants^  liveries.  The  useful  linsey 
that  was  fashionable  fifteen  years  ago, 
never  took  any  strong  dye;  and  russet 
was  probably  similar.  We  read  in  old 
stories  of  grey  russet.  "  We  are  country- 
folks, grey  russet  and  good  hempe-spun 
cloth  dotn  best  become  us."  (Deloney's 
"Pleasant  History  of  Thomas  of  Read- 
ing.'*) Peasants  wore  the  cloth  called 
russet,  till  they  themselves  were  called 
"russetings,"  and  their  garments  in  gen- 
eral their  russets  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. In  this  case  the  color  certainly 
named  the  stuff;  and  the  stufiE  named  the 
wearers. 

MURREY. 

The  above  hypothesis  of  the  dulness 
of  colors  in  coarse  woollens  may  account 
for  •*  russet  '*  or  " grey  "  representing  **  ar- 
gent" in  the  Paston  liveries  (a  metal  usu- 
ally signified  by  white  in  heraldry),  just  as 
drab  liveries  are  carried  now.  But  it  is 
less  clear  how  murrey  (Fr.  muriery  mul- 
berry), which  was^  dull  lilac  color,  much 
like  claret  spilt  on  a  white  tablecloth, 
could  have  stood  for  "or"  in  the  same 
arms,  as  we  gather  from  one  letter  that  it 
did ;  unless  there  were  as  many  shades  of 
murrey  as  the  berry  passes  through  on 
the  tree. 

We  can  only  account  for  "red  gold" 
being  represented  in  liveries  by  murrey, 
if  the  murrey  was  distinctly  rea  {not  lilac) 
—  a  very  unripe  mulberry. 

Murrey  is  repeatedly  spoken  of  in  the 
Paston  letters  (1434-85),  and  painted  in 
ancient  pictures,  from  Giotto  up  to  Mat- 
sys and  his  school.  It  was  sometimes 
dark,  sometimes  pale,  unmistakably  mul- 
berry-color. I  do  not  find  that  the  mul- 
berry-tree was  growing  in  England  before 
1434;  thus  the  color  is  likely  to  have  been 
imported  from  Italy  or  south  France, 
where  the  fingers  of  the  fruit-gatherers 
were  stained  by  the  purplejuice,  for  some 
time  before  we  had  mulberries  of  our 
own. 


It  is  an  odd  color  to  place  next  blue ; 
but  in  the  Paston  arms  they  stood  to- 
gether, and  they  were  also  the  livery-col- 
ors of  the  house  of  York.  We  should 
think  murrey  and  blue  would  go  better 
together  if  the  murrey  were  decidedly 
red.  But  the  mixture  was  popular.  In 
Quentin  Matsys'  pictures  blue  and  true 
murrey  are  often  combined,  not  disagree- 
ably. I  remember  in  the  Amsterdam 
Gallery  a  Madonna  in  a  blue  dress  cut 
square,  a  high  white  smock  and  mur- 
rey sleeves.  She  wears  a  green  girdle, 
and  the  child  rests  on  a  deep  murrey 
cushion.  In  the  great  Matsys'  triptych 
at  Antwerp,  Herod  has  a  murrey  veil  from 
his  head,  and  a  pale  blue  mantle  shot  with 
pink.  But  a  great  colorist  can  harmonize 
the  strangest  combinations,  and  Quentin 
Matsys  is  the  master  of  the  rainbow. 

There  is  a  figure  in  the  MS.  Hist,  of 
Alexandria,  temp.  Rich.  II.  (fourteenth 
century),  wearing  a  "  syde  [wide']  gown  " 
particolored,  of  blue  and  murrey;  here 
the  murrey  is  decidedly  lilac.  His  cap  is 
blue,  and  his  hose  respectively  scarlet 
and  white  —  the  scarlet  leg  on  the  murrey 
side.  Scarlet  and  crimson  were  often 
worn  together*  also,  strange  to  say.  Burne 
Jones  is  the  only  modern  painter  who  can 
reconcile  them. 

I  will  now  give  three  extracts  from  the 
interesting  Paston  letters.  Margaret  P. 
writes:  — 

As  touching  for  your  liveries,  there  can  none 
be  gotten  here  of  that  color  that  ye  would  have 
of,  neither  murrey,  nor  blue,  nor  good  russet, 
underneath  3^.  the  yard  at  the  lowest  price,  and 
yet  is  there  not  enough  of  one  cloth  and  color 
to  serve  you :  and  as  for  to  be  purveyed  in 
Suffolk,  it  will  not  be  purveyed  not  now  against 
the  time,  without  they  had  had  warning  at 
Michaelmas,  as  I  am  informed.  —  Norwich, 
November  25,  1455  (?). 

Before  1459:  — 

I  pray  you  .  •  .  that  ye  will  do  buy  me  some 
frieze  to  make  of  your  children*s  gowns.  Ye 
shall  have  best  cheap  and  best  choice  of  Hays*s 
wife,  as  it  is  told  me.  And  that  ye  will  buy  a 
yard  of  broad  cloth  of  black  for  one  hood  for 
me,  of  44^.  or  four  shillings  a  yard,  for  there 
is  neither  good  cloth  nor  good  frieze  in  this 
town  (Norwich). 

Agnes  Paston  writes,  January  28, 
1457:  — 

Item,  to  see  how  many  gowns  Clement  hath, 
and  that  they  be  bare,  let  them  be  raised. 

He  hath  a  short  green  gown.  And  a  short 
musterdevelers  gown,  were  never  raised. 

And  a  short  blue  gown,  that  was  raised,  and 
made  of  a  side  [wide]  gown,  when  I  was  last  at 
London. 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


And  a  side  rasset  gown  furred  with  beaver 
was  made  this  time  two  years. 

And  a  side  murray  gown  was  made  this  time 
twelve  month. 

HUSTERDEVELERS. 

In  this  letter  we  have  "  a  musterdevel- 
ers  gown  *'  spoken  of  perhaps  as  a  mate- 
rial, not  a  color,  inasmuch  as  it  was 
'•never  raised,"  says  the  thrifty  house- 
wife. The  word  is  very  variously  spelt. 
In  a  later  letter  the  bride,  Margery  Pas- 
ton,  writes,  **  My  mother  sent  to  my  father 
to  London  for  a  gown  cloth  of  mustyrd- 
devyllers."  In  Rymer's  "Foedera,"in  a 
list  of  articles  shipped  from  England  for 
the  use  of  the  king  of  Portugal  and  the 
countess  of  Holland,  in  1428,  two  pieces 
of  mustrevilers  and  two  pieces  of  russet 
roustrevilers  occur.  Some  suppose  the 
word  to  be  a  corruption  of  moitii  de  ve^ 
kfurs^  '*a  kind  of  mixed  grey  woollen 
cloth,"  says  Halliwell,  evidently  with  a  nap 
of  some  sort  —  tnestis  de  velours^  a  bas- 
tard velvet,  say  others.  There  was  a  town, 
however,  spoken  of  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
v.,  called  Moustier  de  Villiers,  near  Hon- 
fleur,  and  this  may  have  given  its  name  to 
a  cloth  there  made. 

Whichever  was  the  original  word,  Stow 
uses  the  name  in  his  "  Survey  of  Lon- 
don "  distinctly  as  a  color ^  not  a  material. 
^  In  the  nineteenth  year  of  King  Henry 
VI.  there  was  bought  for  an  officer's  gown 
two  yards  of  cloth  coloured  mustard  vil- 
lars^  a  color  now  out  of  use,  and  two  yards 
of  cloth  coloured  blue,  price  two  shillings 
the  yard."  Here  it  is  pretty  clear  that  the 
place  named  the  stuffs  and  tne  stuff  named 
\\it color.  And  what  was  the  color  ?  Mus- 
tard-colored cloth  was  much  used  for  offi- 
cial dresses  and  liveries  in  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  stockings 
of  the  blue-coat  scholars  may  be  an  in- 
stance of  it.  It  is  by  no  means  clear  that 
the  manufacture  of  Moustier  de  Villiers 
was  not  as  probably  mustard-color  as 
grey.  The  glossarists  are  fond  of  calling 
most  woollen  fabrics  that  they  know  little 
about,  "grey  mixtures."  But  dull  grty 
colors  are  the  rarest  seen  in  the  old  pic- 
tures and  miniatures ;  every  one,  poor  and 
rich,  loved  bright  tints.  And  I  am  much 
inclined  to  attribute  S tow's  evidently  cor- 
rupted term  to  the  tradition  of  its  yellow 
color.  This  is  precisely  the  way  in  which 
a  word  so  often  becomes  corrupted,  espe- 
cially among  ignorant  people.  They  at- 
tach no  meaning  to  the  original  word,  and 
it  slides  into  one  that  has  some  sort  of 
meaning  to  them  —  ^.^.,  Lete-rede  (Wise 
Council),    now    Leatherhead ;    the    ship 


87 

"  Bcllerophon,"  called  "  Billy  Ruffian."  I 
have  known  countless  instances  of  proper 
names  being  lost  in  terms  that  seem  to 
^tf//^r  describe  the  object  —  e,g,^  bouffetier 
beef-^ater,  the  dress  being  red  as  beef; 
icrevisse^  cray-fish,  for  it  is  tl  fish ;  hny- 
2enblas^  (sturgeon-bladder)  isinglass,  for 
it  is  glassy  and  transparent. 

Let  us  suppose,  then,  that  musterdevel- 
ers  was  a  handsomely  napped  cloth,  gen- 
erally yellow,  sometimes  foxy  yellow  (f/. 
russet  mustrevilers),  in  which  we  so  often 
see  ladies  of  position,  such  as  Margery 
Paston  was,  arrayed  in  fourteenth  and 
fifteenth  century  pictures  by  Fra  Angelico 
and  earlier  masters,  and  worn  also  by 
officials  who  are  commonly  required  to  be 
conspicuous. 

METALLIC  COLORS. 

The  exact  color  of  the  common  metal 
latoun,  often  spoken  of  in  mediaeval  liter- 
ature, does  not  fieera  clear  yet.  All  the 
glossaries  describe  it  as  a  mixed  metal, 
hot  unlike  brass.  But  brass  is  yellow,  as 
yellow  as  gold,  and  one  allusion  alone  in 
Chaucer  seems  to  mark  it  as  a  very  differ- 
ent metal. 

Phoebus  was  old,  and  hewed  like  latoun. 
That  in  his  bote  declination 
Shone  as  the  burned  gold,  with  stremes  bright ; 
But  now  in  Capricorne  adoun  he  ligltt 
Whereas  he  shone  ful  pale. 

Does  pale  here  mean  dull  ?  Here  is  a 
pointed  contrast  drawn  between  gold  and 
latoun. 

In  another  place  Chaucer  uses  the 
simile,  yellow,  **as  any  bason  scoured 
newe,"  perhaps  brass:  and  in  "Piers 
Plowman  "  we  read  of  a  cloister  with  con- 
duits of  ''clene  tyn"  and  **lavoures  of 
laton,"  which,  being  not  tin,  might  have 
been  yellow  metal.  The  use  of  laton  by 
common  people  as  the  mounting  for  false 
relics  (Prologue  to  the  "  Pardoner's  Tale  ") 
points  to  its  cheapness;  the  purse  of  co- 
quettish Alison,  the  miller's  pretty  wife, 
being  pearled  with  laton,  points  to  its 
brightness,  as  a  copy  of  silver  or  gold, 
like  the  brazen  armlets  found  in  Etruscan 
tombs,  so  goldlike  beneath  the  rust.  Let 
us  remember,  too,  the  beautiful  delicate 
hammered  copper  and  pewter  work  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  There  are  hammered  ves- 
sels of  a  pale  kind  of  brass,  and  latoun 
may  have  been  used  in  several  colors, 
according  to  the  amount  of  alloy  used. 
Latten  stands  in  French  dictionaries  as 
laitottyCuivre  lamini — wrought  or  hard- 
ened copper,  distinct  from  retain,  tin ; 
and  latten  is  a  name  which  before  the  re* 


88 


COLORS   AND   CLOTHS   OF   THE   MIDDLE   AGES. 


form  in  the  customs  tariff  was  applied 
here  to  sheet-brass.  But  the  **  mines  of 
latten  "  mentioned  in  the  time  of  Henry 
VI n.  remain  an  archaeological  crux.  If 
Jatoun  was  copper,  it  is  curious  that 
Chaucer  names  *♦  coper  "  as  well  as  *•  tin  " 
in  **The  House  of  Fame"  — though  the 
sunken  sun  above  quoted  might  be  cop- 
pery. \i  it  was  brass,  as  we  understand 
it,  how  could  Chaucer,  the  accurate,  call 
it  paief  and  where  shall  we  find  mines  of 
brass,  save  in  the  half  mythical  Corinthian 
conflagration  ?  Chaucer  uses  the  word 
"brass,"  too,  in  the  "Squire's  Tale," 
"  the  horse  of  brass."  I  have  been  shown 
a  vessel  dated  very  early  in  the  sixteenth 
century  of  a  very  pale  kind  of  brass ;  and 
I  am  told  by  a  good  antiquary  that  there 
are  mines  in  England  of  a  sort  of  bastard 
copper,  poor  in  color  — either  of  which 
may  be  Chaucer's  latoun.  The  word  lat- 
ten,  indeed,  is  derived  by  Skeat  from 
laite^  a  thin  plate ;  and  copper  and  brass, 
and  even  tin  {c/»  Port,  //i/zi,  tin  plate)  may 
all  have  been  called  latoun  when  ham- 
mered and  perforated  in  a  thin  form.  At 
any  rate,  it  was  markedly  less  deep  in 
color  than  "  red  gold." 

By-the-bv,  conventional  terms,  such  as 
"  red  gold,'*  *•  teeres  blew  "  (an  expression 
used  by  Chaucer  in  his  "Complaint  of 
Mars  and  Venus  "),  are  still  more  confus- 
ing. Gold  was  called  red  because  it  had 
decidedly  "  warm  "  shadows  :  it  was  ap- 
parently deeper  in  color  than  ours,  and  it 
was  represented  in  tapestries  by  a  red 
color.  The  rich  gilding  of  letters  in  the 
old  missals  looks  quite  red  against  mod- 
ern gilding.  Not  only  is  the  gold  thicker, 
but  really  it  seems  to  me  deeper  in  color ; 
and  that  it  must  always  have  been  so,  the 
term  red  gold,  especially  when  applied  to 
red  hair,  etc.,  seems  to  assure  us.  The 
two  were  always  linked.  "Blood  bctok- 
eneth  gold,  as  me  was  taught,"  babbles 
the  wife  of  Bath.  Often  purposely,  gold 
was  laid  over  red,  as  we  see  upon  ancient 
picture-frames. 

Blue,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  '*cold" 
color,  and  seemed  to  the  ancients  (not 
heralds)  the  nearest  thing  to  describe  sil- 
ver, which  is  certainly  neither  white  nor 
black.  The  old  tapestries  represent  sil- 
ver vessels  always  by  blue  threads.  And 
the  "teeres  blew"  of  the  lovers  in  Chau- 
cer's poem  were  silvery  —  with  the  cold 
glittering  color  of  white  metal  and  water. 

VAIR. 

*'Eyes  of  vair,"  praised  so  often  in 
medixval  poetry,  have  exercised  many 
minds.    For  my  part,  I  was  years  before 


I  realized  that  there  was  any  point  in  the 
expression.     But  at  last  I  "  saw  "  it. 

Vair  was  the  name  of  the  fur  of  the 
grey  squirrel,  from  varii^  because  the 
belly  of  the  squirrel,  which  was  white,  was 
mixed  with  the  grey  back  in  oval-shaped 
compartments  —  variegated.  Probably 
the  same  confusion  occurred  between 
this  word  vair  and  verre^  glass,  as  that  in 
the  old  tale  of  Cinderella,  whose  "glass 
slipper"  was  indubitably  the  shoe  of  vair 
fur  worn  by  nobles,  according  to  Mr.  Rals* 
ton. 

This  confusion  of  two  similar  words  in 
a  French-speaking  country  such  as  En- 
gland was,  is  the  less  curious,  as  grey  was 
commonly  considered  the  nearest  color  to 
glass  —  not  then  the  clear  white  crystal 
which  now  rivals  the  diamond.  Glass 
was  then  just  white  enough  to  show  grey 
when  thick  enough  to  have  any  tint  of  its 
own,  with  white  and  variegated  reflec- 
tions. Chaucer  plainly  says  the  prioress's 
eyes  were  "  grey  as  glass,"  —  "  grey  as  a 
goose,"  he  says  of  Absolon's.  Eyes  of 
vair  were  the  soft  light-grey  eyes  common 
in  England,  with  or  without  blue  in  them, 
and  the  lashes  giving  a  sort  of  furry  soft- 
ness to  the  glance.  When  we  see  how 
the  mediaeval  artist  represented  vair  fur, 
in  escallop-shaped  compartments  on  a 
white  ground,  and  how  it  is  still  "  diversi- 
fied with  argent  and  azure  "  in  heraldry 
(in  fact,  the  white  and  grey  squirrel  fur 
commonly  used  now)  we  may  see  at  once 
that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  point  in 
the  expression,  and  a  very  pretty  com- 
pliment, seeing  that  vair  was  the  next 
costliest  fur  to  the  white  ermine,  and 
sacred  to  the  crime  tie  la  crime.  The 
iris  of  the  eye  showed  a  grey  escallop  on 
a  white  ground,  and  heralds  represented 
grey  by  "  azure,"  as  the  tnpissier  used  his 
dark-blue  threads  for  silver,  for  conven- 
ience' sake. 

WATCHET. 

Watchet  is  regarded  by  Tyrwhitt  as  a 
kind  of  cloth,  on  account  of  some  MSS. 
reading  "  whit "  instead  of  "  light "  in  the 
portrait  of  Absolon  in  the  "Miller's 
Tale ;  "  and  probably  the  name  emanates 
from  the  town  of  Watchet  in  Somerset- 
shire. But  it  is  usually  held  to  be  a  color, 
pale  blue,  which  is  precisely  the  sort  of 
color  the  dandified  church  clerk  would 
have  worn  with  red  hose.  It  is  common 
to  see  light-blue  coats  and  gowns  with 
red  hose  in  the  missal  pictures.  But 
in  Barnfield's  "Affectionate  Shepherd,** 
(1594),  we  hear, — 

The  saphyre  stone  is  of  a  watchet  blue. 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


Now,  sapphires  are  dark  blue :  not  un- 
like the  cassocks  which  Roman  Catholic 
Church  officials  wear,  and  Absolon's  **kir- 
tie  "  was  probably  a  cassock,  not  a  coat, 
for  be  wore  his  surplice  over  it.  Still 
Chaucer  distinctly  says  Absolon  went 

AH  in  a  kirtle  of  a  light  waget, 

whereas  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen 
any  old  picture  of  acolytes  robed  in  really 
pale  blue,  though  plenty  of  pale  blue  ex- 
isted {cf.  Giotto's  pictures).  I  suggest, 
then,  that  Absolon's  "light  waget"  was 
the  lightest  shade  of  a  blue  which  is  mor- 
ally certain  to  have  been  sold  in  more 
than  one  shade :  not  turquoise,  though 
described  by  Cotgrave  as  '*plunket  or 
skie-blue,"  but  a  red  blue  liker  ultrama- 
rine or  cobalt,  which  in  the  darkest  shade 
would  be  sapphire,  or  that  almost  violet 
shade  still  used  for  cassocks  in  great  fes- 
tal services  in  foreign  cathedrals.  The 
skv  is  not  seldom  of  a  deep,  ultramarine 
color  —  a  red  blue  as  opposed  to  a  yellow 
blue  —  in  isLQi  jacinctus^  one  of  the  names 
for  plunket-blue.  And  plunket  is  said  to 
have  been  taken  from  the  name  of  one 
Thomas  Blanket,  who  in  1340  set  up  a 
loom  in  Bristol,  Somerset.  Our  **  blanket " 
is  said  to  come  from  "  plunket,"  blue ; 
whether  from  a  bluey-grey  qualitv  of  the 
wool  does  not  seem  clear :  probably  yes, 
the  color  naming  the  cloth.  Meantime, 
Blanket  may  have  worked  at  Watchet,  or 
the  neighbor  towns  may  have  produced 
a  very  similar  azure;  and  a  blue  manv 
shades  deeper  than  what  we  should  call 
pale,  might  have  been  reasonably  spoken 
of  as  'Myght  blewe  or  skie-color"  when 
compared  with  the  common  dark  Prus- 
sian or  navy  blue  appropriated  by  sailors 
from  very  early  times.  We  cannot  do 
better  than  consult  the  old  missals  them- 
selves, or  an  institution  happily  (for  anti- 
2uaries)  so  conservative  as  the  Roman 
'atbolic  Church  in  some  of  its  great  fes- 
tal shows,  for  the  explanation  of  many 
shapes  and  colors  in  garb,  and  manner  of 
use. 

I  have  now  shown  that  both  fabrics  and 
tints  were  multifarious  in  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries,  as  is  natural  in 
every  highly  civilized  age.  Weavers  from 
abroad  were  greatly  encouraged  under 
Edward  II L,  and  all  native  manufactures 
received  a  new  stimulus  from  the  royal 
interest. 

The  embroideries:  England  had  been 
long  so  famed  for  them  that  they  were 
known  as  the  unrivalled  opus  Anglica- 
num,  and  the  ancient  painters  show  us 
iiow  perfect  they  were.    Heavy  bullion  t 


89 

work,  and  the  daintiest  imagery  produced 
by  the  needle  — scenes,  portraits,  inscrip- 
tions, etc.,  were  seen  on  the  Church  robes, 
on  the  coat-hardy  of  the  young  noble,  and 
the  royal  mantle.  Nay,  sumptuary  laws 
in  vain  tried  to  prevent  their  use  by  any- 
body else  who  could  get  hold  of  them,  or 
make  them.  Moreover,  these  \stre  painted 
dresses,  not  unlike  those  that  came  in  a 
season  or  two  ago.  In  *'  The  Romaunt  of 
the  Rose,"  the  robe  of  the  god  of  Love 
is  described  as  not  silk  —  /.<.,  I  suppose^ 
a  plain,  palpable  silk, — 

Bat  all  in  floures  and  flourettes, 

I  painted  all  with  amorettes. 

And  with  lozenges  and  scoch6ns  {escutcheons)^ 

With  birdes,  libardes  (leopards),  and  lidns, 

And  other  beastes  wrought  ful  wel. 

His  garment  was  every  del 

Ipurtraied,  and  ywrought  with  floures, 

By  divers  medeling  of  coloures  — 

Li.,  paint  and  needlework  were  blended. 

As  this  was  the  period  of  elaborately 
painted  tapestries,  in  which  the  subordi- 
nate parts  were  woven,  the  heads  and 
hands,  etc.,  of  the  figures  being  left  to 
the  artist's  brush,  it  was  natural  that  so 
easy  a  mode  of  decoration  should  have 
become  popular  for  dress.  How  much 
less  time  it  would  take  to  paint  a  pretty 
border  or  motto,  or  to  renew  by  such 
means  a  worn  part,  than  to  embroider  or 
weave  itl  Both  fashions  then  were  in  at 
once  —  embroidery,  as  of  the  squire *s 
coat  (Chaucer's  ^rol.),  and  painted  fab- 
ricsy  as  above. 

SAMITE  AND  SATIN. 

One  word  upon  a  much-discussed  and 
still  mysterious  material  —  samite.  The 
Germans  say  that  it  was  satin,  and  that 
the  two  words  are  the  same.  It  is  impos- 
sible, however,  to  believe  this,  when 
Chaucer  actually  uses  both  words  more 
than  once.  In  ''The  Romaunt  of  the 
Rose,"  mirth  is  described  as  clad 

In  a  samette  with  birdes  wrougbte ; 

and  he  later  speaks  of  **  an  overgilt  saroy." 
In  the  "Death  of  Blanch"  he  promises 
Morpheus  a  feather  bed  in  fine  black  satin 
rayed  with  gold.  The  mediaeval  Latin 
words  differed,  examitum,  samite,  seti- 
mus^  satin ;  and  the  chief  glossaries  enter 
the  words  apart,  though  each  simply  as 
''a  rich  silk  stuff."  That  satin  of  old  was 
precisely  like  satin  of  to-day  many  old 
pictures  assure  us ;  but  if  samite  is  what 
I  believe  it,  painting  could  not  make  the 
web  clear,  it  would  only  look  like  silk. 
The  surface  of  satin  is  absolutely  smooth, 
slippery,    with   long   threads,  from   the 


90 


COLORS  AND  CLOTHS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. 


Latin  seia^  a  hair;  that  identifies  satin,  as 
the  Latin  villosus,  shaggy,  identifies  vel- 
vet. 

Now,  I  remember,  when  a  child,  wear- 
ing a  cloak  of  rich  antique  Oriental  silk, 
Persian,  I  think,  of  a  web  I  have  never 
since  seen,  either  in  museum  or  Oriental 
warehouse.  It  had  a  silk,  not  satin,  sur- 
face, simple,  not  twilled,  with  right  side 
and  wrong,  and  was  damasked  in  a  minute 
pattern  on  stripes  of  gold  color  and  vio- 
let—  I  think  other  colors  as  well  —  and, 
I  think,  with  little  birds  and  beasts  min- 
gled. Its  peculiarity  which  delighted  me 
was,  that  in  whatever  direction  you  cut  it 
you  found  a  double  web,  as  of  two  rich 
silks  made  together.  Cut  it  any  way,  the 
two  were  quite  distinct,  and  yet  insepara- 
ble, like  the  Siamese  twins.  I  loved  to 
clip  odd  bits  of  this  silk  for  my  dolls,  alas  ! 
which  I  would  gladly  see  again  now,  for  it 
was  an  excessively  rich,  soft  fabric,  rather 
loosely  woven,  and  easy  to  ravel,  but  as 
firm  and  strong  and  immovable  as  many 
a  silken,  yielding  nature,  taken  edgewise. 

The  low-Latin  word  examitum  means 
a  stuff  woven  with  six  kinds  of  thread, 
and  if  we  give  samite  credit  for  some 
more  mysterious  quality  than  the  varie- 
gations of  six  mere  colors,  at  a  time  when 
all  fabrics  were  frequently  figured  and 
variegated,  I  think  the  subtly  woven  an- 
cient silk  I  have  described  is  more  than 
likely  to  be  samite. 

The  thickness,  and  the  curiosity  of  de- 
sign, possible  in  a  material  so  woven  en 
jumelU^  may  be  imagined  at  an  epoch 
whose  days  might  be  called,  from  one 
point  of  view  at  least,  des  jours  fiUs  d^or 
et  de  sole.  And  the  samites  '*  with  birdes 
wroughte,"  and  r/iy^</ (striped);  and  over- 
f^ilty  which  is  likely  to  have  meant  trimmed 
with  jewellery  in  parts  —  the  black  samite, 
the  white  samite,  and  the  *'  vermeil  samit,'' 
of  which  was  made  the  sacred  oriflamme^ 
may  all  have  been  a  similar  web  to  that  I 
have  in  mind,  of  everlasting  wear,  strong 
as  fate. 

Satin,  on  the  other  hand,  is  likely  to 
have  been  identical  with  the  Chinese 
zatayn,  of  Zaitun,  which,  like  many  Celes- 
tial manufactures,  may  carry  us  back  to 
the  remotest  antiquity ;  thus  setinus  would 
be  a  comparatively  modern  name  for  it. 

It  is  remarkable  how  elaborate  the 
mediaeval  love  of  dress  rendered  the  trade- 
products  ;  also  how  like  the  present  day 
were  the  commercial  shifts  and  tricks. 
In  the  *' Vision  of  Piers  Plowman,"  Cov- 
etousness  says :  — 

My  wyf  was  a  webber  *  and  woollen  cloth  made  ; 
She  spake  to  spynnesters  *  to  tpynnet  it  oute ; 


But  the  pound  that  she  payed  by  *  poised  a 

quarteroun  more 
Than    myne    owne  auncere   [scales)   *  whoso 

weighed  trcuthe  {fair). 

Again,  he  says  he  learned  another 
trick :  — 

To  draw  the  lyser  {selvage)  along  '  the  longer 
it  seemed : 

Among  the  riche  rays  (striped  cloths)  '  I  ren- 
dered a  lessoun, 

To  broche  them  with  a  packneedle  *  and  plaited 
them  together. 

And  put  them  in  a  press  *  and  pinned  them 
therein. 

Till  ten  yards  or  twelve  '  had  tolled  out  thir* 
teen. 

There  ^as  probably  no  "dodge"  of 
modern  commerce  unknown  to  the  ingen- 
ious inventors  of  the  Middle  Ages,  as 
there  was  hardly  any  one  of  the  rich  and 
dainty  fabrics  and  colors  known  to  the 
classics  unknown  to  them,  from  the  cost- 
liest  cloth  of  gold  to  the  filmiest  veils, 
such  as  the  little  kerchief  of  Valence 
(some  infant  lace  of  Valenciennes?)  that 
did  not  hide  the  charms  of  Venus  (**  Par- 
liament of  Birds").  Persia,  India,  the 
whole  East  supplied  silks;  Flanders  sup- 
plied fine  linen,  "cloth  of  Lake,"  "cloth 
of  Rennes,"  etc.  The  average  worth  of 
good  common  cloths,  when  the  respective 
values  of  money  are  computed,  did  not 
vary  greatly  with  our  own,  as  political 
economists  will  easily  understand,  be- 
cause the  prices  of  necessaries  are  regu- 
lated by  unalterable  social  laws.  But  the 
Qualities  may  have  been  coarser,  like  the 
fitting  and  the  making  of  clothes.  Rich 
materials,  however,  fetched  an  enormous 
price.  People  probably  spent  more  to  be- 
gin with  on  their  clothes ;  but  thev  lasted 
longer.  Indeed,  dress  has  never  been  so 
cheap  as  now,  never  so  undurable;  and 
that  is  commonly  the  result  of  a  highly 
civilized  state.  In  the  ancient  times  the 
best  materials  were  demanded,  and  were 
hand-wrought;  and  though  cheatery  and 
deceit  were  busy,  there  were  not  so  much 
adulteration  and  waste  as  now,  when  me- 
chanical and  chemical  means  combine  to 
assist  the  ever-freer  circulation  of  money, 
by  producing  rapidly. and  often  helping  to 
destroy. 

Space  forbids  any  digression  here ;  but, 
in  conclusion,  I  must  express  surprise 
that  more  use  is  not  made  by  persons  en- 
gaged in  compiling  glossaries  of  cos- 
tume, or  verifying  facts  in  mediaeval  man- 
ners, of  the  beautiful  medixval  pictures 
in  foreign  and  English  galleries.  The 
old  painters,  like  the  old  poets,  were  more 
exact  in  knowledge  and  expression  thaa 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN  NOVA  ZEMUL 


9« 


their  critics  sometimes  give  them  credit 
for.  Van  Eyck's  "  Worship  of  the  Lamb" 
is  a  whole  glossary  in  itself:  the  same 
might  be  said  of  the  Memlings  at  Surges, 
and  the  Matsys  at  Louvain  and  Antwerp. 
And  putting  aside  our  own  rich  collec- 
tions, the  above  painters  alone,  with  the 
help  of  Chaucer,  carefully  examined, 
would  almost  suffice  to  answer  many  of 
the  questions  which  I  have  been  dealing 
with.  M.  £.  Haweis. 


*  From  Blackwood*  s  Maguine. 
SUMMER  SPORT  IN  NOVA  ZEMLA. 

In  this  over-populated  kingdom  of 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  with  its  still 
ever-increasing  millions  of  human  beings 
who  must  somewhere  find  shelter  from 
the  fickle  elements,  we  see  new  settle- 
ments gradually  springing  up  in  formerly 
uninhabited  places  as  the  growing  rail- 
road system  throws  its  iron  web  over  the 
face  of  the  land,  whilst  old  villages  near 
the  lines  rapidly  assume  the  dimensions 
of  towns,  and  towns  develop  themselves 
into  cities.  The  widening  circles  of  brick 
and  mortar  constantly  encroach  on  the 
surrounding  country,  till  the  latter  is  no 
longer  able  to  supply  the  towns  with  the 
necessaries  of  life  in  sufficient  quantity; 
the  result  being  that  we  are  driven  to  pro- 
cure from  abroad  that  which  we  cannot 
produce  for  ourselves. 

As  in  the  case  of  the  necessaries  of 
life,  so  is  it  also  with  its  luxuries,  more 
especially,  perhaps,  with  that  which,  once 
a  necessity,  has  at  length  become  one  of 
the  luxuries  most  sought  after  and  hard- 
est to  obtain  —  that,  namely,  of  wild 
sport. 

Tradition  and  history  alike  tell  us  that 
the  ancient  inhabitants  of  these  islands 
were  obliged  to  wage  constant  war  against 
the  denizens  of  the  forests  which  then 
overspread  the  country,  not  only  with  the 
object  of  providing  themselves  with  food 
and  clothing,  but  also  in  self-defence.  In 
this  —  from  a  sportsman's  point  of  view  — 
happy  state  of  things,  our  forefathers 
were  able  to  gratify  the  long-inherited  in- 
stincts of  man  the  hunter,  whilst  provid- 
ing for  their  other  wants.  We,  their 
descendants,  inheriting  all  the  old  wants 
and  a  host  of  others  which  have  sprung 
up  with  the  advance  of  civilization,  have 
in  no  degree  lost  the  old  hunting  instinct; 
but  by  increasing  and  multiplying  at  such 
a  prodigious  rate,  we  have  lost  the  means 
of  satisfying  it  in  our  native  land.    Even 


where  game  still  runs  wild,  its  pursuit  is 
necessarily  hedged  in  by  endless  formal* 
ities  of  law  and  etiquette  ;  and  the  result 
is,  that  there  is  an  annual  and  ever-in* 
creasing  exodus  of  restless  spirits,  bent 
upon  gratifying  their  hunting  instincts  in 
other  lands  after  their  own  fashion. 

Those  who  have  become  accustomed  to 
wild  sport  abroad  find  it  irksome  to  con- 
form to  the  restrictions  of  modern  British 
sport,  and  get  into  what  are  called  loose 
habits.  A  case  within  my  own  knowledge 
occurs  to  me,  in  which  an  American,  tak« 
ing  part  in  a  grouse-drive  on  a  Yorkshire 
moor,  wounded  one  of  the  beaters,  and 
was  looked  upon  as  no  sportsman  in  con* 
sequence.  He  certainly  was  careless,  but 
as  a  sportsman  he  was^  probably  the  equal 
of  any  man  present,  for  he  was  well  ac- 
customed to  track  and  shoot  game,  with 
perhaps  only  one  companion,  in  regions 
where  there  was  no  other  human  being 
within  many  miles;  and  so,  forgetting 
that  he  was  now  surrounded  by  a  host  of 
guns  and  beaters,  he  made  a  mistake 
which  might  rather  have  been  expected  of 
a  novice. 

Those,  then,  who  have  once  tasted  the 
sweets  of  pursuing  and  killing  game  after 
their  own  fashion,  are  apt  to  prefer  that 
kind  of  sport  rather  than  what  they  can 
obtain  in  these  islands,  and  consequently 
spread  themselves  over  the  world  in 
search  of  it.  Almost  every  known  coun- 
try on  this  planet  annually  resounds  to 
the  crack  of  the  rifle  ot  the  British 
sportsman,  or  to  the  bang  of  his  fowling- 
piece;  and  his  twin  brother  the  explorer 
still  finds  new  hunting-grounds  as  the 
better -known  ones  become  used  up. 
Amongst  the  least  known  and  least  fre- 
quented of  all  there  is  Nova  Zemla,  which 
has  lately  been  mentioned  a  good  deal  in 
connection  with  the  rescue  of  Mr.  Leigh 
Smith  and  his  merry  men,  and  is  likely  to 
be  mentioned  a  good  deal  more  in  con* 
nection  with  future  attempts  to  reach  the 
north  pole. 

Being  far  out  of  Ihe  way  of  all  our  mer- 
chant routes,  and  only  approachable  dur- 
ing the  summer  over  the  even  then  ice- 
encumbered  sea,  Nova  Zemla  will  prob- 
ably long  remain  one  of  the  last  refuges 
of  the  reindeer;  whilst  its  ice-choked 
fiords  and  frozen  seas  will  still  be  haunted 
by  the  white  whale,  the  seal,  the  walrus, 
and  the  polar  bear. 

Frequented,  until  of  late,  only  by  some 
dozen  Russian  schooners,  who  visit  its 
shores  every  year  chiefly  for  white  whale 
and  salmon,  and  by  a  few  roaming  families 
of  Samoyedes  from  the  mainland,  these 


93 


SUMMER   SPORT  IN   NOVA  ZEMLA. 


arctic  shores  have  hitherto  afforded  an 
undisturbed  asylum  durin<;  the  winter  to 
the  game  of  all  kinds,  marine  or  terres- 
trial, which  there  abounds.  Recently, 
however,  the  Russian  government  has 
seen  fit  to  plant  a  colony  consisting  of  a 
few  families  of  Samoyedes  —  it  is  sup- 
posed  with  the  view  of  occupying  the 
country  in  the  Russian  name  —  and  these 
skilful  hunters,  of  whom  I  shall  have  oc- 
casion to  speak  further  on,  harry  the  game 
throughout  the  year  with  great  vigor. 
Beyond  visits  from  European  sportsmen 
or  explorers,  so  rare  that  they  might  al- 
most be  counted  on  the  fingers,  no  other 
human  intruders  ever  invade  these  wild 
regions. 

Having  not  long  ago  returned  from  this 
happy  hunting-ground  in  the  **  Hope,"  with 
the  crew  of  the  ill-fated  "  Eira,"  I  have 
obtained  a  glimpse  of  the  country,  which 
I  hope  will  enable  me  to  give  an  intelligi- 
ble and  not  uninteresting  account  of  what 
is  to  be  seen  and  done  there  in  the  way 
of  sport  and  adventure. 

Till  the  present  century  the  contour  of 
the  two  large  islands  which  form  what  is 
DOW  known  as  Nova  Zemla  was  very  dif* 
ferently  represented  upon  the  various 
manuscript  charts  in  existence,  these 
having  been  compiled  from  the  observa- 
tions of  Dutch,  Norwegian,  and  Russian 
navigators.  Barents  led  off  in  1598  with 
a  chart  representing  the  west  coast  and 
that  part  of  the  north-east  coast  which  he 
had  visited;  this,  though  terribly  out  in 
longitude,  was  very  good  as  to  latitude; 
and  since  the  days  of  this  old  explorer, 
bis  maps,  with  many  additions  and  a  few 
corrections,  have  been  generally  adhered 
to,  some  representing  the  north  coast  as 
taking  an  abrupt  turn  to  the  east,  and 
thus  continuing  ad  infinitum^  the  authors 
of  these  interesting  documents  veiling 
their  perplexity  by  drawing  a  meridian 
line  down  the  chart  and  thereby  cutting  it 
short,  leaving  the  rest  to  the  imagination 
of  the  beholder. 

For  our  present  knowledge  of  the 
shape  and  dimensions  of  the  islands  we 
are  chiefly  indebted  to  the  Russian  gov- 
ernment coast-survey,  made  during  the 
early  part  of  the  present  century,  and 
continued  by  subsequent  explorers,  which 
is  generally  considered  to  be  pretty  accu- 
rate as  far  north  as  Admiralty  Peninsula, 
the  roost  prominent  headland  on  the  west 
coast  of  the  north  island.  There  is  one 
remarkable  exception,  however :  an  error 
of  nine  miles  has  somehow  crept  into 
the  latitude  assigned  to  the  centre  of 
M(kler  Bay.    To  the  northward  of  Ad- 


miralty Peninsula  this  survey  also  be* 
comes  rather  wild,  and  is  not  to  be  trust- 
ed. This  of  course  means  that  the  sur- 
veyors were  here  deterred  from  complet- 
ing their  work  by  ice  and  weather;  and 
the  remark  applies  equally  to  the  east 
coast,  which  may  be  said  to  be  ice-bound 
throughout  the  year,  subject  to  occasional 
open  states  in  favorable  seasons.  Cape 
Nassau,  the  point  between  Admiralty 
Peninsula  and  Cape  Mauritius  the  north 
point,  has  traditionally  acquired  an  evil 
reputation  amon^rst  the  walrus-hunters,  as 
being  a  sort  of  bewitched  headland,  to 
round  which  means  to  say  farewell  to  the 
world;  for  it  was  believed  that  vessels 
were  mysteriously  drifted  thence  into  the 
Arctic  Ocean,  beset  by  the  ice,  and  never 
heard  of  again.  That  there  is  some  foun- 
dation for  this  tradition,  is  proved  by  the 
fate  of  the  Austrian  polar  expedition  of 
Weyprecht  and  Payer  in  the  steamer 
**Tegethoff,"  which  was  beset  near  this 
cape  in  the  autumn  of  1872  and  never  got 
free  again,  being  drifted  about  the  Arctic 
Ocean  for  two  years,  during  which  the  ex- 
pedition involuntarily  discovered  Franz- 
Josef  Land,  and  only  at  last  got  free  by 
abandoning  their  ship,  and  undertaking  a 
most  perilous  and  laborious  journey  over 
the  ice  with  their  boats,  which  lasted  three 
months,  when  they  had  the  good  fortune 
to  reach  the  shores  of  Nova  Zemla,  and 
to  encounter  a  Russian  schooner  which 
was  just  leaving  for  home. 

The  Russian  survey,  then,  gives  us  a 
very  fair  idea  of  the  size  and  shape  of  the 
country.  Lying  between  the  parallels  of 
n^  35'  N.  and  70®  40'  N.,  it  will  be  seen 
that  the  curved  direction  of  the  two  main 
islands  covers  a  space  of  about  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  English  miles,  whilst  their 
average  breadth  may  be  taken  as  sixty 
miles.  The  two  islands  are  divided  by 
a  strait  called  Matotchkin  Sharr,  which 
also  well  marks  a  central  position  in  the 
physical  configuration  of  the  country;  for 
it  is  in  this  locality  that  the  highest  moun- 
tains and  wildest  and  most  magnificent 
scenery  are  to  be  found,  the  land  thence 
sinking  to  lower  levels  both  to  the  north- 
ward and  southward.  Matotchkin  Sharr 
may  likewise  be  said  to  be  a  central  posi- 
tion as  to  the  distribution  of  the  various 
objects  of  sport;  for  it  is  on  the  slopes 
of  the  snow  and  glacier  clad  mountains 
of  this  part  of  the  country  that  reindeer 
are  most  plentiful,  whilst  wild  fowl  of  all 
kinds  prefer  the  south  island.  Bears, 
walrus,  and  seals,  on  the  other  hand,  may 
be  looked  for  with  greater  confidence  on 
the  shores  of  the  north  islandi  and  more 


SUMMER   SPORT   IN   NOVA   ZEMLA. 


93 


particalarly  on  the  eastern  and  northern 
parts  of  it.  I  will  not  presume  to  narrate 
any  adventures  of  my  own  in  pursuit  of 
polar  bears;  but  if  I  could  only  remem- 
ber half  the  yarns  the  old  whalers  of  the 
"Hope''  tolcf  me  on  this  head,  I  could  fill 
a  book  with  wondrous  tales  not  to  be  sur- 
passed even  by  the  feats  of  the  valiant 
Munchausen;  of  how  they  frequently 
fired  into  these  ferocious  quadrupeds  vol- 
leys  of  marlingspikes,  knives,  and  leaden 
slugs,  not  to  speak  of  bullets,  but  that 
often  the  only  effect  of  this  rough  treat- 
ment was  that  the  monster  '* rubbed,  him- 
self with  snaw  —  yes,  that  he  did  —  and 
went  away  geroulin',  an'  look  in'  back." 
All  the  same,  other  travellers  speak  of  this 
habit  of  polar  bears  rubbing  themselves 
with  snow  when  hurt.  Another  funny  and 
perhaps  equally  useful  habit  of  the  bear, 
is  tliat  of  swallowing  large  stones,  for 
these  may  assist  his  digestion !  but  we 
cannot  see  what  nourishment  the  bear 
which  robbed  a  depot  erected  by  one  of 
the  Franklin  search  expeditions  could 
have  derived  from  the  whole  stock  of 
stickincr.plaster,  which  was  found  in  his 
stomach.  Modern  sporting  narratives 
always  seem  to  me  to  lack  the  vigor  and 
freshness  of  the  productions  of  the  ear- 
lier writers ;  and  as  we  are  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Nova  Zemla  bears,  I  cannot  resist 
quoting,  for  the  benefit  of  those  of 
**Maga's"  readers  who  have  not  had  the 
felicity  of  perusing  "  Purchas  his  Pil- 
grimes,"  an  account  of  a  thrilling  bear 
adventure  which  occurred  on  the  north 
island  of  Nova  Zemla  three  hundred  years 
ago,  during  the  second  voyage  of  William 
Barents. 

The  6th  of  September  some  of  our  men  went 
on  shore  upon  the  lirme  Und  to  seek  for  stones, 
which  are  a  kind  of  diamond,  whereof  there 
are  many  also  in  the  States  Island ;  and  while 
they  were  seeking  the  stones,  two  of  oar  men 
lying  together  in  one  place,  a  great  leane  white 
beare  came  suddenly  stealing  out,  and  caught 
one  of  them  fast  by  the  necke  ;  who,  not  know- 
ing what  it  was  that  tooke  him  by  the  necke, 
cryed  out  and  sayed,  "  Who  is  it  that  pulls  me 
so  by  the  necke  ?  "  Wherewith  the  other  that 
lay  not  farre  from  him  lifted  up  his  head  to  see 
who  it  was ;  and  perceiving  it  to  be  a  mon- 
strous hear,  cryed  out  and  sayed,  "  Oh  mate ! 
it  is  a  beare  ; "  and  therewith  presently  rose  up 
and  ran  away.  The  beare  at  the  first  falling 
Dpon  the  man  bit  his  head  in  sunder,  and  suckt 
out  his  blood  ;  wherewith  the  rest  of  the  men 
that  were  on  the  land,  being  about  twenty  in 
number,  ranne  presently  thither,  either  to  save 
the  man,  or  else  to  drive  the  beare  from  the 
hody;  and  having  charged  their  pieces,  and 
hent  their  pikes,  set  upon  her,  that  still  was 
devouring  the  man;  but  perceiving  them  to 


come  towards  her,  fiercely  and  cruelly  ranne  at 
them  and  got  another  of  them  out  from  the 
company,  which  she  tore  in  pieces,  wherewith 
all  the  rest  ran  away.  We,  perceiving  out  of 
our  ship  and  pinnass^  that  our  men  ranne  to 
the  seaside  to  save  themselves,  with  all  speed 
entered  into  their  boats  and  rowed  as  fast  as 
we  could  to  relieve  our  men.  Where,  being 
on  land,  we  beheld  the  cruell  spectacle  of  our 
two  dead  men  that  had  been  so  cruelly  killed 
and  torne  in  pieces  by  the  beare.  We,  seeing 
that,  encouraged  our  men  to  goe  back  again 
with  us,  and  with  pieces,  curtel-axes,  and  halfe- 
pikes,  to  set  upon  the  beare;  but  they  would 
not  all  agree  thereunto,  some  of  them  saying, 
"Our  men  are  already  dead,  and  we  shall  get 
the  beare  well  enough  though  we  oppose  our- 
selves into  so  open  danger.  If  we  might  save 
our  fellowes'  lives,  then  we  would  make  haste ; 
but  now  we  need  not  make  such  speed,  but 
take  her  at  an  advantage,  for  we  have  to  due 
with  a  cruell,  fierce,  and  ravenous  beast." 
Whereupon  three  of  our  men  went  forward, 
the  beare  still  devouring  her  prey,  not  once 
fearing  the  number  of  our  men,  and  yet  they 
were  thirtie  at  the  least.  The  three  that  went 
forward  in  that  sort  were  Cornelius  Jacobson, 
William  Geysen,  and  Hans  Van  Mitlen,  Wil- 
liam Barents'  purser ;  and  after  that  the  sayd 
master  and  pylat  had  shot  three  times,  and 
mist,  the  purser,  stepping  somewhat  further 
forward,  and  seeing  the  beare  to  l>e  within  the 
length  of  a  shot,  presently  levelled  his  piece, 
and  discharging  it  at  the  l)eare,  shot  her  into 
the  head,  between  the  eyes,  and  yet  she  held 
the  man  still  fast  by  the  necke,  and  lifted  up 
her  head  with  the  man  in  her  mouth  ;  but  she 
began  somewhat  to  stagger,  wherewith  the  pur* 
ser  and  a  Scottish  roan  drew  out  their  curtel- 
axes  and  strooke  at  her  so  hard  that  their 
curtel-axes  burst,  and  yet  she  would  not  leave 
the  man.  At  last  William  Geysen  went  to 
them,  and  with  all  his  might  strook  the  beare 
upon  the  snout  with  his  piece,  at  which  the 
beare  fell  to  the  ground,  making  a  great  noise, 
and  William  Geysen,  leaping  upon  her,  cut 
her  throat 

This  graphically  described  tra<redy  is 
unique  of  its  kind,  so  far  as  I  know ;  for 
though  a  man  here  and  there  may  have 
been  killed  at  long  intervals  of  time,  yet 
this  sometimes  fierce,  but  always  eccen- 
tric animal  is  not,  as  a  rule,  looked  upon 
with  much  fear.  He  is  so  easily  duped 
into  approaching  quite  close  to  the  hunter, 
who,  if  he  only  remains  calm  and  is  able 
to  hit  a  haystack  at  a  hundred  yards,  may 
then  slay  him  with  a  single  bullet. 

Bears 'not  only  feed  upon  seals,  walrus, 
large  stones,  and  sticking-plaster,  but  also 
have  a  weakness  for  any  vegetable  sub- 
stance which  they  may  come  across,  such 
as  seaweed,  grass,  lichens,  etc. ;  they  are 
in  fact,  like  pigs  and  men,  omnivorous, 
and  are  of  such  an  inquisitive  nature 
moreover,  that  in  search  of  food,  or  out 


94 


SUMMER  SPORT   IN   NOVA  ZEMLA. 


of  mere  "  cussedness,"  they  will  examine 
and  scatter  depots  —  so  that  in  laying 
down  such  a  store,  upon  the  existence  of 
which  the  lives  of  the  members  of  an 
expedition  may  afterwards  depend,  this 
contingency  must  be  foreseen  and  guarded 
against.  Their  sense  of  smell  is,  how- 
ever, so  acute,  that  it  is  found  difficult  to 
hide  anything  from  the  creatures.  Gener- 
ally a  cairn  of  stones  is  erected,  in  which 
a  record  is  placed*  enclosed  in  a  tin  casing 
or  glass  bottle,  directing  the  finder  to 
some  spot  not  far  off,  on  a  certain  bear- 
ing; then  when  Bruin  appears  on  the 
scene,  snuffing  and  siiuffling  about  the 
cairn,  lie  will  probably  pull  most  of  it 
down,  carefully  examining  each  stone,  as 
a  modern  savant  might  an  Egyptian  tab- 
let. He  will  most  likely  return  often  to 
the  cairn,  to  see  if  it  moves  perhaps  —  or 
who  knows  for  what  ill-defined  reason 
flitting  and  glimmering  through  his  half- 
awakened  brain?  —  and  most  likely  his 
friends  will  come  with  him;  but  probably 
they  will  be  so  absorbed  by  the  cairn,  that 
if  only  they  will  not  carry  off  the  record 
no  great  harm  will  be  done.  The  finder 
of  the  record  then  goes  to  the  spot  indi- 
cated, and  deep  beneath  the  snow  we 
hope  finds  the  depot  intact. 

The  chase  of  the  reindeer  is  not  at- 
tended with  precisely  the  ^ame  kind  of 
excitement  which  arises  from  that  of  the 
polar  bear,  but  is  in  its  way  quite  as  en- 
joyable, leading  the  hunter,  as  it  does,  to 
penetrate  into  the  more  remote  valleys 
towards  the  interior  of  the  islands,  and 
that  in  their  most  picturesque  part.  The 
mountains  about  Matotchkin  Sharr  attain 
aJieight  of  between  three  and  four  thou- 
sand feet,  the  upper  portions  being  clad 
with  eternal  snow,  which  descends  in 
small  glaciers  into  the  heads  of  the  val- 
leys. There  is  a  tradition  that  an  active 
volcano  exists  somewhere  in  these  parts; 
but  though  I  several  times  ascended  the 
highest  mountains  in  the  neighborhood 
on  purpose  to  look  for  it,  I  could  never 
see  either  the  volcano  or  any  traces  of  it. 
I  remember  that  a  similar  tradition  exists 
amongst  the  sea-elephant  hunters  of  Ker- 
guelen  Island,  in  the  Antarctic  Ocean,  as 
to  the  existence  of  a  like  phenomenon  in 
the  south-west  or  most  inaccessible  corner 
of  that  great  island,  and  imagine  that 
these  stories  are  but  remnants  of  the  old 
fancies  of  long  ago,  when  any  unknown 
region  used  to  be  peopled  with  dragons, 
goblins,  giants,  and  what  not. 

On  a  fine,  warm,  sunshiny  day,  nothing 
is  more  enjoyable  than  to  start  ofiE  in  the 
early  morning,  when  the  sun  is  still  skirt- 


ing the  northern  horizon,  and  with  rifle  on 
shoulder  to  cautiously  ascend  some  com- 
manding eminence  whence  a  telescope 
may  be  brought  to  bear  on  the  most  likely 
pastures  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountains. 
The  keen  morning  air,  the  blue  sky,  the 
crisp  snow  crunching  under  one's  feet  as 
ever  and  anon  great  drifts  have  to  be 
crossed,  with  the  sweet  scent  from  the 
arctic  flowers  nestling  in  the  sheltered 
spots,  and  the  twittering  warble  of  snow- 
buntings,  all  add  to  the  delights  of  the 
hunter  s  heart  as  he  gradually  ascends  to 
his  chosen  position.  When  at  length 
there,  I,  for  my  part,  have  often  been 
more  inclined  to  rest  for  an  hour  and  en- 
joy the  splendid  scene,  and  even  to  smoke, 
than  to  go  straight  on.  Look  !  there  lies 
the  winding  strait  —  Matotchkin  Sharr  — 
its  sinuosities  gradually  fading  in  the  dis- 
tance till  the  sharp  shoulder  of  yonder 
black  mountain  with  the  little  glacier  shin- 
ing above  it  cuts  off  the  view  along  the 
glassy  surface.  Mark  how  the  bay  ice  is 
streaming  out  from  that  great  gulf  on  the 
opposite  side;  that  is  Silver  Bay,  whose 
sloping  shores  aiford  the  finest  pastures 
to  our  quarry.  But  we  need  not  look 
there  for  them,  for.  the  strait  separates  it 
from  us,  and  we  have  sent  our  boat  back 
to  the  ship.  And  there,  further  to  the 
left,  lies  MituchefiE  Island  basking  in  the 
sun,  with  the  dark-colored  cairns  erected 
by  the  Russian  surveyors  sixty  years  ago 
standing  out  clear  against  a  background 
of  snow  on  the  mainland  beyond.  Two 
miles  out  to  sea  from  that  island  lies  a 
treacherous  shoal,  on  which  now  no  ocean 
swell  nor  even  a  grounded  floe-berg  marks 
the  danger  which  lurks  below.  That  is 
the  shoal  which  knocked  off  the  *'  Hope's  " 
false  keel  and  sprang  her  sternpost;  and 
who  knows  what  other  mischief  it  might 
not  have  done  had  not  the  friction  of 
countless  floe-bergs  ground  its  surface 
smooth  as  a  board  ?  Further  still  to  the 
left  lies  the  broad  expanse  of  the  Arctic 
Ocean,  looking  as  if  it  never  could  become 
the  solid  block  of  ice  which  it  will  be  in  a 
few  short  weeks.  And  there,  below,  lies 
the  river  through  whose  icy  cold  waters 
we  have  so  lately  waded,  and  from  which 
this  evening  we  hope  to  see  some  salmoQ 
pulled  forth.  But  looking  at  that  river 
reminds  us  that  we  are  wet,  and  that 
our  feet  are  getting  cold ;  so  knock  out 
the  pipes,  and  on  after  the  reindeer. 
The  chase  of  the  reindeer  is  as  the  stalk- 
ing of  the  Highland  stag,  with  the  addi- 
tional charms  of  an  absolute  freedom 
of  action.  Go  where  you  will  —  do  as 
you  please.    There  is  no  law  here  but 


SUMMER   SPORT   IN   NOVA   ZEMLA. 


95 


3^ur  own  pleasure,  and  you  may  kill  as 
many  deer  as  your  skill  and  perseverance 
will  allow  of.  It  is  rather  hard,  though, 
to  have  to  practise  abstention  so  rij;or- 
ously  when  a  flock  of  some  fifty  geese 
gets  up  suddenly  as  we  make  for  a  slope 
on  which  we  have  observed  a  small  herd 
of  five  deer  quietly  browsing.  How  well 
a  roast  goose  would  look  on  our  mess- 
table  to-night,  and  how  much  better  he 
would  taste  than  stewed  looms  and  salt 
horse ! 

It  is  not  always  entertaining  to  read  the 
chronicle  of  the  death  of  defenceless  ani- 
mals. I  will  instead  narrate  the  adven- 
tures of  a  Scottish  harpooner,  Andrew  by 
name,  who  one  day  went  a-hunting.  He 
did  not  profess  to  be  going  a-hunting,  but 
asked  leave  to  go  ashore  to  the  river's 
roottth,  and  there  wash  his  clothes.  This 
is  a  privilecre  which  is  dear  to  the  heart 
of  the  hardy  tar ;  he  delights  in  washing 
his  clothes  and  messing  about  with  soap- 
suds. Our  harpooner,  however,  was  a 
▼cry  Ulysses,  —  a  man  of  many  devices 
—a  cunning  man,  with  an  eye  to  possi- 
bilities,—  so  he  privily  took  with  him  a 
rifie  and  some  cartridges,  and  with  some 
kindred  spirits  repaired  to  the  river's 
baok.  The  party  had  not  been  long  en- 
gaged in  their  pursuit  when  Andrew  was 
'ware  of  a  fine  stag  looking  curiously  at 
him  over  the  brow  of  the  bank.  Cau- 
tiously he  puts  down  his  pipe,  cautiously 
be  takes  up  his  rifle,  and  levels  it  at  the 
inquisitive  beast.  He  pulls  the  trigger  — 
bang!  —  the  deer  falls,  and  the  echoes 
ring  out  a  volley  against  the  hills^  as  the 
washing-party,  taking  in  the  situation, 
spring  forward  with  a  yell,  like  the^  High- 
landers at  Tel-el-Kebir,  to  breast  the 
slope  and  be  at  the  enemy.  Andrew 
drops  his  rifle,  and  seizes  a  stick  —  for  is 
it  not  more  like  his  harpoon  than  a  rifle? 
—and  advances  steadily  to  finish-  off  his  i 
prev.  Soon  he  reaches  the  prostrate  deer, 
aaa  straightway  delivers  a  blow  calculated 
to  quicken  the  dead  —  a  calculation,  alas ! 
but  too  well  founded,  for  the  deer  forth- 
with rises  up  and  makes  off  like  the  wind, 
the  party  standing  aghast  at  the  phenome- 
non. "  Oh'  that  i  had  been  writ  down  an 
ass!"  Andrew  might  have  exclaimed  with 
Dogberry;  reloaded  his  rifle, and  secured 
bis  deer.  But  now  the  abuse  he  levelled 
at  that  departing  animal  far  surpassed  the 
terms  in  which  Shakespeare's  beadle  re- 
proaches Borachio  and  Conrade. 

The  Russian  walrus-hunters  whom  we 
found  at  Matotchkin  Sharr  had  done  very 
well  with  the  reindeer;  and  we,  seeing 
that  they  had  pleoty  of  venison  banging 


in  their  rigging,  asked  where  they  got  it, 
when  they  directed  us  to  the  other  end  of 
the  strait,  about  fifty  miles  away.  Next 
day  it  transpired  that  the  strait  was  still 
choked  by  ice  up  to  within  six  miles  of 
where  we  lay.  Such  are  the  wiles  by 
which  sportsmen  strive  to  deceive  even 
one  another. 

Amongst  the  most  exciting  of  the  sports 
in  which  a  summer  visitor  to  Nova  Zemla 
may  take  part  is  the  capture  of  the  beluga, 
or  white  whale  {Delphinapterus  Uucas), 
whose  skin  supplies  us  with  the  so-called 
porpoise-hide,  of  which  shooting-boots  are 
now  80  generally  made.  The  white  whale 
fishery 'is  carried  on  in  Nova  Zemla  by 
the  Russian  schooners,  the  gain  which 
may  be  expected  from  this  pursuit  being 
the  attraction  which  chiefly  draws  them 
to  these  seas.  This  being  the  case,  it  be- 
hoves the  amateur  whaler  not  to  interfere 
with  the  fishery,  unless  at  the  invitation 
of  the  men  whose  livelihood  depends  upon 
their  success,  or  endless  difficulties  will 
ensue.  There  is  even  a  story  that  the 
whole  crew  of  a  Norwegian  smack  were, 
not  long  ago,  treacherously  murdered  by 
Russian  whale-hunters,  who  had  found 
them  trespassing  upon  what  they  consid- 
ered their  preserves.  Such  deeds  are  not 
Uncommon  in  remote  regions  like  this, 
where  there  is  no  fear  of  detection,  save 
through  the  promptings  to  confess  of 
some  guilty  conscience.  The  schooners 
make  the  white  whale  the  main  object  of 
their  voyage,  taking,  as  occasion  may 
offer,  bears,  seals,  walrus,  and  reindeer; 
and  finally,  in  September,  just  at  the  close 
of  the  season,  they  repair  to  the  mouth  of 
some  river,  and  there  net  the  ascending 
salmon,  leaving  for  home  as  soon  as  the 
ice  begins  to  show  signs  of  closing  in. 
Often  parties  are  sent  away  from  the 
schooners  in  boats  to  some  distant  spot, 
where  they  can  be  getting  the  salmon  and 
reindeer,  etc.,  ready  to  embark  as  soon  as 
their  ship  comes  round.  In  this  manner 
a  party  of  Russian  seamen  were  left  be- 
hind a  year  or  two  ago,  and  we  found  them 
living  with  the  Samoyedes  at  Karmakula. 
The  ice  having  closed  in  earlier  than  was 
expected,  their  ship  had  to  leave;  and 
they  were  thus  left  to  their  own  devices. 
After  great  hardships  and  privations  had 
been  endured,  they  set  off  to  walk  some 
sixty  miles  to  the  Samoyede  settlement, 
over  the  freshly  fallen  snow  on  the  land, 
and  the  hummocky  ice  of  the  fiords  — and 
met  with  adventures  which  it  would  need 
an  article  to  themselves  to  describe  ade- 
quately—  at  last  reaching  the  summer- 
tents  at  Karmakula,  under  the  warm  rein- 


96 

deer-skin  folds  of  which,  and  in  their 
wooden  huts,  they  were  hospitably  enter- 
tained durinor  the  long  winter  by  their 
kind-hearted  little  hosts.  The  crew  of 
another  Russian  schooner  was  left  to  win- 
ter on  the  south  part  of  Nova  Zemla  by 
their  vessel  being  beset  during  the  gale, 
and  carried  bodily  away  to  sea,  whilst  they 
were  all  on  shore;  and  these  men  were 
also  well  looked  after  by  the  Samoyedes. 
Some  few  of  the  schooners  devote  them- 
selves almost  entirely  to  walrus,  seals,  and 
bears ;  and  these  either  go  very  far  north, 
following  the  retreating  pack  till  driven 
south  again,  or  else  keep  round  on  the 
east  coast  altogether,  which  being  gen- 
erally in  great  measure  frozen  up  all  the 
year  round,  is  the  best  place  to  find  the 
game  they  are  in  search  of. 

If  one  really  wishes  to  take  part  in  a 
white  whale  hunt,  it  is  necessary  to  have 
either  a  properly  fitted  whale-boat,  or  a 
walrus-boat,  so  that  when  the  whale  has 
been  struck,  his  runs,  plunges,  and  sharp 
doublings  may  not  either  capsize  or  swamp 
it.  The  Russian  schooners  at  anchor  in 
some  sheltered  bay  always  keep  a  party 
of  men  on  the  look-out  on  some  elevated 
place  near,  where  they  constantly  remain 
till  relieved  by  others  from  their  ships. 
They  generally  build  a  hut  of  drift-wood 
and  stones,  or  pitch  a  tent  near  their  look- 
out-place, or  else  they  would  have  a  bad 
time  of  it  when  the  keen  wind  blows 
strong,  and  during  the  cold  nights  when 
the  sun  sets  low  down  towards  the  hori- 
zon. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  the  white 
whale  in  the  flesh  was  made  on  the 
"snow-foot"  at  the  base  of  the  cliffs  be- 
low the  Samoyede  settlement  at  the  head 
of  Karmakula  harbor,  having  previously 
encountered  by  the  hundred  their  rooul- 
deriui/  skeletons  scattered  along  the  beach 
in  various  parts  of  the  island,  picked  re- 
markably clean  by  the  burgomaster  or 
glaucus  gull,  that  greedy  scavenger  of  the 
arctic  regions.  On  the  stretch  of  snow- 
ice  in  question  there  were  ranged  the  bodv 
ies  of  half-a  dozen  white  whales,  varying 
from  six  to  sixteen  feet  in  length  ;  the 
young  ones  being  of  a  brown  color,  and  the 
adults  white,  which  was  seen  to  be  tinged 
with  yellow  by  contrast  with  the  snow  on 
which  they  lay.  Their  very  fine  dolphin- 
like lines  are  well  depicted  in  many  works 
on  natural  history,  the  great  peculiarity 
of  their  appearance  being  given  by  the 
odd  profile  of  the  concave  forehead,  which 
ends  in  a  projecting  upper  lip  or  jaw; 
thence  the  mouth  takes  an  upward  direc- 
tion, whilst  the  chin  slopes  quickly  off  to 


SUMMER   SPORT   IN   NOVA  ZEMLA. 


the  under  surface  of  the  body.  The 
diminutive  eye  adds  the  finishing  touch 
to  a  countenance  expressive  of  that  silli- 
ness and  indecision  of  character  which  is 
amply  exemplified  by  the  behavior  of  the 
creature  when  beset  by  the  hunters.  Hear- 
ing a  snarling  sound  behind  one  of  the 
carcasses,  I  went  up  to  discover  the  cause, 
and  was  surprised  to  see  a  young  polar 
bear  making  off  with  a  large  piece  of  o£Fal 
in  his  mouth,  and  smeared  from  head  to 
foot  with  gore,  grumbling  loudly  to  him- 
self as  he  shambled  o£E  at  having  been 
disturbed  at  his  meal.  We  afterwards 
cameupon  this  bear  having  his  dessert  in 
the  Samoyede  cooking  tent,  surrounded 
by  a  group  of  admiring  and  envious 
Esquimaux  dogs,  with  whom  he  appeared 
to  be  a  great  favorite  on  the  whole.  Hav- 
ing finished  his  food,  and  then  licked 
one  of  the  dogs  from  head  to  foot  —  per- 
haps by  way  of  cleaning  his  tongue  —  he 
adjourned  to  the  Samoyede  living-tent, 
where  he  speedilv  settled  down  amongst 
the  children  and  lurs,  and  went  peacefully 
to  sleep. 

We  had  long  wanted  to  see  some  white 
whale  captured,  and  were  often  startled 
by  great  excitement  amongst  the  schoon- 
ers whenever  the  preconcerted  signal  was 
made  from  the  look-out  station  indicating 
that  the  " fish  "  were  approaching;  but  as 
yet  the  whales  had  never  actually  come 
within  the  limits  of  the  bay.  At  length 
our  chance  came.  A  day  or  two  before 
the  "  Hope "  left  Karmakula  the  signal 
was  made  from  the  look-out  station,  and 
soon  it  was  seen  from  the  schooners  that 
the  whales  had  actually  passed  the  outer 
headlands.  Instantly  all  was  excitement 
and  bustle  on  board  the  schooners  to  get 
the  boats  away  with  the  least  possible 
delay,  the  men  working  at  their  hasty 
preparations  with  a  suppressed  excite- 
ment which  was  highly  infectious.  Some 
of  us  happened  at  the  time  to  be  returning 
to  the  ship  from  a  duck-shooting  expedi- 
tion, so  we  followed  the  Russian  boats  as 
hard  as  we  could,  finding  it  difficult  in 
our  little  din^^y  to  keep  anywhere  near  the 
large  walrus-ooats  propelled  by  the  strong 
arms  of  their  excited  crews.  Following 
them  towards  the  entrance  of  the  harbor, 
we  arrived  some  time  after  they  had  got 
to  work,  and  found  that  they  had,  by  care- 
ful driving,  succeeded  in  forcing  the 
whales  into  a  bight  on  the  north  side  of 
the  anchorage,  and  were  now  hastily 
spreading  a  large  strong  net  across  the 
entrance  to  it.  The  net  was  only  ten 
feet  deep,  floating  by  means  of  wooden 
chocks,  so  that  its  upper  edge  came  within 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN  MOVA  ZEMLA. 


97 


a  few  feet  of  the  surface.  The  depth  of 
the  water  being  many  fathoms  more  than 
that  of  the  net,  we  now  made  sure  that 
the  whales  would  easilv  escape  under- 
neath them,  and  watched  the  proceedings 
with  keen  interest,  joining  in  the  sport  as 
occasion  offered,  by  pulling  towards  any 
point  where  we  perceived  that  assistance 
was  needed.  No  sooner  was  the  net 
stretched  across  than  we  saw  occasional 
jets  of  feathery  spray,  and  then  white* 
looking  objects  turning  leisurely  over  in 
the  water.  I  had  seen  these  white  objects 
vaguely  for  some  time ;  but  so  slowly  did 
they  turn,  and  so  similar  were  they  in 
color  to  the  many  blocks  of  floating  ice, 
that  it  was  some  time  before  I  realized 
the  fact  that  these  were  the  whales.  The 
boats  now  again  began  driving  the  whales 
towards  an  indentation  in  the  coast  of  the 
small  bight  which  they  had  already  guard- 
ed by  the  net,  beating  on  the  gunwales 
with  stretchers  or  oars,  and  pulling  lustily 
towards  any  point  which  seemed  to  be 
threatened  with  a  sortie  from  the  enclosed 
prey,  which  were  so  easily  turned  by  these 
means  that  in  a  very  short  space  of  time 
they  were  nearly  ail  got  together  in  the 
desired  place,  and  a  second  net  promptly 
roQ  out  from  shore  to  shore.  The  whales 
between  the  two  nets  were  now  almost 
disregarded,  a  single  boat  only,  assisted 
by  us  in  our  dingy,  being  left  to  see  that 
they  did  not  get  through  any  possibly 
ooguarded  spots,  and  the  attention  of  the 
rest  of  the  boats  was  turned  exclusively 
towards  those  within  the  last  net  laid 
oat  This  net,  like  the  first,  was  a  very 
long  way  indeed  from  being  on  the  bot- 
tom, and  why  the  whales  did  not  **  sound  " 
and  pass  out  beneath  them  both,  is  not 
apparent.  It  can  only  be  supposed  that 
their  custom  is  to  keep  always  near  the 
surface,  and  perhaps  they  are  not  blessed 
with  the  keenest  of  vision,  as  their  small 
eyes  seem  to  indicate;  at  any  rate,  un- 
less they  are  very  stupid,  very  blind,  or 
very  frightened,  or  perhaps  all  three  com- 
bined, one  would  naturally  suppose  that 
they  would  escape  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Not  so,  however;  for  presently  a  whale 
gets  entangled  in  the  net,  straining  and 
struggling  till  one  would  think  the  whole 
fabric  would  burst  —  beating  the  sea  into 
foam,  as  ever  and  anon  he  throws  his 
great  tail  and  shiny  white  back  out  of  the 
water.  A  boat  swiftly  approaches,  the 
bowman  standing  with  weapon  poised  in 
both  hands,  ready  for  a  throw ;  and  watch- 
ing his  opportunity,  as  the  snowy  back 
again  emerges  from  the  waves,  the  skilful 
harpoooeer  buries  i\\e  barbed  point  deep 

UVISG   AGE.  VOL.  XLIV«  2243 


In  the  victim's  flesh  A  mighty  plunge,  a 
billow  of  foam,  and  a  crimson  stain  upon 
the  water,  show  that  the  weapon  has 
struck  home.  The  harpooneer  pulls  out 
the  wooden  shaft  as  the  oarsmen  back 
astern,  and  the  barb  is  left  embedded. 
By  means  of  the  attached  line  the  poor 
beast  is  slowly  but  surely  pulled  to  the 
surface;  his  struggles  become  gradually 
fainter  as,  drowning  and  bleeding,  he  re- 
ceives the  fatal  lunges  with  the  lance 
which  the  harpooneer  is  now  administer- 
ing, striking  through  the  back  of  his  head  ' 
into  the  brain.  Spouts  of  blood  have  now 
taken  the  place  of  the  feathery  clouds  he 
was  so  sportively  throwing  up  but  a  short 
time  ago;  and  as  he  lies  wallowing  in  his 
gore,  he  is  disentangled  from  the  net, 
lashed  underneath  the  stern  of  the  boat, 
and  towed  on  shore,  where  he  is  secured 
by  a  rope  and  grapnel,  and  left  for  the 
present.  Not  all  the  whales  are  killed 
thus,  however.  Manv  keep  quite  clear  of 
the  net,  and  have  to  be  harpooned  in  the 
ordinary  wav,  when  the  finest  sport  is 
afforded  —  the  sharp  doublings  of  the 
stricken  animal  testing  to  the  utmost  the 
strength  and  stability  of  the  best-built 
boat.  Sir  Henry  Gore-Booth  —  who  will, 
I  hope,  forgive  me  for  recording  his  prow- 
ess —  himself  harpooned  and  killed  three 
at  least  in  the  open,  having  pulled  up, 
directly  he  saw  what  was  going  on,  in  his 
walrus  boat,  which  he  had  brought  with 
him  in  his  little  ketch,  the  **  Kava."  This 
keen  sportsman  was  ever  to  the  front 
when  large  game  were  to  be  got  at,  and 
seldom  missed  a  kill  when  a  chance 
offered.  On  that  day  no  less  than  twenty- 
five  white  whale  succumbed  to  the  har- 
poons of  the  Russians,  who  were  hugely 
delighted  at  their  good  fortune,  and  cele- 
brated the  occasion  with  uproarious  mirth^ 
that  night  on  board  their  schooners. 

No  article  professing  to  treat  of  sport 
in  Nova  Zemla  would  be  complete  with- 
out some  mention  of  the  walrus — or,  as 
it  is  often  called,  the  sea-horse  —  though 
this  animal  has  now  become  so  rare  in 
the  more  easily  accessible  parts  of  the 
coast  that  we  only  saw  two  the  whole  time 
we  were  in  Nova  Zemla.  As  the  walrus 
yields  a  by  no  means  insignificant  trophy  - 
in  its  pair  of  tusks  of  splendid  ivory,  and 
is,  moreover,  not  particularly  easy  to  kill, 
of  course  it  must  always  be  one  of  the  ob- 
jects of  the  chase  to  the  adventurous 
visitor.  I  am  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  give 
any  precise  account,  from  actual  experi- 
ence, of  the  method  in  which  the  walrus 
is  captured ;  but  those  who  take  an  inter- 
est in  the  subject  cannot  do  better  tbaa 


98 

refer  for  instructions  (!)  to  the  works  of 
Albertus  Magnus,  who  died  in  1280  A.D., 
and  who  has  left  some  account  of  the 
matter.  Not  having  the  work  at  hand,  I 
aro  not  able  to  quote  what  cannot  but  be 
a  spicy  narrative  in  the  original;  but  the 
account  is  alluded  to  in  Nordenskidld's 
"Voyage  of  the  Vega,"  in  which  a  wood- 
cut, reproduced  from  Olaus  Magnus 
(1555),  illustrates  the  text.  From  this  it 
appears  that  the  walrus  is  only  to  be  taken 
by  the  exercise  of  much  circumspection 
on  the  part  of  the  hunter ;  for  he  must  not 
approach  the  animal  till  he  encounters  it 
hanging  asleep,  suspended  by  its  tusks 
from  a  cleft  in  the  rocks!  Cutting  two 
parallel  slits  in  the  animal's  back,  and 
raising  the  intervening  strip  of  hide,  the 
hunter  passes  underneath  it  a  stout  rope, 
which  he  secures  to  its  own  part  with  two 
half  hitches  —  the  other  end  being  then 
made  fast  to  trees,  posts,  or  large  iron 
rings  in  the  rocks  (these  conveniences 
being,  of  course,  common  in  the  arctic 
regions).  The  sketch,  however,  repre- 
sents the  hunters  seated  in  their  boat  and 
pulling  vigorously  at  the  rope,  which  is 
fastened  to  the  walrus  in  the  manner  de- 
scribed. The  writer  then  goes  on  to  de- 
scribe the  next  step  —  which  is  to  awaken 
the  animal  by  throwing  large  stones  at  his 
head,  which  being  done,  he  is  so  startled 
into  desperate  efforts  to  escape,  that  he 
jumps  clean  out  of  his  skin,  leaving  it 
Dehind  him  hanging  to  the  rocks!  He, 
however,  cannot  live  without  his  skin,  and 
soon  after  perishes  or  is  thrown  up  half 
dead  on  the  beach.  I  have  not  myself 
had  an  opportunity  of  trying  this  method 
of  capturing  the  sea-horse,  or  rather  his 
skin ;  but  should  it  ever  be  put  in  practice 
by  modern  hunters,  it  would  be  highly  in- 
teresting to  read  of  it. 

The  kind  of  sport  of  which  the  visitor 
may  always  make  most  sure,  is  wild-fowl 
shooting.  In  the  first  place,  if  he  intends 
afterwards  to  take  his  vessel  into  regions 
where  walrus,  seals,  and  bears  abound,  he 
roust,  of  course,  be  prepared  for  any  emer- 
gency in  the  way  of  being  beset  or  crushed 
by  the  ice,  and  having  to  winter.  He  will 
therefore  at  once  commence  laying  in  a 
stock  of  looms  (Driinnich's  guillemot), 
which  are  excellent  eating,  very  abundant 
in  summer,  and  afford,  at  any  rate,  as 
good  sport  as  pigeon-hunting.  They 
build,  or  rather  lay  their  eggs,  on  ledges 
along  the  steep  face  of  any  cliff  which 
they  may  select  for  their  loomery,  where 
they  congregate  in  incredible  numbers  and 
batch  their  young  in  company.  When 
tbe  young  birds  are  old  enough,  the  par* 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN   NOVA  ZEMLA« 


ents  carry  them  down  to  the  water  —  if 
report  is  to  be  believed  — and  teach  them 
to  swim ;  and  when  they  can  do  that,  they 
are  taught  to  fly,  and  then    the  whole 
colony  migrates  south.     As  we  had  to 
prepare  for  a  possible  winter  in   Franz- 
Josef    Land,    loom-shooting    was    com- 
menced  even    before    we    had    sighted 
Nova  Zemla,  and  when  we  got  to  Karma- 
kula,  we  went  at  it  with  a  will.    Conven- 
ient slabs  of  floating  bay  ice  were  be\n<r 
carried  slowly  along  the  base  of  the  cliff 
which  we  decided  to  attack,  and  on  one 
of  these  we  took  our  stand,  shooting  the 
birds  as  they  flew  over  our  heads,  our 
boat  picking  them  up  as  they  fell  into  the 
water.    One  of  my  birds  fell  close  to  the 
edge  of  the  piece  of  ice  on  which  we  were 
standing,  and,  jumping  forward  to  secure 
it  before  it  could  wriggle  itself  under  the 
ice,  I  cracked  off  a  great  lump  and  floun- 
dered into  the  just  freezing  water.      I 
thought  I  had  kept  my  gun  out  of  the 
water;  but  about  a  week  afterwards  we 
were  out  duck-shooting,  and  a  fine  bird 
gettinc;  up,  I  levelled  my  gun  and  pulled 
one  of  the  triggers,  but  found  that  the 
hammer  would  not  fall,  then  discovering 
that  the  gun  must  have  gone  under  water 
as  well  as  myself.     My  friend  suggested 
that  nothing  short  of  a  specially  imported 
floe  from  the  Palaeocrystic  Sea,  or  Sea  of 
Ancient  Ice,  would  be  found  solid  enough 
to  support  me ;  but  as  he  himself  is  quite 
as  heavy  and  twice  as  clumsy,  I    hoped 
soon  to  see  him  go  in  too,  and  so  have 
the  laugh  turned  against  him.    However, 
every  one  was  very  cautious  after  this,  so 
there  were  no  more  duckings  that  day. 
Looms'  eggs  should  also  be  collected  in 
large  numbers  and  placed  in  brine-casks, 
in  case  they  may  be  wanted.    The  men  — 
that  is,  the  sailors  before  the  mast  —  will 
not,  as  a  rule,  touch  either  the  eggs  or  the 
birds  unless  they  are  served  out  in  addi- 
tion to  their  allowance  of  salt  meat,  seem- 
ing to  think  they  are  being  **done''  out 
of  their  money  in  some  way;  and  it   is 
often  quite  diflicult  to  get  the   men  to 
forego  their  "rights"  in  the  matter  of 
salt  horse,  and  to  take  fresh  meat,  which 
has  cost  nothing,  instead,  though  so  ob- 
viously beneficial  in  every  way,  and  espe- 
cially as    a    preventive    against  scurvy. 
Looms'  eggs  are  excellent  fried  with  ba- 
con, and   the  birds  themselves   make   a 
capital  stew.    The  "  Eira's "  men   lived 
during  their  winter  in  Franz-Josef  Land 
on  bear  and  walrus  flesh,  drinking  the 
blood  warm,  and  also  putting  it  in  their 
soup.     They  also  had  some  preserved 
vegetables  and  a  little  biscuit  which  they 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN   NOVA  ZEMLA. 


99 


had  saved  from  their  ship,  and  on  this 
diet  they  thrived  exceedingly,  looking 
when  we  foand  them  well  and  hearty-— 
the  only  exceptions  being  men  who  were 
ill  before  they  left  Scotland.  This  shows 
bow  important  it  is  to  lay  in  an  ample 
stock  of  fresh  food  for  a  possible  winter, 
for  a  continuous  supply  of  bear  and  wai- 
ns flesh  cannot  in  all  cases  be  depended 
npoo. 

Wildfowl  are  plentiful  about  Mdder 
Bay,  and  still  more  numerous  farther 
soath  In  the  part  of  the  island  called  on 
that  account  Goose  Land.  At  Karma- 
kala,  eider-duck  of  two  kinds  abound  — 
the  common  cider  and  the  king-duck. 
Tbe  common  eider-duck  has  a  brownish 
plomage  in  July,  the  male  being  a  much 
more  showy  bird  than  the  female.  The 
kiog-dack  may  be  known  by  the  great 
Tellow  protuberance  at  the  base  of  the 
oilL  Eider-duck  in  this  locality  are  not 
easy  to  approach ;  but  when  they  have 
riseo  far  out  of  range,  they  have  a  habit 
of  fiyiog  ofiE  and  then  returning  to  recon- 
noitre the  intruder.  Even  after  a  good 
Ottmber  of  the  flock  have  thus  been 
knocked  over,  they  will  return  again  per- 
liaps  two  or  three  times,  and  I  have  in 
this  way  sometimes  bagged  nearly  the 
whole  (lock,  with  the  help  of  the  other 
gons.  A  teal,  which  I  take  to  be  the  pin* 
tail,  or  winter  teal,  is  also  common  on  the 
pools  of  Beacon  Island  in  Mdder  Bay, 
and  appears  to  breed  there ;  as  after  the 
main  flock  had  risen  from  the  pool  and 
fiowo  away,  a  number  still  remained  be- 
liiod,  and  instead  of  flying,  dived  and  re- 
iDaioed  a  long  time  under  water.  They 
are  very  quick  in  diving,  often  disappear- 
ing tbe  instant  they  see  the  flash  from  the 
guo,  and  thus  avoiding  the  charge  of 
sbot.  Those  that  I  got  were  not  of  full 
pinmage;  they  had  neither  the  wing 
feathers  nor  those  of  the  tail  fully  grown  ; 
beoce  I  conclude  that  they  were  young 
birds  bred  on  the  pond.  These  leal  when 
fall-grown  are  distinguished  by  long,  slen- 
der tail-feathers,  which  are  conspicuous 
astfaeyfly.  I  lost  one  of  those  I  shot, 
thanks  to  my  clumsy  friend  before  al- 
luded to,  who  insisted  upon  leavjng  it  in 
tbe  middle  of  the  pool  where  it  fell,  and 
going  on  to  another  place,  saying  that  the 
bird  would  have  drifted  ashore  by  the  time 
vereturned.  Knowing  that  no  well-argued 
proof  is  so  convincing  as  practical  demon- 
stration, I  determined  to  convince  my  im- 
petuous friend  that  he  was  wrong,  and 
went  on  with  him,  calling  his  attention  at 
the  same  time  to  the  burgomaster  gulls 
perched  on  distant  points,  and  taking  the 


precaution  to  bury  the  birds  which  I  had 
already  secured  deep  in  the  snow.  On 
returning  an  hour  afterwards  we  exhumM 
our  birds,  and  my  friend  commenced  to 
look  for  the  teal,  which  he  expected  to 
And  upon  the  shore ;  but  it  was  not  there, 
and  finally  was  discovered  on  the  rocks 
above,  half  devoured  by  the  voracious 
burgomasters,  who  had  made  off  directly 
we  came  in  sight. 

There  are  plenty  of  geese  and  swans  in 
the  region  about  Goose  Land,  but  they  do 
not  seem  to  frequent  the  neighborhood  of 
Karmakula  much;  perhaps,  being  shyer 
birds  than  the  eider-ducks,  they  have  been 
frightened  away  by  the  Samoyedes  from 
the  settlement.  Eider-duck  are  very  fond 
of  basking  in  the  sun  on  the  surface  of  a 
piece  of  floating  ice;  and  frequently,  when 
returning  to  the  ship  after  a  day's  shoot- 
ing, we  materially  added  to  our  bag  by 
just  running  the  boat  past  such  a  floe,  and 
firing  a  volley  into  the  flock  as  it  rose. 
It  is  always  well  to  have  a  cartridge  ready 
in  the  arctic  regions,  for  one  never  knows 
what  may  turn  up  at  any  moment. 

Concerning  the  Samoyedes,  much  in- 
formation was  collected  by  Professor  Nor- 
denskidld  during  his  voyage  along  the 
north  coasts  of  Europe  and  Asia,  from 
the  North  Sea  to  the  Pacific.  As  these 
little  people  may  prove  to  be  of  great  use 
to  the  sportsman  or  the  explorer,  it  may 
perhaps  not  be  out  of  place  here  to  re- 
peat some  particulars  as  to  their  mode  of 
life. 

We  encountered  some  half-dozen  fami- 
lies at  Karmakula,  where,  as  I  have  pre- 
viously mentioned,  they  have  been  settled 
under  the  auspices  ot  the  Russian  gov- 
ernment, in  wooden  houses  which  they 
inhabit  during  the  winter  — many  of  them 
moving  in  the  spring,  by  means  of  dog- 
sledges  and  boats,  to  other  parts  of  the 
country  where  they  may  more  successfully 
pursue  their  occupations  of  fishing  and 
hunting.  Occasional  parties  of  Samoy-' 
edes  also  visit  Nova  Zemla  from  the 
mainland  for  summer  hunting,  returning 
as  they  came  when  the  winter  closes  in. 
Stray  families  may  sometimes  winter  in 
Nova  Zemla  in  other  places  besides  Kar- 
makula—  and  indeed  I  know  that  a  fam- 
ily has  lived  for  several  years  past  on  the 
west  coast  of  Goose  Land ;  but  these 
cannot  be  called  permanent  settlements, 
and  a  castaway  crew  could  not  depend 
upon  finding  them. 

The  Samoyedes  do  not  as  yet  appear  to 
have  been  to  any  extent  converted  to 
Christianity,  their  religion  being  a  wor- 
ship of   rudely    executed  idols.     "The 


lOO 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN   NOVA  ZEMUL 


worst  aod  the  most  unartificiall  worke  that 
ever  I  saw,"  says  Stephen  Borrough,  in 
1556;  and  goes  on  to  say,  **  Some  of  their 
idols  were  an  old  sticke  with  two  or  three 
notches  made  with  a  knife  in  it.**  Most 
of  them  are  better  than  that,  however,  "  in 
the  shape  of  men,  women,  and  children 
very  grossly  wrought;  *'  and  to  these  they 
offer  sacrifice  of  various  animals,  smear- 
ing the  notches,  which  represent  the 
mouths  of  their  gods,  with  the  blood  of 
the  victims.  The  Olympus  of  the  Sa- 
moyede  deities  appears  to  be  Vaygats 
Island,  between  Nova  Zemla  and  the  main- 
land, where  large  plantations  of  those 
divinities  are  stuck  in  the  ground.  As  to 
the  sacrifices,  Stephen  Borrough  remarks : 
'*  There  was  one  of  their  sleds  broken  and 
lay  by  the  heape  of  idols,  and  there  I 
saw  a  deeres  skinne,  which  the  foules 
had  spoyled :  and  before  certaine  of  their 
idols  blocks  were  made  as  high  as  their 
roouthes,  being  all  bloody;  I  thought  that 
to  be  the  table  whereon  they  offered  their 
sacrifices,*'  etc.  From  Nordenskiold*s 
observations  we  learn  that  this  all  holds 
good  at  the  present  day;  and  that  they 
also  carry  small  idols  about  with  them  in 
their  sledges,  which  are  drawn  either 
by  dogs  or  reindeer.  Those  whom  we 
encountered  in  Nova  Zemla  had  no  rein- 
deer but  only  sledge-dogs,  with  which  they 
were  well  supplied — so  well,  that  they 
sold  us  six  for  our  use  in  Franz-Josef 
Land,  if  we  had  wintered  there.  It  is 
difficult  to  say  whether  they  worship  the 
idols  as  actual  gods  in  themselves,  or 
only  do  them  homage  as  representing 
something  beyond.  Professor  Norden- 
skiold  remarks  that  the  Russians  whom 
he  found  living  with  theSamoyedes  south 
of  Vaygats  Island  were  of  opinion  that 
there  was  no  material  difference  between 
the  Samoyede  bolvan  or  idol,  and  their 
own  holy  pictures  and  charms. 

The  Samoyedes,  except  in  rare  in- 
stances, are  always  represented  as  being 
friendly  to  Europeans.  Those  we  encoun- 
tered at  Karmakula  were  uniformly  civil 
and  obliging,  anxious  to  barter  their  furs 
and  skins  at  moderate  prices,  and  always 
ready  to  let  us  have  rides  in  their  dog- 
sledges  along  the  snow-foot  at  the  base 
of  the  cliffs.  When  we  arrived,  many  of 
them  came  on  board  at  once,  dressed  in 
their  finest  skins  and  colored  cotton 
cloths,  —  the  headman  coming  in  a  sepa- 
rate boat,  in  the  middle  of  which  he  sat 
cross-legged,  whilst  the  paddles  were  plied 
by  two  of  the  tribe.  They  thought  we 
had  on  board  the  Russian  officer,  who 


pays  them  an  annual  visit,  and  were  anx* 
ious  to  pay  their  respects  to  him  without 
delay.  One  old  man  was  very  much 
struck  with  the  huge  Newfoundland  do^ 
belonging  to  the  ship ;  a  beast  so  fat  and 
unwieldy  that  he  had  a  difficulty  in  walk- 
ing, especially  at  this  time,  as  he  had  just 
before  swallowed  two  loom-skins  —  feath- 
ers, beak,  and  all.  The  old  man  wished 
to  buy  the  dog,  and  pulled  out  a  heap  of 
silver  as  a  first  bid,  addin?  to  it  gradually 
till  he  had  spread  out  all  his  money,  which 
amounted  to  about  an  English  pound,  and 
finally  throwing  a  couple  of  his  own  dogs 
in :  nor  would  he  desist  till  with  great 
difficulty  he  was  made  to  understand  that 
the  dog  did  not  belong  to  any  individual 
but  to  the  ship,  and  that  he  might  just  as 
well  try  to  buy  the  mainmast. 

In  concluding  this  notice  of  the  sport* 
ing  aspects  of  a  visit  to  Nova  Zemla, 
undertaken  with  far  different  objects,  I 
can  only  hope  that  this  country,  much  of 
whose  coast,  and  nearly  the  whole  of 
whose  interior,  is  still  unexplored,  may  be 
more  often  visited  by  our  countrymen ; 
for  the  better  it  is  known  the  greater  will 
be  its  value  as  a  base  for  an  arctic  ex- 
pedition by  way  of  Franz-Josef  Land, 
which,  when  undertaken,  promises  to 
yield  a  success  which  has  not  as  yet  re* 
warded  the  efforts  to  attain  a  very  high 
latitude  by  other  routes.  By  familiarity 
with  this  land  and  its  surrounding  seas, 
we  should  gain  a  knowledge  of  the  move- 
ments of  the  ice  from  year  to  year,  which 
would  be  the  more  complete  in  proportion 
to  the  number  of  vessels  employed,  and 
the  more  valuable  in  proportion  to  its 
completeness  and  continuity.  At  present 
it  appears  that  from  July  till  the  end  of 
September  are,  as  a  rule,  the  ordinary 
limits  of  the  navigable  season,  which  may 
be  extended  or  contracted  according  as 
the  season  is  favorable  or  otherwise.  The 
establishment  this  year  of  fixed  winter 
meteorological  stations  in  various  parts  of 
the  arctic  lands  —  on  the  recommenda- 
tion, I  believe,  of  a  German  government 
committee  —  is  a  distinct  step  in  advance 
in  polar  exploration,  and  will  perhaps 
yield  more  valuable  scientific  results  than 
even  the  attainment  of  the  pole  itself. 
Apart,  however,  from  scientific  considera- 
tions, as  long  as  that  portion  of  the  earth's 
surface  remains  unvisited,  human  nature 
is  such  that  human  beings  will  always 
be  found  eager  to  be  the  first  to  plant  a 
flag  there ;  and  that  that  flag  should  be 
any  other  than  the  Union-jack,  heaven 
forbid  I 


A   POLISH  LOVE-STORY. 


lot 


From  Blackwood?  •  Macaxine. 
A  POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 

plot  following  narrative,  written  down  from 
the  lips  of  a  Polish  peasant  woman,  lays 
claim  to  nothing  hut  veracity,  and  may  serve 
to  enlighten  some  English  reader  on  the 
subjea  of  a  class  of  fellow-creatures  about 
whom  he  probably  knows  less  than  of  the 
Africin,  the  Patagonian,  or  the  Greenland 
Esquimaux.  The  Polish  peasant,  who  by 
his  own  countrymen  is  commonly  classed  as 
a  ''brute,"  and  is  by  the  rest  of  civilized 
Europe  dimly  understood  to  be  a  "  savage," 
can  do  no  better  than  speak  for  himself,  and 
be  judged  accordingly. 

I  am  far  from  asserting  that  loftiness  of 
tool  and  innate  refinement  are  the  common 
attributes  of  the  Polish  peasantry,  but  I 
maintain  that  striking  examples  of  these 
qualities  are  to  be  found  in  this  class  as  fre- 
quently as  in  any  other  class  of  any  other 
nation.  Every  care  has  been  taken  to  ren> 
der  into  English  the  exact  words  in  which 
the  story  was  originally  told :  if,  therefore, 
any  one  should  object  to  its  somewhat  ultra* 
romantic  vein,  I  can  do  no  more  than  refer 
him  to  the  particular  "savage"  who  is  vir- 
tually the  author  of  these  lines.] 


It  was  oo  an  early  day  of  the  month  of 

May  that,  with  a  book  in  my  hand,  I  made 
my  way  to  the  kitchen  garden.  More  than 
a  dozen  women,  for  the  most  part  young 
firls,  were  noisily  at  work  among  the 
OQshes  and  the  vegetable-beds ;  but  their 
iaoghiog  and  chattering  paused  at  my  en- 
tnace,  and  did  not  recommence  until, 
hmg  seated  myself  at  the  foot  of  an 
appl^tree,  I  appeared  to  be  engrossed  in 
By  book. 

My  book  did  not  engross  me  for  long : 
vitl)  a  carpet  of  daisies  at  my  feet,  a  roof 
of  apple-blossom  over  my  head,  and  the 
laughter  of  the  girls  ringing  in  my  ears,  it 
vas  difficult  to  keep  my  attention  to  the 
page  before  me.  I  looked  around  me: 
nost  of  the  workers  were  at  some  way  off, 
(dispersed  in  larger  or  lesser  groups. 
There  was  but  one  exception,  — a  woman 
vbo,  but  a  few  paces  from  me,  sat  crouch- 
jog  on  the  ground,  so  busy  with  the  sort- 
ing of  young  plants  that  she  seemed  not 
to  have  noticed  my  neighborhood. 

The  stray  voices  among  the  bushes 
''eached  me  in  distinct  sentences  now  and 
tbeo,  and  presently  a  phrase  attracted  my 
attention. 

'*WasyI  has  come  home  from  the 
anny." 

**  Yes,  Wasyl  has  come  home ;  and  what 
^11  Nascia  do,  now  that  he  is  back  ?  " 

'*Oaly  Saturday  last  she  accepted  the 
>^i   (brandy)    from   Stefan's    brides- 


men ;  *  and  yesterday  her  former  sweet 
heart  has  come  home.    What  will  she  do 
now?" 

And  a  chorus  repeated,  "What  will 
Nascia  do  ?  '* 

I  closed  my  book;  I  had  found  in  it 
nothing  so  interesting  as  this  question  of 
what  Nascia  was  to  do.  Why  look  for 
dramas  in  paper  and  print  when  they  were 
being  acted  close  to  me  in  flesh  and 
blood  ? 

"  Marysia,"  I  said  to  the  sorter  of  plants 
beside  me  —  for  I  knew  her  name  well,  — 
"  Marysia,  did  Nascia  love  Wasyl?" 

She  raised  her  eves  to  mine;  they  were 
large  black  eyes,  oeep  both  in  color  and 
in  expression.  Marysia  was  not  a  girl, 
— >she  was  a  woman  on  the  verge  of  fifty, 
toil-worn,  haggard,  and  meanly  clad,  but 
there  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  had  once 
been  beautiful.  Her  eyes  were  beautiful 
still. 

"  Love  ?  "  she  said  after  a  pause,  and 
with  a  certain  unexpected  irony  in  her 
voice.  "Do  the  girls  nowadays  know 
what  love  is?  Which  is  the  man  they 
love?  The  man  who  will  treat  them  to  a 
wddki  or  a  glass  of  beer,  or  who  buys 
them  a  ribbon  at  ihtjarmark  (fair).  That 
one  they  understand  how  to  love.  But 
when  he  is  gone,  any  other  is  as  good 
as  he.  That  was  not  the  sort  of  love 
which  the  great  God  put  into  my  heart 
long  ago." 

Marysia  said  this  in  a  lower  tone,  speak- 
ing half  to  herself;  and  as  she  said  it, 
her  eyes  seemed  doubly  beautiful  —  for  in 
a  moment  they  seemed  to  take  fire,  and 
shone  with  a  mixture  of  tenderness  and 
passion. 

Till  now  I  had  held  mv  book  in  my 
hand,  but  at  this  moment  I  laid  it  aside 
on  the  grass.  There  were  echoes  of  a 
drama,  it  seemed,  not  only  over  there 
among  the  bushes  —  there  was  a  heroine 
of  one  at  my  very  feet. 

"  Marysia,**  I  said  again,  almost  timid- 
ly, "  who  was  it  you  loved  when  you  were 
a  girl  ?  " 

**  Gracious  lady,  you  will  not  remember 
the  time,"  answered  Marysia,  "for  our 
master  was  then  a  young  cavalier,  and  it 
is  a  long  while  ago.  For  eigliteen  years 
I  was  married  to  another." 

"And  tell  me,  Marysia,  why  did  you 
not  marry  the  man  you  loved  ? ' 

*'  Why  did  I  not  marry  him?  Because 
he  was  taken  to  be  a  soldier.    But  why, 

*  The  bridesmcD,  or  friends  of  the  bridegroom  in 
s^tt  present  themselves  at  the  girl's  hut,  and  offer  tha 
wddki  to  her  and  her  parents.  II  she  drinks,  this  signi> 
fies  acceptance  of  the  suitor. 


103 


A  POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 


during  so  many  years,  I  could  not  forget 
him;  why,  being  the  wife  of  a  good  and 
honest  man  who  loved  me  —  why,  having 
six  children  whom  I  loved,  and  four  of 
whom  died  in  my  arms  —  why,  though  I 
toiled  every  day  from  daybreak  to  sunset, 
I  yet  could  not  take  from  my  memory  the 
picture  of  one  man,  •—  this  God  alone  does 
know.  That  love  which  I  found  in  my 
heart,  none  but  he  could  have  put  there. 

Marysia  was  silent  for  a  little,  and  went 
on  sorting  the  plants.  But  her  whole  face 
was  changed:  the  words,  which  she  had 
said  with  vehemence,  had  awakened  old 
memories,  and  presently  they  began  to 
throng  from  her  lips :  — 

We  were  children  when  we  began  to 
love  each  other,  Fedio  and  I.  The  hut  of 
my  parents  and  the  hut  of  his  parents 
stood  close  together:  there  was  nothing 
but  a  hedge  between  our  little  fruit-garden 
and  their  yard.  When  in  the  morning  I 
came  into  the  garden  to  look  for  the  fruit 
that  had  fallen  during  the  night,  Fedio 
would  be  waiting  for  me  at  the  hedge, 
ready  to  jump  over  and  help  me  to  pick 
up  the  fruit.  Then  we  sat  down  to  sort 
what  we  had  found,  and  it  was  always  the 
reddest  of  the  apples  and  the  softest  of 
the  pears  which  he  chose  out  for  my 
breakfast.  He  never  used  to  go  with  the 
other  boys  of  the  village,  but  played  only 
with  me  in  our  garden  or  in  the  yard  be- 
hind the  hut.  When  he  was  gone  to  herd 
the  cows  on  the  pastures,  how  sad  did  I 
feel  till  he  was  back  again  !  How  many 
hours  have  I  stood  at  our  gate  gazing  and 
gazing  along  the  road  that  he  was  to 
come  !  And  he  never  came  without  bring- 
ing something  that  he  had  found  for  me 
in  the  fields  or  in  the  forest.  Each  time 
It  was  some  other  toy,  a  bird*s  nest  or  a 
red  toadstool,  a  branch  of  blackberries,  a 
bunch  of  ripe  strawberries  —  or  if  the 
berries  were  not  ripe,  he  would  bi'ing  me 
flowers.  The  other  boys  jeered  at  him, 
but  he  let  them  speak,  and  was  not  angry; 
and  indeed  he  was  so  quiet  and  so  silent, 
that  one  might  have  thought  he  could  not 
get  angry.  But  once  I  saw  Fedio  angry. 
He  had  lost  a  cow,  and  stayed  in  the  for- 
est to  look  for  it.  I  was  watching  for  him, 
and  saw  the  others  come  back  without 
him,  and  I  was  frightened.  **  Where  is 
Fedio?'*  I  asked  of  a  second  cowherd 
who  had  gone  out  with  him  in  the  morn* 
ing. 

**Oho!"  the  boy  answered,  laughing, 
*'you  will  not  see  that  one  again.  He 
climbed  to  the  top  of  a  tree  to  gather 
cherries  for  your  supper;  but  crack  went 


the  branch,  and  down  came  Fedio  and 
cherries  together.  Who  knows  if  he  ever 
gets  up  from  the  ground  ?  " 

I  grew  as  cold  as  ice  as  he  spoke.  I 
could  not  move  a  step,  I  could  not  utter  a 
scream,  I  could  not  wring  my  hands  even ; 
but  I  remained  as  I  had  been,  standing  at 
the  gate,  looking  at  the  road,  and  the  other 
children  made  a  laughing  circle  around 
me,  and  pointed  at  me  with  their  fingers. 

At  last  Fedio  came  home  with  his  cow. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  had  not  been  able  to 
cry  before;  but  when  I  saw  him  unhurt,  I 
threw  myself  with  a  scream  on  his  neck 
and  sobbed  as  though  my  father  had 
beaten  me. 

Fedio  said  not  a  word  when  he  beard 
the  trick  they  had  played  me ;  but  some* 
thing  terrible  came  into  his  eyes,  and  be- 
fore any  one  could  stop  him,  he  had  seized 
the  second  cowherd  and  thrown  him  with 
such  strength  to  the  ground,  and  held  him 
there  so  tight,  with  his  hands  upon  the 
other's  throat,  that  the  boy  would  have 
been  strangled  had  we  not  quickly  parted 
them. 

From  that  day  none  of  the  village  chil- 
dren ever  did  me  any  harm,  for  they  began 
to  be  afraid  of  Fedio. 

As  we  grew  older,  and  I  became  a 
young  maiden  and  he  a  man,  we  passed 
all  our  time  together.  He  helped  my  par- 
ents in  the  farm-work,  for  my  brother  was 
still  a  child;  and  they  loved  him,  and 
called  him  son.  On  Sundays,  when  the 
music  came  to  the  village,  it  was  always 
with  Fedio  that  I  danced;  and  not  one  of 
the  other  3'oung  men  would  have  dared  to 
choose  roe  for  a  partner,  for  each  one 
knew  that  Fedio  would  have  killed  him. 
Oh,  gracious  lady,  if  you  could  only  have 
seen  how  beautiful  Fedio  was,  and  how 
well  he  danced!  Sometimes  the  others 
would  stand  still  and  make  a  circle  to 
watch  us  two  dance,  for  every  one  liked 
us  in  the  village.  There  was  only  one 
man  who  watched  us  with  a  gloomy  face. 
This  was  Ivan,  the  only  son  of  a  rich 
peasant ;  and  an  evil  spirit  had  given  that 
he  also  was  to  love  me.  His  bridesmen 
had  been  already  to  my  parents*  hut ;  but 
I  would  not  even  look  at  his  w6dki,  and 
so  they  had  gone  away  again.  Since  then 
Ivan  would  always  clench  his  fist  when  he 
saw  Fedio  and  me  together.  Every  one 
knew  that  he  w^ould  not  need  to  be  a  sol- 
dier, for  he  was  an  only  son,  and  he  was 
also  older  than  Fedio.  Fedio  was  just 
then  nineteen,  and  the  time  was  near  when 
he  must  be  taken  away.  We  could  not 
think  of  marrying  yet;  we  loved  each 
other  and  waited. 


A  POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 


»03 


One  daj,  I  remember,  we  were  working 
on  the  master's  corn-fields.  Fedio,  as 
usual,  was  working  by  my  side ;  and  every 
now  and  then,  when  no  one  was  looking, 
be  would  lay  some  of  his  corn  on  my  heap, 
so  as  to  make  it  look  larger.  For  this  was 
the  last  day  of  the  wheat  harvest;  that 
evening  we  were  to  go  in  procession  to 
the  roaster's  house,  and  the  girl  who  had 
cut  the  most  corn  was  the  one  who  should 
wear  the  corn-wreath  on  her  head,  and 
place  it  then  in  the  master's  hands.* 

The  sun  was  burning  very  hot  upon  the 
open  field,  and  I  was  thirsty.  Fedio  went 
away  to  the  wood  to  fetch  me  water  from 
the  stream ;  and  as  soon  as  he  was  gone, 
Ivan  approached  and  took  his  place.  At 
first  he  did  not  speak  to  me,  nor  I  to  him, 
but  at  last  he  said,  **  Marysia,  why  do  you 
turn  3'our  head  with  that  Fedio  ?  " 

*"  Which  Fedio?"  I  asked,  and  looked 
at  him  so  straight  in  the  eyes  that  he 
dropped  his  own  to  the  ground. 

•*  Fedio  Slecki." 

**  I  am  not  turning  my  bead  with  him ; 
I  love  him.** 

'*And  what  good  is  to  come  of  this 
love  ?  Very  soon  he  will  be  taken  to  the 
soldiers,  and  what  will  you  do  then  ?  " 

••I  shall  wait." 

'*  Marysia !  do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying?  That  waiting  will  not  be  one 
year  or  two,  but  eight :  you  will  be  old 
when  he  returns —  think  of  that." 

*•!  have  thought- of  it,"  I  answered, 
erowing  angry;  **and  what  is  it  to  you 
bow  long  1  may  wait,  or  bow  old  I  shall 
be?  What  makes  you  talk  to  me  of 
this  ?  " 

**But  if  you  should  wait  for  nothing, 
Marvsia?  If  Fedio  is  taken  to  the  war, 
and  does  not  come  back  ?  " 

As  he  said  it,  I  felt  a  pain  in  my  heart 
like  the  pain  of  a  knife  stabbing  me;  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  Fedio  would  not 
even  come  back  to  me  now  with  the 
water.  I  answered  nothing  more  to  Ivan, 
and  all  was  dark  before  my  eyes  till  Fedio 
returned  at  last  from  the  forest.  I  took 
the  water  from  his  hand,  and  drank  it  to 
the  last  drop.  My  face  must  have  been 
strange,  for  he  a^ked  if  I  were  ill:  the 
heat  bad  made  me  faint,  I  said. 

Very  near  to  us  there  was  working  the 
old  Zosia,  whom  you  must  know,  gracious 
lady  —  only  then  she  was  not  so  old  as 
she  is  now ;  but  she  was  not  a  young 
woman,  and  no  one  liked  her  in  the  vil- 

*  At  the  conclusion  of  the  harvest  of  each  grain,  a 
Ddnster  iRreath  of  wheat,  rye,  or  barley  is  made,  and 
placed  on  the  head  of  a  village  girl.  .The  master,  on 
leceivinf  it  from  facr,  gives  her  money  in  return. 


lage,  for  she  was  seen  much  with  the 
Jews.  This  Zosia  repeated  to  Fedio 
everything  of  what  Ivan  had  said  to  me. 
Happily  Ivan  had  left  the  field  already, 
for  if  Fedio  had  been  able  to  reach  him 
at  this  moment,  he  would  asfiuredly  have 
thrown  him  down  and  trampled  him,  as  he 
had  done  to  the  cowherd  when  we  were 
children.  But  after  that  he  got  quiet ;  and 
later  in  the  day  I  saw  that  his  anger  was 
gone  —  he  was  thinking  very  much,  and 
his  face  was  sad.  Perhaps  he  was  think- 
ing that  what  Ivan  had  said  might  come 
true. 

It  made  my  heart  sink  to  see  his  face; 
and  that  evening,  when  we  walked  along 
the  road  towards  the  master*s  house,  I 
could  not  laueh  and  talk  with  the  other 
girls.  I  could  not  feel  gay,  though  I 
knew  that  the  corn-wreath  had  been  kept 
for  me. 

Already  we  were  near  to  the  big  gates, 
when  Fedio  came  up  to  Ivan  and  spoke 
to  him.  He  was  not  angry,  but  his  voice 
sounded  so  strange  that  the  tears  came 
into  my  eyes  as  I  listened. 

'*  Why  did  you  say  to  my  Marysia  that 
I  shall  not  come  back  from  the  sol- 
diers ?  " 

"And  why,"  answered  Ivan,  "do  you 
call  her  your  Marysia?  She  will  belong 
to  the  man  to  whom  God  gives  her." 

Whether  they  said  more  I  could  not 
hear,  for  already  we  were  near  to  the 
house.  The  girls  put  the  wreath  on  my 
head,  and  began  to  sing  the  harvest- 
songs.  You  know  the  old  songs,  gracious 
lady :  — 

Our  mistress  is  proud  ; 

She  appears  on  the  threshold ; 

She  makes  her  keys  ring. 

And  thanks  God  the  harvest  is  over. 

The  master  is  not  at  home ; 
He  is  gone  to  Lw6w 
To  sell  the  grain, 
And  buy  tjMki  for  as. 

Make  use  of  thy  riches,  master ; 
Sell  thy  grey  cow, 
The  hen  with  the  chickens. 
And  buy  us  a  barrel  of  beer. 

Our  cock  has  white  feathers ; 
Our  master  has  black  eyebrows  ; 
He  goes  to  the  fields 
In  a  happy  moment. 

O  moon,  who  art  growing, 
Throw  light  on  our  road, 
That  we  should  not  go  astray. 
And  lose  our  wreath  I 


?<>4 


A   POUSH   LOVE'^TORY. 


At  oar  master's  house 

The  door  is  of  gold ; 

The  bench  is  also  of  gold  ; 

He  has  three  hundred  laborers  in  the  field. 

Harness  the  oxen ; 

We  shall  gd  to  the  forest 

To  cut  supports 

On  which  to  leatt  the  kopy,^ 

Little  quail, 

Where  wiirst  thou  hide? 
We  have  cut  the  wheat. 
And  have  arranged  it  in  kofy, 

'  The  meadow  has  told  us 
That  the  master  has  got  wSdki^ 
And  in  his  cellar  on  a  shelf 
Painted  glasses  to  drink  from. 

We  bring  you  the  harvest 

Of  all  your  fields ; 

We  wish  that  the  master  should  sow  again, 

That  we  should  reap  again  in  the  future.t 

The  girls  sang  this  song ;  but  I  did  not 
sing.  The  wreath  felt  so  heavy,  that  I 
thought  it  was  weighing  me  to  the  earth. 
I  could  scarcely  bear  it;  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  for  me  to  raise  my  head  from  my 
breast.  I  began  to  think  of  things  of 
which  I  had  never  thought  before:  for 
the  first  time  it  seemed  to  me  possible 
that,  though  our  love  was  as  old  as  our 
lives,  though  my  parents  called  him  their 
son,  yet  it  might  be  that  Fedio  and  I 
should  not  pass  our  lives  together.  I 
began  to  think  also  of  how  once,  when 
Fedio  had  wanted  to  kiss  me,  I  had  re- 
sisted him.  It  would  have  been  no  wrong, 
but  at  that  moment. I  had  felt  frightened 
of  myself:  if  I  had  loved  him  less,  I  might 
more  easily  have  allowed  him  to  kiss  me. 
This  had  happened«one  evening  not  long 
ago.  We  bad  been  standing  together  at 
our  gate,  and  on  the  road  there  waited  a 
cart  laden  with  wood  which  Fedio  was  to 
take  to  the  town.  The  moment  for  part- 
ing came.  Fedio's  father  called  to  us 
over  the  hedge,  saying  that  the  wood  was 
all  packed,  and  the  cart  ready.  We 
looked  at  each  other,  and  then  Fedio 
caught  me  in  his  arms,  held  me  on  his 
breast  one  moment,  and  would  have 
kissed  me ;  but  I  turned  my  head  aside, 
and  put  my  two  hands  over  my  face.  He 
still  held  me  in  his  arms,  and  a  minute 
passed  in  silence  ;  then  we  heard  his  fa- 
ther's voice  again  calling  out  louder  than 
the  first  time  that  the  wood  was  ready. 
Fedio  loosened  his  arms,  and  walked 
slowly  away  towards  his  cart. 

*  A  certain  number  of  sheaves  form  a  koptk, 
t  In  certain  districts  of  Poland  this  harvest-song, 
with  innumerable  additions,  is  always  sunKt  whether 
applicable  or  not  to  exisiing  circumstances. 


Although  I  was  the  strongest  and 
healthiest  girl  in  all  the  village,  I  was 
forced  at  this  moment  to  take  hold  of  the 
wooden  post,  or  else  I  should  have  fallen. 
I  looked  after  Fedio:  he  was  walking 
slowly  beside  his  cart;  his  head  was  bent 

—  he  was  crying. 

All  the  time  that  the  girls  were  singing 
the  harvest-songs  around  me,  and  all  the 
time  that  the  corn-wreath  pressed  down 
my  head,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but 
those  tears  of  Fedio,  and  of  how  he  would 
be  taken  to  the  war  and  might  not  come 
back  again,  and  I  had  not  wanted  to  kiss 
him.  Even  when  the  music  began  to 
play  and  we  to  dance,  I  still  thought  of 
this;  and  all  the  time  we  danced  I  looked 
at  his  face,  although  I  knew  very  well 
that  a  modest  girl  when  she  is  dancing 
should  not  look  at  her  partner,  but  only  at 
the  boards.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that 
even  if  I  were  to  die  for  it  In  the  very 
next  minute,  I  could  not  have  taken  my 
eyes  from  his. 

The  music  gave  me  no  pleasure,  Dor 
yet  the  supper  which  was  laid  for  us. 
When  no  one  was  watching  me,  I  stole 
out  of  the  room  and  went  home.  There 
I  stood  at  the  gate  and  waited,  for  I  knew 
that  Fedio  would  come. 

He  came  very  soon  —  sooner  than  I  ex- 
pected. We  were  quite  alone,  for  every 
one  who  was  not  at  the  great  house  had 
gone  to  bed.  All  around  me  the  village 
was  asleep.  As  Fedio  came  up  to  me  he 
took  o£E  his  cap  and  shook  back  his  hair, 
for  the  night  was  warm.  Oh,  gracious 
lady,  whatl)eautiful  hair  Fedio  had  then  1 

—  the  most  beautiful  hair  in  all  the  vil- 
lage, and  quite  different  from  Ivan*s  ;  for 
Ivan's  was  light  yellow,  and  cut  in  a 
straight  fringe  round  his  head,  while  Fe- 
dio's  hair  fell  in  black  curls  upon  his  fore- 
head and  his  neck. 

This  time  I  did  not  wait  for  him  to  say 
any  word  to  me,  nor  to  ask  why  I  had 
come  away  from  the  great  house;  but  I 
stretched  out  my  arms  and  put  them  round 
his  neck.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of 
how  I  had  not  wanted  to  kiss  him  that 
other  evening,  for  he  made  no  movement. 
But  I  put  my  face  close  to  his,  and  my 
lips  upon  his  lips,  and  I  kissed  him  of  my 
own  free  will.  And  at  that  moment  it 
seemed  to  me  that  not  even  the  Cesarw 
(emperor)  could  have  had  the  power  to 
part  us  1 

We  must  have  stood  a  long  time  that 
way,  I  don't  know  how  long.  I  only  know 
that  one  of  his  arms  was  round  my  waist, 
and  that  with  his  other  hand  he  stroked 
my  hair  as  a  mother  does  sometimes  to 


A  POUSH  LOVE-STORY. 


tos 


•oothe'her  crying  child  — for  I  was  cry- 
ing. We  did  not  speak  much,  and  in  my 
ears  there  were  not  ringing;  any  words  of 
Fedio's,  but  only  those  of  Ivan, ''  He  will 
be  taken  to  the  war." 

We  stood  at  the  gate  till  we  heard  the 
voices  of  those  who  were  returning  from 
the  great  house. 

From  that  evening  I  had  no  peace  :  just 
as  though  some  one  were  whispering  in 
my  ears,  I  heard  all  day  long,  '*  He  will 
be  taken  to  the  war." 

Not  many  days  later  my  mother  was 
sent  for  to  the  great  house.  I  do  not 
know,  gracious  lady,  whether  you  yet  re- 
nember  the  time  of  xh^ panszcaysne  (serf- 
dom). At  that  time  no  peasant  was  asked 
whether  or  not  he  would  take  service,  as 
we  are  asked  to-day;  but  all  at  once  the 
ikonom  (overseer)  would  appear  in  the 
but,  and  lead  away  those  whom  the  mas- 
ter had  chosen.  And  we  had  to  go  with- 
out saying  the  smallest  word.  But  in  our 
village  the  master  was  good  :  when  a  girl 
was  wanted  for  the  service,  it  was  the 
parents  who  were  sent  for  first.  We  were 
paid  in  money  and  in  linen,  and  the  mother 
herself  led  the  girl  to  the  great  house. 
This  was  much  better;  for  though  we 
koew  very  well  that  we  were  forced  to  go, 
yet  it  was  not  so  hard  to  go  with  one's 
mother  as  to  be  taken  by  the  ekonom. 

So  also  it  was  with  me.  When  my 
mother  returned  home,  she  told  me  that 
the  ladies  had  noticed  me  at  the  harvest 
feast,  and  that  I  was  to  go  for  a  year  to 
serve  at  the  great  house  cooking  for  the 
outdoor  servants. 

I  wrung  my  hands,  for  my  first  thought 
was  of  Fedio.  "When  must  I  go?*'  I 
asked.  It  never  even  came  into  my  mind 
to  think  that  I  might  escape  the  service. 

**I  have  begged  to  keep  you  till  to- 
morrow," said  my  mother. 

I  went  out  into  the  front  garden,  and 
stood  by  the  gate  waiting  for  Fedio.  I 
could  hear  that  he  was  working  in  the 
barn,  thrashing  corn  for  the  sowing. 

'*  Fedio ! "  1  called  at  last,  just  above 
my  breath. 

Immediately  he  came  out  of  the  barn 
tod  looked  around  him;  then,  in  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  sign  the  cross,  he  had 
jumped  ever  the  hedge  and  stood  beside 
me. 

^  Marysia !    You  are  crying  again  I " 

''Ob,  how  am  I  not  to  cry,  when  to- 
morrow I  shall  be  taken  to  serve  in  the 
great  house  I " 

He  answered  nothing  at  first.  Fedio 
never  spoke  much ;  only  he  clasped  one 
hand  inside  the  other  with  violence,  and 


stood  for  several  mitiutes  thus,  with  bis 
eyebrows  drawn  together.  Then  he  said 
quickly,  — 

"  You  cannot  be  there  alone." 

He  turned  round,  jumped  back  over  the 
hedge,  and  went  into  the  hut.  When  he 
came  out  again,  he  had  on  his  new  czapka 
(cap)  and  his  broadest  belt ;  and  without 
looking  round,  he  walked  away  along  the 
road. 

He  had  not  told  me  what  he  meant  to 
do;  but  the  cap  and  the  belt  made  me 
feel  sure  that  he  was  gone  to  the  great 
house. 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  work.  My 
mother  called  to  me  to  come  and  help  her 
with  threading  the  hemp;  but  I  did  not 
go,  and  waited  only  at  the  gate  for  Fedio'a 
return.  Half  an  hour,  perhaps,  1  waited; 
then  he  came  to  the  hedge  and  said,  — 

"  1  have  bound  myself  to  serve  in  the 
stable  of  the  oxen." 

And  then  he  went  into  the  barn,  and 
began  again  to  thrash  the  corn. 

My  heart  grew  light  within  me,  and  all 
at  once  the  service  in  the  great  house 
seemed  to  me  less  terrible. 

And  thus,  on  one  and  the  same  day, 
Fedio  and  I  entered  on  service. 

My  work  was  hard.  There  were  eigh- 
teen servants  to  cook  for,  water  to  carry, 
wood  to  cut,  dishes  to  wash,  —  so  much, 
that  often  I  did  not  know  where  to  begin. 
But  the  thought  of  the  evening  helped  me 
on.  Just  outside  the  kitchen  stood  a 
broad  stone;  and  in  the  evening,  when 
the  work  was  done,  we  would  sit  upon 
that  stone  together,  and  my  hand  rested 
in  Fedio's. 

In  the  great  house  they  begap  to  talk 
evil  of  us;  but  that  did  not  trouble  us, 
for  we  could  look  all  the  world  straight  in 
the  eyes  without  fearing.  Fedio,  when 
any  one  taunted  him  with  serving  only  for 
my  sake,  always  answered  that  it  was  so« 
Once  even  he  said  it  to  the  ekonom  him* 
self.     It  happened  thus:  — 

Tulka,  the  old  klucznica  (keeper  of  the 
keys  —  housekeeper),  was  hot-tempered 
and  strict,  and  her  tongue  always  ready  to 
scold.  One  day  my  patience  failed,  and 
I  answered  sharply.  Her  anger  became 
greater;  she  rushed  upon  me  as  if  she 
would  beat  me.  I  did  not  move,  but  I  said 
to  her,  — 

"  If  you  beat  me  I  shall  tell  the  master." 

While  I  spoke  the  ekonom  came  in, 
holding  a  riding-whip — for  he  had  just 
left  his  horse  outside.  Behind  him  stood 
Fedio.  The  angry  klucznica  began  to 
accuse  me ;  and  the  ekonom,  as  he  heard, 
came  towards  me  with  the  whip  raised  io 


to6 


A  POLISH  LOVE-STORY, 


his  band.  It  would  have  fallen  on  me 
had  not  Fedio  sprung  between,  and  cov- 
ered me  with  his  body. 

The  ekonoro  shouted,  "  What  is  this  in- 
solence ?  " 

**  It  is  not  insolence/'  answered  Fedio, 
quite  quietly;  **but  I  will  not  let  her  be 
beaten.  If  she  has  done  wrong,  beat  me. 
It  will  not  harm  me;  but  as  long  as  I  am 
alive,  no  one  shall  touch  herl  '* 

The  ekonom  lowered  his  whip.  **  Then 
it  is  true,  Fedio,  what  the  people  sav,  that 
you  are  serving  in  the  house  only  tor  her 
sake  ?  " 

**  It  is  true,  master;  and  if  you  want  to 
hurt  her,  you  must  kill  me  first." 

The  ekonom  began  to  laugh.  "Well, 
to  be  sure,  what  a  mighty  love  I  But," 
he  added,  as  he  looked  at  me,  "and  yet  it 
is  worth  his  while." 

And  that  is  how  the  matter  ended  ;  and 
from  that  day  Fedio  and  I  were  left  in 
peace.  It  was  a  happy  time,  and  almost 
did  I  forget  the  words  which  Ivan  had 
said;  but  soon,  very  soon,  was  I  to  be 
reminded  of  them. 

In  spring  the  recruits  were  called  in. 
There  came  a  long  register  of  those  who 
had  to  present  themselves  at  Brzezany, 
the  nearest  town,  and  on  that  list  there 
was  written  the  name  of  my  Fedio!  The 
terror  of  that  day  makes  me  tremble  even 
now.  Tulka  herself  — the  same  Tulka 
who  had  wanted  to  beat  me  —  could  not 
bear  to  see  my  face.  She  begged  of  the 
master  to  let  me  go  home  to  my  mother. 

It  was  three  days  before  I  learned 
Fedio's  fate.  Those  three  days  I  spent 
standing  at  the  gate,  where  I  had  so  often 
waited  tor  Fedio  when  we  were  children. 
All  day  long  I  stood  there,  staring  at  the 
road.  My  father  and  mother  wanted  me 
to  come  into  the  hut.  First  they  begged, 
and  then  they  scolded:  they  said  that  the 
people  would  make  me  their  laughing- 
stock. But  to  me  it  seemed  that  there 
were  no  people  in  the  world.  They 
brous[ht  me  some  milk  in  a  jug;  I  coulo 
not  swallow  it.  On  the  morning  of  the 
fourth  day  the  carts  came  back.  They 
passed  me,  one  after  the  other;  Fedio 
was  not  in  any  of  them. 

1  called  his  name  aloud. 

"They  have  kept  him,"  some  one  an- 
swered. "  They  have  dressed  him  in  the 
green  cloth  already,  and  they  have  cut  his 
hair." 

Something  within  me  seemed  to  break. 
I  turned,  and  took  two  steps  towards  the 
hut;  but  all  the  time  I  saw  nothing  but 
that  hair,  ^  that  beautiful  hair  that  I  had 
kissed  so  often,  and  now  falling  beneath 


the  scissors.  I  would  have  caught  those 
black  curls  as  they  floated  downwards;  I 
would  have  snatched  away  those  cold 
scissors,  that  flashed  so  cruelly  before  my 
eyes.  I  stretched  out  my  hand,  but  he 
who  held  the  scissors  turned  and  struck 
me  a  blow  on  the  forehead. 

The  air  grew  dark  before  my  eyes;  I 
fell  to  the  ground.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  I  had  been  insensible,  and  the  doctor 
said  to  my  mother,  "  A  great  illness  may 
come  of  it.'*  But  I  was  young  and  strong, 
and  the  great  illness  did  not  yet  come  for 
a  little  time. 

The  recruits  used  to  be  called  in  the 
month  of  March.  The  day  that  I  fell 
down  on  the  road  was  the  Monday  before 
Easter.  Outside  in  the  village  it  was  be- 
ginning to  grow  warm  again.  The  roadsr 
got  dry ;  the  people  came  out  of  their  huts, 
and  were  busy  raking,  digging,  and  plant- 
ing in  the  gardens.  1  shut  myself  into 
the  hut,  that  I  might  not  see  how  the  sua 
was  shining,  —  that  I  should  not  hear  how 
the  birds  were  singing. 

The  great  week  passed.  On  the  Holy 
Friday  my  mother  baked  the  loaves,  boiled 
the  eggs,  made  the  sausages,  laid  the 
cheeses  and  butter  in  saffron,  —  all  that  is 
done  at  Easter  in  a  peasant  house.  But 
I  not  only  did  not  help  her,  but  even  I 
could  not  look  at  her  working.  On  Sat» 
urday,  at  midday,  she  laid  all  the  things 
together,  and  covered  them  with  a  white 
linen  cloth,  ready  to  be  carried  on  Sunday 
to  church  for  the  blessing. 

On  that  evening,  as  I  sat  on  the  bench 
spinning  at  the  wool,  the  door  of  the  hut 
opened,  and  Fedio,  dressed  in  the  uniform 
of  the  lancers,  stood  jupon  the  threshold. 
The  sudden  joy  made  me  feel  giddy.  I 
had  to  cling  to  him  for  support ;  and  when 
the  giddiness  had  gone  off,  I  still  clung  to 
him.  And  we  sat  thus,  side  by  side,  on 
the  bench,  with  my  spindle  cast  upon  the 
ground. 

Gracious  lady,  you  will  scarcely  believe 
me,  and  yet  it  is  true  that  during  all  that 
night  we  never  moved  from  the  bench, 
and  scarcely  spoke  a  word,  but  only  held 
each  other  by  the  hand.  Once  or  twice 
in  the  dark  Fedio  whispered,  "  You  will  be 
mine."     But  that  was  all. 

At  that  time  the  men  had  to  serve  as 
soldiers  for  eight  years ;  and  eight  vearS| 
when  they  are  already  past,  are  like  a 
minute,  but  when  they  are  still  to  come, 
they  are  like  an  eternity. 

As  soon  as  the  light  came  in  by  the  win- 
dow, my  father  awoke  and  got  up ;  and 
when  he  saw  us  two  still  sitting  on  the 
bench,  he  said,  •— 


A  POLISH   LOVE-STORV. 


107 


•*  Oh,  my  poor  diildren  ! " 

But  Immediately  after  be  seemed  to  re- 
member something. 

"  Fedio,  tell  me,  have  you  leave  to  be 
here  ? »' 

**No,  I  have  no  leave;  no  one  knows 
that  I  left  Mikolaja.  But  I  had  to  come; 
1  could  not  do  otherwise.  If  1  had  stayed 
T  should  have  gone  mad  or  died,  for  on 
Sunday  at  eleven  we  are  to  march  away." 

My  father  clasped  his  hands  above  his 
head, — 

***  Fedio!   unhappy  man!    But  this  is 
Sunday  already  ! " 

He  did  not  speak  more,  but  dressed  and 
left  the  hut.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came 
back  and  said  to  Fedio,  — 

«•  The  cart  is  ready.  I  shall  drive  you. 
At  eleven  we  must  be  at  Mikolaja,  or  else 
Tour  punishment  will  be  hard.  I  have 
Deen  a  soldier,  and  I  know  it.  They  will 
beat  you  with  rods  I  " 

I  swear  to  you,  gracious  lady,  that  al- 
ready, as  he  spoke,  1  felt  those  rods  on  my 
shoulders  and  upon  my  heart. 

"  Fedio,  Fedio  ! "  I  screamed,  "go away 
quickly;  run,  fly  I  Why  are  you  here? 
For  what  good  aid  you  come?"  And  I 
was  so  strong  at  that  moment,  that  if  he 
had  resisted,  I  could  have  taken  him  in 
my  arms  like  a  child  and  thrown  him  into 
the  cart. 

When  we  reached  the  gate  Fedio 
stopped,  and  stretched  his  arms  towards 
the  second  hut. 

"  My  mother,  my  sisters !  I  had  forgot- 
ten them.     I  have  not  seen  them ! " 

"It  is  too  late  now,"  said  my  father; 
"get  in." 

Fedio  turned  to  me  again. 

"Fedio,  my  Fedio,  get  in  !  If  you  are 
late,  I  must  die.*'  And  1  pushed  him  with 
my  hands. 

•*  Hush,  children  ! "  said  my  father 
roughly,  but  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  his 
sleeve.  "Hush!  there  is  no  time  to 
waste."  And  the  cart  disappeared  on  the 
road. 

I  am  not  learned  in  books,  gracious 
lady,  and  therefore  I  cannot  explain  to 
you  what  it  was  that  happened  to  me 
when  1  saw  the  cart  no  more.  I  felt  as 
though  my  heart  were  fastened  by  a  cord 
to  those  wheels  which  were  taking  my 
Fedio  away  from  me  forever.  In  my 
bead  there  was  a  humming  noise;  but  I 
said  to  myself,  "  I  cannot  go  mad  till  my 
father  comes  back,  and  tells  me  whether 
Fedio  reached  in  time." 

The  people  were  going  to  church,  car- 
rying the  loaves  to  be  blessed.  I  heard 
my  mother's  voice  calling  me.    She  want- 


ed me  to  go  with  her ;  but  I  could  not. 
Why  ?  Because  something  had  made  me 
forsret  how  to  pray.  I  could  not  find  the 
beginning  of  the  prayer.  And  then  I 
grew  frightened,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that 
even  the  good  God  was  leaving  me  alone 
in  my  trouble.  Why,  then,  should  I  go  to 
church  ? 

While  every  one  was  praying  to  God,  I 
lay  on  my  face  in  the  garden,  and  pressed 
my  brow  against  the  cold,  damp  earth ; 
for  the  fire  that  was  burning  in  my  head 
had  dried  up  all  the  tears. 

That  evening  my  father  was  not  back, 
and  he  was  not  back  next  morning;  he 
was  not  back  at  midday.  The  fire  in  my 
head  passed  into  my  eyes.  I  could  re- 
member nothing.  I  had  forgotten  how 
Fedio  had  come,  how  he  had  gone,  that  he 
might  be  too  late.  I  only  remembered 
that  I  must  sit  here  and  wait  for  my  fa« 
ther. 

In  the  evening  I  still  sat  by  the  gate, 
and  with  my  hands  I  held  my  head,  for  it 
was  as  big  as  a  barrel.  I  saw  my  father 
coming,  but  he  was  not  in  the  cart;  he 
was  on  foot,  weary  and  dusty,  and  with 
only  the  whip  in  his  hand.  When  I  saw 
him  I  remembered  again  all  at  once  what 
had  passed — that  Fedio  had  been  and 
had  gone,  that  he  might  have  come  too 
late,  that  the  fire  in  my  head  must  not 
burn  me  until  I  knew  that  he  would  not 
be  punished. 

I  remember  getting  up  from  the  door- 
step and  staggering  towards  my  father; 
but  I  forget  whether  I  asked,  or  whether 
he  spoke  first:  — 

"  We  came  in  time.  No  one  knows  that 
he  was  here.  They  have  marched  to  Olo* 
munca." 

The  fire  in  my  head  broke  out  of  it  and 
rose  in  the  air.  Like  a  pillar  I  fell  down 
at  my  father's  feet.  For  the  second  time 
I  was  insensible. 

When  I  awoke  again,  the  cherries  were 
red  in  our  garden,  and  the  people  were 
working  at  the  potatoes  —  for  this  time 
the  great  illness  had  come.  Eight  Sun- 
days had  passed  since  the  day  of  my  fa- 
ther's return.  My  mother  told  me  that 
the  doctor  had  said  I  would  die;  but 
the  great  God  is  a  better  doctor,  and  he 
said  I  was  to  live.  She  also  told  me  that 
when  my  father  had  taken  Fedio  to 
Mikolaja,  one  horse  had  dropped  dead  with 
fatigue.  The  other  was  lame  ;  so  he  had 
sold  it,  with  the  cart,  to  the  Jews,  and 
came  home  with  the  whip  alone  in  his 
hand. 

When  I  awoke  after  those  eight  weeks, 
I  asked  myself  what  now  was  I  to  do  with 


loS 


A   POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 


my  life,  what  now  was  I  to  do  with  my- 
self? The  people  were  changed;  the 
village  so  empty  and  silent;  the  fields, 
the  woods,  were  so  dreary  ;  the  garden 
so  sad;  and  the  cherries  did  not  taste 
sweet  like  other  years.  The  hut  was 
dark,  and  the  sun,  even  though  it  was 
June,  shone  now  so  weak  and  cold.  My 
mother  cried;  my  father  grew  sick  and 
fretful.  Poverty  came  into  our  hut.  My 
illness  had  cost  much  money  and  the 
horses  were  gone.  My  parents  had  never 
been  rich,  and  when  so  much  evil  had 
come  upon  them,  they  were  forced  to  go 
to  the  Jews.  With  the  horses  they  had 
gained  money;  now  there  were  no  horses, 
and  no  more  money  to  be  gained.  At 
the  harvest  they  could  not  have  gone  to 
the  fields  if  Ivan  had  not  lent  his  cart. 
But  this  helped  us  but  little,  and  the  farm 
began  to  sink. 

My  father  clenched  his  teeth  and  never 
spoke.  I  was  useless ;  my  mother  herself 
could  think  of  no  help. 

At  last  the  kumy  (godparents)  began  to 

five  advice.    I  was  in  the  kitchen,  and  I 
card  how  they  said,  — 

**  You  must  marry  your  daughter." 

And  my  mother  answered,  — 

**  There  is  no  other  help  for  it ;  Marysia 
must  be  forced  to  take  Ivan." 

My  knees  shook  under  me ;  for  I  knew 
that  though  my  parents  loved  me,  yet 
hunger  is  stronger  than  love  and  pity. 

I  went  into  the  yard ;  from  the  yard 
I  went  on  to  the  road,  fronv  the  road  to 
the  fields,  and  then  from  the  fields  I  went 
higher  and  higher  until  I  came  to  the 
wood.  I  sat  down  on  the  ground,  and 
said  to  myself  that  whatever  might  hap- 
pen I  would  not  go  back  to  the  hut. 

It  was  already  quite  late  in  the  night 
when  I  heard  the  voice  of  Ivan  calling 
me,  and  also  the  voice  of  my  father. 

I  held  my  breath  and  did  not  move; 
and  later  on  I  heard  their  voices  again, 
far  off  in  the  wood.  We  were  in  au- 
tumn already,  and  the  nights  were  long 
and  cold,  and  I  had  come  out  just  as  I 
was,  in  my  linen  shirt  and  petticoat.  I 
was  so  cold  that  I  could  scarcely  move. 
I  meant  to  sit  there  as  long  as  it  was 
dark,  and  then  to  walk  on  higher  and 
higher,  until  I  came  to  where  lived  good 
people  who  would  tell  me  the  road  to  Olo- 
munca. 

Towards  morning  I  fell  asleep.  In  my 
dream  it  seemed  to  me  that  some  one 
was  pulling  me  by  the  hands ;  and  when 
I  opened  my  eyes,  I  saw  my  father  and 
Ivan  bending  over  me.  My  father  was 
10  great  anger. 


"You  good-for-nothing!"  he  shouted; 
"  is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  made  me 
a  beggar,  but  must  you  still  drag  me  from 
my  bed  to  search  the  wood  for  you  at 
night,  sick  and  weak  as  I  am  ?  " 

His  voice  was  raised  to  a  shout,  but  I 
answered  nothing. 

He  spoke  again,  — 

**  Why  did  you  leave  the  hut  ?  Who 
has  done  you  harm  ?  " 

I  knelt  down  at  my  father's  feet  and 
told  him  how  I  had  heard  what  the  Vm* 
my  had  said,  and  what  my  mother  had 
answered.    I  prayed  to  him, — 

"  Father,  I  cannot  go  to  this  one,  for 
I  love  the  other." 

"  You  love  the  other  ?  And  what  means 
this  love  ?  Is  it  witchery  ?  It  is  time  you 
should  forget ! " 

"  I  shall  never  forget."  And  I  raised 
my  hands. 

My  father's  anger  became  terrible.  Ho 
began  to  curse  Fedio,  and  the  hour  when 
first  he  had  called  him  son.  The  words 
which  he  said  were  so  fearful  that  they 
raised  the  hair  on  my  head,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  all  those  things  were  to  happen 
to  Fedio  which  my  father  said  as  he  cursed 
him. 

"Father!"!  cried,  and  with  my  arms 
I  clasped  his  knees,  "  I  will  do  all  you 
command  —  I  will  marry  whom  you  will; 
but,  for  the  love  of  God,  do  not  curse  my 
Fedio ! " 

"You  shall  marry  because  you  must. 
This  day  Ivan  shall  yet  speak  to  the 
priest." 

Ivan  bent  over  me, — 

"  Get  up,  my  Marysia !  Come  back  to 
the  hut;  the  night  has  been  so  cold,  and 
you  will  be  ill  again." 

Just  see,  gracious  lady,  how  strong* 
we  poor  women  are.  I  did  not  die  that 
day ;  I  was  able  to  get  up  and  walk  home, 
even  though  I  knew  that  I  was  to  be 
married  to  another  man  than  the  one  I 
loved. 

Two  Sundays  later  my  wedding  with 
Ivan  was  held.  I  looked  on  it  as  though 
it  were  the  wedding  of  a  stranger.  Yoir 
know,  gracious  lady,  that  it  is  the  custom 
with  us  for  the  bridegroom  to  ransom  the 
bride  with  money  from  the  young  girls  of 
the  village.  For  this  he  must  throw  the 
money  on  the  table,  behind  which  she  sits 
with  the  girls  around  her;  and  then  he 
leaps  over,  and  when  he  has  dispersed 
them,  he  kisses  her;  and  as  the  girls  draw 
back,  the  married  women  advance  and 
claim  her  as  their  sister. 

It  came  to  this  ceremony;  Ivan  flung 
down  the  money,  and  stood  by  my  side. 


A   POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 


109 


The  girls  stepped  back;  his  arm  was 
round  my  waist. 

At  that  moment,  as  I  turned  my  head 
aside,  I  saw  standing  right  in  the  middle 
of  the  hut  the  figure  of  Fedio;  almost  it 
seemed  to  me  that  he  was  weeping.  I 
tore  myself  away  from  Ivan,  knocked  over 
the  bench,  and  sprang  to  the  middle  of 
the  room,  but  the  figure  was  gone;  and 
without  a  word,  I  threw  myself  into  the 
second  room,  and  fastened  the  door  be- 
hind me. 

My  father  became  furious,  and  ordered 
me  to  open,  threatening  to  have  the  door 
knocked  to  pieces;  and  perhaps  he  would 
have  done  it,  had  not  Ivan  stopped' him. 
1  beard  how  he  said, — 

**She  is  already  my  wife,  and  I  do  not 
choose  to  take  her  by  force." 

The  wedding  feast  could  not  be  fin- 
ished ;  the  guests  all  dispersed. 

I  remained  thus  locked  up  till  the  mid- 
dle of  next  day.  I  could  hear  how  my 
father  was  cursing,  how  my  mother  was 
cr)ing,  how  the  godparents  were  saying 
that  the  priest  should  be  sent  for;  but 
Ivan  answered, — • 

"The  priest  has  already  done  what  he 
has  to  do.  She  is  my  wife  now;  leave 
her  alone.  Would  you  have  me  lead  her 
to  my  hut  by  forcer  Some  day  she  will 
come  to  me  herself.  Why  should  you 
judge  between  her  and  me  ?  Of  what  dp 
you  complain  ?  1  shall  work  your  ground 
as  though  it  were  my  ground.  I  shall  look 
after  the  farm  as  long  as  her  brother  is  a 
child ;  only  do  not  trouble  her." 

And  mv  parents  at  last  gave  me  peace. 

That  afternoon  my  father  went  off  with 
a  load  of  wood,  my  mother  went  out  to 
the  fields  to  dig  up  potatoes,  and  Ivan 
alone  remained  in  the  hut. 

All  this  I  saw,  for  from  the  window  of 
the  little  room  I  could  see  each  person 
who  passed  out.  After  a  time  Ivan  came 
to  my  door. 

"  Marysia,  what  are  you  doing  all  alone  ? 
Would  you  be  ill  again  ?  This  is  the  sec- 
ond day  that  you  have  eaten  nothin?. 
Why  are  you  afraid  of  me  ?  I  want  only 
that  you  should  drink  some  milk  and  eat 
some  white  bread  which  I  have  brought 
you  from  the  town." 

Not  for  bis  prayers,  but  because  of  my 
hunger,  I  opened  the  door;  for  thus  the 

freat  God  has  arranged  the  world,  that 
owcver  unhappy  we  be,  we  yet  must  eat. 
Ivan  put  down  on  the  table  a  bowl  of 
iasi.i  and  milk,  laid  beside  it  a  piece  of 
white  bread,  and  then  he  turned  and  left 
the  hut. 
I  ate  a  little  of  what  he  had  brought 


me ;  then  I  took  up  a  spade  and  followed 
my  mother  to  the  potato-field.  On  the 
field  1  found  Ivan  with  my  mother.  I  did 
not  even  say  to  them,  '*God  give  yoa 
luck,"  as  we  always  say,  but  quite  silently 
I  began  to  dig  up  potatoes,  and  they  too 
were  silent  towards  me. 

In  the  evening  Ivan  went  to  fetch  a  cart 
for  carrying  the  potatoes  home.  There 
were  five  sackfuls,  and  they  were  large 
and  heavy.  The  thought  came  into  my 
mind,  "  How  good  it  would  be  to  seize 
the  heaviest  of  those  sacks,  to  strain  my- 
self and  die!"  Today  I  know  that  that 
thought  was  wrong;  but  then  I  did  not 
think  so,  and  God  will  assuredly  not  have 
counted  it  as  evil,  for  he  knew  that  mv 
great  pain  had  darkened  my  understand- 
ing. 

I  took  hold  of  the  largest  sack,  and  with 
all  my*  strength  I  fiung  it  on  the  cart. 

Ivan  wrung  his  hands ;  and  then,  mov- 
ing aside,  he  bent  quickly  over  the  next 
sack,  and  shook  it  out,  so  that  all  the  po- 
tatoes were  spilt  over  the  ground. 

I  turned  and  went  home  through  the 
village.  Ivan's  hut  stood  on  my  road,, 
but  I  looked  away  as  I  passed  it,  and 
walked  straight  to  the  hut  of  my  parents. 
Then  I  drank  a  little  cold  milk,  and  shut- 
ting myself  up  as  before,  I  went  to  sleep. 

As  the  days  passed,  my  life  remained 
the  same  as  it  had  been  before  my  mar- 
riage. Ivan  said  not  a  word;  be  cfid  not 
grow  angry,  and  he  did  not  allow  that  my 
father  should  be  angry  with  me.  Every 
morning  he  came  to  the  hut  and  helped 
in  the  household;  he  worked  in  the  gar- 
den and  in  the  fields;  he  settled  all  dif- 
ficulties; he  watched  over  my  parents. 
It  was  always  Ivan  who  took  care  that 
there  should  be  salt  in  the  salt-box,  and 
grease  in  the  grease-tub. 

I  also  was  forced  to  work,  for  my  mother 
had  grown  feeble.  Often  I  arranged  the 
household  matters  together  with  Ivan; 
and  often,  too,  we  went  together  to  herd 
the  cattle;  but  never  once  did  he  remind 
me  that  we  were  man  and  wife. 

In  this  way  the  winter  came.  Of  my 
Fedio  there  had  been  no  word  of  news ; 
and  yet  his  image,  instead  of  growing 
fainter,  always  grew  stronger  in  my  heart. 
In  the  evening,  after  I  had  said  my  last 
prayer,  after  the  thought  of  God  there 
still  came  the  thought  of  Fedio;  and  ia 
the  morning,  when  scarcely  my  eyes  were 
opened,  before  the  thought  of  God  there 
came  again  the  thought  of  Fedio.  The 
good  God  was  not  angry  with  me  for  this ; 
for  the  love  that  was  in  my  heart,  it  was 
he  himself  who  put  it  there. 


96 

deer-skin  folds  of  which,  and  in  their 
wooden  huts,  they  were  hospitably  enter- 
tained during  the  long  winter  by  their 
kind-hearted  little  hosts.  The  crew  of 
another  Russian  schooner  was  left  to  win- 
ter on  the  south  part  of  Nova  Zemla  by 
their  vessel  being  beset  during  the  gale, 
and  carried  bodily  away  to  sea,  whilst  they 
were  all  on  shore;  and  these  men  were 
also  well  looked  after  by  the  Samoyedes. 
Some  few  of  the  schooners  devote  them- 
selves almost  entirelv  to  walrus,  seals,  and 
bears ;  and  these  either  go  very  far  north, 
following  the  retreating  pack  till  driven 
south  again,  or  else  keep  round  on  the 
east  coast  altogether,  which  being  gen- 
erally in  great  measure  frozen  up  all  the 
year  round,  is  the  best  place  to  find  the 
game  they  are  in  search  of. 

If  one  really  wishes  to  take  part  in  a 
white  whale  hunt,  it  is  necessary  to  have 
either  a  properlv  fitted  whale-boat,  or  a 
walrus-boat,  so  that  when  the  whale  has 
been  struck,  his  runs,  plunges,  and  sharp 
doublings  may  not  either  capsize  or  swamp 
it.  The  Russian  schooners  at  anchor  in 
some  sheltered  bay  always  keep  a  party 
of  men  on  the  look-out  on  some  elevated 
place  near,  where  they  constantly  remain 
till  relieved  by  others  from  their  ships. 
They  generally  build  a  hut  of  drift-wood 
and  stones,  or  pitch  a  tent  near  their  look- 
out-place, or  else  they  would  have  a  bad 
time  of  it  when  the  keen  wind  blows 
strong,  and  during  the  cold  nights  when 
the  sun  sets  low  down  towards  the  hori- 
zon. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  the  white 
whale  in  the  flesh  was  made  on  the 
"  snow-foot "  at  the  base  of  the  cliffs  be- 
lotv  the  Samoyede  settlement  at  the  head 
of  Karmakula  harbor,  having  previously 
encountered  by  the  hundred  their  moul- 
derini{  skeletons  scattered  along  the  beach 
in  various  parts  of  the  island,  picked  re- 
markably clean  by  the  burgomaster  or 
glaucus  gull,  that  greedy  scavenger  of  the 
arctic  regions.  On  the  stretch  of  snow- 
ice  in  question  there  were  ranged  the  bodv 
ies  of  half-a  dozen  tvhite  whales,  varying 
from  six  to  sixteen  feet  in  length  ;  the 
young  ones  being  of  a  brown  color,  and  the 
adults  white,  which  was  seen  to  be  tinged 
with  yellow  by  contrast  with  the  snow  on 
which  they  lay.  Their  very  fine  dolphin- 
like lines  are  well  depicted  in  many  works 
on  natural  history,  the  great  peculiarity 
of  their  appearance  bein^  given  by  the 
odd  profile  of  the  concave  forehead,  which 
ends  in  a  projecting  upper  lip  or  jaw; 
thence  the  mouth  takes  an  upward  direc- 
tion, whilst  the  chin  slopes  quickly  off  to 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN  NOVA  ZEMLA. 


the  under  surface  of  the  body.  The' 
diminutive  eye  adds  the  finishing  touch 
to  a  countenance  expressive  of  that  silli« 
ness  and  indecision  of  character  which  is 
amply  exemplified  by  the  behavior  of  the 
creature  when  beset  by  the  hunters.  Hear- 
ing a  snarling  sound  behind  one  of  the 
carcasses,  I  went  up  to  discover  the  cause, 
and  was  surprised  to  see  a  young  polar 
bear  making  off  with  a  large  piece  of  o£Fal 
in  his  mouth,  and  smeared  from  head  to 
foot  with  gore,  grumbling  loudly  to  him- 
self as  he  shambled  off  at  having  been 
disturbed  at  his  meal.  We  afterwards 
cameupon  this  bear  having  his  dessert  in 
the  Samoyede  cooking  tent,  surrounded 
by  a  group  of  admiring  and  envious 
Esquimaux  dogs,  with  whom  he  appeared 
to  be  a  great  favorite  on  the  whole.  Hav- 
ing finished  his  food,  and  then  licked 
one  of  the  dogs  from  head  to  foot  —  per* 
haps  by  way  of  cleaning  his  tongue  —  he 
adjourned  to  the  Samoyede  living-tent, 
where  he  speedily  settled  down  amongst 
the  children  and  furs,  and  went  peacefully 
to  sleep. 

We  had  long  wanted  to  see  some  white 
whale  captured,  and  were  often  startled 
by  great  excitement  amongst  the  schoon- 
ers whenever  the  preconcerted  signal  was 
made  from  the  look-out  station  indicating 
that  the  " fish  "  were  approaching;  but  as 
yet  the  whales  had  never  actually  come 
within  the  limits  of  the  bay.  At  length 
our  chance  came.  A  day  or  two  before 
the  '*  Hope "  left  Karmakula  the  signal 
was  made  from  the  look-out  station,  and 
soon  it  was  seen  from  the  schooners  that 
the  whales  had  actually  passed  the  outer 
headlands.  Instantly  all  was  excitement 
and  bustle  on  board  the  schooners  to  get 
the  boats  away  with  the  least  possible 
delay,  the  men  working  at  their  hasty 
preparations  with  a  suppressed  excite- 
ment which  was  highly  infectious.  Some 
of  us  happened  at  the  time  to  be  returning 
to  the  ship  from  a  duck-shooting  expedi- 
tion, so  we  followed  the  Russian  boats  as 
hard  as  we  could,  finding  it  difficult  in 
our  little  din^^y  to  keep  anywhere  near  the 
large  walrus-boats  propelled  by  the  strong 
arms  of  their  excited  crews.  Following 
them  towards  the  entrance  of  the  harbor, 
we  arrived  some  time  after  they  had  got 
to  work,  and  found  that  they  had,  by  care- 
ful driving,  succeeded  in  forcing  the 
whales  into  a  bight  on  the  north  side  of 
the  anchorage,  and  were  now  hastily 
spreading  a  large  strong  net  across  the 
entrance  to  it.  The  net  was  only  ten 
feet  deep,  floating  by  means  of  wooden 
chocks,  so  that  its  upper  edge  came  within 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN  NOVA  ZEMLA. 


97' 


a  few  feet  of  the  surface.  The  depth  of 
the  water  being  many  fathoms  more  than 
that  of  the  net,  we  now  made  sure  that 
the  whales  would  easily  escape  under- 
neath them,  and  watched  the  proceedings 
with  keen  interest,  joinin^r  in  the  sport  as 
occasion  offered,  by  pulling  towards  any 
point  where  we  perceived  that  assistance 
was  needed.  No  sooner  was  the  net 
stretched  across  than  we  saw  occasional 
jets  of  feathery  spray,  and  then  white- 
looking  objects  turning  leisurely  over  in 
the  water.  I  had  seen  these  white  objects 
vaguely  for  some  time ;  but  so  slowly  did 
they  turn,  and  so  similar  were  they  in 
color  to  the  many  blocks  of  floating  ice, 
that  It  was  some  time  before  I  realized 
the  fact  that  these  were  the  whales.  The 
boats  now  again  began  driving  the  whales 
towards  an  indentation  in  the  coast  of  the 
small  bight  which  they  had  already  guard- 
ed by  the  net,  beating  on  the  gunwales 
with  stretchers  or  oars,  and  pulling  lustily 
towards  any  point  which  seemed  to  be 
threatened  with  a  sortie  from  the  enclosed 
prey,  which  were  so  easily  turned  by  these 
means  that  in  a  very  short  space  of  time 
they  were  nearly  all  got  together  in  the 
desired  place,  and  a  second  net  promptly 
run  out  from  shore  to  shore.  The  whales 
between  the  two  nets  were  now  almost 
disregarded,  a  single  boat  only,  assisted 
by  us  in  our  dingy,  being  left  to  see  that 
they  did  not  get  through  any  possibly 
unguarded  spots,  and  the  attention  of  the 
rest  of  the  boats  was  turned  exclusively 
towards  those  within  the  last  net  laid 
out.  This  net,  like  the  first,  was  a  very 
long  way  indeed  from  being  on  the  bot- 
tom, and  why  the  whales  did  not "  sound  " 
and  pass  out  beneath  them  both,  is  not 
apparent.  It  can  only  be  supposed  that 
their  custom  is  to  keep  always  near  the 
surface,  and  perhaps  they  are  not  blessed 
with  the  keenest  of  vision,  as  their  small 
eyes  seem  to  indicate;  at  any  rate,  un- 
less  they  are  very  stupid,  very  blind,  or 
very  frightened,  or  perhaps  all  three  com- 
bined, one  would  naturally  suppose  that 
they  would  escape  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Not  so,  however;  for  presently  a  whale 
gets  entangled  in  the  net,  straining  and 
struggling  till  one  would  think  the  whole 
fabric  would  burst  —  beating  the  sea  into 
foam,  as  ever  and  anon  he  throws  his 
great  tail  and  shiny  white  back  out  of  the 
water.  A  boat  swiftly  approaches,  the 
bowman  standing  with  weapon  poised  in 
both  hands,  ready  for  a  throw;  and  watch- 
ing his  opportunity,  as  the  snowy  back 
again  emerges  from  the  waves,  the  skilful 
harpooneer  buries  the  barbed  point  deep 

LIVING   AGE.  VOL.  XLIV«  2243 


in  the  victim's  flesh  A  mighty  plunge,  a 
billow  of  foam,  and  a  crimson  stain  upon 
the  water,  show  that  the  weapon  has 
struck  home.  The  harpooneer  pulls  out 
the  wooden  shaft  as  the  onrsmen  back 
astern,  and  the  barb  is  left  embedded. 
By  means  of  the  attached  line  the  poor 
beast  is  slowly  but  surely  pulled  to  the 
surface;  his  struggles  become  gradually 
fainter  as,  drowning  and  bleeding,  he  re- 
ceives the  fatal  lunges  with  the  lance 
which  the  harpooneer  is  now  administer- 
ing, striking  through  the  back  of  his  head  " 
into  the  brain.  Spouts  of  blood  have  now 
taken  the  place  of  the  feathery  clouds  he 
was  so  sportively  throwing  up  but  a  short 
time  ago;  and  as  he  lies  wallowing  in  his 
gore,  he  is  disentangled  from  the  net, 
lashed  underneath  the  stern  of  the  boat, 
and  towed  on  shore,  where  he  is  secured 
by  a  rope  and  grapnel,  and  left  for  the 
present.  Not  all  the  whales  are  killed 
thus,  however.  Many  keep  quite  clear  of 
the  net,  and  have  to  be  harpooned  in  the 
ordinary  way,  when  the  finest  sport  is 
afforded  —  the  sharp  doublings  of  the 
stricken  animal  testing  to  the  utmost  the 
strength  and  stability  of  the  best-built 
boat.  Sir  Henry  Gore-Booth  —  who  will, 
I  hope,  forgive  me  for  recording  his  prow- 
ess —  himself  harpooned  and  killed  three 
at  least  in  the  open,  having  pulled  up, 
directly  he  saw  what  was  going  on,  in  his 
walrus  boat,  which  he  had  brought  with 
him  in  his  little  ketch,  the  "  Kava."  This 
keen  sportsman  was  ever  to  the  front 
when  large  game  were  to  be  got  at,  and 
seldom  missed  a  kill  when  a  chance 
offered.  On  that  day  no  less  than  twenty- 
five  white  whale  succumbed  to  the  har- 
poons of  the  Russians,  who  were  hugely 
delighted  at  their  good  fortune,  and  cele- 
brated the  occasion  with  uproarious  mirth^ 
that  night  on  board  their  schooners. 

No  article  professing  to  treat  of  sport 
in  Nova  Zemla  would  be  complete  with- 
out some  mention  of  the  walrus  —  or,  as 
it  is  often  called,  the  sea-horse  —  though 
this  animal  has  now  become  so  rare  in 
the  more  easily  accessible  parts  of  the 
coast  that  we  only  saw  two  the  whole  time 
we  were  in  Nova  Zemla.  As  the  walrus 
yields  a  by  no  means  insignificant  trophy 
in  its  pair  of  tusks  of  splendid  ivory,  and 
is,  moreover,  not  particularly  easy  to  kill, 
of  course  it  must  always  be  one  of  the  ob- 
jects of  the  chase  to  the  adventurous 
visitor.  I  am  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  give 
any  precise  account,  from  actual  experi- 
ence, of  the  method  in  tvhich  the  walrus 
is  captured  ;  but  those  who  take  an  inter- 
est in  the  subject  cannot  do  better  tbaa 


98 

refer  for  instructions  (!)  to  the  works  of 
Albertus  Magnus,  who  died  in  1280  A.D., 
and  who  has  left  some  account  of  the 
matter.  Not  having  the  work  at  hand,  I 
am  not  able  to  quote  what  cannot  but  be 
a  spicy  narrative  in  the  original ;  but  the 
account  is  alluded  to  in  Nordenski61d*s 
•*  Voyage  of  the  Vega,"  in  which  a  wood- 
cut, reproduced  from  Olaus  Magnus 
(1555),  illustrates  the  text.  From  this  it 
appears  that  the  walrus  is  only  to  be  taken 
by  the  exercise  of  much  circumspection 
on  the  part  of  the  hunter ;  for  he  must  not 
approach  the  animal  till  he  encounters  it 
hanging  asleep,  suspended  by  its  tusks 
from  a  cleft  in  the  rocks !  Cutting  two 
parallel  slits  in  the  animal's  back,  and 
raising  the  intervening  strip  of  hide,  the 
hunter  passes  underneath  it  a  stout  rope, 
which  lie  secures  to  its  own  part  with  two 
half  hitches  —  the  other  end  being  then 
made  fast  to  trees,  posts,  or  large  iron 
rings  in  the  rocks  (these  conveniences 
being,  of  course,  common  in  the  arctic 
regions).  The  sketch,  however,  repre- 
sents the  hunters  seated  in  their  boat  and 
pulling  vigorously  at  the  rope,  which  is 
fastened  to  the  walrus  in  the  manner  de- 
scribed. The  writer  then  goes  on  to  de- 
scribe the  next  step  —  which  is  to  awaken 
the  animal  by  throwing  large  stones  at  his 
head,  which  being  done,  he  is  so  startled 
into  desperate  efforts  to  escape,  that  he 
jumps  clean  out  of  his  skin,  leaving  it 
behind  him  hanging  to  the  rocks !  He, 
however,  cannot  live  without  his  skin,  and 
soon  after  perishes  or  is  thrown  up  half 
dead  on  the  beach.  I  have  not  myself 
had  an  opportunity  of  trying  this  method 
of  capturing  the  sea-horse,  or  rather  his 
skin ;  but  should  it  ever  be  put  in  practice 
by  modern  hunters,  it  would  be  highly  in- 
teresting to  read  of  it. 

The  kind  of  sport  of  which  the  visitor 
may  always  make  roost  sure,  is  wild-fowl 
shooting.  In  the  first  place,  if  he  intends 
afterwards  to  take  his  vessel  into  regions 
where  walrus,  seals,  and  bears  abound,  he 
must,  of  course,  be  prepared  for  any  emer- 
gency in  the  way  of  being  beset  or  crushed 
by  the  ice,  and  having  to  winter.  He  will 
therefore  at  once  commence  laying  in  a 
stock  of  looms  (Briinnich's  guillemot), 
which  are  excellent  eating,  very  abundant 
in  summer,  and  afford,  at  any  rate,  as 
good  sport  as  pigeon-hunting.  They 
build,  or  rather  lay  their  eggs,  on  ledges 
along  the  steep  face  of  any  cliff  which 
they  may  select  for  their  loomery,  where 
they  congregate  in  incredible  numbers  and 
hatch  their  young  in  company.  When 
the  young  birds  are  old  enough,  the  par- 


SUMMER   SPORT   IN   NOVA  ZEMLA. 


ents  carry  them  down  to  the  water  ^i£ 
report  is  to  be  believed  — and  teach  them 
to  swim ;  and  when  they  can  do  that,  they 
are  taught  to  fly,  and  then    the  whole 
colony  migrates  south.     As  we  had  to 
prepare  for  a  possible  winter  in   Franz- 
Josef    Land,    loom-shooting    was    com- 
menced   even    before    we    had    sighted 
Nova  Zemla,  and  when  we  got  to  Karma- 
kula,  we  went  at  it  with  a  will.    Conven- 
ient slabs  of  floating  bay  ice  were  beinc^ 
carried  slowly  along  the  base  of  the  cliff 
which  we  decided  to  attack,  and  on  one 
of  these  we  took  our  stand,  shooting  the 
birds  as  they  flew  over  our  heads,  our 
boat  picking  them  up  as  they  fell  into  the 
water.    One  of  my  birds  fell  close  to  the 
edge  of  the  piece  of  ice  on  which  we  were 
standing,  and,  jumping  forward  to  secure 
it  before  it  could  wriggle  itself  under  the 
ice,  I  cracked  off  a  great  lump  and  floun- 
dered into  the  just  freezing  water.      I 
thought  I  had  kept  my  gun  out  of  the 
water;  but  about  a  week  afterwards  we 
were  out  duck-shooting,  and  a  flne  bird 
getting  up,  I  levelled  my  gun  and  pulled 
one  of  the  triggers,  but  found  that  the 
hammer  would  not  fall,  then  discovering 
that  the  gun  must  have  gone  under  water 
as  well  as  myself.    My  friend  suggested 
that  nothing  short  of  a  specially  imported 
floe  from  the  Palseocrystic  Sea,  or  Sea  of 
Ancient  Ice,  would  be  found  solid  enough 
to  support  me ;  but  as  he  himself  is  quite 
as   heavy  and  twice  as  clumsy,  I    hoped 
soon  to  see  him  go  in  too,  and  so  have 
the  laugh  turned  against  him.    However, 
every  one  was  very  cautious  after  this,  so 
there  were  no  more  duckings  that  day. 
Looms'  eggs  should  also  be  collected  ia 
large  numbers  and  placed  in  brine-casks» 
in  case  they  may  be  wanted.    The  men  — 
that  is,  the  sailors  before  the  mast  —  will 
not,  as  a  rule,  touch  either  the  eggs  or  the 
birds  unless  they  are  served  out  in  addi- 
tion  to  their  allowance  of  salt  meat,  seem- 
ing to  think  they  are  being  *'done"  out 
of  their  money  in  some  way;  and   it  is 
often  quite  difiicult  to  get  the   men  to 
forego  their  ** rights"   in  the  matter  of 
salt  horse,  and  to  take  fresh  meat,  which 
has  cost  nothing,  instead,  though  so  ob- 
viously beneficial  in  every  way,  and  espe- 
cially as    a    preventive    against   scurvy. 
Looms'  eggs  are  excellent  fried  with  ba- 
con, and   the  birds  themselves   make  a 
capital  stew.     The  '*  Eira's  "  men   lived 
during  their  winter  in  Franz-Josef  Land 
on   bear  and   walrus  flesh,  drinking   the 
blood  warm,  and  also  putting  it  in  their 
soup.     They  also  had  some  preserved 
vegetables  and  a  little  biscuit  which  they 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN   NOVA  ZEMLA. 


99 


had  saved  from  their  ship,  aad  oa  this 
diet  they  thrived  exceedingly,  looking 
when  we  found  them  well  and  hearty  — 
the  only  exceptions  being  men  who  were 
ill  before  they  left  Scotland.  This  shows 
how  important  it  is  to  lay  in  an  ample 
stock  of  fresh  food  for  a  possible  winter, 
for  a  continuous  supply  of  bear  and  wal- 
rus f]esh  cannot  in  all  cases  be  depended 
npon. 

Wild-fowl  are  plentiful  about  Moder 
Bay,  and  still  more  numerous  farther 
south  in  the  part  of  the  island  called  on 
that  account  Goose  Land.  At  Karma- 
kola,  eider-duck  of  two  kinds  abound  — 
the  common  eider  and  the  king-duck. 
The  common  eider-duck  has  a  brownish 
plumage  in  July,  the  male  being  a  much 
more  showy  bird  than  the  female.  The 
king-duck  may  be  known  by  the  ereat 
yellow  protuberance  at  the  base  of  the 
oilL  Eider-duck  in  this  locality  are  not 
easy  to  approach ;  but  when  they  have 
risen  far  out  of  range,  they  have  a  habit 
of  flying  o£E  and  then  returning  to  recon- 
noitre the  intruder.  Even  after  a  good 
number  of  the  flock  have  thus  been 
knocked  over,  they  will  return  again  per- 
haps two  or  three  times,  and  I  have  in 
this  way  sometimes  bagged  nearly  the 
whole  flock,  with  the  help  of  the  other 
guns.  A  teal«  which  I  take  to  be  the  pin- 
tail, or  winter  teal,  is  also  common  on  the 
pools  of  Beacon  Island  in  Moder  Bay, 
and  ap(>ears  to  breed  there ;  as  after  the 
main  flock  had  risen  from  the  pool  and 
flown  away,  a  number  still  remained  be- 
hind, and  instead  of  flying,  dived  and  re- 
mained a  long  time  under  water.  They 
are  very  quick  in  diving,  often  disappear- 
ing the  instant  they  see  the  flash  from  the 
gun,  and  thus  avoiding  the  charge  of 
shot.  Those  that  I  got  were  not  of  full 
plumage;  they  had  neither  the  wing 
feathers  nor  those  of  the  tail  fully  grown  ; 
hence  I  conclude  that  they  were  young 
birds  bred  on  the  pond.  These  teal  when 
full-grown  are  distinguished  by  long,  slen- 
der tail-feathers,  which  are  conspicuous 
as  they  fly.  I  lost  one  of  those  1  shot, 
thanks  to  my  clumsy  friend  before  al- 
luded to,  who  insisted  upon  leavjng  it  in 
the  middle  of  the  pool  where  it  fell,  and 
going  on  to  another  place,  saying  that  the 
bird  would  have  drifted  ashore  by  the  time 
we  returned.  Knowing  that  no  well-argued 
proof  is  so  convincing  as  practical  demon- 
stration, I  determined  to  convince  my  im- 
petuous friend  that  he  was  wrong,  and 
went  on  with  him,  calling  his  attention  at 
the  same  time  to  the  burgomaster  gulls 
perched  on  distant  points,  and  taking  the 


precaution  to  bury  the  birds  which  I  had 
already  secured  deep  in  the  snow.  On 
returning  an  hour  afterwards  we  exhumed 
our  birds,  and  my  friend  commenced  to 
look  for  the  teal,  which  he  expected  to 
And  upon  the  shore ;  but  it  was  not  there, 
and  finally  was  discovered  on  the  rocks 
above,  half  devoured  by  the  voracious 
burgomasters,  who  had  made  off  directly 
we  came  in  sig:ht. 

There  are  plenty  of  geese  and  swans  in 
the  region  about  Goose  Land,  hut  they  do 
not  seem  to  frequent  the  neighborhood  of 
Karmakula  much;  perhaps,  being  shyer 
birds  than  the  eider-ducks,  they  have  been 
frightened  away  by  the  Samoyedes  from 
the  settlement.  Eider-duck  are  very  fond 
of  basking  in  the  sun  on  the  surface  of  a 
piece  of  floating  ice;  and  frequently,  when 
returning  to  the  ship  after  a  day*s  shoot- 
ing, we  materially  added  to  our  bag  by 
just  running  the  boat  past  such  a  floe,  and 
firing  a  volley  into  the  flock  as  it  rose. 
It  is  always  well  to  have  a  cartridge  ready 
in  the  arctic  regions,  for  one  never  knows 
what  may  turn  up  at  any  moment. 

Concerning  the  Samoyedes,  much  in- 
formation was  collected  by  Professor  Nor- 
denskidld  during  his  voyage  along  the 
north  coasts  of  Europe  and  Asia,  from 
the  North  Sea  to  the  Pacific.  As  these 
little  people  may  prove  to  be  of  great  use 
to  the  sportsman  or  the  explorer,  it  may 
perhaps  not  be  out  of  place  here  to  re- 
peat some  particulars  as  to  their  mode  of 
life. 

We  encountered  some  half-dozen  fami- 
lies at  Karmakula,  where,  as  I  have  pre- 
viously mentioned,  they  have  been  settled 
under  the  auspices  of  the  Russian  gov- 
ernment, in  wooden  houses  which  they 
inhabit  during  the  winter  —  many  of  them 
moving  in  the  spring,  by  means  of  dog- 
sledges  and  boats,  to  other  parts  of  the 
country  where  they  may  more  successfully 
pursue  their  occupations  of  fishing  and 
hunting.  Occasional  parties  of  Samoy-' 
edes  also  visit  Nova  Zemla  from  the 
mainland  for  summer  hunting,  returning 
as  they  came  when  the  winter  closes  in. 
Stray  families  may  sometimes  winter  in 
Nova  Zemla  in  other  places  besides  Kar- 
makula—  and  indeed  1  know  that  a  fam- 
ily has  lived  for  several  years  past  on  the 
west  coast  of  Goose  Hand ;  but  these 
cannot  be  called  permanent  settlements, 
and  a  castaway  crew  could  not  depend 
upon  finding  them. 

The  Samoyedes  do  not  as  yet  appear  to 
have  been  to  any  extent  converted  to 
Christianity,  their  religion  being  a  wor- 
ship of   rudely    executed  idols.     *'The 


lOO 


SUMMER  SPORT  IN  NOVA  ZEMLA. 


worst  and  the  most  unartificiall  worke  that 
ever  I  saw,"  says  Stephen  Borrough,  in 
1556;  and  goes  on  to  say,  "  Some  of  their 
Idols  were  an  old  sticke  with  two  or  three 
notches  made  with  a  knife  in  it.*'  Most 
of  them  are  better  than  that,  however, "  in 
the  shape  of  men,  women,  and  children 
very  grossly  wrought;  "  and  to  these  they 
offer  sacrifice  of  various  animals,  smear* 
ing  the  notches,  which  represent  the 
mouths  of  their  gods,  with  the  blood  of 
the  victims.  The  Olympus  of  the  Sa- 
moyede  deities  appears  to  be  Vaygats 
Island,  between  Nova  Zemla  and  the  main- 
land, where  large  plantations  of  those 
divinities  are  stuck  in  the  ground.  As  to 
the  sacrifices,  Stephen  Borrough  remarks : 
**  There  was  one  of  their  sleds  broken  and 
lay  by  the  heape  of  idols,  and  there  I 
saw  a  deeres  skinne,  which  the  foules 
had  spoyled :  and  before  certaine  of  their 
idols  blocks  were  made  as  high  as  their 
mouthes,  being  all  bloody;  I  thought  that 
to  be  the  table  whereon  they  offered  their 
sacrifices,"  etc.  From  Nordenskiold's 
observations  we  learn  that  this  all  holds 
good  at  the  present  day;  and  that  they 
also  carry  small  idols  about  with  them  in 
their  sledges,  which  are  drawn  either 
by  dogs  or  reindeer.  Those  whom  we 
encountered  in  Nova  Zemla  had  no  rein- 
deer but  only  sledge-dogs,  with  which  they 
were  well  supplied—- so  well,  that  they 
sold  us  six  for  our  use  in  Franz-Josef 
Land,  if  we  had  wintered  there.  It  is 
difBcult  to  say  whether  they  worship  the 
idols  as  actual  gods  in  themselves,  or 
only  do  them  homage  as  representing 
something  beyond.  Professor  Norden- 
skidld  remarks  that  the  Russians  whom 
he  found  living  with  theSamoyedes  south 
of  Vaygats  Island  were  of  opinion  that 
there  was  no  material  difference  between 
the  Samoyede  bolvan  or  idol,  and  their 
own  holy  pictures  and  charms. 

The  Samoyedes,  except  in  rare  in- 
stances, are  ahvays  represented  as  being 
friendly  to  Europeans.  Those  we  encoun- 
tered at  Karmakula  were  uniformly  civil 
and  obliging,  anxious  to  barter  their  furs 
and  skins  at  moderate  prices,  and  always 
ready  to  let  us  have  rides  in  their  dog- 
sledges  along  the  snow-foot  at  the  base 
of  the  cliffs.  When  we  arrived,  many  of 
them  came  on  board  at  once,  dressed  in 
their  finest  skins  and  colored  cotton 
cloths,-^ the  headman  coming  in  a  sepa- 
rate boat,  in  the  middle  of  which  he  sat 
cross-legged,  whilst  the  paddles  were  plied 
by  two  of  the  tribe.  They  thought  we 
had  on  board  the  Russian  officer,  who 


pays  them  an  annual  visit,  and  were  anx* 
ious  to  pay  their  respects  to  him  without 
delay.  One  old  man  was  very  mach 
struck  with  the  huge  Newfoundland  dojr 
belonging  to  the  ship ;  a  beast  so  fat  and 
unwieldy  that  he  had  a  difficulty  in  walk- 
ing, especially  at  this  time,  as  he  had  just 
before  swallowed  two  loom-skins  —  feath- 
ers, beak,  and  all.  The  old  man  wished 
to  buy  the  dog,  and  pulled  out  a  heap  of 
silver  as  a  first  bid,  adding  to  it  gradually 
till  he  had  spread  out  all  his  money,  which 
amounted  to  about  an  English  pound,  and 
finally  throwing  a  couple  of  his  own  dogs 
in  ;  nor  would  he  desist  till  witli  great 
difficulty  he  was  made  to  understand  that 
the  dog  did  not  belong  to  any  individual 
but  to  the  ship,  and  that  he  might  just  as 
well  try  to  buy  the  mainmast. 

In  concluding  this  notice  of  the  sport- 
ing aspects  of  a  visit  to  Nova  Zemla, 
undertaken  with  far  different  objects,  I 
can  only  hope  that  this  country,  much  of 
whose  coast,  and  nearly  the  whole  of 
whose  interior,  is  still  unexplored,  may  be 
more  often  visited  by  our  countrymen ; 
for  the  better  it  is  known  the  greater  will 
be  its  value  as  a  base  for  an  arctic  ex- 
pedition by  way  of  Franz-Josef  Land, 
which,  when  undertaken,  promises  to 
yield  a  success  which  has  not  as  yet  re* 
tvarded  the  efforts  to  attain  a  very  high 
latitude  by  other  routes.  By  familiarity 
with  this  land  and  its  surrounding  seas, 
we  should  gain  a  knowledge  of  the  move- 
ments of  the  ice  from  year  to  year,  which 
would  be  the  more  complete  in  proportion 
to  the  number  of  vessels  employed,  and 
the  more  valuable  in  proportion  to  its 
completeness  and  continuity.  At  present 
it  appears  that  from  July  till  the  end  of 
September  are,  as  a  rule,  the  ordinary 
limits  of  the  navigable  season,  which  may 
be  extended  or  contracted  according  as 
the  season  is  favorable  or  otherwise.  The 
establishment  this  year  of  fixed  winter 
meteorological  stations  in  various  parts  of 
the  arctic  lands  —  on  the  recommenda- 
tion, I  believe,  of  a  German  government 
committee  —  is  a  distinct  step  in  advance 
in  polar  exploration,  and  will  perhaps 
yield  more  valuable  scientific  results  than 
even  the  attainment  of  the  pole  itself. 
Apart,  however,  from  scientific  considera- 
tions, as  long  as  that  portion  of  the  earth's 
surface  remains  unvisited,  human  nature 
is  such  that  human  beings  will  always 
be  found  eager  to  be  the  first  to  plant  a 
flag  there;  and  that  that  flag  should  be 
any  other  than  the  Union-jack,  beavea 
forbid  I 


A  POLISH  LOVE-STORY. 


lot 


From  BlackwoocTt  Macaziue. 
A  POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 

{Ths  following  narrative,  written  down  from 
the  lips  of  a  Polish  peasant  woman,  lays 
claim  to  nothing  but  veracity,  and  may  serve 
to  enlighten  some  English  reader  on  the 
sabject  of  a  class  of  fellow-creatures  about 
whom  he  probably  knows  less  than  of  the 
African,  the  Patagonian,  or  the  Greenland 
Esquimaux.  The  Polish  peasant,  who  by 
his  own  countrymen  is  commonly  classed  as 
a  *' brute,"  and  is  by  the  rest  of  civilized 
Europe  dimly  understood  to  be  a  "  savage," 
can  do  no  better  than  speak  for  himself,  and 
be  judged  accordingly. 

1  am  far  from  asserting  that  loftiness  of 
soul  and  innate  refinement  are  the  common 
attributes  of  the  Polish  peasantry,  but  I 
maintain  that  striking  examples  of  these 
qualities  are  to  be  found  in  this  class  as  fre- 
quently as  in  any  other  class  of  any  other 
nation.  Every  care  has  been  taken  to  ren- 
der into  English  the  exact  words  in  which 
the  story  was  originally  told :  if,  therefore, 
any  one  should  object  to  its  somewhat  ultra- 
romantic  vein,  I  can  do  no  more  than  refer 
him  to  the  particular  "savage"  who  is  vir- 
toally  the  author  of  these  lines.] 


It  was  oo  an  early  day  of  the  month  of 
May  that,  with  a  book  in  my  hand,  I  made 
my  way  to  the  kitchen  garden.  More  than 
adozeo  women,  for  the  most  part  young 
girls,  were  noisily  at  work  among  the 
bushes  and  the  vegetable-beds ;  but  their 
laughing  and  chattering  paused  at  my  en- 
trance,  and  did  not  recommence  until, 
having  seated  myself  at  the  foot  of  an 
apple-tree,  I  appeared  to  be  engrossed  in 
my  book. 

My  book  did  not  engross  me  for  long: 
witli  a  carpet  of  daisies  at  my  feet,  a  roof 
of  apple-blossom  over  my  head,  and  the 
laughter  of  the  girls  ringing  in  my  ears,  it 
was  difficult  to  keep  my  attention  to  the 
page  before  me.  I  looked  around  me: 
most  of  the  workers  were  at  some  way  off, 
dispersed  in  larger  or  lesser  groups. 
There  was  but  one  exception,  —  a  woman 
who,  but  a  few  paces  from  me,  sat  crouch- 
iog  on  the  ground,  so  busy  with  the  sort- 
ing of  young  plants  that  she  seemed  not 
to  have  noticed  my  neighborhood. 

The  stray  voices  among  the  bushes 
reached  me  in  distinct  sentences  now  and 
then,  and  presently  a  phrase  attracted  my 
attention. 

**Wasyl  baa  come  home  from  the 
army." 

'*  Yes,  Wasyl  has  come  home ;  and  what 
will  Nascia  do,  now  that  he  is  back  ?  " 

"Only  Saturday  last  she  accepted  the 
uMikd   (brandy)    from   Stefan's    brides- 1 


men;*  and  yesterday  her  former  sweet 
heart  has  come  home.     What  will  she  do 
now?" 

And  a  chorus  repeated,  **What  will 
Nascia  do  ?  " 

I  closed  my  book;  I  had  found  in  it 
nothini;  so  interesting  as  this  question  of 
what  Nascia  was  to  do.  Why  look  for 
dramas  in  paper  and  print  when  they  were 
being  acted  close  to  me  in  flesh  and 
blood  ? 

**  Marysia,'*  I  said  to  the  sorter  of  plants 
beside  me  —  for  I  knew  her  name  well,— 
"  Marysia,  did  Nascia  love  Wasyl?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  mine ;  they  were 
large  black  eyes,  deep  both  in  color  and 
in  expression.  Marysia  was  not  a  girl, 
—  she  was  a  woman  on  the  verge  of  fifty, 
toil-worn,  haggard,  and  meanly  clad,  but 
there  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  had  once 
been  beautiful.  Her  eyes  were  beautiful 
still. 

**  Love  ? "  she  said  after  a  pause,  and 
with  a  certain  unexpected  irony  in  her 
voice.  **  Do  the  girls  nowadays  know 
what  love  is?  Which  is  the  man  they 
love?  The  man  who  will  treat  them  to  a 
wddki  or  a  glass  of  beer,  or  who  buys 
them  a  ribbon  at  the  Jan/iark  (fair).  That 
one  they  understand  how  to  love.  But 
when  he  is  gone,  any  other  is  as  good 
as  he.  That  was  not  the  sort  of  love 
which  the  great  God  put  into  my  heart 
long  ago." 

Marysia  said  this  in  a  lower  tone,  speak- 
ing half  to  herself;  and  as  she  said  it, 
her  eyes  seemed  doubly  beautiful  —  for  in 
a  moment  they  seemed  to  take  fire,  and 
shone  with  a  mixture  of  tenderness  and 
passion. 

Till  now  I  had  held  my  book  in  my 
hand,  but  at  this  moment  I  laid  it  aside 
on  the  grass.  There  were  echoes  of  a 
drama,  it  seemed,  not  only  over  there 
among  the  bushes  —  there  was  a  heroine 
of  one  at  my  very  feet. 

**  Marysia,"  I  said  again,  almost  timid- 
ly, **  who  was  it  you  loved  when  you  were 
a  girl  ?  " 

"Gracious  lady,  you  will  not  remember 
the  time,"  answered  Marysia,  "for  our 
master  was  then  a  young  cavalier,  and  it 
is  a  long  tvhile  ago.  For  eighteen  years 
I  was  married  to  another." 

"And  tell  me,  Marysia,  why  did  you 
not  marry  the  man  you  loved  ?  " 

"  Why  did  1  not  marry  him?  Because 
he  was  taken  to  be  a  soldier.    But  why, 

*  The  bridesmen,  or  friends  of  the  bridegroom  t'/t 
s/e,  present  themselves  at  the  girl's  hut,  and  offer  the 
loSdki  to  her  and  her  parents.  If  she  drinks,  this  signi- 
fies acceptanc*  of  the  suitor. 


102 


A   POLISH  LOVE-STORY. 


during  so  many  years,  T  could  not  forget 
him;  why,  being  the  wife  of  a  good  and 
honest  man  who  loved  me  —  why,  having 
six  children  whom  I  loved,  and  four  of 
whom  died  in  my  arms  —  why,  though  I 
toiled  every  day  from  daybreak  to  sunset, 
I  yet  could  not  take  from  my  memory  the 
picture  of  one  man,  *- this  God  alone  does 
know.  That  love  which  I  found  in  my 
heart,  none  but  he  could  have  put  there. 
Marysia  was  silent  for  a  little,  and  went 
on  sorting  the  plants.  But  her  whole  face 
was  changed:  the  words,  which  she  had 
said  with  vehemence,  had  awakened  old 
memories,  and  presently  they  began  to 
throng  from  her  lips :  — 

We  were  children  when  we  began  to 
love  each  other,  Fedio  and  I,  The  hut  of 
my  parents  and  the  hut  of  his  parents 
stood  close  together:  there  was  nothing 
but  a  hedge  between  our  little  fruit-garden 
and  their  yard.  When  in  the  morning  I 
came  into  the  garden  to  look  for  the  fruit 
that  had  fallen  during  the  night,  Fedio 
would  be  waiting  for  me  at  the  hedj^e, 
ready  to  jump  over  and  help  me  to  pick 
up  the  fruit.  Then  we  sat  down  to  sort 
what  we  had  found,  and  it  was  always  the 
reddest  of  the  apples  and  the  softest  of 
the  pears  which  he  chose  out  for  my 
breakfast.  He  never  used  to  go  with  the 
other  boys  of  the  village,  but  played  only 
with  me  in  our  garden  or  in  the  yard  be- 
hind the  hut.  When  he  was  gone  to  herd 
the  cows  on  the  pastures,  how  sad  did  I 
feel  till  he  was  back  again !  How  many 
hours  have  I  stood  at  our  gate  gazing  and 
gazing  along  the  road  that  he  was  to 
come  !  And  he  never  came  without  bring- 
ing something  that  he  had  found  for  me 
in  the  fields  or  in  the  forest.  Each  time 
it  was  some  other  toy,  a  bird's  nest  or  a 
red  toadstool,  a  branch  of  blackberries,  a 
bunch  of  ripe  strawberries —or  if  the 
berries  were  not  ripe,  he  would  bi'ing  me 
flowers.  The  other  boys  jeered  at  him, 
but  he  let  them  speak,  and  was  not  angry; 
and  indeed  he  was  so  quiet  and  so  silent, 
that  one  might  have  thought  he  could  not 
get  angry.  But  once  I  saw  Fedio  angry. 
He  had  lost  a  cow,  and  stayed  in  the  for- 
est to  look  for  it.  I  was  watching  for  him, 
and  saw  the  others  come  back  without 
him,  and  I  was  frightened.  **  Where  is 
Fedio?"  I  asked  of  a  second  cowherd 
who  had  gone  out  with  him  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

'*Ohol"  the  boy  answered,  laughing, 
'*you  will  not  see  that  one  again.  He 
climbed  to  the  top  of  a  tree  to  gather 
cherries  for  your  supper ;  but  crack  went 


the  branch,  and  down  came  Fedio  and 
cherries  together.  Who  knows  if  he  ever 
gets  up  from  the  ground  ?  " 

I  grew  as  cold  as  ice  as  he  spoke.  I 
could  not  move  a  step,  I  could  not  utter  a 
scream,  I  could  not  wring  my  hands  even  ; 
but  [  remained  as  I  had  been,  standing  at 
the  gate,  looking  at  the  road,  and  the  other 
children  made  a  laughing  circle  around 
me,  and  pointed  at  me  with  their  fingers. 

At  last  Fedio  came  home  with  his  cow. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  had  not  been  able  to 
cry  before;  but  when  I  saw  him  unhurt,  I 
threw  myself  with  a  scream  on  his  neck 
and  sobbed  as  though  my  father  had 
beaten  me. 

Fedio  said  not  a  word  when  he  heard 
the  trick  they  had  played  me;  but  some- 
thing terrible  came  into  his  eyes,  and  be- 
fore any  one  could  stop  him,  he  had  seized 
the  second  cowherd  and  thrown  him  with 
such  strength  to  the  ground,  and  held  him 
there  so  tight,  with  his  hands  upon  the 
other's  throat,  that  the  boy  would  have 
been  strangled  had  we  not  quickly  parted 
them. 

From  that  day  none  of  the  village  chil- 
dren ever  did  me  any  harm,  for  they  begaa 
to  be  afraid  of  Fedio. 

As  we  grew  older,  and  I  became  a 
young  maiden  and  he  a  man,  we  passed 
all  our  time  together.  He  helped  my  par- 
ents in  the  farm-work,  for  my  brother  was 
still  a  child;  and  they  loved  him,  and 
called  him  son.  On  Sundays,  when  the 
music  came  to  the  village,  it  was  always 
with  Fedio  that  I  danced ;  and  not  one  of 
the  other  young  men  would  have  dared  to 
choose  me  for  a  partner,  for  each  one 
knew  that  Fedio  would  have  killed  him. 
Oh,  gracious  lady,  if  you  could  only  have 
seen  how  beautiful  Fedio  was,  and  how 
well  he  danced!  Sometimes  the  others 
would  stand  still  and  make  a  circle  to 
watch  us  two  dance,  for  every  one  liked 
us  in  the  village.  There  was  only  one 
man  who  watched  us  with  a  gloomy  face. 
This  was  Ivan,  the  only  son  of  a  rich 
peasant ;  and  an  evil  spirit  had  given  that 
he  also  was  to  love  me.  His  bridesmen 
had  been  already  to  my  parents'  hut ;  but 
I  would  not  even  look  at  his  wddki,  and 
so  they  had  gone  away  again.  Since  then 
Ivan  would  always  clench  his  fist  when  he 
saw  Fedio  and  me  together.  Every  one 
knew  that  he  would  not  need  to  be  a  sol- 
dier, for  he  was  an  only  son,  and  be  was 
also  older  than  Fedio.  Fedio  was  just 
then  nineteen,  and  the  time  was  near  when 
he  must  be  taken  away.  We  could  not 
think  of  marrying  yet;  we  loved  each 
other  and  waited. 


A  POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 


X03 


One  day,  T  remember,  we  were  working 
on  the  roaster^s  corn-fields.  Fedio,  as 
Qsnal,  was  working  by  my  side ;  and  every 
now  and  then,  when  no  one  was  looking, 
he  would  lay  some  of  his  corn  on  my  heap, 
so  as  to  make  it  look  larger.  For  this  was 
the  last  day  of  the  wheat  harvest;  that 
evening  we  were  to  go  in  procession  to 
the  master's  house,  and  the  girl  who  had 
cut  the  most  corn  was  the  one  who  should 
wear  the  corn-wreath  on  her  head,  and 
place  it  then  in  the  master's  hands.* 

The  sun  was  burning  very  hot  upon  the 
open  field,  and  I  was  thirsty.  Fedio  went 
away  to  the  wood  to  fetch  me  water  from 
the  stream ;  and  as  soon  as  he  was  gone, 
Ivan  approached  and  took  his  place.  At 
first  he  did  not  speak  to  me,  nor  I  to  him, 
but  at  last  he  said,  **  Marysia,  whv  do  you 
turn  5'our  head  with  that  Fedio?  " 

'•Which  Fedio?"  I  asked,  and  looked 
at  him  so  straight  in  the  eyes  that  he 
dropped  his  own  to  the  ground. 

'•  Fedio  Stecki." 

'*  I  am  not  turning  my  bead  with  him ; 
I  love  him." 

'•And  what  good  is  to  come  of  this 
love  ?  Very  soon  he  will  be  taken  to  the 
soldiers,  and  what  will  you  do  then  ?  " 

"  I  shall  wait." 

"  Marysia !  do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying?  That  waiting  will  not  be  one 
year  or  two,  but  eight :  you  will  be  old 
when  he  returns —  think  of  that." 

'•I  have  thought  of  it,"  1  answered, 
frowing  angry;  ••and  what  is  it  to  you 
how  long  I  may  wait,  or  how  old  I  shall 
be?  What  makes  you  talk  to  me  of 
this  ?  " 

••But  if  you  should  wait  for  nothing, 
Marvsia?  If  Fedio  is  taken  to  the  war, 
and  does  not  come  back  ?  " 

As  he  said  it,  I  felt  a  pain  in  my  heart 
like  the  pain  of  a  knife  stabbing  me;  and 
It  seemed  to  me  that  Fedio  would  not 
even  come  back  to  me  now  with  the 
water.  I  answered  nothing  more  to  Ivan, 
and  all  was  dark  before  my  eyes  till  Fedio 
returned  at  last  from  the  forest.  I  took 
the  water  from  his  hand,  and  drank  it  to 
the  last  drop.  My  face  must  have  been 
strange,  for  he  asked  if  1  were  ill:  the 
heat  had  made  me  faint,  I  said. 

Very  near  to  us  there  was  working  the 
old  Zosia,  whom  you  must  know,  gracious 
lady  —  only  then  she  was  not  so  old  as 
she  is  now ;  but  she  was  not  a  young 
woman,  and  no  one  liked  her  in  the  vil- 

*  At  the  conclusion  of  the  harvest  of  each  grain,  a 
nooster  i^reath  of  wheat,  rye,  or  barley  is  made,  and 
placed  on  the  head  of  a  village  girl.  The  master,  on 
Kceiviog  it  from  her,  gives  her  money  in  return. 


lage,  for  she  was  seen  much  with  the 
Jews.  This  Zosia  repeated  to  Fedio 
everything  of  what  Ivan  had  said  to  me. 
Happily  Ivan  had  left  the  field  already, 
for  if  Fedio  had  been  able  to  reach  him 
at  this  moment,  he  would  as&uredly  have 
thrown  him  down  and  trampled  him,  as  he 
had  done  to  the  cowherd  when  we  were 
children.  But  after  that  he  got  quiet ;  and 
later  in  the  day  I  saw  that  his  anger  was 
gone  —  he  was  thinking  very  much,  and 
his  face  was  sad.  Perhaps  he  was  think- 
ing that  what  Ivan  had  said  might  come 
true. 

It  made  my  heart  sink  to  see  his  face; 
and  that  evening,  when  we  walked  along 
the  road  towards  the  master's  house,  I 
could  not  laugh  and  talk  with  the  other 
girls.  I  could  not  feel  gay,  though  I 
knew  that  the  corn-wreath  had  been  kept 
for  me. 

Already  we  were  near  to  the  big  gates, 
when  Fedio  came  up  to  Ivan  and  spoke 
to  him.  He  was  not  angry,  but  his  voice 
sounded  so  strange  that  the  tears  came 
into  my  eyes  as  I  listened. 

•*  Why  did  you  say  to  my  Marysia  that 
I  shall  not  come  back  from  the  sol- 
diers ?  " 

••And  why,"  answered  Ivan,  "do  you 
call  her  your  Marysia  ?  She  will  belong 
to  the  man  to  whom  God  gives  her." 

Whether  they  said  more  I  could  not 
hear,  for  already  we  were  near  to  the 
house.  The  girls  put  the  wreath  on  my 
head,  and  began  to  sing  the  harvest- 
songs.  You  know  the  old  songs,  gracious 
lady :  — 

Oar  mistress  is  proud  ; 

She  appears  on  the  threshold ; 

She  makes  her  keys  ring, 

And  thanks  God  the  harvest  is  over. 

The  master  is  not  at  home ; 
He  is  gone  to  Lw6w 
To  sell  the  grain, 
And  buy  wJdJU  for  us. 

Make  use  of  thy  riches,  master  ; 
Sell  thy  grey  cow, 
The  hen  with  the  chickens. 
And  buy  us  a  barrel  of  beer. 

Our  cock  has  white  feathers ; 
Our  master  has  black  eyebrows ; 
He  goes  to  the  fields 
In  a  happy  moment. 

O  moon,  who  art  growing. 
Throw  light  on  our  road. 
That  we  should  not  go  astray, 
And  lose  our  wreath  1 


?«4 


A   POLISH   LOVE-STORY, 


.   At  oar  master's  house 

The  door  is  of  gold ; 

The  bench  is  also  of  gold ; 
'   He  has  three  hundred  laborers  in  the  field. 

Harness  the  oxen ; 

We  shall  go  to  the  forest 

To  cut  supports 

On  which  to  lean  the  kopy,* 

Little  quail, 

Where  wiirst  thou  hide? 
We  have  cut  the  wheat. 
And  have  arranged  it  in  kofy, 

'  The  meadow  has  told  us 
That  the  master  has  got  w^ki^ 
And  in  his  cellar  on  a  shelf 
Painted  glasses  to  drink  from. 

We  bring  you  the  harvest 

Of  all  your  fields ; 

We  wish  that  the  master  should  sow  again, 

That  we  should  reap  again  in  the  future.t 

The  girls  sang  this  song;  but  I  did  not 
sing.  The  wreath  felt  so  heavy,  that  I 
thought  it  was  weighing  me  to  the  earth. 
I  could  scarcely  bear  it;  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  for  me  to  raise  my  head  from  my 
breast.  I  began  to  think  of  things  of 
which  I  had  never  thought  before :  for 
the  first  time  it  seemed  to  me  possible 
that,  though  oar  love  was  as  old  as  our 
lives,  though  my  parents  called  him  their 
son,  yet  it  might  be  that  Fedio  and  I 
should  not  pass  our  lives  together.  I 
began  to  think  also  of  how  once,  when 
Fedio  had  wanted  to  kiss  me,  I  had  re- 
sisted him.  It  would  have  been  no  wrong, 
but  at  that  moment. I  had  felt  frightened 
of  myself:  if  I  had  loved  him  less,  I  might 
more  easily  have  allowed  him  to  kiss  me. 
This  had  happened.one  evening  not  long 
ago.  We  had  been  standing  together  at 
our  gate,  and  on  the  road  there  waited  a 
cart  laden  with  wood  which  Fedio  was  to 
take  to  the  town.  The  moment  for  part- 
ing came.  Fedio's  father  called  to  us 
over  the  hedge,  saying  that  the  wood  was 
all  packed,  and  the  cart  ready.  We 
looked  at  each  other,  and  then  Fedio 
caught  roe  in  bis  arms,  held  me  on  his 
breast  one  moment,  and  would  have 
kissed  roe ;  but  I  turned  my  head  aside, 
and  put  my  two  hands  over  my  face.  He 
still  held  me  in  his  arms,  and  a  minute 
passed  in  silence ;  then  we  heard  his  fa- 
ther's voice  again  calling  out  louder  than 
the  first  time  that  the  wood  was  ready. 
Fedio  loosened  his  arms,  and  walked 
slowly  away  towards  his  cart. 

*  A  certain  number  of  sheaves  form  a  kc^k, 
t  In  certain  districts  of  Poland  this  harvest-song, 
with  innumerable  additions,  is  always  suoj(,  whether 
applicable  or  not  to  existing  circumstances. 


Although  I  was  the  strongest  anci 
healthiest  girl  in  all  the  village,  I  was 
forced  at  this  moment  to  take  hold  of  the 
wooden  post,  or  else  I  should  have  fallen, 
I  looked  after  Fedio:  he  was  walking 
slowly  beside  his  cart;  his  head  was  bent 

—  he  was  crying. 

All  the  time  that  the  girls  were  singing 
the  harvest-«ongs  around  roe,  and  all  the 
time  that  the  corn-wreath  pressed  down 
my  head,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but 
those  tears  of  Fedio,  and  of  how  he  would 
be  taken  to  the  war  and  might  not  come 
back  again,  and  I  had  not  wanted  to  kiss 
him.  Even  when  the  music  began  to 
play  and  we  to  dance,  I  still  thought  of 
this;  and  all  the  time  we  danced  I  looked 
at  his  face,  although  I  knew  very  well 
that  a  modest  girl  when  she  is  dancing 
should  not  look  at  her  partner,  but  only  at 
the  boards.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that 
even  if  I  were  to  die  for  it  in  the  very 
next  minute,  I  could  not  have  taken  my 
eyes  from  his. 

The  music  gave  roe  no  pleasure,  nor 
yet  the  supper  which  was  laid  for  us. 
When  no  one  was  watching  me,  I  stole 
out  of  the  room  and  went  home.  There 
I  stood  at  the  gate  and  waited,  for  I  knew 
that  Fedio  would  come. 

He  came  very  soon  — sooner  than  I  ex- 
pected. We  were  quite  alone,  for  every 
one  who  was  not  at  the  great  house  had 
gone  to  bed.  All  around  me  the  village, 
was  asleep.  As  Fedio  came  up  to  me  he 
took  ofiE  his  cap  and  shook  back  his  hair, 
for  the  night  was  warm.  Oh,  gracious 
lady,  what, beautiful  hair  Fedio  had  then  ! 

—  the  most  beautiful  hair  in  all  the  vil- 
lage, and  quite  different  from  Ivan's ;  for 
Ivan's  was  light  yellow,  and  cut  in  a 
straight  fringe  round  his  head,  while  Fe*^ 
dio*s  hair  fell  in  black  curls  upon  his  fore- 
head and  his  neck. 

This  time  I  did  not  wait  for  him  to  say 
any  word  to  roe,  nor  to  ask  why  I  had 
come  away  from  the  great  house;  but  I 
stretched  out  my  arms  and  put  them  round 
his  neck.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of 
how  I  had  not  wanted  to  kiss  him  that 
other  evening,  for  he  made  no  movement. 
But  I  put  my  face  close  to  his,  and  my 
lips  upon  his  lips,  and  I  kissed  him  of  my 
own  free  will.  And  at  that  moment  it 
seemed  to  me  that  not  even  the  Cesara 
(emperor)  could  have  had  the  power  to 
part  us ! 

We  must  have  stood  a  long  time  that 
way,  I  don't  know  how  long.  1  only  know 
that  one  of  his  arms  was  round  my  waist, 
and  that  with  his  other  hand  he  stroked 
my  hair  as  a  mother  does  sometimes  to 


A  POUSH  LOVE-STORY. 


^OS 


soothe' her  crying  child— > for  I  was  cry- 
Id^.  We  did  not  speak  mach,  and  in  my 
ears  there  were  not  ringing  any  words  of 
Fedio's,  but  on]y  those  of  Ivan,  '*  He  will 
be  taken  to  the  war." 

We  stood  at  the  gate  till  we  heard  the 
voices  of  those  who  were  returning  from 
the  great  house. 

From  that  evening  I  had  no  peace  :  just 
as  though  some  one  were  whispering  in 
my  ears,  I  heard  all  day  long,  '*  He  will 
be  taken  to  the  war." 

Not  many  days  later  my  mother  was 
sent  for  to  the  great  house.  I  do  not 
know,  gracious  ladv,  whether  you  yet  re- 
member the  time  of  Xht  pansscsysne  (serf- 
dom). At  that  time  no  peasant  was  asked 
whether  or  not  he  would  take  service,  as 
we  are  asked  to-day ;  but  all  at  once  the 
ekoHom  (overseer)  would  appear  in  the 
hut,  and  lead  away  those  whom  the  mas- 
ter had  chosen.  And  we  had  to  go  with- 
out saying  the  smallest  word.  But  in  our 
village  the  master  was  good :  when  a  girl 
was  wanted  for  the  service,  it  was  the 
parents  who  were  sent  for  first.  We  were 
paid  in  money  and  in  linen,  and  the  mother 
herself  led  the  girl  to  the  great  house. 
This  was  much  better;  for  though  we 
knew  very  well  that  we  were  forced  to  go, 
yet  it  was  not  so  hard  to  go  with  one's 
mother  as  to  be  taken  by  the  ekonom. 

So  also  it  was  with  me.  When  my 
Bother  returned  home,  she  told  me  that 
the  ladies  had  noticed  me  at  the  harvest 
feast,  and  that  1  was  to  go  for  a  year  to 
serve  at  the  great  house  cooking  for  the 
outdoor  servants. 

I  wrung  my  bands,  for  my  first  thought 
was  of  Fedio.  **When  must  I  go?'*  I 
asked.  It  never  even  came  into  my  mind 
to  think  that  1  might  escape  the  service. 

^  I  have  begged  to  keep  you  till  to- 
morrow," said  ray  mother. 

I  went  out  into  the  front  garden,  and 
stood  by  the  gate  waiting  for  Fedio.  I 
could  hear  that  he  was  working  in  the 
barn,  thrashing  corn  for  the  sowing. 

^  Fedio ! "  I  called  at  last,  just  above 
my  breath. 

Immediately  he  came  out  of  the  barn 
and  looked  around  him ;  then,  in  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  sign  the  cross,  he  had 
jumped  ever  the  hedge  and  stood  beside 
me. 

^  Mary  si  a !    You  are  crying  again  ! " 

**0h,  how  am  I  not  to  cry,  when  to- 
morrow I  shall  be  taken  to  serve  in  the 
great  house ! " 

He  answered  nothing  at  first.  Fedio 
never  spoke  much ;  only  he  clasped  one 
hand  inside  the  other  with  violence,  and 


stood  for  several  minutes  thus,  with  bis 
eyebrows  drawn  together.  Then  he  said 
quickly,  — 

"  You  cannot  be  there  alone." 

He  turned  round,  jumped  back  over  the 
hedge,  and  went  into  the  but.  When  he 
came  out  again,  he  had  on  his  new  czapka 
(cap)  and  his  broadest  belt ;  and  without 
looking  round,  he  walked  away  along  the 
road. 

He  had  not  told  me  what  he  meant  to 
do;  but  the  cap  and  the  belt  made  me 
feel  sure  that  he  was  gone  to  the  great 
house. 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  work.  My 
mother  called  to  me  to  come  and  help  her 
with  threading  the  hemp;  but  I  did  not 
go,  and  waited  only  at  the  gate  for  Fedio's 
return.  Half  an  hour,  perhaps,  I  waited; 
then  he  came  to  the  hedge  and  said,  — 

'*  I  have  bound  myseliE  to  serve  in  the 
stable  of  the  oxen." 

And  then  he  went  into  the  barn,  and 
began  again  to  thrash  the  corn. 

My  heart  grew  light  within  me,  and  all 
at  once  the  service  in  the  great  house 
seemed  to  me  less  terrible. 

And  thus,  on  one  and  the  same  day, 
Fedio  and  I  entered  on  service. 

My  work  was  hard.  There  were  eigh- 
teen servants  to  cook  for,  water  to  carry, 
wood  to  cut,  dishes  to  wash,  —  so  much, 
that  often  I  did  not  know  where  to  begin. 
But  the  thought  of  the  evening  helped  me 
on.  Just  outside  the  kitchen  stood  a 
broad  stone;  and  in  the  evening,  when 
the  work  was  done,  we  would  sit  upon 
that  stone  together,  and  my  hand  rested 
in  Fedio's. 

In  the  great  house  they  begap  to  talk 
evil  of  us;  but  that  did  not  trouble  us, 
for  we  could  look  all  the  world  straight  in 
the  eyes  without  fearing.  Fedio,  when 
any  one  taunted  him  with  serving  only  for 
my  sake,  always  answered  that  it  was  so« 
Once  even  he  said  it  to  the  ekonom  him- 
self.     It  happened  thus:  — 

Tulka,  the  old  klucznica  (keeper  of  the 
keys  —  housekeeper),  was  hot-tempered 
and  strict,  and  her  tongue  always  ready  to 
scold.  One  day  my  patience  failed,  and 
I  answered  sharply.  Her  anger  became 
greater;  she  rushed  upon  me  as  if  she 
would  beat  me.  I  did  not  move,  but  I  said 
to  her,  — 

*Mf  you  beat  me  I  shall  tell  the  master." 

While  I  spoke  the  ekonom  came  in, 
holding  a  riding-whip  —  for  he  had  just 
left  his  horse  outside.  Behind  him  stood 
Fedio.  The  angry  klucznica  began  to 
accuse  me ;  and  the  ekonom,  as  he  heard, 
came  towards  me  with  the  whip  raised  ia 


to6 


A  POLISH  LOVE-STORY. 


his  hand.  It  would  have  fallen  on  me 
had  not  Fedio  sprung  between,  and  cov- 
ered me  with  his  body. 

The  ekonom  shouted,  **  What  is  this  in- 
solence?" 

**  It  is  not  insolence/'  answered  Fedio, 
quite  quietly;  **but  I  will  not  let  her  be 
beaten.  If  she  has  done  wrong,  beat  me. 
It  will  not  harm  me;  but  as  long  as  I  am 
alive,  no  one  shall  touch  her  I  '* 

The  ekonom  lowered  his  whip.  "  Then 
it  is  true,  Fedio,  what  the  people  sav,  that 
you  are  serving  in  the  house  only  tor  her 
sake?" 

**  It  is  true,  master;  and  if  you  want  to 
hurt  her,  you  must  kill  me  first." 

The  ekonom  began  to  laugh.  ''Well, 
to  be  sure,  what  a  mighty  love !  But," 
he  added,  as  he  looked  at  me,  **and  yet  it 
is  worth  his  while." 

And  that  is  how  the  matter  ended ;  and 
from  that  day  Fedio  and  I  were  left  in 
peace.  It  was  a  happy  time,  and  almost 
did  I  forget  the  words  which  Ivan  had 
said;  but  soon,  very  soon,  was  I  to  be 
reminded  of  them. 

In  spring  the  recruits  were  called  in. 
There  came  a  long  register  of  those  who 
had  to  present  themselves  at  Brzezany, 
the  nearest  town,  and  on  that  list  there 
was  written  the  name  of  my  Fedio  I  The 
terror  of  that  day  makes  me  tremble  even 
now.  Tulka  herself  —  the  same  Tulka 
who  had  wanted  to  beat  me  —  could  not 
bear  to  see  my  face.  She  begged  of  the 
master  to  let  me  go  home  to  my  mother. 

It  was  three  days  before  I  learned 
Fedio's  fate.  Those  three  days  I  spent 
standing  at  the  gate,  where  I  had  so  often 
waited  tor  Fedio  when  we  were  children. 
All  day  long  I  stood  there,  staring  at  the 
road.  My  father  and  mother  wanted  me 
to  come  into  the  hut.  First  they  begged, 
and  then  they  scolded :  they  said  that  the 
people  would  make  me  their  laughing- 
stock. But  to  me  it  seemed  that  there 
were  no  people  in  the  world.  They 
brousi:ht  me  some  milk  in  a  jug ;  I  could 
not  swallow  it.  On  the  morning  of  the 
fourth  day  the  carts  came  back.  They 
passed  me,  one  after  the  other;  Fedio 
was  not  in  any  of  them. 

1  called  his  name  aloud. 

"They  have  kept  him,"  some  one  an- 
swered. "They  have  dressed  him  in  the 
green  cloth  already,  and  they  have  cut  his 
hair." 

Something  within  me  seemed  to  break. 
I  turned,  and  took  two  steps  towards  the 
hut;  but  all  the  time  I  saw  nothing  but 
that  hair,  —  that  beautiful  hair  that  I  had 
kissed  so  often,  and  now  falling  beneath 


the  scissors.  I  would  have  caught  those 
black  curls  as  they  floated  downwards;  I 
would  have  snatched  away  those  cold 
scissors,  that  flashed  so  cruelly  before  my 
eyes.  I  stretched  out  my  hand,  but  he 
who  held  the  scissors  turned  and  struck 
me  a  blow  on  the  forehead. 
I  The  air  grew  dark  before  my  eyes;  I 
fell  to  the  ground.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  I  had  been  insensible,  and  the  doctor 
said  to  my  mother,  "  A  great  illness  may 
come  of  it."  But  I  was  voung  and  strong, 
and  the  great  illness  did  not  yet  come  for 
a  little  time. 

The  recruits  used  to  be  called  in  the 
month  of  March.  The  day  that  I  fell 
down  on  the  road  was  the  Monday  before 
Easter.  Outside  in  the  village  it  was  be* 
ginning  to  grow  warm  again.  The  roads' 
got  dry ;  the  people  came  out  of  their  huts, 
and  were  busy  raking,  digging,  and  plants 
ing  in  the  gardens.  I  shut  myself  into 
the  hut,  that  I  might  not  see  how  the  sua 
was  shining,  —  that  I  should  not  hear  bow 
the  birds  were  singing. 

The  great  week  passed.  On  the  Holy 
Friday  my  mother  baked  the  loaves,  boiled 
the  eggs,  made  the  sausages,  laid  the 
(Cheeses  and  butter  in  saffron,  —  all  that  is 
done  at  Easter  in  a  peasant  house.  But 
1  not  only  did  not  help  her,  but  even  I 
could  not  look  at  her  working.  On  Sat-> 
urday,  at  midday,  she  laid  all  the  things 
together,  and  covered  them  with  a  white 
linen  cloth,  ready  to  be  carried  on  Sunday 
to  church  for  the  blessing. 

On  that  evening,  as  I  sat  on  the  bench 
spinning  at  the  wool,  the  door  of  the  hut 
opened,  and  Fedio,  dressed  in  the  uniform 
of  the  lancers,  stood ^upon  the  threshold. 
The  sudden  joy  made  me  feel  giddy.  I 
had  to  cling  to  him  for  support ;  and  wheo 
the  giddiness  had  gone  on,  I  still  clung  to 
him.  And  we  sat  thus,  side  by  side,  on 
the  bench,  with  my  spindle  cast  upon  the 
ground. 

Gracious  lady,  you  will  scarcely  believe 
me,  and  yet  it  is  true  that  during  all  that 
night  we  never  moved  from  the  bench, 
and  scarcely  spoke  a  word,  but  only  held 
each  other  by  the  hand.  Once  or  twice 
in  the  dark  Fedio  whispered,  "  You  will  be 
mine."    But  that  was  all. 

At  that  time  the  men  had  to  serve  as 
soldiers  for  eight  years ;  and  eight  years, 
when  they  are  already  past,  are  like  a 
minute,  but  when  they  are  still  to  come, 
they  are  like  an  eternity. 

As  soon  as  the  light  came  in  by  the  win- 
dow, my  father  awoke  and  got  up ;  and 
when  he  saw  us  two  still  sitting  on  the 
bench,  he  said,  — 


A   POLISH   LOVE-STORV. 


107 


•*  Oh,  my  poor  children  !  •* 

But  immediately  after  he  seemed  to  re- 
member something. 

^*  Fedio,  tell  me,  have  you  leave  to  be 
here  ?  " 

**  No,  I  have  no  leave ;  no  one  knows 
that  I  left  Mikolaja.  But  I  had  to  come; 
I  could  not  do  otherwise.  If  1  had  stayed 
I  should  have  gone  mad  or  died,  for  on 
Sunday  at  eleven  we  are  to  march  away.** 

My  father  clasped  his  hands  above  bis 
head,  — 

*** Fedio!  unhappy  man!    But  this  is 
Sunday  already  !" 

He  did  not  speak  more,  but  dressed  and 
left  the  hut.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came 
back  and  said  to  Fedio,  — 

•'  The  cart  is  ready.  I  shall  drive  you. 
At  eleven  we  must  be  at  Mikolaja,  or  else 
TOur  punishment  will  be  hard.  I  have 
oeen  a  soldier,  and  I  know  it.  They  will 
beat  you  with  rods  I  " 

I  swear  to  you,  gracious  lady,  that  al- 
ready, as  he  spoke,  I  felt  those  rods  on  my 
shoulders  and  upon  my  heart. 

•*  Fedio,  Fedio ! "  I  screamed,  "go away 
quickly;  run,  fly!  Why  are  you  here? 
For  what  good  did  you  come?"  And  I 
was  so  strong  at  that  moment,  that  if  he 
had  resisted,  I  could  have  taken  him  in 
my  arms  like  a  child  and  thrown  him  into 
the  cart. 

When  we  reached  the  gate  Fedio 
stopped,  and  stretched  his  arms  towards 
the  second  hut. 

"  My  mother,  my  sisters !  I  had  forgot- 
ten them.     I  have  not  seen  them ! " 

**It  is  too  late  now/'  said  my  father; 
•'get  in." 

Fedio  turned  to  me  again. 

♦*  Fedio,  my  Fedio,  get  in  I  If  you  are 
late,  I  must  die."  And  1  pushed  him  with 
my  hands. 

"Hush,  children!"  said  my  father 
roughly,  but  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  his 
sleeve.  **  Hush  1  there  is  no  time  to 
waste."  And  the  cart  disappeared  on  the 
road.    . 

I  am  not  learned  in  books,  gracious 
lady,  and  therefore  I  cannot  explain  to 
you  what  it  was  that  happened  to  me 
when  1  saw  the  cart  no  more.  1  felt  as 
though  my  heart  were  fastened  by  a  cord 
to  those  wheels  which  were  taking  my 
Fedio  away  from  me  forever.  In  my 
bead  there  was  a  humming  noise ;  but  I 
said  to  myself,  "  I  cannot  go  mad  till  my 
father  comes  back,  and  tells  me  whether 
Fedio  reached  in  time." 

The  people  were  going  to  church,  car- 
rying the  loaves  to  be  blessed.  I  heard 
ny  mother's  voice  calling  me.    She  want- 


ed me  to  go  with  her ;  but  I  could  not. 
Why  ?  Because  something  had  made  me 
forget  how  to  pray.  I  could  not  find  the 
beginning  of  the  prayer.  And  then  I 
grew  frightened,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that 
even  the  good  God  was  leaving  me  alone 
in  my  trouble.  Why,  then,  should  I  go  to 
church  ? 

While  every  one  was  praying  to  God,  I 
lay  on  my  face  in  the  garden,  and  pressed 
my  brow  against  the  cold,  damp  earth ; 
for  the  fire  that  was  burning  in  my  head 
had  dried  up  all  the  tears. 

That  evening  my  father  was  not  back, 
and  he  was  not  back  next  morning;  he 
was  not  back  at  midday.  The  fire  in  my 
head  passed  into  my  eyes.  I  could  re« 
member  nothing.  1  had  forgotten  how 
Fedio  had  come,  how  he  had  gone,  that  he 
might  be  too  late.  I  only  remembered 
that  I  must  sit  here  and  wait  for  my  fa- 
ther. 

In  the  evening  I  still  sat  by  the  gate, 
and  with  my  hands  I  held  my  head,  for  it 
was  as  big  as  a  barrel.  J  saw  my  father 
coming,  but  he  was  not  in  the  cart;  he 
was  on  foot,  weary  and  dusty,  and  with 
only  the  whip  in  his  hand.  When  I  saw 
him  I  remembered  again  ail  at  once  what 
had  passed  —  that  Fedio  had  been  and 
had  gone,  that  he  might  have  come  too 
late,  that  the  fire  in  my  head  must  not 
burn  me  until  I  knew  that  he  would  not 
be  punished. 

I  remember  getting  up  from  the  door- 
step and  staggering  towards  my  father; 
but  I  forget  whether  I  asked,  or  whether 
he  spoke  first :  — 

**  We  came  in  time.  No  one  knows  that 
he  was  here.  They  have  marched  to  Olo- 
munca." 

The  fire  in  my  head  broke  out  of  it  and 
rose  in  the  air.  Like  a  pillar  I  fell  down 
at  my  father's  feet.  For  the  second  time 
I  was  insensible. 

When  I  awoke  again,  the  cherries  were 
red  in  our  garden,  and  the  people  were 
working  at  the  potatoes  —  for  this  time 
the  great  illness  had  come.  Eight  Sun- 
days bad  passed  since  the  day  of  my  fa- 
ther's return.  My  mother  told  me  that 
the  doctor  had  said  I  would  die;  but 
the  great  God  is  a  better  doctor,  and  he 
said  I  was  to  live.  She  also  told  me  that 
when  my  father  had  taken  Fedio  to 
Mikolaja,  one  horse  had  dropped  dead  with 
fatigue.  The  other  was  lame ;  so  he  had 
sold  it,  with  the  cart,  to  the  Jews,  and 
came  home  with  the  whip  alone  in  his 
hand. 

When  I  awoke  after  those  eight  weeks, 
I  asked  myself  what  now  was  I  to  do  with 


toS 


A   POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 


my  life,  what  now  was  I  to  do  with  my- 
self? The  people  were  changed;  the 
village  so  empty  and  silent;  the  fields, 
the  woods,  were  so  dreary  ;  the  garden 
so  sad;  and  the  cherries  did  not  taste 
sweet  like  other  years.  The  hut  was 
dark,  and  the  sun,  even  though  it  was 
June,  shone  now  so  weak  and  cold.  My 
mother  cried;  my  father  grew  sick  and 
fretful.  Poverty  came  into  our  hut.  My 
illness  had  cost  much  money  and  the 
horses  were  gone.  My  parents  had  never 
been  rich,  and  when  so  much  evil  had 
come  upon  them,  they  were  forced  to  go 
to  the  Jews.  With  the  horses  they  had 
gained  money;  now  there  were  no  horses, 
and  no  more  money  to  be  gained.  At 
the  harvest  they  could  not  have  gone  to 
the  fields  if  Ivan  had  not  lent  his  cart. 
But  this  helped  us  but  little,  and  the  farm 
began  to  sink. 

My  father  clenched  his  teeth  and  never 
spoke.  I  was  useless ;  my  mother  herself 
could  think  of  no  help. 

At  last  the  kumy  (godparents)  began  to 
ffive  advice.  I  was  in  the  kitchen,  and  I 
beard  how  they  said,  — 

'•  You  must  marry  your  daughter." 

And  my  mother  answered,  — 

'*  There  is  no  other  help  for  it ;  Marysia 
must  be  forced  to  take  Ivan." 

My  knees  shook  under  me ;  for  I  knew 
that  though  my  parents  loved  me,  yet 
hunger  is  stronger  than  love  and  pity. 

I  went  into  the  yard ;  from  the  yard 
I  went  on  to  the  road,  fronv  the  road  to 
the  fields,  and  then  from  the  fields  I  went 
higher  and  higher  until  I  came  to  the 
wood.  I  sat  down  on  the  ground,  and 
said  to  myself  that  whatever  might  hap- 
pen I  would  not  go  back  to  the  hut. 

It  was  already  qu  te  late  in  the  night 
when  I  beard  the  voice  of  Ivan  calling 
me,  and  also  the  voice  of  my  father. 

I  held  my  breath  and  did  not  move ; 
and  later  on  I  heard  their  voices  again, 
far  off  in  the  wood.  We  were  in  au- 
tumn already,  and  the  nights  were  long 
and  cold,  and  I  had  come  out  just  as  I 
was,  in  mv  linen  shirt  and  petticoat.  I 
was  so  cold  that  I  could  scarcely  move. 
I  meant  to  sit  there  as  long  as  it  was 
dark,  and  then  to  walk  on  higher  and 
higher,  until  I  came  to  where  lived  good 
people  who  would  tell  me  the  road  to  Olo- 
rounca. 

Towards  morning  I  fell  asleep.  In  my 
dream  it  seemed  to  me  that  some  one 
was  pulling  me  by  the  hands ;  and  when 
I  opened  my  eyes,  I  saw  my  father  and 
Ivan  bending  over  me.  My  father  was 
in  great  anger* 


««You  good-for-nothing!"  he  shoated; 
'*  is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  made  me 
a  beggar,  but  must  you  still  drag  me  from 
my  bed  to  search  the  wood  for  you  at 
night,  sick  and  weak  as  I  am  ?  " 

His  voice  was  raised  to  a  shout,  but  I 
answered  nothing. 

He  spoke  again,  — 

"Why  did  you  leave  the  hut?  Who 
has  done  you  harm  ?  '* 

I  knelt  down  at  my  father's  feet  and 
told  him  how  I  had  heard  what  the  ku- 
my had  said,  and  what  my  mother  had 
answered.     I  prayed  to  him, — 

''  Father,  I  cannot  go  to  this  one,  for 
I  love  the  other." 

'*  You  love  the  other  ?  And  what  means 
this  love?  Is  it  witchery?  It  is  time  you 
should  forget  I " 

*'  I  shall  never  forget.**  And  I  raised 
my  hands. 

My  father's  anger  became  terrible.  Ho 
began  to  curse  Fedio,  and  the  hour  when 
first  he  had  called  him  son.  The  words 
which  he  said  were  so  fearful  that  they 
raised  the  hair  on  my  head,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  all  those  things  were  to  happen 
to  Fedio  which  my  father  said  as  he  cursed 
him. 

"  Father!  "  I  cried,  and  with  my  arms 
I  clasped  his  knees,  **  I  will  do  all  you 
command  —  I  will  marry  whom  you  will; 
but,  for  the  love  of  God,  do  not  curse  my 
Fedio!" 

'*You  shall  marry  because  you  must. 
This  day  Ivan  shall  yet  speak  to  the 
priest." 

Ivan  bent  over  me, — 

"  Get  up,  my  Marysia !  Come  back  to 
the  hut;  the  night  has  been  so  cold,  and 
you  will  be  ill  again." 

Just  see,  gracious  lady,  how  strong' 
we  poor  women  are.  I  did  not  die  that 
day ;  I  was  able  to  get  up  and  walk  home, 
even  though  I  knew  that  I  was  to  be 
married  to  another  man  than  the  one  I 
loved. 

Two  Sundays  later  my  wedding  with 
Ivan  was  held.  I  looked  on  it  as  though 
it  were  the  wedding  of  a  stranger.  You 
know,  gracious  lady,  that  it  is  the  custom 
with  us  for  the  bridegroom  to  ransom  the 
bride  with  money  from  the  young  girls  of 
the  village.  For  this  he  must  throw  the 
money  on  the  table,  behind  which  she  sits 
with  the  girls  around  her;  and  then  he 
leaps  over,  and  when  he  has  dispersed 
them,  he  kisses  her;  and  as  the  girls  draw 
back,  the  married  women  advance  and 
claim  her  as  their  sister. 

It  came  to  this  ceremony;  Ivan  flung 
dowo  the  money,  and  stood  by  my  side* 


A   POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 


109 


The  girls  stepped  back;  his  arm  was 
round  my  waist. 

At  that  moment,  as  I  turned  my  head 
aside,  I  saw  standing  right  in  the  middle 
of  the  hut  the  figure  of  Fedio ;  almost  it 
seemed  to  me  that  he  was  weeping.  I 
tore  myself  away  from  Ivan,  knocked  over 
the  bench,  and  sprang  to  the  middle  of 
the  room,  but  the  figure  was  gone;  and 
without  a  word,  I  threw  myself  into  the 
second  room,  and  fastened  the  door  be- 
hind me. 

My  father  became  furious,  and  ordered 
me  to  open,  threatening  to  have  the  door 
knocked  to  pieces;  and  perhaps  he  would 
have  done  it,  had  not  Ivan  stopped  him. 
I  heard  how  he  said,  — 

**  She  is  already  my  wife,  and  I  do  not 
choose  to  take  her  by  force." 

The  wedding  feast  could  not  be  fin- 
ished ;  the  guests  all  dispersed. 

I  remained  thus  locked  up  till  the  mid- 
dle of  next  day.  I  could  hear  how  my 
father  was  cursing,  how  my  mother  was 
crying,  how  the  godparents  were  saying 
that  the  priest  should  be  sent  for;  but 
Ivan  answered,— 

•'  The  priest  has  already  done  what  he 
has  to  do.  She  is  my  wife  now;  leave 
her  alone.  Would  you  have  me  lead  her 
to  my  hut  by  force  ?  Some  day  she  will 
come  to  me  herself.  Why  should  you 
judge  between  her  and  me  ?  Of  what  dp 
you  complain  ?  I  shall  work  your  ground 
as  though  it  were  my  ground.  I  shall  look 
after  the  farm  as  long  as  her  brother  is  a 
child ;  only  do  not  trouble  her." 

And  my  parents  at  last  gave  me  peace. 

That  afternoon  my  father  went  off  with 
a  load  of  wood,  my  mother  went  out  to 
the  fields  to  dig  up  potatoes,  and  Ivan 
alone  remained  in  the  hut. 

All  this  I  saw,  for  from  the  window  of 
the  little  room  1  could  see  each  person 
who  passed  out.  After  a  time  Ivan  came 
to  my  door. 

**  Marysia,  what  are  you  doing  all  alone  ? 
Would  you  be  ill  again  ?  This  is  the  sec- 
ond  day  that  you  have  eaten  nothing. 
Why  are  you  afraid  of  me  ?  I  want  onl)' 
that  you  should  drink  some  milk  and  eat 
some  white  bread  which  1  have  brought 
you  from  the  town." 

Not  for  his  prayers,  but  because  of  my 
hunger,  I  opened  the  door;  for  thus  the 

freat  God  has  arranged  the  world,  that 
owever  unhappy  we  be,  we  yet  must  eat. 
Ivan  put  down  on  the  table  a  bowl  of 
kasza  and  milk,  laid  beside  it  a  piece  of 
white  bread,  and  then  he  turned  and  left 
the  hut. 
I  ate  a  little  of  what  he  had  brought 


me ;  then  I  took  up  a  spade  and  followed 
my  mother  to  the  potato-field.  On  the 
field  1  found  Ivan  with  my  mother.  I  did 
not  even  say  to  them,  •*  God  give  you 
luck,"  as  we  always  say,  but  quite  silently 
1  began  to  dig  up  potatoes,  and  they  too 
were  silent  towards  me. 

In  the  evening  Ivan  went  to  fetch  a  cart 
for  carrying  the  potatoes  home.  There 
were  five  sackfuls,  and  they  were  large 
and  heavy.  The  thought  came  into  my 
mind,  **  How  good  it  would  be  to  seize 
the  heaviest  of  those  sacks,  to  strain  my- 
self and  die!"  Today  I  know  that  that 
thought  was  wrong;  but  then  I  did  not 
think  so,  and  God  will  assuredly  not  have 
counted  it  as  evil,  for  he  knew  that  mv 
great  pain  had  darkened  my  understand- 
ing. 

I  took  hold  of  the  largest  sack,  and  with 
all  my*  strength  I  flung  it  on  the  cart. 

Ivan  wrung  his  hands ;  and  then,  mov- 
ing aside,  he  bent  quickly  over  the  next 
sack,  and  shook  it  out,  so  that  all  the  po- 
tatoes were  spilt  over  the  ground. 

I  turned  and  went  home  through  the 
village.  Ivan's  hut  stood  on  my  road, 
but  I  looked  away  as  I  passed  it,  and 
walked  straight  to  the  hut  of  my  parents. 
Then  I  drank  a  little  cold  milk,  and  shut- 
ting myself  up  as  before,  I  went  to  sleep. 

As  the  days  passed,  mv  life  remained 
the  same  as  it  had  been  before  my  mar- 
riage. Ivan  said  not  a  word;  he  ciid  not 
grow  angry,  and  he  did  not  allow  that  my 
father  should  be  angry  with  me.  Every 
morning  he  came  to  the  hut  and  helped 
in  the  household;  he  worked  in  the  gar- 
den and  in  the  fields;  he  settled  all  dif- 
ficulties; he  watched  over  my  parents. 
It  was  always  Ivan  who  took  care  that 
there  should  be  salt  in  the  salt-box,  and 
grease  in  the  grease-tub. 

I  also  was  forced  to  work,  for  my  mother - 
had  grown  feeble.    Often  I  arranged  the 
household   matters  together  with    Ivan;' 
and  often,  too,  we  went  together  to  herd 
the  cattle ;  but  never  once  did  he  remind 
me  that  we  were  man  and  wife. 

In  this  way  the  winter  came.  Of  my 
Fedio  there  had  been  no  word  of  news ; 
and  yet  his  image,  instead  of  growing 
fainter,  always  grew  stronger  in  my  heart. 
In  the  evening,  after  I  had  said  my  last 
praver,  after  the  thought  of  God  there 
still  came  the  thought  of  Fedio;  and  in 
the  morning,  when  scarcely  my  eyes  were 
opened,  before  the  thought  of  God  there 
came  again  the  thought  of  Fedio.  The 
good  God  was  not  angry  with  me  for  this ; 
for  the  love  that  was  in  my  heart,  it  was 
he  himseH  who  put  it  there. 


no 


A  POLISH   IjOVE>STORY. 


Tbea  came  the  spriofr,  aad  agaia  the  > 
work  began   io   the  fields.     My  pareots 
bad  f^ot  used  to  the  state  of  thiogs,  aod  , 
no  longer  treated  me  no  kindly ;  bat  now 
it  was   Ivan  who  was  beginning  to  losej 
patience.    Once  in  the  evening,  as  I  re»  i 
turned  alone  from  the  fields,  be  was  stand- ' 
tng  at  the  door  of  his  own  hut.     I  was ; 
fnssing  witboat  speaking,  bat  he  caught  I 
me  by  the  hand,  and  in  a  voice  I  had 
never  heard  before,  ^o  hoarse  and  cbok- 
tng,  he  said,  — 

**  Marysia,  tell  me,  bow  long  is  this  to 
last?" 

I  tore  my  hand  away,  and  running  home 
I  fastened  the  door  behind  me,  and  sank 
down  trembling  on  my  knees. 

Another  time  —  it  was  Sunday  evening, 
and  the  sun  was  sinking  slowly — 1  was 
sitting  on  the  bench  before  the  hut;  Ivan 
came  and  sat  down  beside  me.  He  did 
not  speak,  lie  only  looked  at  me  for  long ; 
then  he  put  his  arm  round  me  and  bent 
forward  to  kiss  me.  Again  I  turned  from 
him,  and  tearing  myself  free,  I  left  him 
alone  on  the  bench. 

That  evening  Ivan  went  to  the  village 
inn  to  drink.  He  spent  half  the  night 
there  ;  and  next  day,  for  the  first  time,  I 
heard  him  speak  harshly  to  my  old  father, 
and  saw  him  push  my  little  brother  roughly 
aside. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  the  work  of 
the  farm  no  longer  progressed.  Ivan  was 
not  the  same :  he  did  not  care  to  put  his 
hand  to  the  plough;  his  pleasure  in  the 
cattle  and  in  the  fields  was  gone ;  he  was 
often  flushed  and  excited,  his  hand  shook, 
his  voice  grew  unsteady.  And  yet  my 
conscience  did  not  speak ;  it  seemed  to  be 
1^'ing  dead  within  me.  In  the  selfishness 
of  my  own  misery  I  was  walking  blind- 
folded. But  there  came  a  day  when  the 
bandage  fell. 

I  had  been  at  work  in  the  fields,  and 
was  coming  home  alone,  for  Ivan  had  not 
shown  himself  all  day.  It  was  dark  as  I 
came  slowly  along  the  road.  As  always, 
I  was  thinking  of  Fedio — of  our  last 
words,  the  last  look  he  had  given  me,  of 
the  despair  that  had  been  in  his  face,  of 
our  kisses  and  tears ;  and  in  the  middle 
of  these  thoughts  my  foot  stumbled 
against  something  on  the  road.  I  saw  a 
white  form  on  the  ground,  —  a  man  was 
lying  straight  across  my  path.  I  lifted 
his  head.  It  was  Ivan,  my  husband,  and 
he  was  lying  in  a  drunken  sleep!  Ivan, 
the  sober,  stendy  Ivan,  the  careful  farmer, 
the  model  of  the  village,  and  now  stretched 
in  the  dust  like  a  common  drunkard  1  was 
it  I  who  had  made  him  into  this  ? 


That  night  I  did  not  sleep;  but  all  thtf 
dark  hours  I  spent  in  bitter  tears,  and  for 
the  first  time  1  had  another  thought  than 
Fedio. 

Next  day  the  priest  sent  for  Ivan  and 
me,  and  he  told  me  all  those  things  again 
which  my  heart  bad  been  telling  me  all 
night.  I  cannot  remember  all  he  said  to 
me;  bat  then  he  took  us  to  the  church, 
and  prayed  with  us  before  the  altar,  and, 
laying  the  book  of  Gospels  upon  my  head, 
he  read  aloud  out  of  it,  and  sprinkled  the 
holy  water  over  as,  and  then  he  blessed 
us,  and  sent  as  away  together. 


A  year  later  the  great  God  gave  us  a 
son ;  but  he  only  lived  for  four  Sundays. 
In  the  second  year  a  daughter  was  born ; 
this  one  lived  for  half  a  year,  and  after 
that  she  also  died.  In  the  same  month 
my  mother  was  taken  from  us.  You  know, 
gracious  lady,  how  much  the  burying 
costs :  these  losses  were  hard  for  us ;  and 
besides,  the  harvest  was  a  poor  one.  After 
that  we  had  another  girl,  and  then  a  boy. 
These  lived  longer.  The  girl  grew  to  be 
five  years  old,  and  the  boy  three,  and  they 
were  so  beautiful  —  as  beautiful  as  the 
children  of  great  lords.  Then  they  both 
died  in  one  week ;  and  there  wanted  but 
little  that  I  should  have  gone  mad.  I 
thought  to  myself  that  this  was  my  pun- 
ishment for  not  being  able  to  forget  Fedio. 
Children  had  been  born  and  had  died,  my 
mother  had  been  taken  from  me,  harvests 
had  ripened  and  had  failed,  and  yet  never 
for  one  minute  did  the  thought  of  Fedio 
leave  my  mind.  It  was  eight  years  now 
since  he  had  gone;  those  who  had  be- 
come soldiers  with  him  were  back  already. 
And  the  people  told  me  that  he  must  be 
dead;  but  I  felt  that  he  was  alive.  I 
knew  that  he  had  not  died  —  that  he  could - 
not  die  until  my  eyes  had  seen  him  again, 
until  my  hand  had  held  his,  and  we  had 
looked  in  each  other's  faces. 

Ivan  was  so  good  a  husband  to  me,  that 
I  have  no  words  how  to  tell  it ;  and  though 
harvests  were  bad,  he  let  me  want  for 
nothing.  I  had  white  bread  to  eat  when 
even  the  richest  peasants  in  the  village 
did  not  as  much  as  see  black  bread  in 
their  huts.  In  the  evening,  when  he  came 
home  from  work,  he  would  kiss  my  hands 
and  my  feet.  He  would  beg  me,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  not  to  work,  but  to  take 
my  ease  and  rest,  for  he  always  kept  a 
servant  for  me ;  and  if  I  had  chosen,  I 
need  never  have  put  a  finger  to  the  labor. 
I  had  the  heaviest  corals  in  the  village, 
and  the  newest  aprons  to  wear,  the  bright- 


A   POLISH   LOVE^TORY. 


XIX 


est  flowers  in  my  garden  I  And  yet,  in 
the  middle  of  all  this,  there  came  over  me 
moments  when  my  life  was  unbearable  — 
when,  if  I  had  but  known  where  Fedio 
was,  I  should  have  left  my  husband  and 
children  to  go  to  him. 

Once  Ivan  brought  me  back  from  the 
fair  a  new  Blessed  Virgin  to  hang  up  in 
the  hut;  for  the  old  one,  which  had  be- 
longed to  my  mother,  was  getting  shabby. 
This  one  had  a  beautiful  pink  face,  and  a 
red  and  green  dress,  and  a  blue  cloak  with 
yellow  roses,  and  there  was  a  glittering 
gold  frame  all  round  it.  I  knew  that  it 
bad  cost  Ivan  many  kreutzers  to  buy  it; 
yet  when  I  said  my  prayers  before  that 
picture,  it  was  not  for  him  that  I  prayed. 

When,  therefore,  my  two  children  died 
in  one  week,  I  thought  this  was  God's 
doing ;  and  yet,  though  I  did  not  dare  to 
pravfor  it,  God  gave  me  another  son  — 
and  this  one  was  more  beautiful  than  any 
of  the  children  I  had  lost.  When  it  was 
but  a  few  hours  old,  Ivan,  taking  it  in  his 
arms,  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  my  bed, 
and  looked  long  at  the  child;  then  he 
slowly  shook  his  head,  and  with  tears  in 
his  eyes  he  said,  — 

''What  a  pity  if  it  also  should  die  as 
the  others  have  died ! " 

Many  times  before  this,  when  I  was 
near  to  becoming  mother,  I  had  thought 
that  were  the  child  to  be  a  son,  I  should 
like  to  give  him  that  name  which  was  to 
me  the  dearest  name  on  earth  ;  but  the 
courage  had  always  failed  me  to  speak  to 
Ivan  of  this.  At  this  moment  the  old 
wish  came  over  me  again  like  a  burning 
thirst,  and  without  pausing  to  think,  1 
spoke,  — 

**  Call  the  child  as  he  was  called ;  with 
his  name  it  must  live  ! " 

Ivan  did  not  understand  me  at  once ;  be 
did  not  seem  to  know  of  whom  1  spoke, 
for  certainly  he  believed  that  I  had  for- 
gotten that  other  one  long  ago. 

^  Whose  name  am  I  to  give  him  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Fedio !  "  I  answered. 

It  was  many,  oh,  very  many  years  since 
my  voice  had  spoken  that  name ;  and  now 
as  I  heard  it  again,  even  though  it  was 
myself  who  haa  said  it,  I  felt  my  heart 

row  sore  and  the  tears  rise  to  my  eyes, 
put  my  hand  up,  that  Ivan  should  not 
see  those  tears ;  for  they  would  have  hurt 
the  man  who  for  so  long  had  been  to  me 
an  angel  upon  earth. 

He  put  back  the  child  beside  me,  bent 
down  and  kissed  me,  and  without  a  word 
lejeft  the  room. 
A  little  later  he  came  back  with  the 


godparents.    They  took  the  child  from 
me,  and  carried  it  to  church. 

The  church  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the 
village.  I  had  to  wait  long  before  they 
returned.  All  the  time  they  were  away, 
I  asked  myself  whether  they  would  in- 
deed give  the  boy  the  name  after  which  I 
thirsted.  It  seemed  to  me  that  with  an* 
other  name  I  could  not  love  him. 

At  last  they  came. 

Ivan  took  the  child  from  the  arms  of  the 
godmother,  and  laid  it  beside  me  on  the 
pillow. 

**  Fedio  is  his  name,  and  may  God  let 
him  grow  up !  " 

And  the  great,  good  God  took  the  sac- 
rifice which  Ivan  had  made.  His  blessing 
was  on  this  child.  The  boy  thrived  like 
running  water,  and  the  name  which  for  so 
long  had  been  unspoken  between  us  was 
now  heard  daily  in  our  hut  and  garden. 

The  years  ran  on  and  brought  us  a 
daughter,  who  also  lived.  Ivan  began  to 
talk  of  building  a  new  hut.  He  cut  the 
wood  and  prepared  the  thatch :  all  day  he 
was  busy  with  his  new  plan. 

I  remember  that  it  was  on  a  Monday. 
Ivan,  as  usual,  was  working  at  the  new 
hut,  the  children  ran  out  to  the  garden  to 
play,  and  I  went  down  to  the  pond  with 
the  linen  to  wash.  It  was  spring-time 
already;  but  though  the  weather  was  dry, 
I  began  to  feel  chilled  after  1  had  washed 
for  two  hours  at  the  pond.  Going  back 
to  the  hut,  I  sat  myself  down  beside  the 
stove. 

As  I  sat  thus  idle,  my  thoughts  took 
their  old  weary  round.  "Where  was 
Fedio  now?  Was  he  happy?  Had  he 
one  true  heart  beside  him?"  And  the 
tears  ran  down  my  cheeks. 

It  was  always  this  way  with  me  when  I 
sat  thus  idle  on  Sundays  or  on  feast-days, 
for  in  the  week  1  had  no  time  for  tears; 
but  to-day,  though  it  was  only  a  work-day, 
yet  as  I  leaned  quite  still  beside  the  stove, 
the  old  thoughts  and  the  old  tears  came 
back. 

While  I  was  sitting  thus,  the  door 
opened,  and  there  stood  in  the  room 
Fedio's  sister. 

I  do  not  know  why,  though  I  saw  that 
woman  everv  day,  though  she  had  very 
often  entered  this  same  door  in  just  this 
same  way,  —  I  do  not  know  why  it  was 
that,  seeing  her  now,  I  sprang  up  from  the 
bench  and  called  out,  — 

"Fedio!  What  has  happened  to  him?. 
Has  he  written  ?    Has  he  been  seen  ?  " 

"No;  nothing  has  happened,  and  he 
has  not  written:  he  is  here  himself  —  be 
is  ia  my  hut  —  and  he  waits  for  you.*' 


tX3 


A  POLISH  LOVE-STORY. 


Mv  heart  began  to  beat  so  loud  that  I 
could  hear  it  throbbing.  In  a  moment  I 
forgot  everything  —  husband,  children, 
everything,  everything  that  was.  With- 
out taking  a  minute  to  think,  I  ran  straight 
out  of  the  hut.  Happily  it  was  a  Monday, 
and  therefore  my  shirt  was  quite  white.  I 
had  on  a  striped  petticoat,  a  blue  hand- 
kerchief on  my  head,  and  my  corals  round 
my  neck.  And  he  had  not  seen  me  for  so 
many  years!  I  was  eighteen  when  he 
left  me,  and  eighteen  years  had  passed 
since  then ;  and  these  two  eighteens  made 
roe  near  forty.  It  was  lucky  that  after  so 
many  years  he  should  see  me  in  a  new 
petticoat  and  with  my  corals  on.  But  all 
this  I  only  thought  of  later.  While  I  ran 
towards  the  hut,  I  had  no  thought  at  all ; 
it  seemed  to  me  only  that  I  should  never 
have  done  running,  that  the  hut  was  run- 
ning away  from  before  me,  and  my  breath 
began  to  grow  short.  I  reached  the  yard, 
the  threshold ;  I  opened  the  door,  but  then 
I  could  go  no  farther  —  my  forces  failed 
roe.  I  saw  him.  He  stood  in  lancer  uni- 
form, with  his  back  towards  me,  holding 
his  hands  to  the  stove. 

At  the  noise  of  the  opening  door  he 
turned,  and  running  forward  with  a  ^eat 
cry,  he  took  me  in  his  arms:  his  head 
sank  down  upon  my  shoulder,  so  that  my 
lips  just  touched  his  hair.  And  then  he 
began  to  laugh  —  quite  softly  at  first,  then 
louder,  louder,  louder,  till  l'  grew  fright- 
ened. It  was  so  strange  that  laugh,  that 
it  seemed  to  hurt  my  shoulder.  In  the 
first  moment  I  had  been  stunned,  but  that 
terrible  laugh  aroused  me.  I  cried  out, 
"Water,  water!" 

His  sister  came  running  to  us :  we  tried 
to  make  him  sit  down,  but  his  hands  were 
80  tiffhtly  clasped  on  my  dress  that  we 
coula  not  open  them.  Then  we  poured 
water  over  him :  he  grew  quieter,  and  lis* 
tened  to  me  while  I  spoke. 

**  My  Fedio,  my  dearest,  try  to  be  quiet. 
I  am  your  Marvsia.  God  has  allowed  us 
to  meet  again."  And  with  everv  word  he 
grew  calmer :  he  sat  down  on  the  bench, 
and  I  beside  him. 

He  did  not  ask  me  why  I  had  married, 
nor  when,  nor  if  I  had  children,  —  nothing 
of  all  this  did  he  ask  me  then.  He  only 
told  me  that  he  had  wanted  to  see  me, 
once  more  to  embrace  me;  that  he  would 
not  die,  though  his  life  was  very  dark,  but 
that  he  would  go  out  again  into  the  world, 
and  this  time  never  to  return. 

'*  No,  Fedio  —  no,  my  beloved,  do  not 
leave  the  village,  for  then  at  least  I  can,  if 
only  sometimes  —  if  only  from  far  off,  -—  I 
can  rest  my  eyes  on  you  I " 


"  Marysia !  It  is  true,  then,  what  they* 
tell  me ;  it  is  true,  then,  that  you  have  not 
forgotten  me?" 

Through  my  tears  I  told  him  that  it  was 
true ;  and  in  that  moment  it  seemed  to  me 
that  we  were  both  young  again,  —  he  a 
youth  of  twenty,  I  a  maiden  of  eighteen  ! 

While  we  still  talked,  the  church  bell 
rang  the  midday  hour.  I  stood  up,  for  I 
remembered  that  my  husband  would  be 
coming  in  from  his  work,  and  the  children 
would  be  looking  for  me. 

^  I  must  go,"  1  said  to  Fedio;  "  Ivan  ia 
waiting  for  his  dinner." 

And  1  left  the  hut.  He  did  not  try  to 
stop  me,  but  he  rose  also  and  followed  me 
out,  through  the  yard,  and  across  the 
yard  to  the  gate.  I  thought  he  would 
turn  back  here,  but  he  did  not ;  he  came 
after  me  on  to  the  road.  At  this  I  was 
frightened  —  not  for  me,  but  for  him.  I 
begged  him  to  leave  me.  He  answered 
me  that  he  could  not.  I  stood  still  and 
implored  him  to  go,  so  that  Ivan  might 
not  see  us  there  walking  together. 

"Why  not?  Does  he  not  know  that, 
whether  I  be  far  or  near,  I  always  love 
you  ?  " 

"  And  that  is  why,  because  he  knows, 
he  will  kill  you." 

'*  Let  him  kill  me !  this  life  is  weari- 
some." ' 

"  Fedio ! "  I  cried,  and  I  felt  the  fire 
flash  to  my  eyes.  "  He  will  not  kill  yoa 
alone.  He  will  put  the  knife  first  into  you, 
and  then  into  me  —  remember  that,  and  * 
do  not  take  my  death  on  your  conscience, 
for  I  have  two  small  chilaren  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me. 

"  Do  you  really  not  love  him  ?  " 

"  I  love  no  one  but  you ;  but  I  would 
have  loved  him  if  I  could,  for  he  is  an  • 
angel." 

•*  Is  he  good  to  you  ?  "  • 

"  Have  I  not  told  you  that  he  is  good 
as  an  angel  ?  " 

"May  God  bless  him  for  that!  "  he 
answered ;  and  turning  round  abruptly,  he  • 
went  back  to  the  hut. 

"  Fedio  1  But  do  not  leave  the  village  t " 
I  called  after  him. 

"  Not  yet  to-day,"  I  heard  him  say  very 
low. 

I  went  quickly  home. 

While  we  had  been  standing  on  the 
road,  taking  leave  of  each  other,  there  had 
passed  by  us  old  Zosia,  that  same  womaa 
of  whom  I  told  you,  gracious  lady,  that- 
she  frequented  the  Jews,  that  she  drank 
"^  in  one  word,  a  good-for-nothing.  Whe 
this  woman  had  recognized  us,  she  ha 
tened  her  steps,  she  t>egan  to  ruO|    • 


A   POLISH   LOVE-STORY* 


"3 


witbont  turning  her  head  she  ran  straight 
down  the  village  street. 

Bat  I  had  not  thought  further  of  this, 
for  my  heart  was  full  of  happiness. 

I  reached  our  hut,  —  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  stood  Ivan;  but  he  was  so 
changed  that  I  did  not  at  once  know  him. 
His  brows  were  drawn  together,  his 
glance  was  dark  and  terrible.  Never  had 
I  seen  him  like  this.  I  n  the  greatest  sad- 
ness, in  the  moments  of  deepest  want,  in 
the  midst  of  cares  and  anxiety,  he  had 
always  had  for  me  kind  looks  and  good 
words. 

He  came  a  step  towards  me,  and  sternly 
asked,  **  Where  do  you  come  from  ? 
Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

I  felt  that  to  tell  a  lie  would  be  to  add  to 
my  fault;  therefore  I  answered  at  once, 
"  Fedio  has  come." 

** And  you  have  been  with  him?  You 
have  been  in  his  hut?" 

•«  I  have  been." 

For  the  first  time  I  saw  Ivan's  eyes  all 
alight  with  fire.  He  raised  his  arm  and 
struck  me.  1 1  was  a  thick  stick  which  he 
held,  and  it  fell  on  my  shoulders,  once  — 
twice  —  of tener  still.  And  I  did  not  lift 
linger.  I  never  tried  to  free  myself.  I, 
who  as  a  child  had  been  the  darling  of  my 
parents,  as  a  woman  the  idol  of  my  hus- 
band—  I  now  stood  before  this  man,  who 
had  ever  been  kind  and  loving  to  me  till 
today,  and  his  heavy  blows  fell  thick  and 
fast  upon  me.  I  never  moved  as  he 
struck  me ;  I  was  not  frightened,  I  was 
not  angry,  almost  I  did  not  feel. 

To-day  I  wonder  that  it  was  so.  Per- 
haps at  that  moment  I  could  feel  only  one 
thing  —  that  Fedio  was  alive,  that  I  had 
seen  him ;  or  perhaps  I  understood  that 
Ivan  was  in  his  right  —  that  these  blows 
were  no  injustice,  but  only  the  just  pun- 
ishment for  that  love  which  1  could  not 
and  would  not  abandon. 

During  that  time  the  door  opened,  and 
Fedio  appeared. 

^  Heartless  and  cruel  man  ! "  he  cried. 
"Man  without  conscience  and  without 
pity!  Why  do  you  beat  her?  Why  this 
harsh  punishment?  She  is  innocent !  If 
you  must  strike  some  one,  strike  me ! 
Unhappy  wretch  that  1  am  I  Have  I  come 
back  for  this?  I  shall  go — 1  shall  go 
again,  far  into  the  world;  with  a  stone  I 
shall  dash  out  my  wretched  brains,  and 
she  shall  not  suffer  for  me." 

He  took  my  hand,  and  clasping  It  to  his 
breast,  he  kissed  it  and  wept  over  it,  sob- 
bing like  a  child. 

I  began  to  wake  from  my  apathy,  for  he 
was  hurting  me,  far  more  than  Ivan's  stick 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2244 


had  done.  I  felt  as  though  my  heart  must 
break,  as  I  stood  thus  between  those  two 
men  that  loved  me.  I  understood  what 
must  be  Ivan's  bitter  suffering,  as  he  lis- 
tened to  the  words  of  Fedio^s  despair,  as 
he  watched  the  feeling  which  I  could  not 
hide.     In  my  misery  I  began  to  cry. 

Ivan,  who  had  never  seen  me  weep,  ex- 
cept over  my  dying  children,  was  fright- 
ened; for  he  did  not  know  that  I  was 
crying  for  him,  and  not  for  myself.  He 
threw  away  his  stick,  and  stretching  oat 
his  hands  towards  me,  he  fell  at  my  feet. 

"  Marysia !  Speak  to  me !  Look  at 
me  !     I  was  mad  to  strike  you  !  " 

Though  I  wanted.  I  could  not  speak ; 
but  I  raised  him  up  from  the  ground,  and 
taking  his  hand,  that  hand  which  a  minute 
ago  had  struck  me,  I  held  it  to  my  lips 
and  kissed  it. 

Fedio  stood  and  watched  us,  and  at 
last  he  also  held  out  his  hand  to  Ivan,  and 
said  —  ah  !  1  remember  every  word  that 
he  said,  — 

**  Brother,  I  thank  you  !  Now  I  can  go 
out  again  into  the  world,  for  I  know  that 
you  are  good  to  her.  But  to-day  do  not 
send  me  from  your  hut,  for  I  have  told 
you  nothing  yet  of  where  I  have  been, 
what  countries  I  have  seen,  what  towns 
and  people.  Let  me  leave  you  something 
to  remember  me  by ;  for  when  1  go  again, 
you  shall  not  see  me  more." 

All  this  Fedio  said  most  beautifully, 
like  words  in  a  book,  and  yet  he  was  not 
learned. 

Ivan  made  no  answer,  but  he  wiped  a 
bench,  and  made  a  sign  to  Fedio  that  he 
should  sit  down.  And  Fedio  sat  there 
till  evening,  for  he  ate  with  us,  he  played 
with  my  children,  he  told  them  stories. 
But  it  was  not  the  children  alone  that 
listened  to  the  stories;  for  he  told  us 
wonderful  things  of  the  places  he  had 
seen.  Twice  he  had  served  through  the 
military  time ;  and  after  that,  two  years 
more  as  servant  with  a  captain  of  the  lan- 
cers. 

Ivan  asked  him  why  he  had  not  come 
back  after  the  first  eight  years,  and  Fedio 
answered, — 

**  When  I  heard  that  Marysia  had  taken 
a  husband,  there  was  nothing  more  for  me 
to  come  home  for.  My  master  the  captain 
was  good  to  me,  my  service  was  not  hard, 
I  meant  never  to  return.  But  there  arose 
at  last  such  a  desire  to  know  whether  in- 
deed she  were  happy,  such  a  longing  to 
see  again  the  village,  that  I  could  bear  it 
no  longer.  The  pan  kapitan  took  an- 
other servant  in  my  place,  and  sent  me 
home." 


n4 


A   POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 


As  I  said  before,  it  wal  evening  before 
he  had  done  talking.  Ivan  had  not  gone 
to  work  again,  but  sat  listening  to  Fedio's 
stories.  But  one  story  there  was  which 
Fcdio  did  not  tell  me  then,  —  which  he 
told  me  only  on  the  day  after  his  return, 
when  he  found  me  drawing  water  at  the 
well.  It  was  there  that  he  told  me,  and 
swore  to  me,  that  during  all  these  years 
he  had  known  no  other  love  but  mine,  that 
in  this  life  he  had  kissed  no  other  woman 
but  me.  And  I  believed  him  —  I  believed 
him  by  my  own  suffering,  by  the  pain 
which  my  husband's  first  kiss  had  given 
me. 

Every  day  Fedio  said  that  he  would 
leave  the  village,  and  every  day  he  put 
off  his  departure  to  the  next.  His  brother 
wanted  to  keep  him,  for  he  was  rich  now. 
In  the  years  that  he  had  served  he  had 
saved  much  money.  Often  he  would 
come  to  our  hut,  and  Ivan  did  not  forbid 
it;  once  he  even  said  to  Fedio,  — 

**  It  is  better  you  should  speak  to  her 
here  in  my  hut,  than  that  you  should  meet 
her  on  the  road,  or  at  the  well,  for  then 
the  people  will  talk  evil." 

It  was  Zosia  who  had  told  him  of  our 
meeting  at  the  well ;  but  it  was  also  she 
who  had  called  Fedio  when  Ivan  was 
beating  me. 

Once  I  remember,  —  two  Sundays  may 
have  passed  since  Fedio's  return,  —  he 
came  into  the  hut  towards  evening.  Ivan 
was  not  yet  back  from  his  work. 

'•  Marysia ! "  Fedio  said  to  me, "  I  know 
well  that  I  should,  that  I  must  go ;  but  I 
am  too  weak  to  do  it  alone.  It  will  be 
terrible  to  me,  but  I  beg  of  you,  let  it  be 
you  who  says  that  word  *  Go  ! '  ** 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  there  was 
silence  between  us.  I  could  not  raise  my 
eyes.  With  all  my  will  I  wanted  to  say 
to  him  "  Go ;  "  but  my  lips  would  not 
move  —  the  words  froze  in  mv  throat. 

He  looked  at  me,  and  understood,  for 
he  did  not  speak  again. 

Ivan  came  in.  When  he  saw  Fedio 
sitting  on  the  bench,  a  cloud  came  over 
his  face.  He  walked  slowly  through  the 
room,  and  stood  stHl  before  Fedio. 

"  You  have  come  to  say  good-bye  ? 
When  are  you  going?" 

Fedio  got  up  from  the  bench. 

••  You  send  me  away  ?  Then  I  shall  go 
at  once,  —  to-day  still  —  this  night;  but, 
when  the  hour  of  your  death  comes,  re- 
member that  to  a  very  unhappy  man  you 
have  grudged  him  his  one  delight.  Do 
you  not  know  that  I  have  loved  her  ?  Do 
you  not  know  that  she  was  to  have  been 
mine?  that  her  parents  have  called  roe 


son?  And  what  was  the  happiness'  I 
asked  ?  For  a  few  more  days  to  gaze  at 
her,  for  a  few  more  days  to  speak  to  her. 
And  this  poor  gift  you  grudge  me !  Up 
there  may  God  call  }'ou  to  account  for 
that  pain  which  you  give  me  to-day  ! " 

As  he  said  it,  his  voice  rang  through 
the  hut,  his  head  was  raised,  and  his  two 
eyes  shone  like  two  burning  coals.  He 
was  as  beautiful  as  a  painted  picture ; 
these  eighteen  years  had  not  changed 
him.  People  said  he  had  grown  old,  but 
I  could  not  see  it. 

Ivan  was  softened,  whether  by  the  fear 
of  God*s  judgment,  or  through  pity  for 
Fedio,  I  do  not  know ;  enough  that  he 
said,  — 

"It  is  not  I  who  send  you  away;  you 
yourself  know  that  you  must  go,  if  not 
to-day,  then  to-morrow." 

*'  I  know  it,  and  I  will  go ;  but  give  me 
two,  three  days  —  give  me  a  week." 

Gracious  lady,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  it 
came,  —  there  passed  one  week,  there 
passed  two  weeks,  and  Fedio  was  still  in 
the  village.  Sometimes  I  met  him  as  I 
came  back  from  work,  sometimes  I  saw 
him  on  the  road,  sometimes  he  came  to 
our  hut.  The  children  looked  out  for 
his  coming;  there  was  always  a  piece 
of  gingerbread  or  an  apple  in  his  pocket 
for  them.  They  would  run  to  meet  him 
on  the  road,  and  he  would  lift  them  in 
his  arms  and  hold  them  aloft  over  his 
head. 

During  this  time  Ivan  was  busy  finish- 
ing the  hut.  He  had  been  working  harder 
than  usual,  for  he  wanted  all  to  be  done 
before  the  harvest.  In  a  week  he  hoped 
to  be  finished.'  The  roof  was  on,  and  he 
took  his  cart  to  the  forest  to  fetch  some 
large  stones  for  the  threshold. 

This  was  in  the  sixth  week  after  Fe- 
dio's return.  In  two  days  he  was  to  leave 
the  village  —  in  two  days  was  to  come 
that  terrible  day  of  parting.  I  did  not 
know  how  I  should  stand  it,  for  I  no 
longer  had  the  strength  of  my  youth.  In 
those  days  I  went  about  the  hut  like  a 
drunken  woman;  my  mind  was  growing 
dark. 

But  the  great  God  had  willed  it  other- 
wise; the  cross  which  he  sent  me  was  not 
this  one,  though  it  was  heavy. 

Two  days  before  that  fixed  for  Fedio's 
departure,  Ivan  came  back  from  the  forest 
later  than  usual.  He  ate  no  supper;  he 
said  not  a  word  to  me,  and  neither  did  I 
speak  to  him, —  I  could  not.  He  lay 
down  ;  I  sat  on  the  bench  by  the  window. 
He  did  not  lie  quiet;  he  threw  himself 
from  side  to  side ;  at  last  he  said, «- 


A   POLISH    LOVE-STORY. 


"S 


"Open  the  window;  I  am  choking.'* 

I  opened  the  window,  but  I  began  to  be 
afraid. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  asked. 

"I  am  ill.  Bring  me  hot  ashes  to  lay 
00  my  chest;  there  is  a  pain  there  ;  I  am 
choking." 

At  his  words  there  came  a  great  change 
over  me:  all  that  had  been  in  my  heart 
seemed  to  die  out  in  a  moment.  I  was 
like  a  drunkard  grown  suddenly  sober. 

When  I  had  given  him  the  ashes,  I 
asked  if  I  should  get  a  doctor,  but  he 
answered  that  God  was  the  best  doctor. 

Thus  the  hours  passed,  and  I  watched 
beside  him.  It  was  a  little  after  midnight, 
when  all  at  once  the  blood  came  rushing 
through  his  nostrils  and  from  between  his 
teeth.  Id  my  terror  I  ran  and  called  a 
neighbor,  ana  then  I  left  the  hut  for  a 
doctor.  When  I  had  reached  the  gate,  I 
asked  myself  how  the  doctor  could  be 
got?  who  would  go  at  this  hour?  Fedio 
came  into  my  thoughts.  There  were 
horses  io  his  nut,  and  a  cart.  In  a  few 
minutes  I  was  at  his  window  tapping 
softly  to  awake  him.  He  came  out  to  me 
io  the  moonlight  —  the  night  was  as  clear 
as  day —  and  listened  to  my  story. 

**Go  back  to  Ivan,  Marysia,"  he  said. 
**Io  less  than  an  hour  I  shall  have  brought 
the  doctor." 

But  of  what  good  is  a  doctor  when  the 
great  God  has  ordained  that  a  roan  shall 
not  live  ? 

Ten  days  after  that  Ivan  died. 

He  haa  broken  a  blood-vessel  as  he 
lifted  a  too  heavy  stone  in  the  forest ;  and 
io  the  first  moment  that  the  doctor  saw 
him,  he  said  there  was  no  hope.  On  the 
second  day  of  his  illness  be  sent  for  Fe- 
dio, and  said,  — 

**  Do  not  leave  the  village  until  you  see 
which  way  it  turns  with  me." 

And  Fedio  remained. 

As  1  said,  gracious  lady,  Ivan  was  ill 
for  only  ten  days.  Two  clays  before  he 
died  he  asked  again  for  Fedio. 

Fedio  came  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 
Poor  Ivan  was  as  white  as  the  sheet 
which  covered  him.  He  put  his  hand  in 
Fedio's,  and  when  he  spoke  his  voice 
seemed  to  rattle  in  his  chest. 

*'  I  am  dying.  It  was  God  himself  who 
brought  you  to  the  village  ;  to  your  care  I 
leave  my  children.  My  sisters  are  not 
good ;  do  not  let  my  orphans  be  wronged." 

The  speaking  tired  him,  and  he  lay  si- 
lent. Fedio  held  his  hand,  and  I  was 
crying  beside  the  window. 

After  a  pause  he  began  again,  — 

*'  1  am  sorry  to  die.    My  time  had  not 


come  yet,  but  I  had  to  make  room  —  for 
you :  thus  God  wills  it.  I  have  lived 
my  young  years  with  her,  and  she  will 
cheer  your  last  days.  God  has  divided  it 
fairly.  But  remember,  as  I  loved  her  and 
honored  her,  so  also  do  you,  and  let  my 
children  never  feel  that  they  have  lost  a 
father." 

I  do  not  know  what  Fedio  answered, 
for  I  was  weeping  so  that  I  could  hear  no 
more. 

It  is  strange,  gracious  lady,  but  during 
that  week  while  Ivan  lay  ill,  when  he  died, 
and  when  I  buried  him,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  at  last  my  love  for  Fedio  was  dead, 
and  that  I  had  buried  it  with  Ivan.  It 
had  gone  from  me  I  know  not  how,  and  I 
stood  alone  doubly  widowed. 

With  us  poor  people,  our  grief  is  made 
greater  by  all  that  we  have  to  think  of  and 
do  for  the  burial.  My  brother  went  to 
the  priest,  but  it  was  my  business  to  see 
that  the  bread  and  the  wddki  should  be 
prepared. 

This  was  before  the  harvest,  and  w^e 
had  no  new  bread  in  the  house.  In  the 
cupboard  there  was  not  one  kreutzer,  in 
the  kitchen  not  one  pound  of  flour.  There 
was  no  help  for  it  but  to  borrow  money 
from  the  Jew,even  should  he  ask  fifty  per 
cent. 

But  Fedio  had  guessed  my  trouble, 
and  in  the  early  morning  —  the  morning 
after  Ivan  was  dead  —  he  came  to  roe  and 
said,  — 

"  Marysia!  You  have  no  money  for  the 
burial,  and  you  are  going  to  the  Jew  for 
it?" 

"And  what  else  should  I  do?    I  must." 

**  I  have  brought  fifty  florins,"  he  said; 
"  I  do  not  need  them  now,  —  let  them  keep 
this  trouble  from  you." 

**  No,  no,"  I  cried,  **  I  cannot  bury  him 
with  your  money;  "  and  I  began  to  cry. 

"  But  it  will  not  be  my  money,  it  will  be 
yours.  You  can  pay  me  back»  and  give 
me  what  percentage  you  like." 

I  would  not  listen,  but  he  went  on, — 

**  Whether  you  bury  him  with  the  Jew's 
money  or  with  mine,  what  can  be  the  dif- 
ference? Only  that  1  will  ask  honest 
interest  and  the  Jew  will  ruin  you." 

He  counted  out  fifty  florins,  laid  them 
in  the  cupboard,  and  then  left  the  hut. 

I  thought  to  myself  that  he  had  spoken 
right  —  that  as  a  loan  I  could  take  the 
money,  but  that,  as  soon  as  the  harvest 
was  over,  I  would  sell  to  the  last  grain  of 
corn  and  pay  my  debt,  even  though  for  a 
whole  year  my  children  should  have  to  eat 
dry  bread. 

Ivan's  funeral  was  so  fine  that  every 


ii6 


A   POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 


one  in  the  village  said  even  a  gospodarz 
(proprietor  of  land)  could  not  have  been 
buried  more  beautifullv. 

Since  Ivan  had  died,  everything  within 
me  had  changed.  I  loved  Fedio,  but  as  a 
brother  only,  or  as  a  mother  may  love  her 
son  when  he  has  grown  to  be  a  man. 
When  he  was  not  near  me  I  felt  sad,  but 
my  heart  did  not  beat  now  as  it  once  did 
at  his  approach.  And  who  knows  whether 
the  old  love  might  not  have  died  out  for- 
ever, had  not  the  spite  of  gossiping 
tongues  awakened  it  once  more  from  its 
sleep  1 

There  was  an  evil  murmur  rising  in 
the  village ;  but  it  was  many  days  before 
It  reached  my  ears.  The  neighbors  grew 
colder;  they  passed  me  by  hastily  on  the 
road ;  thev  shook  their  heads  whenever 
Fedio  and  I  were  seen  walking  together. 
At  first  I  saw  all  this  but  dimly,  and  it 
was  only  on  the  third  Sunday  after  Ivan's 
funeral  that  the  truth  became  clear  to  my 
eyes. 

It  was  near  sunset,  and  we  were  com- 
ing back  from  church.  Fedio  had  met  me 
at  the  door,  and  was  walking  by  my  side. 
Half-way  down  the  village  street  there 
stood  a  group  of  women  —  Ivan's  sister 
among  them.  They  were  talking  in  whis- 
pers, and  facing  towards  us;  but  when 
Fedio,  in  passing,  saluted  them  with  '*  God 
give  you  luck ! ''there  was  not  one  voice 
that  answered  him. 

Their  silence  and  their  strange  glances 
gave  me  an  uneasy  fear.  I  looked  at 
Fedio ;  his  brows  were  drawn  together, 
his  teeth  bit  deep  into  his  under  lip,  he 
stared  straight  in  front  of  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  street  he  left  me ;  and 
I,  turning  on  my  heel,  walked  straight 
back  again  to  the  group  of  chattering  wom- 
en. 

**  Why  did  you  not  give  him  back  the 
salute?"  I  asked. 

I  did  not  speak  loud,  yet  they  cowered 
away  before  me,  as  though  I  were  some 
dangerous  animal.  It  was  Ivan's  sister 
who  answered, — 

"  We  have  no  salutation  for  a  man  who 
has  done  what  that  one  has  done." 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"Is  it  indeed  you,  Ivan*s  widow,  who 
ask  this  question  of  me,  Ivan's  sister?  " 

"  I  ask  it." 

"What  was  it  that  killed  your  hus- 
band ?  " 

"A  heavy  stone:  the  whole  village 
knows  it." 

*'  And  I  tell  you  the  whole  village  knows 
better.  Listen  only  to  what  every  tongue 
says." 


She  was  moving  away  but  I  held  her  by 
the  arm. 

"What  is  it  they  say?" 

"  That  it  was  not  a  stone  which  killed 
him,  —  there  was  poison  in  his  drink  I" 

Perhaps  the  woman  was  frightened  at 
my  face,  for  she  tore  herself  away  and  left 
me  standing  on  the  road  alone. 

Now  I  saw  the  meaning  of  all  that  bad 
passed  since  Ivan's  burial;  now  I  under- 
stood why  Fedio  had  grown  so  pale,  and 
in  that  hour  I  knew  that  I  loved  him  not 
as  a  brother,  not  as  a  son,  but  only  as  my 
one  beloved,  whose  image  for  so  many 
years  I  had  carried  in  my  heart. 

And  to  me,  unhappy  woman,  there  came 
another  thought.  In  the  same  minute, 
when  I  knew  that  I  loved  Fedio,  I  knew 
also  that  I  could  never  be  his  wife.  Only 
in  this  way,  it  seemed  to  me,  could  I  take 
from  him  the  weight  of  that  heavy  accu- 
sation. 

At  home,  on  the  bench  beside  the  door, 
I  sat  myself  down  to  think.  This  terrible 
thing  was  said  of  Fedio,  and  with  Fedio's 
money  I  had  buried  Ivan !  I  could  not 
wait  now  for  the  harvest  to  repay  him.  It 
came  into  my  head  that  there  was  a  cattle- 
market  in  the  town  next  day,  and  I  said 
to  myself,  "I  will  sell  the  cow  and  pay 
him.'' 

Every  day  since  the  day  of  Ivan's  burial 
Fedio  used  to  come  in  the  morning  to  ask 
if  I  wanted  for  nothing,  for  Ivan  had 
made  him  the  guardian  of  the  children. 
He  came  also  next  day,  and  finding  me  in 
the  yard,  just  as  I  had  tied  a  piece  of  rope 
round  the  horns  of  the  cow,  he  asked  in 
surprise, — 

"  Marysia,  what  is  this  you  are  doing? 
Would  you  sell  the  cow?" 

"  Fedio,"  I  said,  "  I  am  selling  the  cow 
because  1  must  pay  vou  back  your  money." 

"  God  be  merciful  to  you  !  For  what  is 
this  hurry?  Have  we  not  settled  that  you 
should  pay  me  after  the  harvest?  I  will 
not  take  the  money  now." 

"  You  must  take  it,  and  still  to-day. 
Have  you  forgotten  how  I  said  that  with 
your  money  I  could  not  bury  him?  Oh, 
unhappy  woman  that  1  am,  why  did  I  take 
it  from  you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  keenly. 

"  Then  you  have  heard  what  the  people 
say  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard,"  and  I  hid  my  face  in 
my  hands. 

"  Who  has  told  it  you  ?  "  His  voice  was 
rising,  and  his  breath  came  short. 

I  would  not  say  that  it  was  Ivan's  sis- 
ter, for  fear  lest  he  should  beat  her;  so  I 
I  answered  only,  — 


A   POLISH   LOVE-STORY. 


"7 


"The  people  told  Jt  me.  Now  you  your- 
self roust  see  that  you  roust  take  the 
money.  If  you  do  not  take  it  you  will 
break  my  heart.  Fedio,  I  beg  you  -^^" 
and  I  burst  into  tears. 

"My  Marysia!  my  only  love!  quiet 
yourself!  I  will  take  the  money,  but  only 
dry  your  eyes;  you  have  cried  so  much, 
so  very  much  already ! " 

"Do  not  call  me  your  Marysia,  for 
yours  I  shall  never  be.  The  people's 
wicked  tongues  have  divided  us  two  for 
all  eternity^ '* 

"Marysia,  your  grief  makes  you  rave! 
But  your  words  put  a  knife  in  my  heart ! 
Quiet  yourself !  Neither  to-day  nor  yet  in 
a  month  can  you  go  to  another  husband; 
for  it  is  not  seemly  for  a  widow  to  marry 
before  the  sixth  month." 

Though  he  was  not  learned  in  books, 
yet  Fedio  was  so  wise  that  be  knew  all 
these  things. 

"In  six  months  people  will  have  for- 
gotten their  evil  thoughts ;  and  to  us,  who 
are  innocent  before  God  and  before  our- 
selves, why  should  not  happiness  come  at 
last  ?  Have  we  not  yet  suffered  enough  ?  " 

"Never,  never!"  I  cried.  "It  can 
never  be.  What !  when  I  walk  beside 
you,  shall  people  point  to  you  and  say, 
*Look!  he  poisoned  the  other  that  he 
might  have  the  widow  for  himself!  *  No, 
DO.  Even  should  I  die  for  it,  they  shall 
sot  say  that  thing  of  you." 

He  saw  that  he  could  get  no  further 
with  me  to-day;  so  he  only  said  that  he 
would  go  with  me  to  the  jarmark,  to  see 
that  I  was  not  cheated  in  the  sale,  nor 
robbed  on  my  way  back  through  the  forest. 

The  cow  was  sold.  Next  morning  early 
I  went  to  the  woj'/a  (judge),  and  before 
him  and  the  siarszych  (elders)  I  counted 
out  the  fifty  florins  to  Fedio.  When  he 
had  taken  them,  I  turned  to  the  wojta  and 
asked  him  to  name  how  much  percentage 
I  should  pay  for  the  time  of  three  Sun- 
days. 

"What  percentage?**  asked  Fedio. 

"  It  was  settled  between  us  that  I  should 
pay  you  interest,"  I  answered. 

"  Marysia,  what  are  you  saying.^  Shall 
I  take  interest  from  vou,  as  though  1  were 
a  Jew?" 

"  You  said  you  would  take  it." 

**  I  said  so  in  order  that  you  should  take 
the  money." 

"And  on  that  condition  only  did  I  take 
it.  You  have  no  right  to  refuse  the  per- 
centage now." 

"  Marysia,  if  you  say  that  hateful  word 
percentage  again,  1  shall  not  forgive  you  ; " 
and  with  a  look  of  anger,  the  first  he  bad 


ever  given  me,  Fedio  turned  and  left  th« 
room. 

A  new  and  strange  life  began  for  me 
now.  Day  and  night  I  worked  to  main- 
tain myself  and  my  children.  If  I  had 
but  wanted  it,  I  might  have  lived  at  ease 
and  fed  upon  dainties,  for  Fedio  had  much 
money,  and  he  begged,  he  entreated  me  to 
take  it;  but  not  one  kreutzer  of  his  would 
I  touch,  not  one  piece  of  bread  bought 
with  his  money  would  I  eat,  for  fear  that 
people  should  have  more  ground  for  their 
evil  talk.  But  I  could  not  prevent  his 
being  good  to  the  children ;  and  they  soon 
found  this  out,  and  ceased  crying  when 
there  was  no  milk  for  them  to  soak  their 
bread,  for  they  knew  that  Fedio's  pocket 
was  a  storeroom  where  they  would  always 
find  cakes  or  fruit  in  plenty.  Even  when 
I  locked  them  up,  he  would  come  and 
throw  them  in  apples  by  the  window. 
•        ••••••• 

When  six  months  were  passed,  Fedio 
asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  and  I  gave  him 
the  same  answer  as  before.  He  left  my 
hut  in  sadness  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  was  doing  right,  for  already  the  evil  talk 
was  lessening. 

Many  girls  in  the  village  had  soft  glances 
for  Fedio,  and  there  was  not  one  who 
would  not  have  taken  him.  The  wojt 
himself  offered  him  his  daughter,  a  young 
and  pretty  girl;  but  Fedio  would  not 
think  of  her.  Very  often,  in  the  months 
that  followed,  he  came  to  me,  and  always 
with  the  same  question  on  his  lips,  —  al- 
ways to  receive  the  same  answer.  At  last 
he  stopped  asking  me,  though  he  would 
often  sit  silent  in  my  hut,  brooding  gloom- 
ily before  him. 

One  evening  he  was  sitting  thus,  when 
a  boy  brought  him  a  message  from  the 
great  house.    He  was  wanted  there. 

"By  the  master?" 

"  No,  by  a  strange  gentleman." 

He  went;  and  scarcely  was  he  gone 
when  an  uneasy  foreboding  came  over  me. 
Who  was  the  strange  gentleman  ?  And 
what  could  he  want  with  Fedio?  Might 
it  not  be  some  harm  ? 

I  sat  up  late  that  night.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  must  wait  tor  something ;  but 
nothing  came. 

The  next  morning  passed,  and  still 
nothing  came. 

At  midday  Fedio  entered  the  hut.  It 
was  not  the  hour  that  I  was  used  to  see 
him  ;  yet  somehow  at  that  moment  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  ask  what  had  brought 
him.  I  waited  for  him  to  speak,  but  he 
sat  quite  silent:  his  face  was  pale,  his 
look  was  stern,  and  his  lips  pressed  tight 


tt^ 


nfXDINGS  BUST. 


'n*rs:l^er,  Once  or  twice  io  the  long  si- 
P-IC5  I  nct.ced  t!iat  he  tamed  his  head 
ir-.-n  '^':  to  Icit,  and  siowIy  passed  his 
•r -fs  -"'i-./i  v.e  room.  His  gaze  hung  on 
^-■^rr.  n  r  'n  turn,  on  every  holy  picture 
m  -.»;  TPi  ,  sa  erery  flower  in  the  window, 
11  A  :r%^ea  toy  on  the  ground,  and  then 
1.  i  r'^;*  rt ittd  on  me. 
. :  *  "z.^^,  and  the  silence  was  broken, — 

*  ^r*'^  i.i,  I  am  going,  —  I  am  going  at 
r..i%  A  T»an's  life  is  too  good  a  thing  to 
V*  viA'.t-i  in  useless  si;jhs.  I  have  loved 
;;  VI  ,  '.'■  2^.  I  have  loved  you  honestly,  on 
"-' ;  <  \tti  I  have  offered  you  my  love  — 
v.:  r  vj  v'.ii  not  come  to  me.  You  t!unk 
-7'^,  ire  acting  rightly;  may  God  forgive 
^  V*  :  •  *  »rong  you  have  done ! " 

•  <:/yyi  h»e.'ore  him  like  a  figure  of  stone, 
a«  -.^  v^nt  on  to  tell  me  that  the  strange 
j^*-.>T»an  at  the  great  house  was  no  other 
'.an  the  ca.otain,  his  old  master,  who  was 
y^w  'iX  i;»roogh  the  country,  and  who 
'v  \-»tA  to  take  Fedio  back  into  his  ser- 
r-.rft.  He  had  never  been  well  served,  he 
sad,  since  Fedio  left  him;  every  other 
servant  had  robbed  or  cheated  him. 

**Aod  the  captain  leaves  to  day,'*  said 
F^dio.  "Good-bye,  Marysia;"  and  still 
grav?*)r,  without  a  smile,  be  held  his  band 
towards  me. 

Bjt  at  that  moment  my  courage  broke 
down;  every  scruple  dropped  from  me, 
every  difliculty  melted  away.  I  forgot  my 
ars^unnents,  I  forgot  my  resolutions.  I 
ioT'^ot  t))at  there  was  a  world  with  bad 
people  in  it ;  and  with  a  spring  I  put  my- 
self l^tweeo  Fedio  and  the  door. 

"Stay!"  I  cried.  "Oh,  Fedio,  stay! 
For  if  you  go  I  shall  die,  and  my  children 
«i!l  be  orphans!** 

Three  Sundays  later  our  marriage  was 
celebrated.  We  have  now  been  married 
for  twelve  years,  and  God  has  given  us  a 
•on.  But  Fedio  loves  Ivan^s  children  as 
much  as  his  own  boy,  and  has  often  told 
me  that  when  he  dies  he  will  divide  his 
ground  in  three  equal  parts. 

'I  here  is  not  one  great  lady  in  the  land, 
there  is  no  queen  on  earth,  who  is  as  hap- 
py as  I  am;  and  if  Ivan  can  see  us  from 
heaven  above,  he  must  surely  rejoice  at 
our  happiness,  and  his  blessing  must  rest 
on  my  Fedio*s  head. 


From  The  Saturday  Review. 
FIELDING'S   BUST. 

To  every  great  writer  there  comes,  soon 
or  Ute,  a  statue,  or,  at  least,  a  bust,  with 


speeches  and  a  laacheon.  Henry  Field- 
ing has  waited  long  for  his  turn,  but  it  has 
come  at  last.  His  effigy  is  placed  in  the 
Shire  Hall,  or  ^' Somersetshire  Valhalla," 
because  be  was  bom  near  Glastonbury. 
One  cannot  learn  that  this  sleepy  little 
town  bas  ever  prided  itself  much  upon 
having  produced  England's  greatest  nov* 
elist ;  bat  then  a  city  which  owns  an  abbey 
and  a  holy  thorn,  and  is  historically  as- 
sociated with  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  can 
afford  to  desire  no  other  distinction.  Be- 
sides, very  few  towns  do  care  to  honor  the 
memory  of  their  novelists.  There  has 
been,  so  far  as  we  remember,  no  speech- 
making  over  any  bast  of  Fielding's  rivals, 
Richardson  and  Smollett;  the  town  o£ 
Portsmouth  has  not  yet  thought  fit  to 
celebrate  by  bust  or  statue  the  fact  that 
Dickens  was  bom  there;  only  the  pro- 
fessional biographers  know  where 'Smol- 
lett, Thackeray,  and  Marian  Evans  were 
born.  But  patience ;  the  turn  of  all  will 
come,  when  every  county  town  shall  have 
its  Valhalla,  or  Sa//e  des  JUustres^  with 
the  busts  of  dead  worthies  ranged  in  hon- 
or round  the  wall  and  a  fitting  legend  in* 
scribed  beneath,  for  each.  Taunton  leads 
the  way.  The  good  work  begun  by  Mr. 
Kinglake  for  his  native  county  is  certain 
to  be  followed  by  others ;  it  is  an  example 
entirely  worthy  of  imitation;  for  though 
there  would  be  few  busts  were  only  those 
of  the  first  rank,  like  Fielding,  to  be  ac- 
cepted, there  are  everywhere  many  hon- 
est workers  who  have  fallen  far  short  of 
that  eminence  but  have  yet  distinguished 
themselves  and  done  more  tlian  credita- 
bly. Not  for  every  man  is  reserved  a 
place  in  Westminster  Abbey ;  but  all  may 
earn  and  deserve  a  niche  in  the  hall  of 
their  native  place.  It  is  astonishing  if 
one  looks  at  a  county  history  to  read  the 
long  list  of  those  who  have  made  for 
themselves  in  their  own  lifetime  some- 
thing of  a  name  and  are  still  remembered, 
though  they  cannot  be  said  to  deserve 
much  more  than  the  kind  of  limited  im- 
mortality achieved  by  such  a  place  in  such 
a  list. 

The  unveiling  of  Fielding's  bust  at 
Taunton  was  a  simple  ceremony,  and 
would  have  called  for  no  other  comment 
than  the  customary  tribute  to  his  genius 
which  the  occasion  demanded  and  which 
has  been  duly  paid  by  the  daily  papers, 
but  for  one  circumstance.  The  unpre- 
tending function  was  accompanied  and 
adorned  by  an  admirable  oration  pro- 
nounced by  Mr.  Lowell.  One  reads  this 
speech  with  a  kind  of  shame  in  thinking 
that  there  is  not,  probably,  a  sin|;le  £a- 


FIELDING  S   BUST. 


119 


glish  man  of  letters  who  could  have  de- 
livered so  -good  a  discourse;  not  one 
scholar,  poet,  or  novelist  who  could  stand 
up  and  speak  so  well  even  on  such  a  sub- 
ject as  Henry  Fielding.  Several  there 
are,  we  doubt  not,  who  could  have  written 
as  well ;  indeed  it  is  a  most  promising  and 
fertile  then>e;  but  to  write  is  English  and 
to  speak  is  American.  This  shrinking 
from  oratory  is  certainly  a  bad  sign  in  our 
writers;  an  author  means,  we  may  sup- 
pose, a  man  who  has  something  to  say; 
be  ought  not  to  limit  his  manner  of  cfe- 
livering  his  message;  yet  most  of  our 
writers  seem  to  shrink  even  from  a  read- 
ing-desk or  a  platform,  and,  while  they 
know  that  all  the  world  is  crying  out  for 
men  who  can  speak,  sit  retired  in  their 
closet  and  write.  Far  greater,  if  not  more 
abiding,  is  the  influence  of  the  man  who 
speaks  than  that  of  the  man  who  writes. 
Those  of  mankind  who  read  will  always 
be  a  minority;  if  a  man  desires  to  lead, 
rale,  teach,  and  influence  his  generation, 
he  must  not  be  afraid  to  stand  up  and 
speak  to  them.  In  the  school  of  prophets 
it  was  always  observed  that  those  who 
could  speak  were  more  regarded  in  their 
own  lifetime  than  those  who  could  only 
write.  To  be  sure,  the  tura  of  the  latter 
came  afterwards. 

It  is  a  great  merit  in  Mr.  Lowell's 
panegyric  that  it  never  sinks  to  common- 
place. Now  so  much  has  been  written, 
so  much  repeated,  about  Fielding,  that 
one  who  speaks  of  his  genius,  his  place 
in  literature,  and  the  characteristic  fea- 
tures of  his  work,  is  in  very  great  danger 
indeed  of  falling  into  commonplace.  It 
is  easy  to  say,  for  instance  —  and  it  has 
been  said  a  good  deal  during  the  last 
week  —  that  for  this  and  for  that  Fielding 
stands  alone ;  it  is  also  very  easy  to  allude 

—  as  has  been  also  frequently  done  during 
the  last  day  or  two  —  to  certain  moral 
lapses  in  the  life  of  Tom  Jones ;  and  it  is 
not  difficult  to  quote  the  stale  old  stories 
started  by  iMurphy,  and  repeated  by  Law- 
rence, which  show  him  as  the  ideal  Bohe- 
miao,  pledging  work  not  yet  done,  eating 
his  coro  in  the  green,  borrowing,  lending, 
drinking,  and  j'oystering.  Mr.  Lowell 
avoided  all  these  pitfalls;  he  spoke  in 
general  terms  of  imagination  and  its 
power  to  '^ cheat  with  a  semblance  of 
creative  power  that  seems  almost  divine ;  '* 
be  showed  how  this  magic  —  possessed  to 
the  full  only  by  three  or  four  great  poets, 
aad  by  them  only  in  their  finest  moments 

—  makes  its  depositaries  and  instruments 
bek>%'ed  above  all  men ;  how  it  is  some- 
times found    in    earthen  vessels;    how, 


when  once  found,  and  under  whatever 
adverse  conditions,  it  has  power  to  lift  the 
world  from  the  commonplace,  and  out  of 
the  most  ordinary  materials  of  everyday 
life  to  create  characters  who  become  im- 
mortal. Such  magic  power  was  possessed 
by  Fielding.  There  were  limitations,  it 
is  true,  and  one  does  not  pretend  that  he 
stands  beside  Shakespeare ;  he  has  pa- 
thos, but  no  passion ;  he  is  absolutely  sin- 
cere, but  his  aims  want  nobility;  he  hates 
sentiment,  but  lacks  refinement;  he  loves 
truth  above  all  things,  but  sometimes 
misses  the  distinction  between  truth  and 
exactitude;  he  paints  life  as  he  saw  it, 
but  sometimes  he  takes  an  unworthy 
model ;  his  books,  while  they  do  not  cor- 
rupt, are  full  of  coarseness,  and  that  be- 
yond what  was  unavoidable  in  his  age; 
Anally,  if  we  seek  for  one  single  charac- 
teristic which  more  than  any  other  would 
sum  him  up,  it  was  his  absolute  manli- 
ness. "  Therefore,"  Mr.  Lowell  concluded 
with  a  happy  allusion  to  the  sculptor  of 
the  bust,  **it  is  eminently  fitting  that  the 
reproduction  of  his  features  should  be 
from  the  hand  of  a  woman." 

The  world  insists  upon  considering 
Fielding  as  having  been  of  a  dissolute 
life.  Of  his  real  life  very  little  is  known 
beyond  the  mere  outlines.  At  the  age 
of  twenty  he  found  himself  without  re- 
sources, and  turned  to  literature  as  a  pro- 
fession. Had  he  lived  in  these  days,  he 
would  either  have  begun  by  journalism  or 
by  writing  for  the  magazines.  As  it  was 
then  the  year  1727  he  naturally  looked  to 
the  stage.  For  seven  years  he  wrote 
plays  with  good  and  ill  success ;  some 
twenty  pieces  of  his  were  acted.  As  no 
other  time  of  his  life  can  possibly  be 
called  dissolute,  it  is  on  these  seven  years 
of  early  manhood  that  we  must  lay  all  the 
blame.  No  doubt  they  were  years  of 
leanness,  with  plenty  ot  goodfellowship; 
and,  though  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 
speaks  of  his  cheerfulness  when  he  was 
starving  in  a  garret,  and  though  Fielding 
himself  speaks  of  his  door  as  being  quiet 
from  duns  one  day  only  in  the  week  — 
namely,  Sunday  —  there  seems  no  ground 
whatever  for  any  more  serious  charge 
than  of  those  sins  common  to  early  man- 
hood, such  as  insufficiency  of  money, 
spending  as  fast  as  making,  and  the  reso- 
lution to  enjoy  youth  and  early  friendships 
with  as  much  feasting,  merriment,  and 
joy  as  can  be  afforded.  But  this  is  quite 
a  different  thing  from  profligacy.  Ex- 
travagant he  certainly  was,  as  is  shown 
by  the  short  period  of  his  life  when  he 
ran  through  a  small  estate  worth  200/.  a. 


I 


130 


FIELDING  S   BUST. 


vear  and  his  wife's  f6rtane  of  i,5cx3/.  in 
less  than  two  years  ;  and  no  doubt  he  was 
always  disposed  by  nature  to  find  happi- 
ness in  society,  but  always  a  man  of  most 
extraordinary  patience,  industry,  and  re- 
source. When  his  money  was  spent  and 
he  came  back  to  the  old  hand-to-mouth 
life,  it  was  with  the  old  cheerfulness.  Yet 
everybody  insists  on  seeing  Fielding's 
earlier  days  faithfully  portrayed  in  the 
lamentable  errors  of  Tom  Jones,  and  the 
faults  of  his  later  years  in  the  frailties  of 
Captain  Booth.  Something,  no  doubt,  of 
every  sincere  novelist  may  be  found  in  his 
own  pages.  There  are  moments  when  the 
situation  not  only  allows,  but  compels,  a 
writer  to  put  his  own  heart  into  his  pages ; 
but  neither  Tom  Jones  nor  Captain  Booth 
is  Henry  Fielding.  When  he  began  to 
write  novels  he  was  thirty-seven  years  of 
age,  a  time  when  a  man  has  already  much 
to  remember,  and  has  treasured  up  the 
results  of  a  good  many  years  of  observa- 
tion.  It  is,  therefore,  not  wonderful  that 
so  keen  an  observer  should  have  stepped 
at  once  into  his  place,  and  with  his  first 
book  produced  a  masterpiece. 

There  are  one  or  two  points  which  seem 
to  have  escaped  observation  as  regards 
the  position  of  novel-writing  at  this  time. 
The  art  in  the  year  1740  was  practically 
dead.  Defoe's  stories  were  all  written 
within  a  period  of  eight  or  ten  years,  be- 
ginning with  "Robinson  Crusoe"  in  1719 

—  one  wonders  whether  young  Fielding, 
then  at  Eton  and  twelve  years  of  age,  got 
hold  of  that  immortal  book.  Then,  for 
something  like  fifteen  years,  not  one  sin- 
gle work  of  fiction  worth  remembering  or 
recording  made  its  appearance.  In  the 
serial  essays  which  were  continually  com- 
ing out,  after  the  style  of  *•  The  Specta- 
tor"—  such  was  Fielding's  "Champion  " 

—  there  were  imaginary  characters  whose 
portraits  were  carefully  drawn,  and  who 
played  certain  parts  assigned  to  them; 
but  there  were  no  novels;  men  wrote 
plays,  verses,  and  essays,  but  they  told  no 
stories.  This  was  a  state  of  things  clearly 
impossible  to  last;  man  in  all  ages  and  in 
every  nation  must  have  stories.  When 
the  modern  English  novel  actually  ap- 
peared, it  was  not  like  Defoe's  "  Moll 
Flanders,"  a  long  and  simple  narrative; 
but  it  contained  a  plot,  a  hero  and  heroine, 
episodes,  and  all,  just  as  if  it  were  an  epic 
poem  or  a  drama.  It  sprang  into  life  full- 
grown,  and  showed  itself  to  the  world  in 
two  distinct  forms.  For  Richardson's 
*•  Pamela"  was  produced  in  the  year  1741, 
and  "Joseph  Andrews"  in  1742.  Seven 
years  later  "  Clarissa,"  "  Tom  Jones,'*  and 


"Roderick  Random ''  divided  the  towb. 
Dickens  and  Thackeray  a  hundred  years 
later  reigned  side  by  side;  but  there  has 
never  been  since  that  period  a  time  when 
there  were  living  together  three  novelists 
of  the  first  rank.  No  one  of  the  three 
has  so  attracted  the  love  of  men  as  Field- 
ing; of  no  other  writer  have  things  been 
said  so  enthusiastic  and  so  affectionate ; 
Coleridge,  Scott,  Thackeray,  everybody 
who  comprehends  his  sincerity,  his  healthy 
spirit,  and  his  strength,  loves  Fielding. 
Who  does  not  agree  with  Mr.  Leslie 
Stephen,  when  he  says  that  if  one  could 
spend  an  evening  with  some  of  the  im- 
mortal dead,  there  would  be  few  things 
more  pleasant  than  a  pipe  and  a  bowl  of 
punch  with  Fielding  and  Hogarth  ? 

It  is,  we  fear,  descending  to  the  com- 
monplace, which  Mr.  Lowell  so  success- 
fully avoided,  to  observe  that  the  influence 
of  Fielding  upon  every  English  novelist 
worthy  the  name  can  be  clearly  and  easily 
perceived.  In  one  of  the  recent  articles 
on  Fielding  inspired  by  this  Taunton 
bust,  the  question  was  asked  what  Field- 
ing would  think  of  the  modern  novel.  It 
is  as  if  one  should  ask  what  Fielding 
would  think  of  the  modern  picture,  or  of 
the  modern  poem.  For  in  painting,  the 
work  of  Millais,  Alma  Tadema,  Watts,  and 
Leighton,  lights  up  and  glorifies  the  age, 
while  no  amount  of  bad  paintings  can  dis- 
grace it;  and  in  poetry  Browning,  Tenny- 
son, and  Swinburne  already  form  a  part  of 
English  literature,  and  may  be  discussed 
or  estimated,  but  cannot  be  displaced; 
nor  is  the  age  much  the  worse  for  the 
little  volumes  of  new  poems  and  rhymes 
which  continually  appear,  and  are  not  so 
much  forgotten  as  never  read.  In  the 
same  way,  there  is  no  reason  for  sneering 
at  the  modern  novel ;  there  are  still  among 
us  one  or  two  masters  of  the  craft,  just  as 
there  are  incompetent  buns^lers ;  the  world 
still  calls  perpetually  for  the  delight  of 
new  fiction;  the  demand  is  met  with  a 
supply;  there  are  still  books  pleasant, 
healthy,  and  sincere.  We  cannot  expect 
a  Fielding  every  ten  years  ;  it  is  enough 
if  the  work  continues  to  be  honest  and 
true;  and  this,  as  regards -the  novels  writ- 
ten by  men,  we  think  it  is,  in  the  main. 
There  is  a  tendency  to  speak  of  novel- 
writing  as  a  decaying  art;  more  than 
once  we  have  met  with  the  assumption 
that  men  have  nowadays  ceased  to  read 
novels.  In  the  name  of  Fielding  and  his 
successors  this  statement  ought  not  to 
pass  without  a  protest.  It  is  true  that 
there  are  many  men  who  do  not  read  nov- 
els at  all;  among  them  are  some  who 


SOME   ECONOMIC   PLANTS. 


lii 


have  the  practical  affairs  of  life  always 
before  them ;  others  who  cannot  feel  the 
necessity  of  imaginative  works,  and  no 
more  read  novels  than  they  read  poems 
or  look  at  pictures,  being  dull  dogs; 
others  who  do  not  read  novels  because 
they  find  the  pleasures  of  imagination  at 
the  theatre;  others,  again,  in  music.  To 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  and  in  every 
rank  of  life  —  the  joy  of  life  most  readily 
obtained,  the  keenest,  the  most  delightful, 
is  the  reading  of  fiction.  So  long  as  Field- 
lag  continues  to  be  read,  so  long  new 
novelists  of  the  healthy  kind,  who  draw 
life  as  it  is  and  as  they  see  it,  who  have  a 
real  story  to  tell  and  real  people  to  deal 
with,  will  arise. 


From  The  Leeds  Mercury. 
SOME  ECONOMIC  PLANTS. 

Some  plants  take  curious  names.  There 
is,  for  instance,  that  growth  in  Jamaica 
known  as  **John  Crowds  nose,"  and  the 
vegetable  "gingerbread"  of  Egypt. 
** Aaron's  beard,"  "old  man,"  "mourn- 
ing bride,"  "  fresh-water  soldier,"  and  the 
like,  are  familiar  appellations  in  our  own 
country.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  such 
names  were  given  originally.  Suggested 
by  the  appearance  of  the  plant  or  by  its 
exudations,  they  were  readily  adopted  in 
folk-speech,  and  they  have  survived  not 
because  they  are  odd,  but  because  they 
seem  appropriate.  Common  words  may 
not  outlast  scientific  terms,  but  they  will 
always  enjoy  popularity;  and  in  the  case 
of  plants,  they  may  be  made  botanical 
stepping-stones  to  a  more  learned  nomen- 
clature. So  far  they  have  a  value,  apart 
from  the  attachment  people  who  enjoy 
simplicity  have  to  them.  This,  however, 
is  not  the  opinion  of  Mr.  John  Smith,  the 
ex-curator  of  Kew,  who,  in  a  "  Dictionary 
of  Economic  Plants  "  (recently  issued  by 
Macmillaa  &  Co.),  deprecates  the  perpetu- 
ation of  names  like  those  here  mentioned. 
He  admits  that  as  they  have  long  been 
familiar,  we  are  left  no  alternative  but  to 
adopt  them;  but  he  can  point  to  cases  in 
vhich  the  scientific  names  have  also 
become  familiar,  as  the  geranium,  pelargo- 
nium, hydrangea,  calceolaria,  chrysanthe- 
mum, and  many  others.  And  yet,  reduced 
to  their  roots,  those  terms,  like  "love-lies- 
bleeding,"  or  "Job's  tears,"  show  that 
tbey  are  not  the  result  of  arbitrary  choice. 
They  are  used  because  they  are  more  or 
.tss  suggestive  of  the  appearance  or 
characteristics  of  the  objects  described. 


Mr.  Smith's  observations  on  the  point,  it 
should  be  explained,  are  entirely  prefa- 
tory. In  his  "  Dictionary "  he  draws 
largely  upon  the  terms  that  are  justified 
bv  common  usage.  The  book  is  a  valua- 
ble one.  It  is  not  a  dictionary  of  names 
in  the  ordinary  sense,  but  it  is  encyclo- 
paedic in  all  that  relates  to  the  history, 
products,  and  uses  of  those  plants  that 
have  a  distinct  economic  value.  The 
"gingerbread  "  plant,  to  which  reference 
has  been  made,  merits  the  name.  It  is  a 
species  of  palm,  growing  to  a  height  of 
twenty  feet  or  more,  and  bearing  large, 
pendulous  bunches  of  fruit.  There  are 
about  two  hundred  nuts  to  a  cluster.  A 
fibrous  mass  surrounding  the  fruit  has 
the  flavor  of  gingerbread,  and  forms  part 
of  the  food  of  the  lower  classes  in  upper 
Egypt.  A  more  curious  specimen  of  veg- 
etation is  the  cow-tree,  or  fiala  de  vaca^ 
described  by  Humboldt.  This  tree  is  a 
native  of  Venezuela,  where  it  grows  ia 
forests  and  attains  a  height  of  from  eighty 
to  a  hundred  feet.  It  gets  its  common 
name  from  the  sap  that  is  drawn  from  it, 
which,  being  copious  and  nutritious,  is 
used  by  the  natives  as  a  substitute  for 
milk.  Europeans  have  also  made  use  of 
the  fluid,  and  been  benefited  by  it.  A 
speculative  Englishman  who  took  note  of 
this  made  up  his  mind  to  introduce  the 
tree  to  Great  Britain,  and  so  once  and 
forever  stop  the  draughts  made  by  the 
milk-dealers  on  the  iron-tailed  cow.  It 
would  be  a  grand  thing,  he  reasoned,  to 
give  every  English  family  the  opportunity 
of  possessing  a  vegetable  dairy  whose 
strong,  oblong  leaves  would  be  a  shelter 
from  rain  and  sunshine,  and  whose  trunk 
had  only  to  be  tapped  to  yield  a  lacteal 
supply,  about  whose  purity  there  could  be 
no  manner  of  doubt.  It  is  said  that  the 
speculator  shipped  over  enough  young 
trees  to  start  a  forest.  He  brought  a 
thousand  with  him,  and  asked  a  guinea 
each.  It  was  a  losing  venture.  The 
owner  had  forgotten  climatic  considera- 
tions ;  but  even  had  the  temperatures  of 
the  two  countries  been  reconcilable,  the 
plants  would  have  been  useless  for  the 
purpose  intended.  They  turned  out  not 
to  be  true  cow-trees  at  all.  There  was 
more  sense  in  the  experiment  the  govern- 
ment made  a  century  ago  to  naturalize 
the  bread-fruit  tree  of  Otaheite  in  the 
West  Indies.  Captain  Cook  brought  this 
tree  into  notice;  and  it  was  the  ship 
"  Bounty,"  of  mutineer  notoriety,  that  was 
despatched  to  the  South  Seas  to  get  the 
trees.  Captain  Bligh  was  in  command  of 
the  expedition.    Everything  went  well  oa 


2  22 


SOME   ECONOMIC    PLANTS. 


the  outward  passage,  and  the  trees  were 
successfully  shipped.  The  vessel  had 
not  long  left  Otaheite,  however,  before 
the  mutiny  broke  out.  The  captain,  the 
officers,  and  the  members  of  the  crew  who 
remained  loyal  to  the  ship  were  put  into 
an  open  boat  and  sent  adrift.  The  island 
of  Tunor,  three  thousand  six  hundred  and 
eighteen  miles  distant,  was  the  nearest 
point  where  European  aid  could  be  ob- 
tained, and  this  place  was  eventually 
reached.  Captain  Biigh  went  out  again 
to  Otaheite  in  the  ship  «*  Providence ; " 
and  this  time  had  the  satisfaction  of  see- 
ing the  trees  safely  transplanted  in  the 
soil  of  the  West  Indies,  where  they  have 
continued  to  flourish.  The  Otaheitean 
bread-fruit,  when  ripe,  is  shaped  like  a 
melon,  is  about  a  foot  in  length,  and  con- 
sists of  a  large  number  of  nuts  embedded 
in  the  mass.  Africa  has  also  an  indige- 
nous breadfruit  tree ;  but  this  must  not  oe 
confounded  with  the  baobab  or  monkey- 
bread,  which  is  found  over  a  large  extent 
of  the  African  continent.  This  tree  and 
the  dragon-tree  of  Orotava  are  mentioned 
by  Humboldt  as  "  the  oldest  living  organic 
monuments  of  our  planet.'*  The  baobab 
reaches  a  height  of  some  forty  feet,  and 
in  maturity  is  nearly  as  broaa  as  it  is 
long.  The  natives  hollow  out  chambers 
in  the  trees  and  use  them  as  tombs,  and 
the  cutting  out  process  does  not  appear  to 
impair  the  fruit-bearing  properties  of  this 
extraordinary  plant.  As  may  be  sur- 
mised, the  growth  of  the  baobab  is  slow, 
and  the  tree  consequently  lives  to  a  great 
age.  How  long  it  retains  its  vitality  has 
never,  in  fact,  been  ascertained.  Some 
have  been  found  with  dates  of  the  four- 
teenth century  cut  into  them,  and  the  cal- 
culation has  been  made  that  the  trees  so 
marked  are  upwards  of  five  thousand 
years  old.  As  an  example  of  the  slow 
growth  of  the  baobab,  Mr.  Smith  men- 
tions one  at  Kew,  which,  though  more 
than  eighty  years  of  age,  was  in  1858  only 
four  and  one-half  feet  high,  consisting  of 
a  slender,  erect  stem,  bearing  a  few  leaves 
at  the  apex  only.  As  the  wood  is  soft 
and  spongy,  the  task  of  hewing  a  cham* 
ber  out  of  the  tree  is  not  a  very  formida- 
ble one.  The  fruit  is  a  capsule,  eight  to 
twelve  inches  long,  containing  a  large 
number  of  seeds,  which  the  natives  use 
for  food.  Clothing  is  also  obtained  from 
.  the  baobab,  the  bark  being  convertible 
into  wearing  material.  It  was  natural 
that  some  of  the  food-plants  should  have 
been  named  after  the  miraculous  daily 
provision  made  for  the  Israelites  in  the 
desert.    Mr.  Smith  describes  several  vari- 


eties of  so-called  "  manna,**  and  he  men- 
tions an  edible  lichen  found  in  manjr 
regions  of  western  Asia  and  also  of  north 
Africa.  This  lichen  loses  its  attachment 
to  the  surface  on  which  it  grows,  and 
being  light  is  carried  by  the  wind  to  a 
great  distance.  It  sometimes  falls  like 
snow,  forming  a  layer  several  inches  in 
thickness.  Sheep  eat  it,  and  the  inhabi- 
tants use  it  in  times  of  scarcity  for  bread. 
Specimens  of  this  and  other  varieties  of 
manna  may  be  seen  in  the  museum  at 
Kew.  There  are  numerous  plants  from 
which  products  that  are  rather  a  bane 
than  a  blessing  are  obtained  by  man. 
This  is  particularly  the  case  with  a  mem^ 
ber  of  the  mushroom  family  {Amanita 
muscaria)^  a  native  of  this  country,  but 
regarded  by  us  as  poisonous.  The  Ama* 
nita  is  also  found  largely  in  the  north  o£ 
Europe.  It  is  common  in  Siberia  and 
Kamschatka,  and  there  it  is  collected, 
strung  up,  and  dried  —  a  process  that  is 
said  to  divest  it  of  poisonous  properties. 
Thus  prepared,  the  fungus  is  used  as  an 
intoxicant.  It  is  rolled  up  and  swallowed 
at  a  gulp,  like  a  pill.  The  effects  are  ex- 
perienced about  two  hours*  afterwards. 
Pleasing  emotions  are  first  produced,  and 
then  come  actions  that  are  involuntary, 
and  that  suggest  somnambulism.  In  mod- 
erate doses  the  fungus  is  a  stimulant  to 
exertion,  but  it  often  acts  in  a  curious 
way.  The  partaker,  for  example,  will, 
when  once  affected  by  it,  take  a  long^ 
spring  to  jump  over  a  straw  in  his  path, 
fancying  he  sees  before  him  a  log  of  wood ; 
he  gets,  in  fact,  very  much  into  the  condi- 
tion described  in  one  of  Dean  Ramsay's 
anecdotes,  where  some  friends,  returning 
home  after  an  evening  out,  take  off  their 
shoes  and  stockings  to  wade  across  a 
brook,  and  are  amazed  to  find  themselves 
on  the  other  side  dry-footed.  They  had 
mistaken  a  streak  of  moonlight  for  a  run- 
ning stream.  It  is  strange  that  so  simple 
and  familiar  a  plant-name  as  "apple" 
should  have  an  unknown  origin  and  a 
doubtful  meaning.  Mr.  Smith  gives  Dr. 
Prior's  opinion  that  it  is  an  Anglo-Saxon 
word  derived  from  the  old  Danish  appel 
—  a  name  which,  in  turn,  is  supposed  to 
have  been  derived  from  the  more  ancient 
word  apalis.  The  Celtic  word  abhai, 
meaning  a  round  body  or  ball,  is  as  good 
a  derivation  as  any.  The  Romans  are 
credited  with  the  introduction  of  the  ap- 
ple into  Britain,  but  the  testimony  on 
this  point  is  doubtful.  There  is  proof 
that  the  fruit  was  introduced  into  Rome 
itself  in  the  time  of  Appius  Claudius 
(449  B.C.),  and  that  in  the  time  of  Pliny 


DRIVING  TOURS. 


12$ 


there  were  manjr  varieties  of  it,  aod  that 
it  was  grown  in  orchards.  There  have 
been  many  different  varieties  of  apples  in 
oorown  country  from  an  early  period.  A 
sort  called  *' costard"  was  sold  in  the 
streets  of  London  in  the  reign  of  Edward 
I.,  and  it  seems  likely  that  here  we  have 
the  origin  of  the  word  **  costermonger." 
According  to  the  catalogue  of  the  Royal 
Horticultural  Society,  there  are  some  fif- 
teeo  hundred  sorts  ot  apples.  Of  oranges 
the  variety  is  by  no  means  so  great ;  but 
the  orange-tree  has  an  advantage  over  the 
apple  tree  in  its  greater  productiveness, 
and  in  the  venerable  age  it  attains  before 
aoy serious  diminution  is  noticeable  in  its 
fruit-bearing  qualities.  In  some  parts  of 
Spain  there  are  orang^e-trees  six  centuries 
old.  One  at  Versailles,  growing  in  a  box, 
is  said  to  have  been  sown  in  1421.  As  to 
the  productiveness  of  this  tree,  Mr.  Smith 
speaks  of  some  individual  trees  that  have 
been  known  to  produce  as  many  as  six 
thousand  fruits  in  one  year.  Several  trop- 
ical and  sub-tropical  fruits  brought  to  this 
country  have,  when  cultivated  under  glass, 
attaineid  a  flavor  and  a  size  surpassing 
that  of  the  countries  where  they  are  in- 
di^eoous.  This  has  been  the  case  partic- 
ularly with  the  pineapple,  the  grape-vine, 
the  melon,  and  even  with  the  l»nana  and 
plantain.  Bunches  of  bananas  weighing 
from  fifty  to  sixty  pounds  each  have  been 
produced  at  Kew.  It  is  impossible,  how- 
ever, in  this  country,  to  obtain  any  ade- 
quate idea  of  the  prolific  growth  of  either 
the  plantain  or  the  banana.  Common  in 
an  tropical  countries,  both  plants  grow 
Doder  favorable  conditions  in  weed-like 
profusion,  and  yield  a  weight  of  fruit  that 
Kems  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  space  of 
laod occupied.  Mr.  Smith  gives  the  cal- 
culation that  the  same  area  required  to 
yield  thirty-three  pounds  of  wheat  or  nine- 
ty-oine  pounds  of  potatoes  will  yield  forty- 
four  hundred  pounds  of  plantains.  The 
phrase  ** economic  plants  "  is  a  wide  one, 
and  Mr.  Smith  gives  to  it  its  fullest  inter- 
pretation. Every  plant  that  in  any  way  is 
found  useful  to  man,  be  it  as  food,  as 
clothing,  as  medicine,  as  timber,  or  even 
as  an  object  of  adoration,  is  described  in 
bis  book.  In  every  case  the  popular  as 
well  as  the  scientific  name  is  given  to  the 
plant,  and  it  is  the  popular  name  that 
forms  the  key-word  throughout.  Prot>- 
ably  not  a  single  herb  referred  to  in  this 
dictionary  is  without  a  representative  at 
Kew, ana  a  connection  of  more  than  forty 
years  with  that  finest  of  botanical  gardens 
has  given  Mr.  Smith  an  insight  into  the 
nature  and  growth  of  plants  of  which  his 


book  bears  ample  testimony.  About  six- 
teen hundred  subjects  are  mentioned  ia 
the  work. 


From  The  Saturday  Review. 
DRIVING  TOURS. 

Considering  the  fondness  of  English- 
men for  horseflesh,  and  the  numt^r  of 
English  gentlemen  who  have  well-fur- 
nished stables,  or,  at  all  events,  are  the 
owners  of  one  serviceable  animal,  it  is 
surprising  that  driving  tours  are  not  more 
common.  Mr.  Black  did  his  best  to  bring 
them  into  fashion  when  he  wrote  the 
lively  **  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton."  St. 
John  gave  a  charming  account  of  a  sport- 
ing drive  through  Sutherland  in  a  boat 
upon  wheels  that  could  be  launched  on 
occasion  on  the  lochs  of  that  county  of 
many  waters.  And  we  can  recall  other 
narratives,  although  of  less  literary  merit, 
of  similar  experiences  at  home  and 
abroad.  But  a  practice  that  was  once 
popular  in  the  comparatively  olden  time,  ' 
when  it  was  a  choice  between  the  stage- 
coach, the  stage-wagon,  the  costly  post- 
chaise,  and  the  private  conveyance,  ap- 
pears to  have  gone  out  of  date  since  the 
general  introduction  of  the  railway  sys- 
tem. In  reality  the  existence  of  the  rail- 
way monopoly  is  one  of  the  strongest 
arguments  for  making  ourselves  indepen- 
dent of  it.  Railways  are  useful  and  con- 
venient in  their  way,  but  they  are  fatal  to 
all  tranquil  enjoyment.  Express  trains 
shoot  you  past  the  most  attractive  scen- 
ery, landing  you  in  smoky  and  bustling 
centres  of  inaustry,  or  in  watering-places 
that  are  so  many  feverish  Vanity  Fairs; 
while  the  Parliamentary  trains  that  stop  at 
all  the  stations  may  be  beneficial  as  a  * 
discipline  of  the  patience,  but  are  surely 
a  weariness  of  the  flesh.  They  tie  the 
passengers  down  to  fixed  times  of  de- 
parture, while  for  themselues  they  set 
time  and  their  passengers  at  defiance. 
Moreover,  too  many  of  the  English  rail- 
roads, like  the  Continental  strategical 
lines,  seem  to  have  been  engineered  on 
the  principle  of  tantalizing  the  tourist. 
They  skirt  or  carefully  avoid  the  districts 
where  there  is  most  to  attract  him ;  and  if 
he  has  set  his  heart  upon  visiting  some 
special  ruin  or  battlefield,  the  chances  are 
that  the  company  drops  him  many  a  mile 
away.  At  the  nearest  roadside  station 
there  is  nothing  better  than  a  public- 
house,  and  if  he  seeks  a  conveyance  in- 
stead of  trusting  to  his  legs,  he  may  be 


124 


DRIVING  TOURS. 


glad  to  fall  back  upon  the  baker's  spring- 
cart.     Or,  on  the   other   hand,    he  may 
possibly  be  landed  at  a  pretentious  hotel, 
where  the  proprietor  makes  a  great  gain 
by    the    posting    business.     He    has    to 
scramble  for  a  conveyance  in  a  rush  of 
picnickers  or  sight-seers,  all  bent  on  a 
pilgrimage  to  some  world-famous  shrine. 
The  drivers  and  postboys  in  the  season 
are  overworked,  like  their  ragged  cattle; 
yet  their   one  idea    is  to  get  over  the 
ground,  that  they  may  hasten  back  for 
other    customers   and  other   tips.    You 
have  nearly  as  much  enjoyment  in  your 
expensive  trip,  as  when  you  are  hustled 
past  the  pictures  in  some  show-place  in 
the  custody  of  a  voluble  housekeeper.     I  n 
fact,  when  touring  by  the  railways  and 
caught  in  a  rush,  you  are  the  sport  and 
victim  of  circumstances   which   you  are 
altogether  powerless  to  control.    So  the 
independence  of  Englishmen  of  the  stur- 
dier sort  generally  takes  the  form  of  pe- 
destrianism.    And  we  have  not  a  word  to 
say  against  walking  expeditions,  which, 
for  the  young  and  vigorous,  are  greatly  to 
be  recommended.     Nevertheless,  even  in 
the  prime  of  our  powers  there  are  obvious 
objections  to  them,  which  increase  with 
our  maturity,  and  become  almost  insuper- 
able in  old  age.     There  is  the  initial  ques- 
tion of  carrying  some  luggage;  and  the 
older  we  grow  and  the  feebler  we  become 
the  more  are  we  dependent  on  our  little 
comforts.    Then  there  is  the  weather  to 
be  considered  ;  and  in  a  blazing  sun  the 
most  energetic  of  walkers  becomes  more 
or    less    indolent.      Weighted    with  the 
lightest  of  knapsacks,  he  thinks  more  than 
once  or  twice  ere  he  diverges  from  the 
beaten    track    to    admire    the    waterfall 
which   is  tumbling  in    all    its   grandeur 
.    round  the  corner.     His  one  dominating 
idea  is  to  come  to  the  end  of  the  predes- 
tined day's  work.     Without  being  a  Syb- 
arite, when  arriving  at  his  inn  in  a  lather 
of  perspiration  and  caked  with  dust,  he 
would  gladly  have   the  materials  for  a 
more  elaborate  toilet;  while  he  is  exer- 
cised over  those  blisters  on  his  feet  that 
.  may    modify  his  arrangements    for   the 
morrow.     And,    without    being    a    Don 
Juan,  it  is  no  slight  sacrifice  to  renounce 
the  sweets  of  feminine  society.    Though 
the  case  of   Mr.  and   Mrs.  Christopher 
North  may  be  quoted  to  the  contrary,  we 
fancy  that  few  men  of  refinement  would 
care    to  take  a  wife  or   sister  ^*on  the 
tramp."    A   walk  across  a  short  Swiss 
pass,  with  a  small  portmanteau  carried  on 
the  shoulders  of  a  porter,  is  the  utmost 
that  can  be  judiciously  attempted  in  that 


direction  without  making  beauty  worse 
than  unattractive.  And  the  sprightiv 
walking  gentleman  is  at  a  decided  disao- 
vantage  when  he  happens  to  make  chance 
acquaintance  at  the  hotel  with  fascinat- 
ing strangers  of  the  fair  sex.  Adonis  him- 
self would  feel  awkward  among  bright 
toilets  of  an  evening,  in  the  grimy  cam- 
paigning suit  of  Norfolk  jacket,  flannels, 
and  knickerbockers;  and  assuredly  the 
guardians  of  any  well-disciplined  younj^ 
woman  would  regard  him  with  a  distrust- 
ful eye.  As  for  the  elderly  pedestrian,  he 
is  a  Itisus  naiura^  though  there  are  born 
tramps  like  the  late  George  Borrow,  who 
can  persist  in  their  youthful  habits  with 
strength  almost  unimpaired. 

Driving,  on  the  other  hand,  unites  lux- 
ury to  independence.  It  is  your  horse's 
strength  you  have  to  consider,  not  your 
own,  though  a  merciful  man  will  be  mer- 
ciful to  his  beast.  Supposing  you  are  not 
a  misogynist,  but  have  a  happy  home 
establishment,  you  can  take  a  wife  or  a 
sister  by  way  ot  congenial  companion,  or 
even  a  sister  and  a  sister's  friend.  In  the 
latter  case  the  longest  way  may  be  light- 
ened by  flirtation,  while  the  longest  even- 
ing seems  only  too  short.  You  drive 
when  you  like,  but  you  walk  when  you 
please,  for  stabling  that  will  suit  your 
purpose  is  to  be  found  in  the  humblest 
village.  Then  for  satisfying  his  appetite 
in  the  middle  of  the  day,  the  pedestrian 
must  be  content  with  any  fare  he  comes 
across ;  though  we  grant  that  if  he  could 
be  guaranteed  against  adulterated  beer,  it 
is  no  hardship  to  be  condemned  to  bread 
and  cheese.  But  "carriage  company" 
can  carry  their  own  commissariat  with 
them ;  and  a  bottle  of  claret  cooled  in 
the  nearest  brook  lends  a  wonderfully 
rosy  coloring  to  the  landscape.  In  place 
of  the  stuffy  parlor  —  the  bad  inn's  best 
room  —  smelling  of  stale  tobacco-smoke 
and  swarming  with  flies,  the  feast  is 
spread  on  some  grassy  bank,  the  cloth  is 
laid  amid  the  blooming  wild  flowers;  the 
shadows  of  the  boughs  overhead  fall 
pleasantly  across  the  turf,  and,  even  if  the 
song-birds  are  hushed  in  the  midday  heat, 
the  drone  of  the  wild  bees,  mingling  with 
the  distant  rural  sounds,  is  the  most 
soothing  of  music.  We  take  it  that  most 
people  after  turning  the  corner  of  thirty 
find  the  act  of  ordinary  travel  an  unmiti- 
gated nuisance,  whether  in  railway-car- 
riages or  any  other  public  conveyances. 
Anxiety  to  nave  it  well  over  and  to  be 
comfortably  housed  at  the  next  halting- 
place  is  the  predominating  feeling.  But 
there  is  positive  exhilaration  in  sitting 


DRIVING  TOURS. 


C25 


behind  a  well-matched  pair  of  steppers,  or 
even  io  driving  a  single  well-conditioried 
roadster.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  watc )  the 
pair  iayiDg  themselves  down  to  their  work 
vhea  they  have  come  out  of  their  stalls 
full  of  fire  and  corn;  to  listen  to  the 
ci}eery  jiogr)ing  of  the  pole-chains  and  see 
the  white  foam  flecks  tossed  back  upon 
their  shinins^  shoulders.  Lured  by  very 
excusable  indolence  and  the  seductive 
beauties  of  nature,  you  have  lost  time  at 
the  midday  halt  and  are  disposed  to  make 
it  op.  Unlike  the  sorry  hacks  in  too  many 
olthe  joint-stock  tourist  vehicles,  which 
caooniy  be  hustled  along  by  a  cruel  ex- 
peoditure  of  whipcord,  the  horses  are 
more  impatient  than  yourself.  You  have 
io  hold  them  hard  as  they  would  rattle 
down  the  hills  before  the  locked  wheels, 
knocking  their  legs  about  on  the  road- 
netaJ  in  the  most  regardless  manner;  and 
they  take  the  opposite  slope  with  a  rush 
that  cheats  it  of  half  its  stiffness.  You 
let  them  have  their  heads  along  the  level, 
merely  pulling  them  together;  and  the 
way  in  which  they  give  the  go-by  to  mile- 
Mooes  and  telegraph-posts  is  marvellous. 
There  is  an  agreeable  excitement  in  the 
vriral  at  }'our  inn;  an  arrival  which,  of 
coarse,  you  have  taken  the  precaution  to 
anooance.  Seeing  that  the  manner  of 
your  travelling  should  be  a  certificate  of 
geQtility,the  host  and  his  smiling  wife  are 
ready  with  a  warm  welcome.  Possibly  he 
say  be  old  enough  to  remember  the  days 
when  there  were  sundry  pairs  of  post- 
^ses  in  his  stables,  and  when  his  most 
profitable  customers  turned  up  in  their 
Ota  chariots ;  or,  at  all  events,  those 
golden  tiroes  may  be  a  cherished  tradition 
<i{  the  house.  The  best  apartments  have 
been  prepared ;  there  is  the  state  bed- 
nioai,  half  blocked  by  the  primitive  four- 
po&ter,  though  that  is  a  relic  of  the  paast 
joa  would  willingly  dispense  with;  and 
there  is  the  parlor,  hung  with  sporting 
prints  and  with  a  portrait  of  the  lord-lieu- 
teoaot  over  the  fireplace.  As  the  land- 
ed himself,  with  the  napkin  thrown  over 
his  arm,  superintends  the  serving  of  the 
successive  courses  of  the  dinner,  he 
taulesin  the  confident  hope  of  a  compli- 
i^t.  And  in  not  a  few  of  those  commo- 
dioos  country  ions,  which  you  would 
Dever  discover  were  you  touring  by  rail, 
•)^  expected  compliments  may  be  thor- 
<*ghlywell  deserved.  There  is  no  pre- 
feocc  at  a  ghastly  parody  of  French 
cookery;  bat  the  dishes  are  excellent  of 
^r  kind,  and  great  care  has  been  be- 1 


stowed  upon  them.  There  are  no  r^ 
chatiffis  of  scorched  filets  of  stale  sole, 
no  sodden  cutlets  dL  la  something  or  any- 
thing. But  there  may  be  honest  soup, 
and  spitchcocked  eels  from  the  mill- 
pond  ;  a  small  joint,  hung  to  an  hour  and 
done  to  a  turn  ;  with  home-fed  chicken 
and  home-fed  bacon  to  follow;  and  an 
abundance  of  the  freshest  vegetables 
from  the  great  old-fashioned  garden.  It 
is  true  that  the  wines  may  leave  some- 
thing to  desire,  but  they  are  little  worse 
than  those  in  the  grand  station  hotel,  and 
probably  considerably  cheaper.  And  you 
have  reason  to  rejoice  should  the  condi- 
tion of  your  liver  permit  you  to  fall  back 
on  the  frothing  tankards  of  strong  ale 
which  do  credit  to  the  host  or  to  the  local 
brewer.  After  a  satisfactory  meal  like 
that  you  sleep  soundly,  in  defiance  of 
nightmares;  and,  after  a  stroll  in  the 
balmy  morning  air,  may  seat  yourself  to 
a  breakfast  of  similar  profusion.  And 
that  early  stroll  may  be  so  pleasant  and 
so  promising  that  you  decide  to  delay  the 
start  till  after  lunch,  or  even  to  spend  a 
day  or  two  in  these  comfortable  quarters. 
For,  instead  of  being  housed  in  a  city 
hotel,  in  the  wilderness  of  streets  and 
dusty  suburbs,  the  "  Plantagenet  Arms," 
or  whatever  it  may  call  itself,  stands  in 
the  midst  of  a  beautiful  and  sequestered 
country.  The  long  village  street,  with 
its  drowsy  existence,  in  no  way  interferes 
with  the  sense  of  calm.  The  good  people 
may  have  their  troubles;  but,  so  far  as 
appearances  go,  they  are  entirely  con- 
tented with  their  lot,  and  there  can  be  no 
question  that  some  of  their  cottages  are 
most  delightfully  picturesque.  There  are 
subjects  for  the  sketch-book  at  every  turn 
—  in  the  cottages  with  timbered  fronts 
and  projecting  upper  floors;  in  the  mill 
down  the  little  side  lane,  with  the  great 
wheel  going  round  among  the  weeping 
alders  and  pollard  willows ;  in  the  old 
church,  with  the  black  yews  among  the 
green  graves,  and  more  than  half  hidden 
among  its  venerable  elm-trees;  in  the 
vicarage  on  the  other  side  of  the  low  ivy- 
covered  wall,  with  its  miniature  lawn  and 
its  overgrown  shrubbery.  In  fine  weather 
the  place  seems  an  earthly  paradise,  and 
you  are  likely  to  linger  all  the  longer 
among  its  leafy  bowers,  because  you  know 
you  can  leave  them  at  a  moment's  notice. 
It  is  only  to  ring,  ask  for  the  bill,  and 
order  the  ostler  to  bring  round  the  car- 
riage. 


t28 


FACULTIES   OF   BIRDS. 


mesticity  of  temper,  with  curious  fineoess 
of  sagacity  and  sympathies  in  taste.  A 
family  of  them,  much  petted  by  a  lady, 
were  constantly  adding;  materials  to  their 
Best,  and  made  real  havoc  in  the  flower- 
garden,  for  though  straw  and  leaves  are 
their  chief  ingredients,  they  seem  to  have 
an  eye  for  beauty,  and  the  old  hen  has 
been  seen  surrounded  with  a  brilliant 
wreath  of  scarlet  anemones !  This  xs« 
thetic  water-hen,  with  her  mate,  lived  at 
Cheadle,  in  Staffordshire,  in  the  rectory 
moat,  for  several  seasons,  always,  how- 
ever, leaving  it  in  the  spring.  "Being 
constantly  fed,  the  pair  became  quite 
tame,  built  their  nest  in  a  thorn  bush, 
covered  with  ivy,  which  had  fallen  into 
the  water,  and  when  the  young  were  a  few 
days  old,  the  parents  brought  them  up 
close  to  the  drawing-room  window,  where 
they  were  regularly  fed  with  wheat,  and 
as  the  lady  of  the  house  paid  them  the 
greatest  attention,  they  learned  to  look 
upon  her  as  their  natural  protectress  and 
friend,  so  much  so,  that  one  bird  in  par 
ticular,  which  was  much  persecuted  by 
the  rest,  would  when  attacked  fly  to  her 
for  refuge ;  and  whenever  she  called,  the 
whole  flock,  as  tame  as  barn-door  fowls, 
Quitted  the  water  and  assembled  round  to 
the  number  of  seventeen.  They  also 
made  other  friends  in  the  dogs  belonging 
to  the  family,  approaching  them  without 
fear,  though  hurrying  off  with  great  alarm 
on  the  appearance  of  a  strange  dog." 
Frank  Buckland  gives  several  curious 
instances  of  the  special  habits  of  some 
birds  in  procuring  their  food.  The  biack- 
birds,  thrushes,  etc.,  carry  snails  consid- 
erable distances  for  the  purpose  of  break- 
ing their  shells  against  some  rock  or 
stone.  Thomas  Edward,  the  Scottish 
naturalist,  describes  skulls  and  ravens  fly- 
ing to  a  great  height  with  craS  or  other 
shellfish,  and  letting  them  fall  on  stones 
in  order  to  smash  the  shells,  and  if  they 
do  not  break  on  the  flrst  attempt,  he  says 
they  pick  them  up  again  and  carry  them 
up  yet  higher,  repeating  the  operation 
again  and  again  till  the  shell  is  broken. 
Ravens  also  often  resort  to  this  contriv- 
ance. W  h e  n  t  h e  lapwing  i  s  searc h  i  ng  f or 
food,  it  pounces  upon  a  worm-cast,  and 
stamping  the  ground  beside  it  with  its 
feet,  waits  till  the  worm,  alarmed  at  the 
shaking  of  the  ground,  issues  from  its 
hole  in  the  hope  of  making  its  escape, 
whereupon  it  is  immediately  seized  and 
eaten  by  the  cunning  bird.  Darwin  tells 
of  a  bird  having  been  repeatedly  seen  to 
hop  on  a  poppy-stem,  and  shake  the  head 


with  his  bill  till  many  seeds  were  scat- 
tered, when  it  sprang  to  the  ground  and 
ate  up  the  seeds.*  Some  birds  are  gifted 
with  a  sense  of  observation  approaching 
to  something  very  like  reasoning  facul- 
ties, as  the  following  anecdote  proves.  At 
a  gentleman's  house  in  Staffordshire  the 
pheasants  are  fed  out  of  one  of  those 
boxes,  the  lid  of  which  rises  with  the  pres- 
sure of  the  pheasant  standing  on  the  rail 
in  front  of  the  box.  A  water-hen  observ- 
ing this,  went  and  stood  upon  the  rail  as 
soon  as  the  pheasant  had  quitted  it,  but 
the  weight  of  the  bird  being  insufficient 
to  raise  the  lid  of  the  box  so  as  to  enable 
it  to  get  at  the  corn,  the  water-hen  kept 
jumping  on  the  rail  to  give  additional  im- 
petus to  its  weight;  this  partially  suc- 
ceeded, but  not  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
sagacious  bird,  which  therefore  went  off, 
and  soon  returning  with  a  bird  of  its  owa 
species,  the  united  weight  of  the  two  had 
the  desired  effect,  and  the  successful  pair 
enjoyed  the  benefit  of  their  ingenuity. 
This  singular  instance  of  penetration  can 
be  vouched  for,  says  Mr.  Ruskin,  on  the 
authority  of  the  owner  of  the  place  where 
it  occurred,  who  witnessed  the  fact.  Piracy 
reaches  its  highest  development  among 
birds.  Gulls  congregate  in  numbers  wher- 
ever they  perceive  that  the  guillemots 
have  secured  a  shoal  of  flsh.  Flying  over 
the  surface  of  the  water,  the  gull  waits 
patiently  till  a  guillemot  comes  to  the 
surface  with  a  flsh,  when  he  snatches  it 
out  of  the  beak  of  its  unfortunate  owner. 
The  robber  tern  subsists  entirely  by  plun- 
dering other  terns,  and  no  sooner  does  the 
robber  tern  appear  among  the  others  thaa 
the  greatest  consternation  prevails  among 
the  flock,  who  fly  about  screaming  in  fran- 
tic alarm.  1\\tfrioaie  pelican  is  a  terri- 
ble pirate  and  commonly  attacks  the  booby ^ 
which  has  received  this  name  because  it 
allows  itself  to  be  easily  caught.  Not 
only  does  the  frigate  pelican  force  the 
booby  to  drop  the  fish  it  has  just  caught, 
but  actually  to  disgorge  those  which  are 
in  its  stomach,  which  is  accomplished  by 
stabbing  the  unhappy  booby  with  its  pow- 
erful beak  till  it  yields  up  its  last  meaU 
The  ant'eatin^  woodpeckers  of  California 
have  the  habit  of  storing  up  food  for  th6 
inclement  season.  Small  round  holes  are 
dug  in  the  bark  of  the  pine  and  oak,  into 
each  of  which  an  acorn  is  inserted  so 
tightly  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  take  it 
out  again.  The  bark  of  these  trees  when 
filled  in  this  way  appear  ftt  a  little  dis* 
tance  to  be  studded  with  nails. 


LITTELL'S  LIVING-  AGE. 


Fifth  Series,      > 
VoliiBie  XLIY.     > 


No,  2052,— October  20,  1883. 


{From  Beginning, 
Vol.  OLIX. 


CONTENT 
L  An  Itauan  Official  under  Napoleon,  . 
II.  Along  the  Silver  Streak.    Part  IX.,     . 
IIL  Notes  of  a  Wanderer  in  Skye, 

IV.  Poor  Little  Life, 

V.  Modern  Dress, 

VL  Ex-Marshal  Bazaine's  Apology, 
VU.  The  British  Association,  •       •       .       . 
VIII.  Professor  Cayley's  Address,    .       . 

IX.  Prison  Pets, 

X.  Westminster  Abbey, 


S. 

BtackwoocTs  Magaune^ 
All  The  Year  Rounds 
Temple  Bar^ 
Chambers^  youmal^ 
Fortnightly  Review^ 
Temple  Bar^ 
Nature^        •        • 
Spectator^      .        • 
Chamber^  Joiemal^ 
Chambers*  Journal^ 


131 

141 

146 

1 55 
165 

171 
177 
188 

190 
192 


POXTRY. 


The  Child  and  Death, 


130 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 
For  EieffT  Dollars  remUUd  dtrectiytothe  PtMitkers,  the  Living  Agb  will  be  punctually  forwarded 

\JSiitt2ScsshoaJdbe  made  by  bank  draH  or  check,  or  by  post-office  money-order,  if  possible.  If  neither 
ot  these  can  be  prxjcured,  the  moneyahould  be  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  poetmasters  are  obliged  to  re|istcr 
Ittters  when  requested  to  do  so.    drafts,  checks  and  money-orders  afaoold  be  made  payable  to  the  order  of 

InrsLL&Co.  .«.      .  .         «      . 

Single  Numbers  of  Tax  LivoiGAaB,  iSoeota. 


t28 


FACULTIES   OF   BIRDS. 


mesticity  of  temper,  with  curious  fineness 
of  sagacity  and  sympathies  in  taste.  A 
family  of  them,  much  petted  by  a  lady, 
were  constantly  adding:  materials  to  their 
Best,  and  made  real  havoc  in  the  flower- 
garden,  for  though  straw  and  leaves  are 
their  chief  ingredients,  they  seem  to  have 
an  eye  for  beauty,  and  the  old  hen  has 
been  seen  surrounded  with  a  brilliant 
wreath  of  scarlet  anemones  I  This  xs< 
thetic  water-hen,  with  her  mate,  lived  at 
Cheadle,  in  Staffordshire,  in  the  rectory 
moat,  for  several  seasons,  always,  how- 
ever, leaving  it  in  the  spring.  **  Being 
constantly  fed,  the  pair  became  quite 
tame,  built  their  nest  in  a  thorn  bush, 
covered  with  ivy,  which  had  fallen  into 
the  water,  and  when  the  young  were  a  few 
days  old,  the  parents  brought  them  up 
close  to  the  drawing-room  window,  where 
they  were  regularly  fed  with  wheat,  and 
as  the  lady  of  the  house  paid  them  the 
greatest  attention,  they  learned  to  look 
upon  her  as  their  natural  protectress  and 
friend,  so  much  so,  that  one  bird  in  par- 
ticular, which  was  much  persecuted  by 
the  rest,  would  when  attacked  fly  to  her 
for  refuge ;  and  whenever  she  called,  the 
whole  flock,  as  tame  as  barn-door  fowls, 
Quitted  the  water  and  assembled  round  to 
the  number  of  seventeen.  They  also 
made  other  friends  in  the  dogs  belonging 
to  the  family,  approaching  them  without 
fear,  though  hurrying  off  with  great  alarm 
on  the  appearance  of  a  strange  dog." 
Frank  Buckland  gives  several  curious 
instances  of  the  special  habits  of  some 
birds  in  procuring  their  food.  The  black- 
birds^ thrushes^  etc.,  carry  snails  consid- 
erable distances  for  the  purpose  of  break- 
ing their  shells  against  some  rock  or 
stone.  Thomas  Edward,  the  Scottish 
naturalist,  describes  ;^»//r  and  ravens  fly- 
ing to  a  great  height  with  craS  or  other 
shellfish,  and  letting  them  fall  on  stones 
in  order  to  smash  the  shells,  and  if  they 
do  not  break  on  the  flrst  attempt,  he  says 
they  pick  them  up  again  and  carry  them 
up  yet  higher,  repeating  the  operation 
again  and  again  till  the  shell  is  broken. 
Ravens  also  often  resort  to  this  contriv- 
ance. When  the  iapwinj^'xs  searching  for 
food,  it  pounces  upon  a  worm-cast,  and 
stamping  the  ground  beside  it  with  its 
feet,  waits  till  the  worm,  alarmed  at  the 
shaking  of  the  ground,  issues  from  its 
hole  in  the  hope  of  making  its  escape, 
whereupon  it  is  immediately  seized  and 
eaten  by  the  cunning  bird.  Darwin  tells 
of  a  bird  having  been  repeatedly  seen  to 
hop  on  a  poppy-stem,  and  shake  the  head 


with  his  bill  till  many  seeds  were  scat- 
tered, when  it  sprang  to  the  ground  and 
ate  up  the  seeds.  Some  birds  are  gifted 
with  a  sense  of  observation  approaching 
to  something  very  like  reasoning  facul- 
ties, as  the  following  anecdote  proves.  At 
a  gentleman's  house  in  Staffordshire  the 
pheasants  are  fed  out  of  one  of  those 
boxes,  the  lid  of  which  rises  with  the  pres- 
sure of  the  pheasant  standing  on  the  rail 
in  front  of  the  box.  A  water-hen  observ- 
ing this,  went  and  stood  upon  the  rail  as 
soon  as  the  pheasant  had  quitted  it,  but 
the  weight  of  the  bird  being  insufficient 
to  raise  the  lid  of  the  box  so  as  to  enable 
it  to  get  at  the  corn,  the  water-hen  kept 
jumping  on  the  rail  to  give  additional  im- 
petus to  its  weight;  this  partially  suc- 
ceeded, but  not  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
sagacious  bird,  which  therefore  went  off, 
and  soon  returning  with  a  bird  of  its  own 
species,  the  united  weight  of  the  two  had 
the  desired  effect,  and  the  successful  pair 
enjoyed  the  benefit  of  their  ingenuity. 
This  singular  instance  of  penetration  can 
be  vouched  for,  says  Mr.  Ruskin,  on  the 
authority  of  the  owner  of  the  place  where 
it  occurred,  who  witnessed  the  fact.  Piracy 
reaches  its  highest  development  among 
birds.  Gulls  congregate  in  numbers  wher- 
ever they  perceive  that  \\\^  {guillemots 
have  secured  a  shoal  of  flsh.  rlying  over 
the  surface  of  the  water,  the  gull  waits 
patiently  till  a  guillemot  comes  to  the 
surface  with  a  flsh,  when  he  snatches  it 
out  of  the  beak  of  its  unfortunate  owner. 
The  robber  tern  subsists  entirely  by  plun- 
dering other  terns,  and  no  sooner  does  the 
robt>er  tern  appear  among  the  others  than 
the  greatest  consternation  prevails  among 
the  flock,  who  fly  about  screaming  in  fran- 
tic alarm.  'X\\t  frigate  pelican  is  a  terri- 
ble pirate  and  commonly  attacks  the  booby^ 
which  has  received  this  name  because  it 
allows  itself  to  be  easily  caught.  Not 
only  does  the  frigate  pelican  force  the 
booby  to  drop  the  tish  it  has  just  caught, 
but  actually  to  disgorge  those  which  are 
in  its  stomach,  which  is  accomplished  by 
stabbing  the  unhappy  booby  with  its  pow- 
erful beak  till  it  yields  up  its  last  meal. 
The  ant-eatinjz  woodpeckers  of  California 
have  the  habit  of  storing  up  food  for  the 
inclement  season.  Small  round  holes  are 
dug  in  the  bark  of  the  pine  and  oak,  into 
each  of  which  an  acorn  is  inserted  so 
tightly  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  take  it 
out  again.  The  bark  of  these  trees  when 
fllled  in  this  way  appear  at  a  little  dis- 
tance to  be  studded  with  nails. 


I^ITTELL'S  LIVING  AGE. 


Fifth  Series, 
Volune  XLIY 


^.  }  No.  2052, -October  20,  1881 


{Prom  Beginningi 
Vol.  CLU. 


CONTENT 
I.  An  Itauan  Official  under  Napoleon,  . 
II.  Along  the  Silver  Streak.    Part  IX.,     . 
IIL  Notes  of  a  Wanderer  in  Skye, 

IV.  Poor  Little  Life, 

V.  Modern  Dress, 

VL  Ex- Marshal  Bazaine*s  Apology,      • 
VI  I.  The  British  Association,  •       •       •       . 
VIII.  Professor  Cayley*s  Address,    •       •       • 

IX.  Prison  Pets, 

X.  Westminster  Abbey, 


S. 

BlaekwoocTs  Magazine^ 
All  The  Year  Rounds 
Temple  Bar, 
Chamber/  youmal, 
Fortnigktly  Revitut^ 
TempU  Bar^         • 
Nature^        •        • 
Spectator^      .        • 
Chamber/  yourmil. 
Chambers'  youma/, 


141 
146 

165 

»77 
188 

190 

192 


POXTRY. 


The  Child  and  Death, 


130 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON, 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  EiOHT  DoLLAKS,  remitUd  direeiiyiothg  PwNuhers,  the  Livino  Agb  will  be  punctually  forwarded 
lor  %vtax,/ree  of  postage, 

Remittaocea  snouidbe  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-office  money-order,  if  possible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  moneyshould  be  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  poetmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.  I>ra£ts,  checks  and  money-orders  should  be  made  payable  to  the  oroercl 
laTTBLL  &  Co. 

Single  Numben  of  Tbx  Livmo  Aqb,  i8  oeota. 


TTrni 


"I-  4      "L-T^ 


A   -sn^ 


•    ..      -T     a 


anl  and  loneiv-  night 
IT    XJT      jiPimy  — sweet ! 

OCT  cxiild  to  meet.'* 


•    -  — ■  •  ,-'^" 


.  .^ 


'  .t:  r> 


te       •         >  i 


•.ITT  a: 


\T9. 


■ii:a.  ^ 


•*■▼■  r^'^'n       -w^      -^-'    •  — ^^    c 


t?3ch  naom  to  tend* 
^nnw  .xad  :ade  away*** 

iooBiS  >i^aail  rmmd  thee  blend, 
,iL  *ii^it  "mta.  ae«n  dbaU  apny. 

2T  asnce  i»  slow ; 
a  :aee,.  saacioiis  taiL"* 


3nr 


«    r^ 


J. 


-  a^**..  •  T» 


j"^-rn     ar  univisc     'e    iir'-:  ^-s^n 


•• '  V-.T.  :ml^  -irr.^  i-iu  iu  j 


»    rr?«  .r»»a  ttt  *'jrai  wQ  giow, 
•  *  ^    ««je  ar  Tr.tiaim'  jancaume  pall.*' 

OK  "IT  3HCiicr  *^  ^^uaun^  sigbs ;  ** 

*   ~^«   tf  ■:»  woiaujn^tlizou^  the  binigi2&' 


ti Las  rrnse :     ~r 


W  :^;i 


**  \Vaaif*TTn^t3fi««um.tQKifie^iBiIiog cries?** 

*  ^xanb  ae  ■vvjl  oe  wid  'jieeue  sought'* 

•*M»  "i««.»«^-  -«e»t»  'ai*^   t>iiBd  Tie  here ; 
Nv«    a    *^    xnasa  «iu  ^ 


•  \  -* 


'^M  >  Tear: 


^.i.\KO;L 


-*. 


•^  -T 


\\ 


a  «era 


irraa  .oe  :x>:v^ 


Far  :iv^  m  :  ^tt",.   .w  ^.  .-:<»  in*  nes. 

>  .'«  an  dug  «nen  ^«e  ieevs  uir  Jie."' 
Ana  m  lUY  irtaw  mii  jKct  sntn  -i 


*  .;   ^v'wv  »*    ♦'«  -  .    r\  'mother  nuw 
•  ir^    *«e  xr  >.•>»  u'<.  lu  aeiti  tuee» 

utft  iUBDUsed  the  sun*»  ravs 


•» 


•-.*t 


Vivuau  «ic  stuan^  >3tafs-tain 
\,'^  -eafT-  r.w*^."^«»  mother  iirht; 


"wo  .1  he  la  4^  tui^  ja^,,,,^ 


is  a.^.&  ^T.v.xtj  wjlu  .iMu  4ir. 

•*  ^   i-sr^       -^  '^aj>'  -'♦nii  nrrti— rcii»icc  I 
r'lc  ^^•^'Tour —  sc  >  *uin  :u-uav.  * 

C.'jnrtn  Jut  luw  u  >=ww»l  the  av.'* 

.{vT  ^^riinr  !*»*•  »>«  "^'^  '*s»  motiier  aeeka» 
^  ut  -iw^  vi*i  "r3!n.>>mii  'cars 

K  lit   i.  tMC*   C  fNUI  3saf2k 


AN    ITALIAN    OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


»3i 


From  Blackwood* s  Maffisine. 
AN  ITALIAN  OFFICIAL  UNDER  NAPOLEON. 

When  a  man  has  reached  the  natural 
ae^e  of  repose,  and  has  got  all  that  he  is 
]ike1y  to  attain  in  life,  it  is  an  amiable  and 
pleasant  impulse  that  induces  him  to  make 
a  record  of  what  has  happened  to  him,  — 
of  the  troubles  he  has  had,  and  the  pro- 
motions, and  all  the  ways  by  which  be  has 
walked  through  the  far  withdrawing  vistas 
of  that  life  which  is  far  more  clear  and 
fair  to  him  now  it  is  over  than  it  ever  was 
when  present.  There  are  few  things  more 
curious  than  this  effect  of  time.  Days 
that  were  tedious  as  they  passed,  and  in 
which  we  felt  nothing  more  than  that 
confusion  of  unrealized  aims  which  char- 
acterizes in  most  minds  the  actual  mo- 
ment, however  important  it  may  be,  ac- 
quire when  we  look  back  upon  the*m,  the 
appearance  of  a  full  and  easy  stream,  lead- 
ing us  to  what  we  know  now  to  have  been 
a  crisis  or  climax  of  life.  The  weari- 
nesses are  gone,  the  events  have  been 
detached  into  separate  meaning,  the  acci- 
dents that  perhaps  fretted  us  at  the  time 
have  become  amusing,  our  sorrows  give 
depth  and  force  to  the  picture  without  as- 
suming that  overwhelming  importance 
which  they  once  had  ;  and  as  we  read  our 
own  story  backward  to  its  beginning,  we 
find  it  the  most  interesting  of  stories  —  a 
mine  of  recollection  all  our  own,  in  which 
we  are  always  finding  out,  always  remem- 
bering, examples,  precedents,  experi- 
ences equal  to  or  greater  than  the  most 
momentous  events  of  to-day.  Those  who 
do  not  go  the  length  of  writing,  but  who 
have  the  better  part  of  telling  to  their  de- 
scendants or  pupils  what  has  befallen 
them,  have  a  pleasure  and  interest  in  do- 
ing it,  which  perhaps,  though  mixed  with 
occasional  pain,  is  one  of  the  happiest 
privileges  of  age.  It  may  not  do  the  young 
people  much  good  who  have  all  to  learn 
for  themselves  the  lessons  of  life,  and 
sever  can  realize  that  we  who  are  grey- 
headed could  ever  have  felt  the  passionate 
desire  for  happiness,  the  eager  wish  for 
triumph,  the  impatience  of  suffering  which 
is  in  their  hotter  pulses ;  but  it  interests 
them  to  hear  how  we  have  got  through 
our  inferior  struggles,  and  in  what  way  it 
has  been  possible  for  us  to  enjoy,  after 


our  antiquated  fashion,  a  youth  so  long 
over,  and  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  loss 
of  it.  It  is  one  of  the  subjects  that  link 
the  generations  each  to  each,  and  scarcely 
even  in  the  garrulity  and  much  repetition 
of  age  does  it  altogether  lose  its  meaning. 
When  the  speaker  has  been  mixed  up  in 
the  history  of  his  time,  and  is  able  to  put 
in  with  a  reality  which  no  other  touch  can 
give,  a  piece  of  background,  a  vignette  of 
illustration  to  the  grand  pictorial  events 
of  history,  the  gain  is  such  as  can  be  got 
in  no  other  way.  It  lightens  up  the  dim- 
mer larger  record  with  an  individual  par- 
ticularity, and  brings  before  us  what  no 
history  ever  can  fully  bring,  how  men  saw 
and  felt  and  breathed  in  the  shadow  of 
the  most  tremendous  incidents  without 
ever  being  overwhelmed  by  them,  or  feel- 
ing themselves  less  important  than  the 
events.  Indeed  our  human  independence 
of  all  events,  the  dauntless  individuality 
which  we  carry  through  revolutions  and 
every  public  catastrophe,  the  calm  with 
which  we  eat  and  sleep  through  the  most 
terrible  of  national  convulsions,  is  a  lesson 
as  striking  as  any  that  history  can  teach  us. 
It  is  perhaps  something  of  a  truism  with 
which  we  thus  preface  a  sketch,  extend- 
ing only  to  the  earlier  portion  of  a  busy 
and  important  life,  which  may  be  best  de- 
scribed under  the  above  title.  He  who  is 
at  once  the  hero  and  the  historian  of  this 
detached  chapter  of  human  experience 
concludes  his  own  story,  as  he  begins  it, 
somewhat  abruptly,  leaving  out  all  record 
of  the  works  by  which  he  is  known,  and 
those  heavings  of  secret  politics  in  which, 
along  with  so  many  more  of  the  best  men 
in  Italy,  he  was  afterwards  involved.  His 
narrative  was  perhaps  intended  to  be  con- 
tinued, had  time  and  occasion  served.  It 
was  at  least  his  intention  to  have  enlarged 
and  filled  out  the  outline  he  has  given  us ; 
but  as  it  stands  it  has  many  interesting 
details,  and  great  completeness  as  an  ac- 
count of  a  well-deBned  period,  both  in 
general  history  and  in  his  particular  life. 

Cesare  Balbo  was  of  a  family  not  illus- 
trious, yet  not  without  local  importance 
and  credit,  of  Chieri  near  Turin.  He  does 
not  make  any  claim  to  greatness  for  his 
ancestors,  yet  with  a  natural  fondness 
records  at  least  two  belle  glorie  nostri-^ 


«5« 


AN  ITAUAN  OFFICIAL  UNDER  NAPOLEON. 


g'jcroos  ezaiDples  for  a  familj  to  foUoir 
—  by  which  his  race  bad  been  distin- 
X^y.  ed,  thoagh  the  first  of  them,  be  al- 
ic^vs,  is  ooiy  traditiooal.  ^  It  is  said  that 
i:.e  C^^ci,  drireQ  oat  of  their  city,  which 
was  destroyed  by  Barbarossa,  foogbt  as 
ex  sts  with  their  brethreo  of  Lombardyfor 
tLe  iridcpeodeDce  of  Italy,  and  that,  like 
t:«e  F^l,'.:^  fifty  of  them  fell  oo  the  field  of 
Li.:;>  and  victory  at  Legoaoo."  The  sec- 
ond :s  more  certain,  which  is,  that  from  a 
branch  of  the  family  settled  at  Avigooo, 
io  the  fourteenth  century,  where  they  took 
the  name  of  Crillon,  sprang  **he  who 
was  called  the  *  Brave  Crillon,*  the  friend 
of  Henry  IV.  of  France,  the  successor  in 
chivalry  of  Bayard."  The  original  race 
remained  in  Chieri,  noble  only  in  its  faith- 
ful  devotion  to  the  municipality  first,  and 
afterwards  to  the  house  of  Savoy,  to  which 
it  gave  many  honest  if  bumble  servants. 
But  in  the  person  of  Prospero  Balbo,  the 
father  of  Cesare,  the  family  came  to  ad- 
vancement.  He  was  drawn  by  the  coo- 
oections  of  his  mother  into  Turin  and  Che 
court  circle,  and  rose  in  official  life  from 
one  step  to  another,  until  finally  he  be- 
came ambassador  to  the  French  republic, 
a  post  which  he  held  till  the  fall  of  the 
Piedmontese  monarchy  in  1798.  His  son 
Cesare,  born  in  the  year  of  Revolution, 
1789,  had  spent  part  of  his  infancy  in 
Paris  amid  the  tumults  of  that  terrible  pe* 
riod,  of  which,  however,  he  was  too  young 
to  have  anything  to  say;  and  afterwards 
followed  his  father's  wanderings  through 
the  period  of  early  youth,  receiving  an  in- 
terrupted education,  sometimes  from  his 
father  himself,  sometimes  from  other 
hands :  pausing  to  record  in  Florence  the 
delightful  recollections  of  the  sunny  Lung* 
Arno,  the  flowery  greenness  of  the  Cas- 
cine  and  the  Boboli,  and  the  famous  ^g- 
ure  of  Vittorio  Alfieri,  who  was  one  of  his 
father's  visitors  :  and  in  Turin,  when  the 
wandering  family  returned  there,  the 
pleasant  company  of  schoolfellows,  among 
whom  were  many  whose  friendship  con- 
tinued his  all  their  lives,  and  who  made 
up  among  themselves,  mingling  their 
mathematics  with  many  a  song  and  son- 
net, **  a  literary  society,  a  boyish  academy, 
winch  embraced  every  branch  of  human 
knowledge."    This  course    of  education 


continued  nntil  the  year  1806,  when  Na 
poleoo  visited  Turin. 

I,  a  student  of  seventeen,  was  wandering 

among  the  crowd  along  the  Via  di  Po,  when  a 

I  friend  came  up  to  me  and  congratulated  me. 

■  When  I  asked  on  what,  he  informed  me  that  I 
;  was  appointed  auditor  of  the  Council  of  State. 
!  I  scarcely  knew  what  this  meant ;  but  when  I 
I  returned  home  and  had  the  news  confirmed,  I 

■  found  that  these  auditors  were  of  the  number 
of  tveire  or  a  little  more — young  men  attached 
to  the  Council  of  Napmleon,  among  whom  were 
Mole,  Barante,  and  other  such ;  and  that  from 
this,  after  a  few  years,  they  passed  on  to  higher 
posts.  I  also  learned  that  my  father,  called 
the  day  previously  to  an  audience  of  Napoleon 
and  questioned  concerning  his  family,  had  an- 
swered that  be  bad  two  sons  still  very  young, 
who  bad  been  educated  at  home,  and  were  of 
delicate  health  —  hoping  thus  to  save  us  from 
those  military  schools  to  which  many  youths 
were  sent  by  force;  and  that  the  Emperor, 
without  delay,  a  few  hours  after  had  nominated 
me  auditor,  along  with  San-Tommaso,  a  youth 
much  older  than  myself,  appointing  Dal  Pozzo 
at  the  same  time  to  be  referendary,  and  San- 
Marzano  (formerly  Minister  of  War  with  us) 
councillor  of  the  same  Council  of  State.  I 
was  delighted  by  my  nomination,  and  by  the 
mode  of  it,  and  the  persons  with  whom  I  was 
associated ;  and  an  ambition  which  I  never  had 
known  before,  or  could  have  known,  since  I 
thought  myself  destined  either  to  no  post  at 
all,  or  a  very  humble  one,  awakened  within 
me.  My  father,  however,  fearing  the  moral 
dangers  of  the  position  and  my  extreme  youth, 
begged,  I  confess  sadly  against  my  will,  that  I 
might  be  allowed  to  remain  with  him  to  go 
through  my  legal  studies.  This  compelled  me 
to  postpone  the  prosecution  of  my  dreams; 
and  I  returned  with  more  or  less  good- will  to 
those  studies  which  I  had  hoped  were  ended. 
But  I  was  soon  liberated  from  them ;  for  in  the 
end  of  May,  iSoS,  General  Menou,  at  the  head 
of  the  27th  division  of  the  army  (that  of  Pied- 
mont), appeared  one  day  at  my  father^s  house, 
and  I  was  informed,  being  called  into  their 
presence,  that  General  Menou  was  appointed 
Governor-General  of  Tuscany,  which  had  been 
recently  added  to  the  Empire,  and  president 
of  a  governing  council,  of  which  Daucby, 
Councillor  of  State,  Chaban,  De  Gerando,  and 
Janet  were  members,  and  I  general  secretary. 
Thence  arose  new  trouble  and  cares  to  my 
father,  with  much  good  advice  from  him,  and 
new  joy  and  ambition  on  my  side. 

Thus  the  young  Piedmontese  began  his 
career.     His   native   princes  bad  beea 


AN   ITALIAN   OFFICIAL   UNDER  NAPOLEON, 


swept  away,  and  his  country  overrun  by 
the  conquering  invader;  but  so  resistless 
was  the  course  of  Napoleon,  that  no  idea 
of  national  degradation  seems  to  have 
clouded  the  young  man's  pleasure.  Nor 
was  he  troubled  by  any  doubts  touching 
the  character  of  his  new  occupation. 

Arrived  at    Florence,   I  found   everything 
smile  upon  me,  earth  and  sky.    The  thought 
that  I  was  aiding  in  a  new  usurpation  of  the 
great  conqueror  of  my  country  never  crossed 
my  mind.     I  never  thought  of  it,  nor  did  any 
one  round  me.     All  Europe  was  in  the  same 
most  powerful   hands;  and  the  wisest  either 
hoped  for  some  good  from  the  changes  thus 
made,  or  postponed  their  hopes  until  a  later 
period.      For  myself,  my  love  of  Italy  was 
rather  imaginative  than    reasonable ;    and  I 
hoped,  all  the  more  that  I  seemed  in  the  way 
of  speedily  acquiring  power,  to  be  able  to  serve 
her  better  in  this  than  in  any  other  way.    My 
patriotism  thus  confounded  itself  with  my  am- 
bition,  and  both  grew  together.     I  began  the 
duties  of  my  office  with  much  zeal,  but  a  com- 
plete want  of  experience  —  a  fact  which  Menou 
and  my  other  superiors  soon  perceived;  and 
with  the  kindest  intentions  appointed  as  head 
of  my  clerks  (of  whom  there  were  about  fifteen 
more  or  less)  a  young  man  older  and  more  in- 
structed than  myself,  whom  De  Gerando  had 
brought  with  him  —  an  excellent  fellow,  who 
made    up  for  all    my  deficiencies.      This    I 
allowed  him  to  do  for  eight  or  ten  days ;  but 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  seeing  how  everything 
was  done,  I  retained  the  papers  on  my  own 
desk,  and  informed  him  that  I  would  now  do 
everything  myself.     He  smiled,  but  approved, 
.  •  .  and  I  went  on  with  my  work  well  or  ill, 
but  always  ardently,  precipitately,  as  was  the 
fashion   of  the  time,  and   as  everybody  did 
around  me,  both  superiors  and  inferiors.    They 
destroyed  the  government  of  Leopold,  which 
had  been  more  or  less  restored  by  King  Louis 
of    Etruria  —  undid    everything,    rearranged 
everything,  and,  in  the  language  of  the  time, 
organized  the-imperial  government ;  thus  mak- 
ing Florence,  the  mother  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion, into  the  image  of  a  little  French  frontier 
town.    All  this,  however,  was  done  with  so 
much  consideration  and  such  good  grace,  that 
Tuscany  bore  us  no  grudge,  and  even  Botta  in 
his  History  has  nothing  to  say  against  iL     For 
my  part  I  worked  most  days  from  eight  in  the 
morning  till  five,  or  even  till  seven  or  eight  in 
the  evening,  at  the  Pitti,  with  such  industry 
and  zeal  that  I  was  not,  I  think,  more  than 
two  or  three  times  in  those  Boboli  gardens 
where  I  played  for  so  many  hours  in  my  child- 


^3S 

hood,  and  which  now  I  saw  from  my  windows 
as  I  worked. 

This  enthusiasm  of  labor  carried  on  the 
work  so  fast,  that  as  Balbo  repeats  with 
natural  irony,  it'  took  seven  months  only 
to  make  of  Florence,  "the  mother  city  of 
modern  culture,  a  provincial  town  of  the 
French  frontier,  chief  town  of  the  depart- 
ment of  the  Arno."     For  his  own   part, 
the  youth  obeyed  his  father's  sage  advice, 
and    consorted    only    with    his    father's 
friends,  and  the  young  men   he   met  in 
their  houses  — young  Gino  Capponi,  the 
beloved  of  all  men,  and  a  certain  graceful 
young  Due  di  Kocca  Romana,  who  was 
an  exile  from  Naples,  but  a  gay  one,  and 
taught  young  Cesare  to  ride,  and  gave 
him    many    pleasant  hours.      Upon  the 
memory  of  this  fresh  and  artless  period 
of  his  life  he  lingers  with  evident  pleas- 
ure, recalling  *♦  the  frank  and  elegant  man- 
ners "  of  the  young  Neapolitan,  and  "  the 
hours  of  pleasure  and  repose  so  precious 
at  that  age,  when  I' rode  about  the  coun- 
try chiefly  with  Rocca  Romana,  a  great 
master  of  horsemanship,  who  led  me  on 
with  the  friendship  of  a  man  in  the  last 
years  of  his  youth,  taking  pleasure  in  the 
docility  of  one  who  was  but  entering  upon 
its  delights." 

It  was  at  this  careless  and  happy  mo- 
ment, however,  that  the  first  gleam  of 
higher  enlightenment  penetrated  into 
young  Balbo's  mind.  He  was  standing 
one  fine  day  of  May,  1809,  in  his  stable, 
examining  with  great  pride,  along  with 
this  graceful  cavalier,  the  first  horse  Ce- 
sare had  ever  owned,  when  a  despatch 
was  suddenly  put  into  his  hand,  appoint- 
ing him  secretary  of  a  new  commission, 
this  time  for  organizing  Rome.  The 
scene  is  put  before  us  with  vivid  simplic- 
ity and  truth.  In  order  to  be  completely 
d  la  mode  in  these  days,  it  was  necessary 
to  dock  the  tail  of  the  newly  purchased 
horse  alP  IngUse;  and  Rocca  Romana, 
the  experienced  and  knowing,  was  superin- 
tending the  operation,  while  young  Balbo 
stood  by  in  a  state  of  ecstatic  spectator- 
ship,  delighted  to  have  a  horse  in  the 
fashion.  At  the  moment  when  the  poor 
animal,  liberated,  sprang  away  from  the 
operator,  and  Rocca  Romana,  laughing, 
turned  to  the  youth  by  his  side,  Cesare 


«3f 


AN   ITALIAN   OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


had  opened  his  despatch,  and,  as  if  by  a  ' 
roar  of  sudden  thunder,  "  a  sense  of  the 
brutal  usurpation  of  which  I  was  the  ser- 
vant ''  awakened  in  his  mind. 

I  have  said  that,  as  far  as  regarded  Tuscany, 
I  had  thought  little  or  nothing  of  it ;  that  con- 
quest was  made  from  one  who  might  himself 
appear  as  a  usurper  —  from  one  to  whom  I 
*  owed  nothing,  and  who  was  of  no  importance 
to  me :  but  he  who  was  here  robbed  was  the 
Pope,  of  ancient  rule  (though  that  moved  me 
little)  —  the  Pope,  the  head  of  my  religion,  to 
love  and  reverence  whom  I  had  been  brought 
up.  It  was  Pius  VII.,  to  whom  I  had  been 
presented,  whose  feet  I  had  kissed  when  he 
was  at  Turin  a  few  years  before  ^  whom  I  had 
seen  received  with  acclamations,  revered  by  all 
the  population  of  my  city,  to  the  neglect  of  the 
Emperor  —  who  accompanied' him.  It  was,  in 
fact,  a  usurpation,  an  injustice,  an  evident 
wickedness,  for  me  and  all  who  took  part  in  it. 
I  was  altogether  cast  down,  miserable,  and  in 
despair,  but  knew  not  how  to  resist,  or  refuse 
to  go.  This  is  the  sole  point  in  my  public  life 
which  I  regret,  although  at  nineteen  it  was 
little  wonderful  that  I  should  find  myself  too 
weak  to  stand  against  the  will  of  Napoleon* 

The  shock  thus  given  Him  had  no  doubt 
a  certain  efifect  on  his  mind,  but  it  was  as 
yet  no  real  patriotism  or  consciousness  of 
the  real  character  of  Napoleon's  power 
that  moved  him,  but  only  the  horror  natu- 
ral to  a  young  Catholic,  devoutlv  brought 
up,  at  this  profane  touching  of  the  ark, 
and  struggle  with  the  awful  powers  of 
religion.  The  youth  went  very  reluctantly 
to  his  post,  and  tried  hard,  on  his  arrival 
at  Rome,  to  escape  the  necessity  of  sign- 
ing the  proclamation  which  was  immedi- 
ately issued.  When  compelled  to  do  so, 
however,  he  comforted  himself  with  the 
thought  that  he  did  it  only  as  attesting 
the  other  signatures,  not  as  adding  his 
affirmation  to  the  work  of  spoiling  the 
Church,  —  a  consolation  to  his  own  awak- 
ened conscience  which,  however,  was  not 
available  to  exempt  Balbo  from  the  gen- 
eral excommunication.  While  he  was  in 
this  uneasy  and  sorrowful  condition,  his 
father  paid  him  a  visit  in  Rome,  and  suc- 
ceeded, to  Cesare*s  great  relief,  in  recon- 
ciling him  with  the  Church.  This  posi- 
tion of  hostility  to  all  he  most  respected 
disturbed  the  young  man  greatly,  and  it  is 
evident  that  his  scruples  did  not  find  fa- 
vor in  the  eyes  of  his  superiors,  one  of 
whom,  as  he  relates,  taunted  him  with 
church-going,  to  which  be  retorted  with 
youthful  heat  that  he  should  henceforward 
attend  the  Church  of  the  Santi  Apostoli, 
which  was  opposite  the  windows  of  the 
angry  chief,  so  that  his  proceedings  might 
be  under  constant  surveillance.     From 


this  altercation  there  arose  ira  recibroca. 
Thus  disgusted  with  bis  work  ana  with 
his  leaders,  young  Balbo  found  nothing  so 
admirable  in  Rome  as  the  courage  of  the 
priests  and  of  the  cardinals,  who  stepped 
in  one  by  one  to  replace  the  pope  after  he 
had  been  removed,  and  were  one  by  one 
dismissed  after  him  into  banishment.  **  I 
began  to  suspect,*'  he  says,  "that  these 
despised  priests  were  the  strongest,  in- 
deed the  only  strong  men  in  Italy."  He 
left  in  the  beginning  of  1811  the  holy  city 
which  he  had  so  unwillingly  helped  to 
despoil  and  shape  into  a  mere  French 
town  —  a  profanity  which  might  well  take 
away  the  breath  of  a  less  excellent  Catho- 
lic than  young  Balbo — divided  between 
the  pleasure  of  escaping  from  his  un- 
grateful ofBce,  and  the  regret  of  leaving 
la  bella  e  dolce  Roma,  which  during  his 
whole  life  he  never  visited  more. 

From  Rome  the  young  secretary  was 
sent  to  Paris,  to  plunge  there,  with  all  the 
ardor  of  youthtul  interest,  into  a  new 
world.  He  says  little,  however,  of  the 
great  city,  so  full  of  triumph  and  commo- 
tion, with  all  the  excitement  in  her  of  a 
new  Rome,  mistress  of  a  subjugated 
world,  where,  however,  he  found  some 
dear  and  lasting  friends,  and  snatched  no 
small  enjoyment  in  the  intervals  of  his 
occupations.  What  seemed  to  have  chiefly 
impressed  him  —  and  nothing  could  be 
more  original  and  interesting  than  this 
view  of  the  subject  —  was  the  keen  and 
quickened  life  of  everything  about  him, 
all  centring  in  the  great  captain,  the  won- 
derful emperor,  the  mainspring  of  ^^^r^v 
activity.  He  found  himself,  on  his  arrival, 
in  the  midst  of  a  number  of  young  offi- 
cials like  himself,  but  of  less  standing 
than  himself,  whom  "we  old  ones  (I  was 
an  elder  of  twenty  one)  despised,"  because 
they  had  not,  like  Balbo  and  his  contem- 
poraries, the  privilege  of  being  present  at 
the  imperial  sittings,  where  Napoleon,  with 
as  yet  no  sign  of  failure  in  his  triumphant 
career,  dazzled  all  who  approached  him, 
even  the  young  Italian,  who  had  begun  to 
feel  himself  an  accomplice  in  the  humilia- 
tion of  his  country.  "These  sittings,"  he 
says,  "were  very  interesting,  from  the 
lucidity,  I  may  say  the  splendor,  of  that 
great  mind  of  Napoleon,  and  from  his 
spontaneous  and  familiar  eloquence,  and 
a  certain  candor  which  was  one  of  his 
special  gifts  —  the  candor  of  imperious- 
ness  and  absolutism, — as  when  1  have 
heard  him  characterize  as  idealistic  (which, 
in  his  opinion,  was  the  same  thing  as  fic- 
titious, an  imaginary  difficulty)  the  objec- 
i  tions  that  were  made  round  him  to  the 


AN   ITALIAN   OFHCIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


'35 


forced  levies  of  so  many  men  and  so  much 
money."  And  one  of  the  most  remarka- 
ble things  in  the  record  is  the  contagious 
energy  with  which  every  official,  from  the 
smallest  to  the  e^reatest,  seems  to  have 
been  moved.  They  **  travelled  precipi- 
tately, as  was  the  fashion  in  those  days, 
scarcely  sleeping  in  their  post-chaises, 
that  they  might  hurry  on  the  post-boys." 
They  took  what  work  was  given  them  to 
do,  without  looking  too  closely  whether  it 
was  above  or  below  their  pretensions: 
'*  Nobody  thought  of  that  in  those  days, 
but  went  up  and  down  by  the  impulse  of 
the  great  mover  of  that  wild  laborious- 
ness.  The  servants  of  Napoleon  rushed 
headlong  about  their  business,  sent  here 
and  there  to  the  limits  of  Europe,  con- 
stantly pricked  to  the  point  of  possibility, 
but  tarrying  never. 

Balbo's  first  mission  after  this  was  into 
Germany  to  "  liquidate  "  in  Illyria.  Nei- 
ther be  himself,  nor  Las  Casas  his  supe- 
rior, Dor  the  other  young  official  less  ex- 
perienced than  himself  who  accompanied 
them,  knew  a  word  of  German,  as  they 
discovered  after  mutual  consultation;  and 
all  the  papers  were  in  that  language.  But 
what  matter?  The  business  was  managed 
somehow  by  the  help  of  a  brother  of  Las 
Casas  who  had  lived  in  Germany  **at  the 
time  of  the  emigration,"  and  consequently 
understood  more  or  less  the  accounts  that 
were  set  before  him.  The  voung  secre- 
taries with  some  doubt  affixed  their  names 
to  a  curious  summary  of  expenses  made 
according  to  a  scientific  whim  of  their 
chief,  who  reminded  Balbo,  with  a  lau^h, 
when  he  hesitated,  that  it  was  quite  im- 
possible for  them  to  verify  any  one  of  the 
amounts  claimed.  "Such  things  were 
done  in  these  days,"  he  says,  "and  so 
long  as  they  were  done,  the  how  mattered 
little;  and  it  would  need  a  wise  judge  to 
decide  if  this  precipitate  doing  was  worse 
than  the  slow  doing,  or  not  doing  at  all, 
which  succeeded  in  many  places  to  this 
feverish  rapidity."  Thus  the  young  offi- 
cials of  the  Empire  went  storming  upon 
their  way,  sometimes  with  a  hesitation, 
but  generally  with  that  happy  confidence 
and  pleasure  in  the  sense  of  their  own 
headlong  going,  and  of  the  sweep  of  great 
affairs  which  carried  them  from  one  end 
of  Europe  to  the  other,  which  was  con- 
genial to  their  youth. 

There  arrived,  however,  a  moment  in 
this  hot  career  when  flesh  and  blood  could 
not  support  the  yoke  that  was  attempted 
to  be  forced  upon  it.  It  was  not  any 
sense  of  executing  the  mandates  of  a 
tyrant,  or  making  themselves  instruments 


of  despotism,  or  even  a  reluctance  to  rivet 
the  bonds  of  their  own  special  country, 
which  moved  to  unanimous  disgust  and 
resistance  this  body  of  young  men.  When 
Balbo  returned  to  Paris  after  "  liquidat- 
ing "  in  Germany  the  accounts  which  he 
did  not  understand,  he  discovered,  to  his 
high  indignation,  by  the  almanac,  that  he 
was  to  be  attached  to  a  new  branch  of 
service,  —  what  he  calls  the  attapulizia  — 
that  is  to  say,  the  office  of  Cleanliness,  the 
Sanitary  Science,  such  as  it  was,  of  the 
time.  He  had  borne,  though  unwillingly, 
a  hand  in  the  spoliation  of  the  Church ; 
he  had  set  his  seal,  also  unwillingly,  to  the 
German  accounts ;  but  here  he  drew  the 
line.  To  send  forth  a  number  of  young 
gentlemen  —  French,  Italian,  Spanish,— 
elegant  young  officials  of  the  noble  Latin 
races,  to  clean  up  Europe,  was  beyond  all 
bearing,  and  broke  even  the  spell  of 
Napoleon's  energetic  impulse.  Perhaps 
there  was  something  in  the  fact  that  the 
emperor  was  absent  making  his  fated  way 
to  Russia,  and  that  there  was  in  the  air  a 
premonition  of  the  rapid  change  of  affairs 
which  was  so  soon  to  come.  And  P  alia 
pulizia  was  not  in  those  days  the  sacred 
science  it  has  since  become;  though  even 
now,  perhaps,  the  curled  darlings  of  diplo- 
macy, the  private  secretaries,  the  graceful 
clerks  of  the  circumlocution  offices,  might 
make  as  violent  a  stand  against  unsavory 
appointments  as  inspectors  of  nuisances. 
The  account  of  the  manner  in  which  Sa- 
varv,  the  head  of  the  new  department, 
encieavored  to  commend  their  mission  to 
the  rebels,  all  indignant  and  determined 
to  resist,  comes  in  with  curious  humor  to 
the  grave  story  of  those  troubled  and  ex- 
citing times. 

One  fine  day  Savary  sent  to  eight  or  ten  of 
us,  among  whom  was  the  Due  de  Broglie,  and 
in  a  long  and  carefully  prepared  discourse, 
gave  us  notice  that  his  Majesty  had  placed  at 
his  disposal  several  excellent  posts,  most  con- 
fidential and  important,  which  were  those  of 
inspectors  of  cleanliness  in  several  of  the  new 
departments.  Those  who  felt  disposed  to  ac- 
cept them  were  now  to  speak.  No  one  said  a 
word.  Savary  then  resumed  his  si>eech  (be- 
tween gentleness  and  severity,  tra  dolceebrusco^ 
sounding  the  praises  of  these  new  appoint- 
ments and  of  the  Sanitary  Science,  which  in 
fact  was,  he  said,  the  highest  politics,  and  not 
mere  administration  like  those  prefectures 
which  were  so  much  desired,  he  could  not  tell 
why,  by  many  of  us;  and  that,  in  short,  there 
were  but  two  fine  and  lofty  careers  —  the  mili- 
tary profession,  and  that  of  Public  Cleanli- 
ness :  and  concluded  by  saying  that  if  we  did 
not  go  for  love,  we  must  go  by  force  ;  that  if 
no  one  o£Eered,  the  Emperor  himself  would 


AN   ITALIAN   OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


«3* 

nominate  those  whom  he  pleased,  and  compel 
obedience.  No  one  offered,  and  he  began  to 
interrogate  us  individually.  One  replied  that 
his  wife  was  ill ;  to  whom' he  answered  angrily, 
"You  are  not  her  doctor."  To  another  illus- 
trious person  he  said  that  with  such  a  name  he 
ought  either  to  be  a  soldier  or  in  the  Sanitary 
Service.  To  me  —  who  had  said  imprudentiv 
that  the  boast  of  political  importance  which 
he,  the  minister,  made  of  his  department,  could 
not  in  any  way  apply  to  inferior  posts  —  he 
made  no  reply ;  but  I  perceived  that  from  that 
moment  he  nxed  upon  me  a  special  regard. 
We  then  all  came  out  from  our  audience,  we 
rebellious,  he  threatening.  I,  who  had  never 
asked  for  patronage  to  obtain  any  post  —  has- 
tened  now  to  ask  the  protection  of  the  Princess 
Paolina,  the  beautiful  governor  of  our  Pied- 
monte,  to  enable  me  to  refuse  this,  and  to  pro- 
cure me  the  commission  (given  every  week  to 
one  of  us)  to  carry  despatches  to  the  Emperor 
in  Russia.  My  suit  was  successful,  and  shortly 
after  I  received  this  appoinlm.ent  — but  unfor- 
tunately, I  fell  illt  and  was  obliged  to  give  it 
vp  ;  and  a  few  days  after,  Savary,  who  had  not 
forgotten  me,  sent  me  the  imperial  commission 
as  inspector  at  Petten,  in  Holland.  When  I 
received  his  despatch,  I  threw  myself  on  my 
knees  before  God,  and  rose  with  the  resolution 
that  nothing  should  induce  me  to  go  at  any 
cost.  After  this  I  went  to  the-Countess  Pasto- 
ret,  and  showed  her  the  letter,  adding,  coldly 
(as  appeared  to  me),  that  since  Napoleon  had 
so  outraged  me,  I  should  go  and  kill  him. 
The  best  and  most  witty  of  women  gave  way 
to  a  burst  of  laughter  which  froze  me ;  then 
added  that  there  were  less  extreme  measures 
to  be  taken,  and  that  she  would  show  me  one 

—  to  go  with  her  to  Dr.  Halle,  the  most  famous 
doctor  in  Paris,  whom  she  knew  very  well,  to 
whom  she  would  describe  my  case,  and  who 
would  order  me  rest,  a  return  to  my  native  air, 
and  to  take  mineral  baths  there. 

In  this  easy  manner  the  great  difficulty 
was  happily  surmounted ;  and,  furnished 
with  a  medical  certificate,  young  Balbo 
escaped  to  his  home,  where  he  remained 
for  a  year,  sending  every  three  months 
other  medical  certificates,  and  thus  keep- 
ing clear  of  the  hated  work.  Strange  rev- 
olution of  the  times !  which  has  brought 
this  once  almost  disgraceful  and  detested 
mission  into  the  first  of  human  businesses 

—  if  not  the  highest  politics,  as  the  con- 
ciliatory minister  said,  yet  of  the  last  im- 
portance in  the  government  of  the  civilized 
world. 

Balbo  had  now  arrived  at  an  age  when 
reason  has  begun  to  mature,  and  his  resi- 
dence at  home  at  this  time  taught  him 
many  hitherto  unconsidered  truths.  He 
began  to  understand  the  meaning  of  what 
he  saw  around  him,  and  to  perceive  many 
aspects  of  the  great  government,  to  the 
service  of  which  be  was  bound,  which  had 


but  faintly,  and  under  special  circum* 
stances,  been  apparent  to  him  before. 
For  one  thing  be  had  under  his  very  eyes 
on  his  return  to  Turin  an  evidence  of  the 
arbitrary  and  tyrannical  way  in  which  the 
emperor  disposed  of  the  lives  of  those  who 
were  in  his  power.  When  Cesare  Balbo 
was  arbitrarily  appointed  to  his  office  of 
secretary,  his  brother  Ferdinand  — a  boy 
of  sixteen  —  had  been  grasped  bv  the 
same  summary  hand  ana  deposttea  in  a 
far  different  sphere  — in  the  army,  as  a 
private  soldier.  To  see  his  brother  in  a 
position  so  different  from  his  own,  went 
to  young  Balbo's  heart ;  and  with  tears  in 
his  voice,  he  pauses  to  describe  this  young 
victim  of  arbitrary  rule. 

He  was  one  of  those  rare  beings,  not  to  be 
found  in  any  other  country,  and  rare  even  in 
Italy,  bom  with  the  nature  of  an  artist,  beauti- 
ful as  a  young  Apollo,  with  a  soul,  a  genius 
full  of  capacity,  given  to  every  art  and  fine  cul- 
ture —  one  of  those  whom  poetry  describes  as 
endowed  by  fate,  or  better,  by  nature,  or  better 
still,  by  a  benevolent  Providence.  For  mathe- 
matics, which  he  had  begun  to  learn  with  me, 
he  had  no  taste,  asking  candidly  what  was  the 
use  of  them  ?  But  poetry,  music,  the  arts  of 
design,  came  to  him  by  nature.  ...  In  short, 
he  was  born  a  writer,  a  painter,  a  musician  s 
and  he  was  made  a  soldier. 

This  beautiful  and  gifted  youth,  so 
strangely  tossed  into  the  midst  of  barrack 
life,  and  all  the  roughnesses  of  campaign- 
ing, had  gone  to  the  war  in  Russia  as 
sous-lieutenant  of  a  regiment  of  cavalry. 
In  the  retreat  from  Moscow  he  died,  un* 
able,  a  tenderly  bred  and  delicate  youth, 
to  bear  the  hardships  of  that  terrible  jour- 
ney. The  anxious  household  in  Turin 
followed  all  the  bulletins  of  the  retreat 
with  an  anguish  which  may  be  easily  im- 
agined ;  and  its  dreadful  details  reawoke 
in  their  minds  the  burning  sense  of  wrong 
with  which  they  had  contemplated  from 
the  beginning  the  hard  life  allotted  to 
their  youngest  and  most  beloved.  "  Our 
country  would  have  had  in  him  another 
Massimo  d'Azeglio,**  his  brother  cries, 
still  feeling  in  the  calm  of  age  the  intol- 
erable pang  of  this  misappropriated  life. 
D'Azeglio  was  their  cousin,  and  the  con- 
temporary of  the  murdered  boy.  No 
wonder  that  his  death  awoke  a  storm  o£ 
indignant  feeling  far  more  strong  and  in- 
fluential than  that  personal  despite  and 
irritation  which  had  already  roused  Ce- 
sare against  Napoleon.  Under  the  vio- 
lent stimulus  of  personal  wrong  and  grief 
so  bitter,  his  mind  was  sharply  roused  to 
serious  thoughts.  **The  serenity,  the 
light-heartedness  of  life  "  ended  with  the 


AN   ITALIAN   OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


^37 


loss  of  yoan«^  FerdinaDd,  and  the  deeper 
currents  of  thought  which  were  awaken- 
ing in  Italy  speedily  connmunicated  them- 
selves to  the  son  of  the  Piedmontese 
statesman,  making  his  temporary  resi- 
dence at  home  a  period  of  rapid  develop- 
ment the  most  important  in  his  life.  He 
was  still  ver^*  ^oung,  and,  hurried  to  and 
fro  by  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  had  found 
little  time  for  thought.  In  the  case  of  the 
Church,  it  was  his  conscience  and  religious 
feeling  that  moved  him  —  not  any  serious 
sense  of  the  destruction  of  national  free- 
dom; bat  now,  with  time  and  leisure  to 
contemplate  the  current  of  affairs,  he  be- 
gan to  perceive  how  the  minds  of  the  best 
men  in  Italv  were  being  moved,  and  what 
a  force  of  silent  indignation  and  judgment 
was  rising  against  the  supreme  power 
which  had  overmastered  all  visible  resis- 
tance. The  new  Italianism,  quelU  idee 
npstre  Italiane,  came  upon  him  like  a  rev- 
elation. This  rising  tide  of  feeling  was 
as  yet  timid,  scarcely  formed,  and  without 
any  hope  of  immediate  action.  The  Ital- 
ians, with  their  many  divisions  among 
themselves,  were  utterly  powerless  to  re- 
sist Napoleon ;  but  his  easy  victory  over 
their  petty  tyrants  had  taught  them  what 
would  be  the  advantage  of  unity,  and  that 
to  reconstitute  Italy  as  a  nation  was  their 
best  hope.  The  state  of  feeling  at  which 
they  had  arrived  was,  therefore,  this, — 
that,  *'  remaining  faithful  to  the  emperor 
as  long  as  he  lived  (for  no  one  then  fore- 
S21W  that  he  would  cease  to  reign  before 
ceasing  to  live),  they  had  formed  the  reso- 
lution to  free  Italy  and  call  her  to  inde- 
pendence after  the  death  of  Napoleon.'' 
Such  ideas  had  seemed  nothing  but 
dreams  to  the  young  official,  carried  along 
by  the  great  impulsesi  of  Napoleon's  ser- 
vice; but  he  saw  now  that  there  was 
meaning  and  method  in  them.  He  had 
already,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  distress 
about  the  affairs  of  Rome,  refused  to  be 
connected  with  a  secret  society;  but  of 
these  objectionable  phenomena  of  a  state 
of  national  suppression  there  seems  to 
have  been  no  question  among  the  serious 
Piedmontese,  already  beginning  to  form 
among  themselves  the  plan  of  an  Italian 
kingdom  which  it  has  cost  so  many  years 
and  so  many  struggles  to  carry  out. 

"With  these  sentiments,''  Balbo  con- 
tinues, "  I  returned  to  Paris,  with  an  eager 
desire  to  Bnd  myself  in  the  midst  of  the 
l^reat  events  which  were  preparing."  And 
finding  to  his  great  relief,  on  reference  to 
the  official  lists,  that  he  was  no  longer  at- 
tached to  the  service  of  public  cleanli- 
nessy  he  applied,  as  soon  as  be  had  reached 


the  centre  of  affairs,  for  that  privilege  of 
carrying  despatches  to  the  emperor  which 
his  illness  had  prevented  him  from  exer- 
cising the  year  before  —  domandai  di par* 
tare  il  portafoglio  in  Ger mania*  This 
commission  was  granted  to  him,  and  he 
set  out  accordingly.  It  was  on  the  eve  of 
that  opening  oi  disaster  —  the  battle  of 
Leipsic— 'that  he  left  Paris. 

Scarcely  had  I  crossed  the  Rhine  when  there 
began  to  appear  signs  of  what  had  happened. 
Upon  the  road  which  I  was  pursuing  I  en- 
countered scattered  soldiers,  — some  wounded, 
some  staggering  along  in  weakness,  many  lying 
about  in  the  ditches.  Little  acquainted  as  I 
was  with  military  affairs,  I  took  little  notice  of 
them,  and  understood  stilt  less.  But  my  ser- 
vant—  an  old  soldier  —  who  was  on  the  box  of 
the  carriage,  turned  round  from  time  to  time 
to  look  at  me,  and  seeing  I  had  no  comprehen- 
sion, at  last  asked :  *'  Signor,  do  you  know 
what  all  this  means  ?  "  "  What  is  it  ?  "  said  L 
And  he,  "A  retreat."  We  went  on  a  little 
further,  and  he  began  again.  "Do  you  un- 
derstand?" "What?"  And  he,  "A  battle 
lost."  We  went  on  again,  and  saw  in -his 
coach,  driving  rapidly  past  us,  Mur^t  the  King 
of  Naples.  When  we  reached  Fulda,  I  made 
my  way  to  the  commandant,  where  there  was  a 
crowd  of  people  asking  information  as  I  did, 
to  all  of  whom  he  replied  in  the  same  words : 
"All  is  right — go  on;  find  your  regiment, 
your  general,  your  master.**  I  approached, 
saying,  **  I  must  go  to  the  Emperor  —  I  carry 
despatches."  "Ah,"  said  the  commandant; 
"come  in  here  then."  And  he  opened  the 
door  of  a  little  room,  and  going  in  with  me, 
closed  it  behind  him  ;  then  letting  fall  his  arms, 
and  abandoning  his  artificial  composure,  "  All 
is  lost  I  "  ( Tutto  ifritto)  he  cried,  —  and  again, 
with  still  more  energy :  "  The  Emperor  has 
lost  a  great  battle,  and  no  one  knows  where  he 
is ;  but  push  on  if  you  like,  and  you  will  find 
Marshal  Ney,  who  is  coming  with  the  rest. 
He  will  tell  you  where  the  Emperor  is,  if  he 
knows.  We  are  all  ruined."  I  got  into  mv 
carriage  again,  and  pushed  forward  as  I  could 
among  the  fugitives,  no  longer  in  scattered 
groups  here  and  there,  but  filling  the  whole 
road  and  swearing  at  me  and  my  carriage, 
which  forced  a  way  through  them.  Thus  we 
advanced  slowly  to  the  last  post  of  Hiinefeld. 
Here  there  was  no  horses  to  be  had,  and  I  and 
vay  portafoglio  ^xiA  my  little  carriage  remained 
in  the  middle  of  the  road,  pushed  a.side«every 
moment  by  artillery  wagons  and  other  convey- 
ances. Ney  then  arrived,  sunk  in  the  corner 
of  his  carriage,  in  a  furious  temper,  in  conse- 
quence, it  was  said,  of  a  violent  altercation 
with  his  master,  and  certainly  because  he,  like 
me,  was  in  want  of  horses.  I  approached  him, 
hat  in  hand,  with  much  respect  and  ceremony, 
begging  him  to  tell  me  where  I  should  find 
the  Emperor  with  my  despatches.  Without 
making  me  any  reply,  he  said,  "  Vou  have  come 
here  in  a  carriage,  and  therefore  you  must  have 
horses."     "Yes,  monseigneur."     "Let  them 


t28 


FACULTIES   OF   BIRDS. 


mesticity  of  temper,  with  curious  fineness 
of  sagacity  and  sympathies  in  taste.  A 
family  of  them,  much  petted  by  a  lady, 
were  constantly  addin^:  materials  to  their 
nest,  and  made  real  havoc  in  the  flower- 
garden,  for  though  straw  and  leaves  are 
their  chief  ingredients,  they  seem  to  have 
an  eye  for  beauty,  and  the  old  hen  has 
been  seen  surrounded  with  a  brilliant 
wreath  of  scarlet  anemones  I  This  xs< 
thetic  water-hen,  with  her  mate,  lived  at 
Cheadle,  in  Sta^ordshire,  in  the  rectory 
moat,  for  several  seasons,  always,  how- 
ever, leaving  it  in  the  spring.  "  Being 
constantly  fed,  the  pair  became  quite 
tame,  built  their  nest  in  a  thorn  bush, 
covered  with  ivy,  which  had  fallen  into 
the  water,  and  when  the  young  were  a  few 
days  old,  the  parents  brought  them  up 
close  to  the  drawing-room  window,  where 
they  were  regularly  fed  with  wheat,  and 
as  the  lady  of  the  house  paid  them  the 
greatest  attention,  they  learned  to  look 
upon  her  as  their  natural  protectress  and 
friend,  so  much  so,  that  one  bird  in  par- 
ticular, which  was  much  persecuted  by 
the  rest,  would  when  attacked  fly  to  her 
for  refuge ;  and  whenever  she  called,  the 
whole  flock,  as  tame  as  barn-door  fowls, 
Quitted  the  water  and  assembled  round  to 
the  number  of  seventeen.  They  also 
made  other  friends  in  the  dogs  belonging 
to  the  family,  approaching  them  without 
fear,  though  hurrying  ofiE  with  great  alarm 
on  the  appearance  of  a  strange  dog.*' 
Frank  Buckland  gives  several  curious 
instances  of  the  special  habits  of  some 
birds  in  procuring  their  food.  The  black- 
birds,  thrushes^  etc.,  carry  snails  consid- 
erable distances  for  the  purpose  of  break- 
ing their  shells  against  some  rock  or 
stone.  Thomas  Edward,  the  Scottish 
naturalist,  describes  ;^»//r  and  ravens  fly- 
ing to  a  great  height  with  craS  or  other 
shellfish,  and  letting  them  fall  on  stones 
in  order  to  smash  the  shells,  and  if  they 
do  not  break  on  the  flrst  attempt,  he  says 
they  pick  them  up  again  and  carry  them 
up  yet  higher,  repeating  the  operation 
again  and  again  till  the  shell  is  broken. 
Ravens  also  often  resort  to  this  contriv- 
ance. When  the  lapwins^  is  searching  for 
food,  it  pounces  upon  a  worm-cast,  and 
stamping  the  ground  beside  it  with  its 
feet,  waits  till  the  worm,  alarmed  at  the 
shaking  of  the  ground,  issues  from  its 
hole  in  the  hope  of  making  its  escape, 
whereupon  it  is  immediately  seized  and 
eaten  by  the  cunning  bird.  Darwin  tells 
of  a  bird  having  been  repeatedly  seen  to 
hop  on  a  poppy -stem,  and  shake  the  head 


with  his  bill  till  many  seeds  were  scat- 
tered, when  it  sprang  to  the  ground  and 
ate  up  the  seeds.-  Some  birds  are  gifted 
with  a  sense  of  observation  approaching 
to  something  very  like  reasoning  facul- 
ties, as  the  following  anecdote  proves.  At 
a  gentleman's  house  in  Staffordshire  the 
pheasants  are  fed  out  of  one  of  those 
boxes,  the  lid  of  which  rises  with  the  pres- 
sure of  the  pheasant  standing  on  the  rail 
in  front  of  the  box.  A  water-hen  observ- 
ing this,  went  and  stood  upon  the  rail  as 
soon  as  the  pheasant  had  quitted  it,  but 
the  weight  of  the  bird  being  insuflictent 
to  raise  the  lid  of  the  box  so  as  to  enable 
it  to  get  at  the  corn,  the  water-hen  kept 
jumping  on  the  rail  to  give  additional  im- 
petus to  its  weight;  this  partially  suc- 
ceeded, but  not  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
sagacious  bird,  which  therefore  went  off, 
and  soon  returning  with  a  bird  of  its  own 
species,  the  united  weight  of  the  two  had 
the  desired  effect,  and  the  successful  pair 
enjoyed  the  benefit  of  their  ingenuity. 
This  singular  instance  of  penetration  can 
be  vouched  for,  says  Mr.  Ruskin,  on  the 
authority  of  the  owner  of  the  place  where 
it  occurred,  who  witnessed  the  fact.  Piracy 
reaches  its  highest  development  among 
birds.  Gulls  congregate  in  numbers  wher- 
ever they  perceive  that  the  guillemots 
have  secured  a  shoal  of  fish.  Flying  over 
the  surface  of  the  water,  the  gull  waits 
patiently  till  a  guillemot  comes  to  the 
surface  with  a  fish,  when  he  snatches  it 
out  of  the  beak  of  its  unfortunate  owner. 
The  robber  tern  subsists  entirely  by  plun- 
dering other  terns,  and  no  sooner  does  the 
robber  tern  appear  among  the  others  than 
the  greatest  consternation  prevails  among 
the  flock,  who  fly  about  screaming  in  fran- 
tic alarm.  'Y\\t  friaaie  pelican  is  a  terri- 
ble pirate  and  commonly  attacks  the  booby ^ 
which  has  received  this  name  because  it 
allows  itself  to  be  easily  caught.  Not 
only  does  the  frigate  pelican  force  the 
booby  to  drop  the  fish  it  has  just  caught, 
but  actually  to  disgorge  those  which  are 
in  its  stomach,  which  is  accomplished  by 
stabbing  the  unhappy  booby  with  its  pow- 
erful beak  till  it  yields  up  its  last  meaU 
The  ant-eating  woodpeckers  of  California 
have  the  habit  of  storing  up  food  for  the 
inclement  season.  Small  round  holes  are 
dug  in  the  bark  of  the  pine  and  oak,  into 
each  of  which  an  acorn  is  inserted  so 
tightly  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  take  it 
out  again.  The  bark  of  these  trees  when 
filled  in  this  way  appear  at  a  little  dis- 
tance to  be  studded  with  nails. 


LITTELL'S  LIVING  AGE. 


Ftfkh  Series 
Volume  XLIY. 


'^^  }         No,  2052, -October  20,  1881 


{From  Begixmingi 
VoL  OLIX. 


CONTENT 
I.  An  Italian  Official  under  Napolkon,  . 
II.  Along  the  Silver  Streak.    Part  IX., 
II L  Notes  of  a  Wanderer  in  Skye, 

IV.  Poor  Little  Life, 

V.  Modern  Dress, 

VI.  Ex-Marshal  Bazainb's  Apology,       • 

VI  I.  The  British  Association 

VIII.  Professor  Cayley's  Address,    •       • 

IX.  Prison  Pets, 

X.  Westminster  Abbey, 


S. 

BlackwoQ^s  Magatine^ 
All  The  Year  Rounds 
Temple  Bar, 
Chamheri  youmal^ 
Fortnightly  Review^ 
Temple  Bar,         • 
Nature,        •        • 
Spectator,      .        • 
Chamber^  Jimmal, 
Chamber^  Joumai, 


131 
141 

146 

165 

»7i 
177 
188 

190 
192 


POXTRY. 


The  Child  and  Death, 


130 


•m* 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 
For  EicHT  Dollars  remitted  elireetlytotke  PtMitkers,  the  Liviko  Agb  will  be  pnnctually  forwarded 

lor  Kj^u^/ret  o/postaee. 

Remittances  snouldbe  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post>office  money-order,  if  possible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  moneyshould  be  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  postmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.    Uralts,  checks  and  moneyH>rders  should  be  made  payable  to  the  orasrcl 

iaTTBLL  &  Co. 

Single  N  umbers  of  TmLiviiioAaB,  iSoeota. 


130 


THE   CHILD   AND   DEATH. 


THE  CHILD  AND  DEATH. 

(TO  IIAIAI  KAI  O  KAP02.) 

FROM  JULIUS  TYPALDOS. 

A  CHILD — a  lovely  bud  of  Spring  — 

Sat  by  a  flowing  river's  side, 
And  in  its  midst  did  flowers  fling 

To  watch  them  o*er  its  waters  glide. 

The  lucid  stream  o'er  which  he  bent 

Flashed  back  his  gold  locks*  perf  um*d  pride ; 

Yet  still  the  waters  onward  went. 
And  tossed  the  rosy  flowers  aside. 

Child. 
••  O,  graceless  river  I  myrtle  banks 

And  blossoms  hast  thou,  yet  thou  flowest 
Onwards,  onwards,  void  of  thanks, 

Whilst  to  stranger  lands  thou  goest 


•( 


I,  upon  my  mother's  breast, 
Love  within  her  arms  to  lie ; 
But  thy  wave,  where  sought  to  rest 
My  flowers,  casts  them  coldly  by." 

From  out  amidst  the  limpid  stream 
Then  rose  an  old  man  hoary  white, 

His  silver  beard  did  whitely  gleam. 
His  glance  gave  shudd'k'rng  pale  affright. 

Charos. 
'*  Why,  child,  sitt'st  thou  all  lonely  here  ?  " 

Chiux 
"  It  is  my  mother  I  await" 

Charos. 
"  To  these  arms  come ;  for  thee,  my  dear, 
A  dwelling  I  prepared  but  late." 

CHiLa 
"  Thy  garment  and  thy  form  is  chill. 
Within  thine  arms  is  bitter  cold." 

Charos. 
•*  The  flowVs  thou'st  strown  upon  me  still 
Will  serve  to  keep  thee  from  the  cold. 

"  So  sweet  an  angel  never  yet 

Mine  eyes  have  looked  upon ;  then  come— - 
Fair  toys  and  precious  stones  are  met. 

Sweet  strange  songs  heard,  within  my  home." 

Child. 
**  My  mother  she  will  sadly  weep, 
Not  finding  when  she  seeks  for  me." 

Charos. 
**  Thy  mother  knows  my  dwelling  deep, 
And  in  my  arms  will  meet  with  thee. 

"  And  ever  at  the  early  dawn 
She'll  come,  and  at  the  close  of  eve." 

Chi  La 
••To-morrow  is  the  holy  mom, 
White     robes    she'll    bring 
wreathe." 

Charos. 
**  Within  the  church,  like  angel  bright, 
Thou'It  be  in  shining  raiment  clad." 


and    flowers 


»> 


Child, 
"  Old  man  I  whilst  in  her  arms  each  night 
My  mother  sings  to  make  me  glad." 

Charos. 
"Throughout  the  still  and  lonely  night 

I'll  lull  my  baby — sweetly  —  sweet  I 
She  in  her  arms  till  morning  light 

Will  joy  in  dreams  her  child  to  meet." 

Child. 
"  The  flower  I  loved  each  morn  to  tend, 
Uncared  will  droop  and  fade  away," 

Charos. 
**  A  thousand  blooms  shall  round  thee  blend. 
Which  stars  at  night  with  dews  shall  spray. 

CHiLa 
"  Thy  face  is  pale,  thy  glance  is  slow ; 
Where  I  look  on  thee,  shadows  fall" 

Charos. 
"Thy  rays  upon  my  form  will  glow. 
And  hide  my  features'  darksome  pall." 

Child. 
"  I  hear  my  mother's  sobbing  sighs ; " 

Charos. 
"The  air  is  whistling  through  the  boughs." 

CHiLa 
"  Whence  brings  the  wind  those  wailing  cries  ?  " 

Charos. 
"  Against  the  rock  the  wild  breeze  soughs." 

Child. 
"  My  mother !  sleep  hath  found  me  here ; 
Now  on  thy  bosom  will  I  rest." 

Charos. 
"  A  flower-woven  bed  is  near ; 
With  sweet  benzoin  the  earth  is  drest. 

"  Lie  down,  my  child ;  thy  mother  now 
Gives  thee  her  kiss  and  holdeth  thee. 

When  night  shall  come  with  darkened  brow, 
This  blossom  from  its  stalk  will  flee." 

Child. 

"The  stream  hath  quenched  the  sun's  rays 
bright ; 
Around  are  flashing  colors  fair." 

Charos. 
"  And  nearly  quenched  another  Ifght, 
As  falls  a  golden  head  thro'  air." 

Chorus  (<w  Ai^A). 
"O  Earth  !  O  Stars  I  sing  forth  — rejoice  I 
The  Saviour  —  he  is  born  to-day." 

A  Voice. 

"Your  song  divine  —  O  Angels  ! — stay. 
Another  little  angel  voice 
Cometh  but  now  to  swell  the  lay." 

Her  darling  now  the  joyless  mother  seeks, 

And  sees  with  trembling  fears 
A  broken  lily  'mon^  the  flowers  —  dead, 

And  kisses  it  with  tears. 

Academy.  £.  M.  EDMONDS. 


AN   ITALIAN    OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


»3l 


From  Blackwood's  Maffixine. 
AN  ITALIAN  OFFICIAL  UNDER  NAPOLEON. 

When  a  roan  has  reached  the  natural 
a«;e  of  repose,  and  has  got  all  that  he  is 
likely  to  attain  in  life,  it  is  an  amiable  and 
pleasant  impulse  that  induces  him  to  make 
a  record  of  what  has  happened  to  him,  — 
of  the  troubles  he  has  had,  and  the  pro- 
motions, and  all  the  ways  by  which  he  has 
walked  throu(j;h  the  far  withdrawing  vistas 
of  that  life  which  is  far  more  clear  and 
fair  to  him  now  it  is  over  than  it  ever  was 
when  present.  There  are  few  things  more 
curious  than  this  effect  of  time.  Days 
that  were  tedious  as  they  passed,  and  in 
which  we  felt  nothing  more  than  that 
confusion  of  unrealized  aims  which  char- 
acterizes in  most  minds  the  actual  mo- 
ment, however  important  it  may  be,  ac- 
quire  when  we  look  back  upon  the*m,  the 
appearance  of  a  full  and  easy  stream,  lead- 
ing us  to  what  we  know  now  to  have  been 
a  crisis  or  climax  of  life.  The  weari- 
nesses are  gone,  the  events  have  been 
detached  into  separate  meaning,  the  acci- 
dents that  perhaps  fretted  us  at  the  time 
have  become  amusing,  our  sorrows  give 
depth  and  force  to  the  picture  without  as- 
suming that  overwhelming  importance 
which  they  once  had  ;  and  as  we  read  our 
own  story  backward  to  its  beginning,  we 
find  it  the  most  interesting  of  stories  —  a 
mine  of  recollection  all  our  own,  in  which 
we  are  always  finding  out,  always  remem- 
bering, examples,  precedents,  experi* 
ences  equal  to  or  greater  than  the  most 
momentous  events  of  to-day.  Those  who 
do  not  go  the  length  of  writing,  but  who 
have  the  better  part  of  telling  to  their  de- 
scendants or  pupils  what  has  befallen 
them,  have  a  pleasure  and  interest  in  do- 
ing it,  which  perhaps,  though  mixed  with 
occasional  pain,  is  one  of  the  happiest 
privileges  of  age.  It  may  not  do  the  young 
people  much  good  who  have  all  to  learn 
for  themselves  the  lessons  of  life,  and 
never  can  realize  that  we  who  are  grey- 
headed could  ever  have  felt  the  passionate 
desire  for  happiness,  the  eager  wish  for 
triumph,  the  impatience  of  suffering  which 
is  in  their  hotter  pulses ;  but  it  interests 
them  to  hear  how  we  have  got  through 
our  inferior  struggles,  and  in  what  way  it 
has  been  possible  for  us  to  enjoy,  after 


our  antiquated  fashion,  a  youth  so  long 
over,  and  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  loss 
of  it.  It  is  one  of  the  subjects  that  link 
the  generations  each  to  each,  and  scarcely 
even  in  the  garrulity  and  much  repetition 
of  age  does  it  altogether  lose  its  meaning. 
When  the  speaker  has  been  mixed  up  in 
the  history  of  his  time,  and  is  able  to  put 
in  with  a  reality  which  no  other  touch  can 
give,  a  piece  of  background,  a  vignette  of 
illustration  to  the  grand  pictorial  events 
of  history,  the  gain  is  such  as  can  be  got 
in  no  other  way.  It  lightens  up  the  dim- 
mer larger  record  with  an  individual  par- 
ticularity, and  brings  before  us  what  no 
history  ever  can  fully  bring,  how  men  saw 
and  felt  and  breathed  in  the  shadow  of 
the  most  tremendous  incidents  without 
ever  being  overwhelmed  by  them,  or  feel- 
ing themselves  less  important  than  the 
events.  Indeed  our  human  independence 
of  all  events,  the  dauntless  individuality 
which  we  carry  through  revolutions  and 
every  public  catastrophe,  the  calm  with 
which  we  eat  and  sleep  through  the  most 
terrible  of  national  convulsions,  is  a  lesson 
as  striking  as  any  that  history  can  teach  us. 
It  is  perhaps  something  of  a  truism  with 
which  we  thus  preface  a  sketch,  extend- 
ing only  to  the  earlier  portion  of  a  busy 
and  important  life,  which  may  be  best  de- 
scribed under  the  above  title.  He  who  is 
at  once  the  hero  and  the  historian  of  this 
detached  chapter  of  human  experience 
concludes  his  own  story,  as  he  begins  it, 
somewhat  abruptly,  leaving  out  all  record 
of  the  works  by  which  he  is  known,  and 
those  heavings  of  secret  politics  in  which, 
along  with  so  many  more  of  the  best  men 
in  Italy,  he  was  afterwards  involved.  His 
narrative  was  perhaps  intended  to  be  con- 
tinued, had  time  and  occasion  served.  It 
was  at  least  his  intention  to  have  enlarged 
and  filled  out  the  outline  he  has  given  us ; 
but  as  it  stands  it  has  many  interesting 
details,  and  great  completeness  as  an  ac- 
count of  a  well-defined  period,  both  in 
general  history  and  in  his  particular  life. 

Cesare  Balbo  was  of  a  family  not  illus- 
trious, yet  not  without  local  importance 
and  credit,  of  Chieri  near  Turin.  He  does 
not  make  any  claim  to  greatness  for  his 
ancestors,  yet  with  a  natural  fondness 
records  at  least  two  belle  glorie  nostri-^ 


132 


AN   ITALIAN  OPTICIAL  UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


glorious  examples  for  a  family  to  foDov^ 
—  by  which  his  race  had  been  distin- 
guished, though  the  first  of  them,  he  al- 
lows, is  oDly  traditional.  "  It  is  said  that 
the  Balbi,  driven  out  of  their  city,  which 
was  destroyed  by  Barbarossa,  fought  as 
exiles  with  their  brethren  of  Lombardyfor 
the  independence  of  Italy,  and  that,  like 
the  Fabii,  fifty  of  them  fell  on  the  field  of 
bat;le  and  victory  at  Legnano/'  The  sec- 
ond is  more  certain,  which  is,  that  from  a 
branch  of  the  family  settled  at  Avignon, 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  where  they  took 
the  name  of  Crillon,  sprang  **  he  who 
was  called  the  '  Brave  Crillon,'  the  friend 
of  Henry  IV.  of  France,  the  successor  in 
chivalry  of  Bayard."  The  original  race 
remained  in  Chieri,  noble  only  in  its  faith- 
ful devotion  to  the  municipality  first,  and 
afterwards  to  the  house  of  Savoy,  to  which 
it  gave  many  honest  if  humble  servants. 
But  in  the  person  of  Prospero  Balbo,  the 
father  of  Cesare,  the  family  came  to  ad- 
vancement. He  was  drawn  by  the  con- 
nections of  his  mother  into  Turin  and  Che 
court  circle,  and  rose  in  official  life  from 
one  step  to  another,  until  finally  he  be- 
came ambassador  to  the  French  republic, 
a  post  which  he  held  till  the  fall  of  the 
Piedmontese  monarchy  in  1798.  His  son 
Cesare,  born  in  the  year  of  Revolution, 
17S9,  had  spent  part  of  his  infancy  in 
Paris  amid  the  tumults  of  that  terrible  pe- 
riod, of  which,  however,  he  was  too  young 
to  have  anything  to  say;  and  afterwards 
followed  his  father's  wanderings  through 
the  period  of  early  youth,  receiving  an  in- 
terrupted education,  sometimes  from  his 
father  himself,  sometimes  from  other 
hands  :  pausing  to  record  in  Florence  the 
delightful  recollections  of  the  sunny  Lung' 
Arno,  the  flowery  greenness  of  the  Cas- 
cine  and  the  Boboli,  and  the  famous  fig- 
ure of  Vittorio  Alfieri,  who  was  one  of  his 
father's  visitors  :  and  in  Turin,  when  the 
wandering  family  returned  there,  the 
pleasant  company  of  schoolfellows,  among 
whom  were  many  whose  friendship  con- 
tinued his  all  their  lives,  and  who  made 
up  among  themselves,  mingling  their 
mathematics  with  many  a  song  and  son- 
net, *"  a  literary  society,  a  boyish  academy, 
which  embraced  every  branch  of  human 
knowledge."    This  course   of  education 


continued  until  the  year  1806,  when  Na 
poleon  visited  Turin. 

I,  a  student  of  seventeen,  was  wandering 
among  the  crowd  along  the  Via  di  Po,  when  a 
friend  came  up  to  me  and  congratulated  me. 
When  I  asked  on  what,  he  informed  me  that  I 
was  appointed  auditor  of  the  Council  of  State. 
I  scarcely  knew  what  this  meant ;  but  when  I 
returned  home  and  had  the  news  confirmed,  I 
found  that  these  auditors  were  of  the  number 
of  twelve  or  a  little  more — young  men  attached 
to  the  Council  of  Napoleon,  among  whom  were 
Mol^,  Barante,  and  other  such ;  and  that  from 
this,  after  a  few  years,  they  passed  on  to  higher 
posts.  I  also  learned  that  my  father,  called 
the  day  previously  to  an  audience  of  Napoleon 
and  questioned  concerning  his  family,  had  an* 
swered  that  he  had  two  sons  still  very  young, 
who  had  been  educated  at  home,  and  were  of 
delicate  health  —  hoping  thus  to  save  us  from 
those  military  schools  to  which  many  youths 
were  sent  by  force;  and  that  the  Emperor, 
without  delay,  a  few  hours  after  had  nominated 
me  auditor,  along  with  San-Tommaso,  a  youth 
much  older  than  m>'8elf,  appointing  Dal  Pozzo 
at  the  same  time  to  be  referendary,  and  San- 
Marzano  (formerly  Minister  of  War  with  us) 
councillor  of  the  same  Council  of  State,  I 
was  delighted  by  my  nomination,  and  by  the 
mode  of  it,  and  the  persons  with  whom  I  was 
associated ;  and  an  ambition  which  I  never  had 
known  before,  or  could  have  known,  since  I 
thought  myself  destined  either  to  no  post  at 
all,  or  a  very  humble  one,  awakened  within 
me.  My  father,  however,  fearing  the  moral 
dangers  of  the  position  and  my  extreme  youth, 
begged,  I  confess  sadly  against  my  will,  that  I 
might  be  allowed  to  remain  with  him  to  go 
through  my  legal  studies.  This  compelled  me 
to  postpone  the  prosecution  of  my  dreams; 
and  I  returned  with  more  or  less  good- will  to 
those  studies  which  I  had  hoped  were  ended. 
But  I  was  soon  liberated  from  them ;  for  in  the 
end  of  May,  1808,  General  Menou,  at  the  head 
of  the  27th  division  of  the  army  (that  of  Pied- 
mont), appeared  one  day  at  my  father's  house, 
and  I  was  informed,  being  called  into  their 
presence,  that  General  Menou  was  appointed 
Governor-General  of  Tuscany,  which  had  been 
recently  added  to  the  Empire,  and  president 
of  a  governing  council,  of  which  Dauchy, 
Councillor  of  State,  Chaban,  De  (jerando,  and 
Janet  were  members,  and  I  general  secretary. 
Thence  arose  new  trouble  and  cares  to  my 
father,  with  much  good  advice  from  him,  and 
new  joy  and  ambition  on  my  side. 

Thus  the  young  Piedmontese  began  his 
career.     His   native   princes  bad  beea 


AN   ITALIAN   OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


133 


swept  away,  and  his  country  overrun  by 
the  conquering  invader;  but  so  resistless 
was  the  course  of  Napoleon,  that  no  idea 
of  national  degradation  seems  to  have 
clouded  the  young  man's  pleasure.  Nor 
was  he  troubled  by  any  doubts  touching 
the  character  of  his  new  occupation. 

Arrived  at  Florence,  I  found  everything 
smile  upon  me,  earth  and  sky.  The  thought 
that  I  was  aiding  in  a  new  usurpation  of  the 
great  conqueror  of  my  country  never  crossed 
my  mind.  I  never  thought  of  it,  nor  did  any 
one  round  me.  AH  Europe  was  in  the  same 
most  powerful  hands ;  and  the  wisest  either 
hoped  for  some  good  from  the  changes  thus 
made,  or  postponed  their  hopes  until  a  later 
period.  For  myself,  my  love  of  Italy  was 
rather  imaginative  than  reasonable ;  and  I 
hoped,  all  the  more  that  I  seemed  in  the  way 
of  speedily  acquiring  power,  to  be  able  to  serve 
her  better  in  this  than  in  any  other  way.  My 
patriotism  thus  confounded  itself  with  my  am- 
bition, and  both  grew  together.  I  began  the 
duties  of  my  office  with  much  zeal,  but  a  com- 
plete want  of  experience  —  a  fact  which  Menou 
and  my  other  superiors  soon  perceived;  and 
with  the  kindest  intentions  appointed  as  head 
of  my  clerks  (of  whom  there  were  about  fifteen 
more  or  less)  a  young  man  older  and  more  in- 
structed than  myself,  whom  De  Gerando  had 
brought  with  him  —  an  excellent  fellow,  who 
made  up  for  all  my  deficiencies.  This  I 
allowed  him  to  do  for  eight  or  ten  days ;  but 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  seeing  how  everything 
was  done,  I  retained  the  papers  on  my  own 
desk,  and  informed  him  that  I  would  now  do 
everything  myself.  He  smiled,  but  approved, 
•  •  •  and  1  went  on  with  my  work  well  or  ill, 
but  always  ardently,  precipitately,  as  was  the 
fashion  of  the  time,  and  as  everybody  did 
around  me,  both  superiors  and  inferiors.  They 
destroyed  the  government  of  Leopold,  which 
had  been  more  or  less  restored  by  King  Louis 
of  Etruria  —  undid  everything,  rearranged 
everything,  and,  in  the  language  of  the  time, 
organized  the' imperial  government ;  thus  mak- 
ing Florence,  the  mother  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion, into  the  image  of  a  little  French  frontier 
town.  All  this,  however,  was  done  with  so 
much  consideration  and  such  good  grace,  that 
Tuscany  bore  us  no  grudge,  and  even  Botta  in 
his  History  has  nothing  to  say  against  it.  For 
my  part  I  worked  most  days  from  eight  in  the 
morning  till  five,  or  even  till  seven  or  eight  in 
the  evening,  at  the  Pitti,  with  such  industry 
and  zeal  that  I  was  not,  I  think,  more  than 
two  or  three  times  in  those  Boboli  gardens 
where  I  played  for  so  many  hours  in  my  child- 


hood, and  which  now  I  saw  from  my  windows 
as  I  worked. 

This  enthusiasm  of  labor  carried  on  the 
work  so  fast,  that  as  Balbo  repeats  with 
natural  irony,  it'  took  seven  months  only 
to  make  of  Florence,  "the  mother  city  of 
modern  culture,  a  provincial  town  of  the 
French  frontier,  chief  town  of  the  depart- 
ment of  the  Arno."  For  his  own  part, 
the  youth  obeyed  his  father's  sage  advice, 
and  consorted  only  with  his  father's 
friends,  and  the  young  men  he  met  in 
their  houses  —  young  Gino  Capponi,  the 
beloved  of  all  men,  and  a  certain  graceful 
young  Due  di  Kocca  Romana,  who  was 
an  exile  from  Naples,  but  a  gay  one,  and 
taught  young  Cesare  to  ride,  and  gave 
him  many  pleasant  hours.  Upon  the 
memory  of  this  fresh  and  artless  period 
of  his  life  he  lingers  with  evident  pleas- 
ure, recalling  **  the  frank  and  elegant  man- 
ners "  of  the  young  Neapolitan,  and  '*  the 
hours  of  pleasure  and  repose  so  precious 
at  that  age,  when  I  rode  about  the  coun- 
try chiefly  with  Rocca  Romana,  a  great 
master  of  horsemanship,  who  led  me  on 
with  the  friendship  of  a  man  in  the  last 
years  of  his  youth,  taking  pleasure  in  the 
docility  of  one  who  was  but  entering  upon 
its  delights." 

It  was  at  this  careless  and  happy  mo- 
ment, however,  that  the  first  gleam  of 
higher  enlightenment  penetrated  into 
young  Balbo*s  mind.  He  was  standing 
one  fine  day  of  May,  1809,  in  his  stable, 
examining  with  great  pride,  along  with 
this  graceful  cavalier,  the  first  horse  Ce- 
sare had  ever  owned,  when  a  despatch 
was  suddenly  put  into  his  hand,  appoint- 
ing him  secretary  of  a  new  commission, 
this  time  for  organizing  Rome.  The 
scene  is  put  before  us  with  vivid  simplic- 
ity and  truth.  In  order  to  be  completely 
d  la  mode  in  these  days,  it  was  necessary 
to  dock  the  tail  of  the  newly  purchased 
horse  alP  In/ilese;  and  Rocca  Romana, 
the  experienced  and  knowing,  was  superin- 
tending the  operation,  while  young  Balbo 
stood  by  in  a  state  of  ecstatic  spectator- 
ship,  delighted  to  have  a  horse  in  the 
fashion.  At  the  moment  when  the  poor 
animal,  liberated,  sprang  away  from  the 
operator,  and  Rocca  Romana,  laughing, 
turned  to  the  youth  by  his  side,  Cesare 


134 


AN   ITALIAN   OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


had  opened  his  despatch,  and,  as  if  by  a 
roar  of  sudden  thunder,  **  a  sense  of  the 
brutal  usurpation  of  which  I  was  the  ser- 
vant *'  awakened  in  his  mind. 

I  have  said  that,  as  far  as  regarded  Tuscany, 
I  had  thought  little  or  nothing  of  it ;  that  con- 
quest  was  made  from  one  who  might  himself 
appear  as  a  usurper  —  from  one  to  whom  I 
^  owed  nothing,  and  who  was  of  no  importance 
'*"  *  to  me :  but  he  who  was  here  robbed  was  the 
Pope,  of  ancient  rule  (though  that  moved  me 
little)  —  the  Pope,  the  head  of  my  religion,  to 
love  and  reverence  whom  I  had  been  brought 
up.  It  was  Pius  VII.,  to  whom  I  had  been 
presented,  whose  feet  I  had  kissed  when  he 
was  at  Turin  a  few  years  before  —  whom  I  had 
seen  received  with  acclamations,  revered  by  all 
the  population  of  my  city,  to  the  neglect  of  the 
Emperor  —  who  accompanied  him.  It  was,  in 
fact,  a  usurpation,  an  injustice,  an  evident 
wickedness,  for  me  and  all  who  took  part  in  it. 
1  was  altogether  cast  down,  miserable,  and  in 
despair,  but  knew  not  how  to  resist,  or  refuse 
to  go.  This  is  the  sole  point  in  my  public  life 
which  I  regret,  although  at  nineteen  it  was 
little  wonderful  that  I  should  find  myself  too 
weak  to  stand  against  the  will  of  Napoleon. 

The  shock  thus  given  Him  had  no  doubt 
a  certain  efifect  on  his  mind,  but  it  was  as 
yet  no  real  patriotism  or  consciousness  of 
the  real  character  of  Napoleon's  power 
that  moved  him,  but  only  the  horror  natu- 
ral to  a  young  Catholic,  devoutly  brought 
up,  at  this  profane  touching  ot  the  ark, 
and  struggle  with  the  awful  powers  of 
religion.  The  youth  went  very  reluctantly 
to  his  post,  and  tried  hard,  on  his  arrival 
at  Rome,  to  escape  the  necessity  of  sign- 
ing the  proclamation  which  was  immedi- 
ately issued.  When  compelled  to  do  so, 
however,  he  comforted  himself  with  the 
thought  that  he  did  it  only  as  attesting 
the  other  signatures,  not  as  adding  his 
affirmation  to  the  work  of  spoiling  the 
Church,  —  a  consolation  to  his  own  awak- 
ened conscience  which,  however,  was  not 
available  to  exempt  Balbo  from  the  gen- 
eral excommunication.  While  he  was  in 
this  uneasy  and  sorrowful  condition,  his 
father  paid  him  a  visit  in  Rome,  and  suc- 
ceeded, to  Cesare's  great  relief,  in  recon- 
ciling him  with  the  Church.  This  posi- 
tion of  hostility  to  all  he  most  respected 
disturbed  the  ^'oung  man  greatly,  and  it  is 
evident  that  his  scruples  did  not  find  fa- 
vor in  the  eyes  of  his  superiors,  one  of 
whom,  as  he  relates,  taunted  him  with 
church-^oing,  to  which  he  retorted  with 
youthful  heat  that  he  should  henceforward 
attend  the  Church  of  the  Santi  Apostoli, 
which  was  opposite  the  windows  of  the 
angry  chief,  so  that  his  proceedings  might 
be  under  constant  surveillance.     From 


this  altercation  there  arose  tra  rectbroca. 
Thus  disgusted  with  his  work  ana  with 
his  leaders,  young  Ualbo  found  nothing  so 
admirable  in  Rome  as  the  courage  of  the 
priests  and  of  the  cardinals,  who  stepped 
in  one  by  one  to  replace  the  pope  after  he 
had  been  removed,  and  were  one  by  one 
dismissed  after  him  into  banishment.  **  I 
began  to  suspect,"  he  says,  "that  these 
despised  priests  were  the  strongest,  in- 
deed the  only  strong  men  in  Italy."  He 
left  in  the  beginning  of  iSii  the  holy  city 
which  he  had  so  unwillingly  helped  to 
despoil  and  shape  into  a  mere  French 
town  —  a  profanity  which  might  well  take 
away  the  breath  of  a  less  excellent  Catho- 
lic than  young  Balbo — divided  between 
the  pleasure  of  escaping  from  his  un- 
grateful office,  and  the  re<;ret  of  leaving 
la  bella  e  dolce  Roma^  which  during  his 
whole  life  he  never  visited  more. 

From  Rome  the  young  secretary  was 
sent  to  Paris,  to  plunge  there,  with  all  the 
ardor  of  youthtul  interest,  into  a  new 
world.  He  says  little,  however,  of  the 
great  city,  so  full  of  triumph  and  commo- 
tion, with  all  the  excitement  in  her  of  a 
new  Rome,  mistress  of  a  subjugated 
world,  where,  however,  he  found  some 
dear  and  lasting  friends,  and  snatched  no 
small  enjoyment  in  the  intervals  of  his 
occupations.  What  seemed  to  have  chiefly 
impressed  him  —  and  nothing  could  be 
more  original  and  interesting  than  this 
view  of  the  subject  —  was  the  keen  and 
quickened  life  of  everything  about  him, 
all  centring  in  the  great  captain,  the  won- 
derful emperor,  the  mainspring  of  everv 
activity.  He  found  himself,  on  his  arrival, 
in  the  midst  of  a  number  of  young  offi- 
cials like  himself,  but  of  less  standing 
than  himself,  whom  "we  old  ones  (I  was 
an  elder  of  twenty  one)  despised,"  because 
they  had  not,  like  Balbo  and  his  contem- 
poraries, the  privilege  of  being  present  at 
the  imperial  sittings,  where  Napoleon,  with 
as  yet  no  sign  of  failure  in  his  triumphant 
career,  dazzled  all  who  approached  him, 
even  the  young  Italian,  who  had  begun  to 
feel  himself  an  accomplice  in  the  humilia- 
tion of  his  country.  "These  sittings,"  he 
says,  "were  very  interesting,  from  the 
lucidity,  I  may  say  the  splendor,  of  that 
great  mind  of  Napoleon,  and  from  his 
spontaneous  and  familiar  eloquence,  and 
a  certain  candor  which  was  one  of  his 
special  gifts  —  the  candor  of  imperious- 
ness  and  absolutism, — as  when  1  have 
heard  him  characterize  as  idealistic  (which, 
in  his  opinion.  Was  the  same  thing  as  fic- 
titious, an  imaginary  difficulty)  the  objec- 
tions that  were  made  round  him  to  the 


AN  ITALIAN  OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


I3S 


forced  levies  of  so  many  meD  and  so  much 
money."  And  one  of  the  most  remarka- 
ble things  in  the  record  is  the  contagious 
energy  with  which  every  official,  from  the 
smallest  to  the  s:reatest,  seems  to  have 
been  moved.  They  '*  travelled  precipi- 
tately, as  was  the  fashion  in  those  days, 
scarcely  sleeping  in  their  post-chaises, 
that  they  might  hurry  on  the  post-boys." 
They  took  what  work  was  given  them  to 
do,  without  looking  too  closely  whether  it 
was  above  or  below  their  pretensions: 
•«  Nobody  thought  of  that  in  those  days, 
but  went  up  and  down  by  the  impulse  of 
the  great  mover  of  that  wild  laborious- 
ness.  The  servants  of  Napoleon  rushed 
headlong  about  their  business,  sent  here 
and  there  to  the  limits  of  Europe,  con- 
stantly pricked  to  the  point  of  possibility, 
but  tarrying  never. 

Balbo's  first  mission  after  this  was  into 
Germany  to  **  liquidate  "  in  lllyria.  Nei- 
ther he  himself,  nor  Las  Casas  his  supe- 
rior, nor  the  other  young  official  less  ex- 
perienced than  himself  who  accompanied 
them,  knew  a  word  of  German,  as  they 
discovered  after  mutual  consultation;  and 
all  the  papers  were  in  that  language.  But 
what  matter?  The  business  was  managed 
somehow  by  the  help  of  a  brother  of  Las 
Casas  who  had  lived  in  Germany  **at  the 
time  of  the  emigration,"  and  consequently 
understood  more  or  less  the  accounts  that 
were  set  before  him.  The  young  secre- 
taries with  some  doubt  affixed  their  names 
to  a  curious  summary  of  expenses  made 
according  to  a  scientific  whim  of  their 
chief,  who  reminded  Balbo,  with  a  laugh, 
when  he  hesitated,  that  it  was  quite  im- 
possible for  them  to  verify  any  one  of  the 
amounts  claimed.  *'Such  things  were 
done  in  these  days,"  he  says,  '*and  so 
long  as  they  were  done,  the  how  mattered 
little ;  and  it  would  need  a  wise  judge  to 
decide  if  this  precipitate  doing  was  worse 
than  the  slow  doing,  or  not  doing  at  all, 
which  succeeded  in  many  places  to  this 
feverish  rapidity."  Thus  the  young  offi- 
cials of  the  Empire  went  storming  upon 
their  way,  sometimes  with  a  hesitation, 
but  generally  with  that  happy  confidence 
and  pleasure  in  the  sense  of  their  own 
headlong  going,  and  of  the  sweep  of  great 
affairs  which  carried  them  from  one  end 
of  Europe  to  the  other,  which  was  con- 
genial to  their  youth. 

There  arrived,  however,  a  moment  in 
this  hot  career  when  flesh  and  blood  could 
not  support  the  yoke  that  was  attempted 
to  be  forced  upon  it.  It  was  not  any 
sense  of  executing  the  mandates  of  a 
tyrant,  or  making  themselves  instruments 


of  despotism,  or  even  a  reluctance  to  rivet 
the  bonds  of  their  own  special  country, 
which  moved  to  unanimous  disgust  and 
resistance  this  body  of  young  men.  When 
Balbo  returned  to  Paris  after  **  liquidat- 
ing '*  in  Germany  the  accounts  which  he 
did  not  understand,  he  discovered,  to  his 
high  indignation,  by  the  almanac,  that  he 
was  to  be  attached  to  a  new  branch  of 
service,  —  what  he  calls  the  altapulizia  — 
that  is  to  say,  the  office  of  Cleanliness,  the 
Sanitary  Science,  such  as  it  was,  of  the 
time.  He  had  borne,  though  unwillingly, 
a  hand  in  the  spoliation  of  the  Church ; 
he  had  set  his  seal,  also  unwillingly,  to  the 
German  accounts ;  but  here  he  drew  the 
line.  To  send  forth  a  number  of  young 
gentlemen  —  French,  Italian,  Spanish,— 
elegant  young  officials  of  the  noble  Latin 
races,  to  clean  up  Europe,  was  beyond  all 
bearing,  and  broke  even  the  spell  of 
Napoleon's  energetic  impulse.  Perhaps 
there  was  something  in  the  fact  that  the 
emperor  was  absent  making  his  fated  way 
to  Russia,  and  that  there  was  in  the  air  a 
premonition  of  the  rapid  change  of  affairs 
which  was  so  soon  to  come.  And  /*  alta 
pulizia  was  not  in  those  days  the  sacred 
science  it  has  since  become ;  though  even 
now,  perhaps,  the  curled  darlings  of  diplo- 
macy, the  private  secretaries,  the  graceful 
clerks  of  the  circumlocution  offices,  might 
make  as  violent  a  stand  against  unsavory 
appointments  as  inspectors  of  nuisances. 
The  account  of  the  manner  in  which  Sa- 
vary,  the  head  of  the  new  department, 
encleavored  to  commend  their  mission  to 
the  rebels,  all  indignant  and  determined 
to  resist,  comes  in  with  curious  humor  to 
the  grave  story  of  those  troubled  and  ex- 
citing times. 

One  fine  day  Savary  sent  to  eight  or  ten  of 
us,  among  whom  was  the  Due  de  Broglie,  and 
in  a  long  and  carefully  prepared  discourse, 
gave  us  notice  that  his  Majesty  had  p)aced  at 
his  disposal  several  excellent  posts,  most  con- 
fidential and  important,  which  were  those  of 
inspectors  of  cleanliness  in  several  of  the  new 
departments.  Those  who  felt  disposed  to  ac- 
cept them  were  now  to  speak.  No  one  said  a 
word.  Savary  then  resumed  his  sp>eech  be- 
tween gentleness  and  severity,  tra  dolce e  brusco^ 
sounding  the  praises  of  these  new  appoint- 
ments and  of  the  Sanitary  Science,  which  in 
fact  was,  he  said,  the  highest  politics,  and  not 
mere  administratien  like  those  prefectures 
which  were  so  much  desired,  he  could  not  tell 
why,  by  many  of  us;  and  that,  in  short,  there 
were  but  two  fine  and  lofty  careers  —  the  mili- 
tary profession,  and  that  of  Public  Cleanli- 
ness :  and  concluded  by  saying  that  if  we  did 
not  go  for  love,  we  must  go  by  force  ;  that  if 
no  one  offered,  the  Emperor  himself  would 


13* 


AN   ITALIAN  OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


nominate  those  whom  he  pleased,  and  compel 
obedience.  No  one  offered,  and  he  began  to 
interrogate  us  individually.  One  replied  that 
his  wife  was  ill ;  to  whom' he  answered  angrily, 
"  You  are  not  her  doctor."  To  another  illus- 
trious person  he  said  that  with  such  a  name  he 
ought  either  to  be  a  soldier  or  in  the  Sanitary 
Service.  To  me  —  who  had  said  imprudently 
that  the  boast  of  political  importance  whicn 
he,  the  minister,  made  of  his  department,  could 
not  in  any  way  apply  to  inferior  posts  —  he 
made  no  reply ;  but  I  perceived  that  from  that 
moment  he  ^xed  upon  me  a  special  regard. 
We  then  all  came  out  from  our  audience,  we 
rebellious,  he  threatening.  I,  who  had  never 
asked  for  patronage  to  obtain  any  post  —  has- 
tened now  to  ask  the  protection  of  the  Princess 
Paolina,  the  beautiful  governor  of  our  Pied- 
monte,  to  enable  me  to  refuse  this,  and  to  pro- 
cure me  the  commission  (given  every  week  to 
one  of  us)  to  carry  despatches  to  the  Emperor 
in  Russia.  My  suit  was  successful,  and  shortly 
after  I  received  this  appointm.ent  —  but  unfor- 
tunately, I  fell  ill,  and  was  obliged  to  give  it 
vp  ;  and  a  few  days  after,  Savary,  who  had  not 
forgotten  me,  sent  me  the  imperial  commission 
as  inspector  at  Petten,  in  Holland.  When  I 
received  his  despatch,  I  threw  myself  on  my 
knees  before  God,  and  rose  with  the  resolution 
that  nothing  should  induce  me  to  go  at  any 
cost.  After  this  I  went  to  the.Countess  Pasto- 
ret,  and  showed  her  the  letter,  adding,  coldly 
(as  appeared  to  me),  that  since  Napoleon  had 
so  outraged  roe,  I  should  go  and  kill  him. 
The  best  and  most  witty  of  women  gave  way 
to  a  burst  of  laughter  which  froze  me ;  then 
added  that  there  were  less  extreme  measures 
to  be  taken,  and  that  she  would  show  me  one 

—  to  go  with  her  to  Dr.  Halle,  the  most  famous 
doctor  in  Paris,  whom  she  knew  very  well,  to 
whom  she  would  describe  my  case,  and  who 
would  order  me  rest,  a  return  to  my  native  air, 
and  to  take  mineral  baths  there. 

In  this  easy  manner  the  great  difficulty 
was  happily  surmounted ;  and,  furnished 
with  a  medical  certificate,  young  Balbo 
escaped  to  his  home,  where  he  remained 
for  a  year,  sending  every  three  months 
other  medical  certificates,  and  thus  keep- 
ing cleaf  of  the  hated  work.  Strange  rev- 
olution of  the  times !  which  has  brought 
this  once  almost  disgraceful  and  detested 
mission  into  the  first  of  human  businesses 

—  if  not  the  highest  politics,  as  the  con- 
ciliatory minister  said,  yet  of  the  last  im- 
portance in  the  government  of  the  civilized 
world. 

Balbo  had  now  arrived  at  an  age  when 
reason  has  begun  to  mature,  and  his  resi- 
dence at  home  at  this  time  taught  him 
many  hitherto  unconsidered  truths.  He 
began  to  understand  the  meaning  of  what 
he  saw  around  him,  and  to  perceive  many 
aspects  of  the  great  government,  to  the 
service  of  which  he  was  bound,  which  had 


but  faintly,  and  under  special  circum* 
stances,  been  apparent  to  him  before* 
For  one  thing  he  had  under  his  very  eyes 
on  his  return  to  Turin  an  evidence  of  the 
arbitrary  and  tyrannical  way  in  which  the 
emperor  disposed  of  the  lives  of  those  w*ho 
were  in  his  power.  When  Cesare  Balbo 
was  arbitrarily  appointed  to  his  office  of 
secretary,  his  brother  Ferdinand  —  a  boy 
of  sixteen  —  had  been  grasped  by  the 
same  summary  hand  ana  deposfted  in  a 
far  different  sphere  —  in  the  army,  as  a 
private  soldier.  To  see  his  brother  in  a 
position  so  different  from  his  own,  went 
to  young  Balbo's  heart ;  and  with  tears  in 
his  voice,  he  pauses  to  describe  this  young 
victim  of  arbitrary  rule. 

He  was  one  of  those  rare  beings,  not  to  be 
found  in  any  other  country,  and  rare  even  in 
Italy,  bom  with  the  nature  of  an  artist,  beauti- 
ful as  a  young  Apollo,  with  a  soul,  a  genius 
full  of  capacity,  given  to  every  art  and  fine  cul- 
ture—  one  of  those  whom  poetry  describes  as 
endowed  by  fate,  or  better,  by  nature,  or  better 
still,  by  a  benevolent  Providence.  For  mathe- 
matics, which  he  had  begun  to  learn  with  me, 
he  had  no  taste,  asking  candidly  what  was  the 
use  of  them  ?  But  poetry,  music,  the  arts  o£ 
design,  came  to  him  by  nature.  ...  In  short, 
he  was  born  a  writer,  a  painter,  a  musician  i 
and  he  was  made  a  soldier. 

This  beautiful  and  gifted  youth,  so 
strangely  tossed  into  the  midst  of  barrack 
life,  and  all  the  roughnesses  of  campaign- 
ing, had  gone  to  the  war  in  Russia  as 
sous-lieutenant  of  a  regiment  of  cavalry. 
In  the  retreat  from  Moscow  he  died,  un- 
able, a  tenderly  bred  and  delicate  youth, 
to  bear  the  hardships  of  that  terrible  jour- 
ney. The  anxious  household  in  Turin 
followed  all  the  bulletins  of  the  retreat 
with  an  anguish  which  may  be  easily  im- 
agined ;  and  its  dreadful  details  reawoke 
in  their  minds  the  burning  sense  of  wrong 
with  which  they  had  contemplated  from 
the  beginning  the  hard  life  allotted  to 
their  youngest  and  most  beloved.  **  Our 
country  would  have  had  in  him  another 
Massimo  d'Azeglio,"  his  brother  cries, 
still  feeling  in  the  calm  of  age  the  intol- 
erable pang  of  this  misappropriated  life. 
D'Azeglio  was  their  cousin,  and  the  con- 
temporary of  the  murdered  boy.  No 
wonder  that  his  death  awoke  a  storm  of 
indignant  feeling  far  more  strong  and  in- 
fluential than  that  personal  despite  and 
irritation  which  had  already  roused  Ce- 
sare against  Napoleon.  Under  the  vio- 
lent stimulus  of  personal  wrong  and  grief 
so  bitter,  his  mind  was  sharply  roused  to 
serious  thoughts.  "The  serenity,  the 
light-beartedness  of  life  "  ended  with  the 


AN   ITALIAN   OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


^37 


loss  of  yoanc;  Ferdinand,  and  the  deeper 
currents  of  thought  which  were  awaken- 
ing in  Italy  speedily  communicated  them- 
selves to  the  son  of  the  Piedmontese 
statesman,  making  his  temporary  resi- 
dence at  home  a  period  of  rapid  develop- 
ment the  most  important  in  his  life.  He 
was  still  very  young,  and,  hurried  to  and 
fro  by  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  had  found 
little  time  for  thought.  In  the  case  of  the 
Church,  it  was  his  conscience  and  religious 
feeling  that  moved  him  —  not  any  serious 
sense  of  the  destruction  of  national  free- 
dom; but  now,  with  time  and  leisure  to 
contemplate  the  current  of  affairs,  he  be- 
gan to  perceive  how  the  minds  of  the  best 
men  in  Italy  were  being  moved,  and  what 
a  force  of  silent  indignation  and  judgment 
was  rising  against  the  supreme  power 
which  had  overmastered  all  visible  resis- 
tance. The  new  Italianism,  quelle  idee 
npstre  finliane^  came  upon  him  like  a  rev- 
elation. This  rising  tide  of  feeling  was 
as  yet  timid,  scarcely  formed,  and  without 
any  hope  of  immediate  action.  The  Ital- 
ians, with  their  many  divisions  among 
themselves,  were  utterly  powerless  to  re- 
sist Napoleon  ;  but  his  easy  victory  over 
their  petty  tyrants  had  taught  them  what 
would  be  the  advantage  of  unity,  and  that 
to  reconstitute  Italy  as  a  nation  was  their 
best  hope.  The  state  of  feeling  at  which 
they  had  arrived  was,  therefore,  this, — 
that,  **  remaining  faithful  to  the  emperor 
as  lonz  as  he  lived  (for  no  one  then  fore- 
saw that  he  would  cease  to  reign  before 
ceasing  to  live),  they  had  formed  the  reso- 
lution to  free  Italy  and  call  her  to  inde- 
pendence after  the  death  of  Napoleon." 
Such  ideas  had  seemed  nothing  but 
dreams  to  the  young  official,  carried  along 
by  the  great  impulses*  of  Napoleon's  ser- 
vice; but  he  saw  now  that  there  was 
meaning  and  method  in  them.  He  had 
already,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  distress 
about  the  affairs  of  Rome,  refused  to  be 
connected  with  a  secret  society;  but  of 
these  objectionable  phenomena  of  a  state 
of  national  suppression  there  seems  to 
have  been  no  question  among  the  serious 
Piedmontese,  already  beginning  to  form 
among  themselves  the  plan  of  an  Italian 
kingdom  which  it  has  cost  so  many  years 
ana  so  many  struggles  to  carry  out. 

^With  these  sentiments,"  Balbo  con- 
tinues, "  I  returned  to  Paris,  with  an  eager 
desire  to  find  myself  in  the  midst  of  the 
l^eat  events  which  were  preparing.'*  And 
finding  to  his  great  relief,  on  reference  to 
the  official  lists,  that  he  was  no  longer  at- 
tached to  the  service  of  public  cleanli- 
ness, he  applied,  as  soon  as  be  had  reached 


the  centre  of  affairs,  for  that  privilege  of 
carrying  despatches  to  the  emperor  which 
his  illness  had  prevented  him  from  exer- 
cising the  year  before  —  domandai  di  por- 
tare  ii  portafoglio  in  Ger mania.  This 
commission  was  granted  to  him,  and  he 
set  out  accordingly.  It  was  on  the  eve  of 
that  opening  of  disaster  —  the  battle  of 
Leipsic  —  that  he  left  Paris. 

Scarcely  had  I  crossed  the  Rhine  when  there 
began  to  appear  signs  of  what  had  happened. 
Upon  the  road  which  I  was  pursuing  I  en- 
countered scattered  soldiers,  — some  wounded, 
some  staggering  along  in  weakness,  many  lying 
about  in  the  ditches.  Little  acquainted  as  I 
was  with  military  affairs,  I  took  little  notice  of 
them,  and  understood  still  less.  But  my  ser- 
vant— an  old  soldier  —  who  was  on  the  box  of 
the  carriage,  turned  round  from  time  to  time 
to  look  at  me,  and  seeing  I  had  no  comprehen- 
sion, at  last  asked :  "  Signor,  do  you  know 
what  all  this  means  ?  "  "  What  is  it  ?  *'  said  L 
And  he,  "A  retreat."  We  went  on  a  little 
further,  and  he  began  again.  "Do  you  un- 
derstand?" "What?"  And  he,  "A  battle 
lost."  We  went  on  again,  and  saw  in -his 
coach,  driving  rapidly  past  us,  Mur^t  the  King 
of  Naples.  When  we  reached  Fulda,  I  made 
my  way  to  the  commandant,  where  there  was  a 
crowd  of  people  asking  information  as  I  did, 
to  all  of  whom  he  replied  in  the  same  words  : 
"All  is  right — go  on;  find  your  regiment, 
your  general,  your  master."  I  approached, 
saying,  V  I  must  go  to  the  Emperor  —  I  carry  -» 
despatches."  "Ah,"  said  the  commandant; 
"come  in  here  then."  And  he  opened  the 
door  of  a  little  room,  and  going  in  with  me, 
closed  it  behind  him  ;  then  letting  fall  his  arms, 
and  abandoning  his  artificial  composure,  "  All 
is  lost  I  "  ( Tutto  ifritto)  he  cried,  —  and  again, 
with  still  more  energy :  "  The  Emperor  has 
lost  a  great  battle,  and  no  one  knows  where  he 
is;  but  push  on  if  you  like,  and  you  will  find 
Marshal  Ney,  who  is  coming  with  the  rest. 
He  will  tell  you  where  the  Emperor  is,  if  he 
knows.  We  are  all  ruined."  I  got  into  my 
carriage  again,  and  pushed  forward  as  I  could 
among  the  fugitives,  no  longer  in  scattered 
groups  here  and  there,  but  filling  the  whole 
road  and  swearing  at  me  and  my  carriage, 
which  forced  a  way  through  them.  Thus  we 
advanced  slowly  to  the  last  post  of  Hiinefeld. 
Here  there  was  no  horses  to  be  had,  and  1  and 
my  poria/o^lio  2LVid  my  little  carriage  remained 
in  the  middle  of  the  road,  pushed  aside«every 
moment  by  artillery  wagons  and  other  convey- 
ances. Ney  then  arrived,  sunk  in  the  corner 
of  his  carriage,  in  a  furious  temper,  in  conse- 
quence, it  was  said,  of  a  violent  altercation 
with  his  master,  and  certainly  because  he,  like 
me,  was  in  want  of  horses.  I  approached  him, 
hat  in  hand,  with  much  respect  and  ceremony, 
begging  him  to  tell  me  where  I  should  find 
the  Emperor  with  my  despatches.  Without 
making  me  any  reply,  he  said,  "  You  have  come 
here  in  a  carriage,  and  therefore  you  must  have 
horses."     "Yes,  monseigneur."     "Let  them 


AN   ITALIAN   OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


»38 

take  the  secretary's  horses.*'  And  to  my  ques- 
tions he  gave  no  other  reply  but  "I  aon't 
know." 

This  picture  of  the  flight  and  confusion, 
the  self-occupation  of  evervbody  round, 
and  indifference  to  everything  but  them- 
selves—  an  indifference,  however,  which 
IS  quite  as  much  rage  and  shame,  and  the 
exaggerated  sense  of  a  discomfiture  and 
downfall  utterly  unexpected,  as  mere  self- 
ishness —  is  most  lifelike,  and  produces 
the  strange  scene  in  its  many  details  with 
a  fidelity ^which  is  very  picturesaue,  by 
dint  of  being  perfectly  simple  and  genu- 
ine. It  is  the  narrative  of  a  young  and 
Intelligent  spectator,  whom  we  can  see 
pushed  about  and  baffled  on  all  sides,  with 
a  conscientious  eagerness  to  do  his  duty, 
but  with  no  such  desperate  sense  of  the 
check  and  downfall  as  is  felt  by  those 
more  deeply  involved,  rather  than  the 
dramatic  record  of  a  practised  writer.  He 
was  greatly  hampered  with  his  large  port- 
folios, which  made  it  impossible  for  him 
to  jump  upon  an^  stray  horse  he  could 
find  and  push  his  way  forward  to  the 
front,  which  was  the  first  idea  that  oc- 
curred to  him.  And  he  was  also  much 
troubled  in  mind  about  a  number  of  pri- 
vate letters  which  he  had  brought,  the 
contents  of  which  might  not  be  pleasant 
to  his  Imperial  Majesty,  and  which,  if 
taken  by  the  Cossacks,  might  be  pub- 
lished, and  compromise  the  good  people 
who  had  trusted  Balbo  with  them.  After 
a  time  he  made  up  his  mind  to  burn  these 
letters,  as  the  safest  way  of  disposing  of 
them,  and  then  attempted  to  rest  for  the 
night  as  he  best  could  in  a  room  on  the 
ground-floor  of  the  post-office,  where  there 
was  a  little  straw. 

But  very  shortly  the  room  was  invaded  by 
one  of  the  principal  generals  of  the  army, 
frantic  at  having  lost  his  division,  his  baggage, 
—everything,  in  short,  except  three  or  four 
youths,  his  aides-de-camp.  One  of  them  per- 
ceived me,  feeling  with  his  foot  between  the 
straw  and  my  cloak,  and  exclaiming,  "  Who  is 
there?"  and' the  general  ordered  that  whoever 
it  was  should  clear  out  of  the  place.  I  got  up 
and  began  to  explain ;  he  insisted :  I  then  said 
that  for  myself  I  should  certainly  go,  but  that 
he  must  be  responsible  for  the  portfolios: 
upon  which  he  gave  way  and  abandoned  the 
place,  leaving  only  the  youthful  aides-de-camp 
behind.  With  these  young  men  of  my  own 
age  I  soon  came  to  an  understanding,  and  they 
talked  all  night  of  the  pleasure  of  returning  to 
Paris,  laughing  and  advising  me  what  to  do. 
According  to  their  counsel  I  wrote  a  note  to 
the  Prince  of  Neufchatel,  telling  him  who  and 
what  I  was,  and  asking  for  orders.  I  gave  this 
to  a  postilion,  but  heaven  knows  whether  he 


delivered  it  or  what  became  of  htm ;  for  the 
sound  of  cannon  became  audible,  and  ap« 
proached  nearer  and  nearer.  The  young  offi- 
cers declared  it  to  be  the  Cossacks,  and  soon 
after  there  was  an  assault  on  the  village  —  what 
they  call  a  AcmrraA -^znd  all  the  youths  and 
everybody  else  rushed  away,  I  among  them, 
with  my  little  carriage,  for  which  in  the  fervor 
of  flight  horses  were  found  somehow,  which 
under  no  other  circumstances  could  be  laid 
hands  upon. 

In  this  flight,  more  disorderly  still  than 
the  first,  though  without  damage,  the  mere 
reverberation,  so  to  speak,  of  the  rout, 
our  hero  found  himself  at  the  end  of  the 
hurrying  rabble,  *'the  worst  position  pos- 
sible,'' he  says,  "in  a  retreat  or  flight 
without  order,  the  crowd  before  and  the 
Cossacks  behind."  By  a  great  effort  his 
postilion  forced  his  way  to  the  front,  and 
again  the  young  man  brings  us  within 
sight  of  the  humors  which,  as  well  as  hor- 
rors, are  to  be  found  even  in  the  rush  of  a 
defeated  armj,  panic-stricken  and  cut  to 
pieces. 

Here  [when  he  reached  the  head  of  the  fugi- 
tive band]  I  was  recognized  by  a  colonel  of 
cavalry  whom  I  had  known  in  Illyria,  and  who, 
a  few  hours  before,  had  advised  me  to  flee, 
and  had  made  many  jokes  on  my  zeal  in  re- 
maining. A  colonel  now  without  a  regiment, 
he  had  made  himself  one  out  of  the  stray  offi- 
cials, military  and  civil,  who  put  themselves 
under  his  leadership  in  order  to  keep  together, 
and  find  food  and  safety  in  the  midst  of  the 
confusion.  This  body  of  irregulars  he  com- 
manded and  led  merrily,  laughing  at  himself 
and  at  his  improvised  regiment,  marching  all 
d^y^  frieattandf  (as  they  called  it,  which  means 
living  on  what  they  could  find  and  take) — in 
the  evening,  jesting,  laughing,  and  sometimes 
dancing  the  rest  of  the  time.  He  and  his  rab- 
ble, among  whom  were  several  auditors  like 
myself,  made  something  like  a  hourra\  upon 
my  little  carriage,  congratulating  theniiseives 
on  its  appearance  at  such  a  moment,  notwith- 
standing my  inopportune  zeal.  I  gave  up  to 
them  some  provisions  which  I  had  brought 
from  Paris ;  and  two  of  my  companions,  leav- 
ingrtheir  horses  to  whoever  would  have  them, 
joined  me,  one  inside,  one  upon  the  box.  And 
departing  at  a  gallop,  we  galloped  all  the  way 
to  Frankfort. 

Balbo  found  the  emperor  at  last,  but  so 
late  that  the  bearer  of  despatches,  who 
left  Paris  after  him,  had  arrived  before 
him ;  and  Napoleon  was  so  much  occupied 
that  his  explanations  of  his  delay  were 
unheeded.  Many  other  particulars  of  this 
agitated  moment,  all  adding  to  the  im- 
pression of  haste,  confusion,  and  disorder, 
fill  up  the  vivid  story.  He  himself  de- 
sires the  pardon  of  his  readers  for  the 
length  of  his  narrative.   After  thirty  years» 


AN  ITALIAN  OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON. 


^39 


be  says,  the  events  come  before  htno  so 
Tividly,  and  with  so  many  particulars,  that 
be  has  scarcely  the  power  to  check  him- 
self, which  is  a  weakness  of  old  age. 
Here  also,  however,  in  the  midst  of  so 
much  that  was  painful  and  discouraging, 
be  found  his  own  growing  sentiments  of 
patriotism  and  hope  for  Italy  unexpectedly 
strengthened.  In  one  of  his  wanderings 
among  the  agitated  ranks  of  the  defeated 
army,  he  finds  himself  suddenly  among  a 
band  of  Italian  officers,  survivors  of  those 
who  bad  made  so  brave  a  stand  at  the 
bridge  of  the  Elbe. 

All  of  them  joined  in  the  cry  against  the 
Emperor  and  the  French,  but  spoke  of  Italv 
so  loftily,  so  generously,  that  my  talks  with 
Gifflenga  returned  to  my  mind,  and  I  reflected 
that  these  Italians  serving  the  stranger  were 
anything  rather  than  the  sheep  which  they 
were  called  by  the  idle  and  foolish,  who  at  that 
time  and  in  every  time,  and  every  evil  moment 
for  the  country,  set  forth  as  the  sole  remedy 
the  art  of  sitting  still  and  doing  nothing.  And 
all  the  more  was  this  thought  impressed  upon 
me,  since  I  had  always  in  that  army  heard 
Italian  courage,  and  especially  that  of  those 
brave  men,  spoken  of  respectfully.  And  the 
good  colonel  to  whom  I  have  referred,  and 
who  was  himself  one  of  the  bravest  of  men, 
said  that  our  soldiers  were  equal  to  the  French, 
but  not  better,  for  better  was  impossible,  in 
the  advance  ;  but  that  for  endurance  in  priva- 
tions, and  especially  in  misfortune,  ours  were 
the  better  men.  All  which  matured  my  opin- 
ions more  and  more. 

He  proceeds  to  note  sagaciously,  that 
while  he  can  scarcely  recollect  to  have 
beard  the  Bourbons  alluded  to  in  the 
early  years  of  his  service,  in  the  end  of 
1813  and  beginning  of  1814  everybody 
talked  of  them;  and^that  even  into  the 
Council  of  State  and  the  rooms  of  the 
Tuileries  their  proclamations  were  smug- 
gled. In  one  brilliant  assembly  Balbo 
himself  heard  som^  one  sing,  under  his 
breath,  and  bursting  with  laughter,  B^- 
ranger's  "/^oi  (fYvetoty^  which  was  well 
known  as  a  satire  upon  the  emperor. 
Guai  ai  vinti  per  quanta  frrandi  sieno  — 
Woe  to  the  conquered  I  this  sympathetic 
though  hostile  spectator  says. 

He  himself  [the  Emperor]  set  himself  with 
a  grave  and  sometimes  wrathful  countenance 
against  it  all ;  but  he  was  weary,  and  at  the 
Council,  instead  of  that  vigilant  and  vigorous 
mind,  which  I  had  so  much  admired,  he  would 
sometimes  drop  asleep,  and  in  going  and 
coming  would  grope  his  way,  so  that  it  was 
dear  he  did  not  sleep  during  the  night.  The 
greatest  men  are  still  human.  Nevertheless, 
at  any  moment,  the  field,  the  air  of  battle,  re- 


lighted in  him  magnificent  lamps  of  vigor,  as 
everybody  knows. 

One  other  trial  young  Balbo  had  to 
sustain  in  the  occupation  to  which  he  still 
held,  looking  out  with  keen  observant 
eyes  upon  the  signs  of  the  times.  A 
special  mission  had  been  organized  of 
senators  or  councillors  of  State,  to  rouse 
by  proclamation  and  extraordinary  efforts 
and  ofifers,  the  failing  spirit  of  the  depart- 
ments which  had  refused  to  send  further 
levies ;  and  Balbo  was  ordered  to  accom- 
pany one  of  these  commissioners^  Savoy, 
his  own  country.  This  he  found  it  impos- 
sible to  do.  To  raise  his  own  countrymen 
for  the  service  of  the  stranger  and  op- 
pressor, at  the  very  moment  when  the 
approach  of  the  Allies  might  give  them  a 
hope  of  freedom,  passed  all  bounds  of 
reasonable  service.  He  went  to  Maret, 
who  was  a  friend  of  his  father,  and  laid 
the  whole  case  before  him.  If  possible, 
he  desired  to  be  freed  from  the  office 
altogether;  but  if  not  that,  to  be  sent 
elsewhere.  Willingly  or  unwillingly  he 
would  go  to  any  other  department  where 
he  might  be  sent ;  but  not  to  Savoy,  his 
own  home  —  the  land  of  his  forefathers. 
Maret  listened  kindly,  and  obtained  his 
freedom  with  so  much  ease  that  the  young 
man  began  to  feel  he  had  exaggerated  his 
own  importance. in  his  impassioned  offer 
to  go  anywhere  else.  He  was  left  idle 
in  Paris,  wondering,  observing,  amusing 
himself,  without  occupation,  till  the  great 
downfall  came.  His  account  of  the  turn 
of  the  popular  tide  in  the  expectant  and 
excited  city,  is,  we  thinkj  taken  from  a 
very  original  point  of  view. 

To  the  day  of  the  battle  of  Paris,  after  the 
imperial  troops  had  gone  away,  there  succeeded 
a  quiet  evening  under  a  clear  sky  —  an  evening 
of  silence  which  I  passed  idly,  a  fantasticare 
on  a  balcony,  as  I  shall  never  forget  if  I  lived 
a  hundred  years.  In  the  morning  early  I  met 
certain  of  the  Bourbon  party  still  uncertain 
upon  the  Place  Vend6me.  ...  At  midday  they 
breakfasted  tranquilly  at  Tortoni's  like  true 
Parisian  idlers  expectant  —  till  Europe  should 
enter  to  avenge  herself.  It  is  true  that  when 
breakfast  was  over,  these  elegants  got  on  horse- 
back, collected  some  others  of  the  same  mettle 
about  them,  and  finally  put  on  the  white  cock- 
ade and  began  to  wave  their  handkerchiefs, 
and  to  cry,  Vive  leroil  But  I  don't  believe 
that  they  were  the  first  to  do  so.  The  first  to 
my  thinking  were  two  girls  dressed  in  mourn- 
ing, who  coming  out  of  a  shop  where  ribbons 
were  sold  called  the /^^  de  famille^  holding 
some  white  ribbons  in  their  hands,  made  for 
themselves  two  cockades,  which  they  pinned 
I  on  their  breasts,  and  then  set  out  silently  walk- 
'  ing  arm  in  arm,  trembling  lest  they  should 


140 


AN   ITALIAN   OFFICIAL   UNDER   NAPOLEON, 


meet  the  derision  and  insults  of  the  passers- 
by,  till  they  were  lost  in  the  crowd.  May  they 
be  blessed  I  perhaps  they  were  sisters  or  wives 
wearing  mourning  for  some  among  so  many 
fallen  for  the  sovereign  devourer  of  men,  and 
feeling  and  judging  as  women,  like  women 
turned  aeainst  him  at  the  first  moment  pos- 
sible,, and  that  not  without  daring  or  danger. 
I  believe  that  this  feminine  feeling  told  for 
much  in  that  day,  and  that  ninety  out  of  a  hun- 
dred of  the  white  veils  and  handkerchiefs 
waved  by  white  hands  from  the  balconies  of 
the  Boulevards  which  dazzled  the  eyes  of  the 
chivalrous  Alexander,  were  waved  spontane- 
ously wit^ut  pledge  or  design,  by  feminine 
impetuosity,  revenge,  and  sorrowing  love.  The 
troop  of  men  was  small  and  ridiculous  in  com- 
parison. .  .  .  When  I  returned  to  the  Boule- 
vards I  saw  a  paper  attached  to  the  tree  at  the 
corner  of  Tortoni*s,  and  reading  it,  found  that 
it  was  the  true  fall  of  Napoleon,  a  promise 
almost  a  present  to  the  French.  Many  relate 
of  Alexander,  boasting  of  them,  those  services 
to  the  new  masters  and  treason  to  the  old, 
which  everybody  was  guilty  of  in  these  few 
hours ;  and  many  have  claimed  the  authorship 
of  this  piece  of  paper  signed  "Alexander," 
attributing  to  it  a  considerable  influence  upon 
his  facile  mind.  I,  a  spectator  on  the  Boule- 
vards during  that  day,  do  not  differ  very  much 
from  them  in  attributing  the  principal  influ- 
ence to  the  Boulevards  themselves — that  is  to 
say,  to  the  waving  white  hands  and  handker- 
chiefs which  impressed  the  eyes  and  susceptible 
heart  of  Alexander.  I  do  not  believe  in  small 
causes,  but  I  do  in  the  small  occasions  of 
great  events.  True  causes  are  always  great, 
out  the  appointed  moment  only  comes  when 
the  vase  is  so  full  that  a'single  drop  will  make 
it  run  over.  However  it  happened.  Napoleon 
had  fallen.  It  was  more  than  the  passing  of  a 
kingdom  to  another,  more  than  that  of  one 
order  of  things  to  an  opposite,  —  it  was  a  great 
a^e  of  human  progress  which  ended,  a  new  and 
different  age  which  began. 

This  curious  picture  forms,  we  think, 
an  interesting  illustration  of  a  great  histor- 
ical event ;  and  the  two  silent  women  in 
mourninp:,  walking  away  timidly  into  the 
crowd  with  the  white  Bourbon  favors  on 
their  breasts,  —  silent  representatives  of 
the  sorrowful  indignation  risen  to  the 
height  of  despair  of  those  mothers  and  sis- 
ters whom  Napoleon's  ambition  had  made 
desolate,  —  is  as  imf^ressive  an  image  as 
could  be  found  of  the  voiceless  depth  of 
popular  opinion,  so  profound  as  to  be  be- 
yond question  or  denial — very  different, 
indeed,  from  the  superficial  fury  of  the 
flaneurs^  the  bouUvardists^  who  come  to 
the  surface  at  such  a  moment,  and  of 
whom  Balbo  relates  that  a  foolish  band  of 
them,  gathering  all  the  cab-horses  they 
could  collect,  made  a  ridiculous  attempt  to 
drag  down  Napoleon's  statue  from   the 


column  in  the  Place  Vend6me,  by  roeantf 
of  a  rope  round  the  neck  of  the  figure. 
**  Fortunately,  the  Napoleon  of  bronze 
stood  firmer  than  him  of  flesh  and  blood,'* 
says  the  historian.  Thus  it  would  appear 
that  history  repeats  itself ;  and  the  vulgar, 
whether  they  oe  royalist  or  Communist, 
hit  upon  the  same  symbols  of  revenge  and 
triumph. 

With  this  ends  the  chapter  of  the  life 
of  Cesare  Balbo  which  has  the  highest 
interest.  He  proceeds  to  relate  his  ca- 
reer ** under  our  princes  restored;"  but 
neither  was  this  a  successful  one,  nor  did 
these  restored  princes  at  first  show  the 
magnanimity,  or  the  power  of  rising  to 
higher  conceptions  and  purposes,  which 
had  been  hoped  from  them.  They  ig- 
nored the  services  which  the  elder  Bal& 
had  rendered  to  his  countrv  in  the  inte- 
rim, by  his  devotion  to  education ;  and 
endeavored  for  a  time,  though  vainly,  to 
conduct  the  new  administration  by  means 
of  those  '* purists"  who  had  retired  to 
Sardinia  with  the  court,  instead  of  afford* 
ing  to  Piedmont  the  service  of  such  work 
as  was  possible,  even  under  the  conquer* 
or.  Finding  himself  thus  uncongenial  to 
the  restored  rulers,  Balbo,  at  this  mo- 
ment only  five-and-twenty,  changed  his 
peaceful  profession  for  that  of  the  sword, 
having  always  had,  as  he  tells  us,  **a  sort 
of  envy  "of  the  military  profession,  feel- 
ing it  to  be  a  career  "  more  splendid,  more 
elegant,  more  juvenile  "  than  any  other, 
an  appreciation  which  had  been  increased 
by  the  sight  of  a  great  army  even  in  re- 
treat. •  Looking  back  upon  this  step,  how- 
ever, in  the  wisdom  of  maturity,  he  dis- 
approved of  it.  "  It  is  always  better,"  he 
says,  '*to  continue  in  the  career  given 
us  either  by  choice  or  by  Providence. 
Change  in  such  a  point  is,  or  seems  to  be, 
levity."  It  did  not,  however,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  make  much  difference  to  himselE 
personally,  since  he  felt  that  under  his 
native  pnnce,  as  under  Napoleon,  his  ad- 
vancement would  have  been  checked  by 
his  opinions.  His  story  and  himself  be- 
come involved  after  this  in  a  historical 
maze,  which  is  one  of  the  most  difficult 
which  recent  times  have  afforded  us.  The 
disappointment  and  dismay  of  the  enlight- 
ened Italians,  who  had  hoped  at  Napo- 
leon's death  to  find  means  of  establishing 
themselves  as  a  united  nation :  the  alarm 
of  the  wise  and  far-sighted  Piedmontese 
statesmen,  already  foreseeing  what  might 
be  made  of  their  position,  at  the  ill-timed 
and  hopeless  solleitazione  of  their  less 
fortunate  neighbors  :  the  irritation  of  the 
other  States,  who  found  themselves  band- 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


X41 


ed  over  once  more  to  the  tightening  bonds 
of  rulers  restored,  little  less  foreign,  and 
far  less  illustrioas  and  commanding  than 
Napoleon :  and  all  the  long  chapter  of 
Italian  struggles,  mistakes,  and  persistent 
effort,  —  form  a  portion  of  history  far  too 
intricate  and  difficult  to  be  entered  upon 
here. 

Baibo's  experiences  a£Ford  little  guide 
to  us  through  that  labyrinth.  His  many 
efforts  towards  the  attainment  of  the  great 
national  purpose  had  to  be  made,  like 
those  of  so  many  other  illustrious  Italians, 
chiefly  from  foreign  soil.  He  left  the 
Piedmontese  army  after  a  short  service, 
with  a  tribute  which  is  remarkable. 
"Though  my  experience  of  the  military 
career  was  small,"  he  says,  "it  is  the  only 
one  which  I  hold  in  grateful  memory,  for 
the  company  which  I  found  there,  more 
good  and  virtuous  than  in  any  other. 
Contrary  to  the  vulgar  opinion,  the  mili- 
tary career  seems  to  me  the  most  whole- 
some of  all  for  youthful  minds.*' 

It  was  not,  however,  in  this  way  that  he 
was  to  attain  reputation.  Already  pos- 
sessed by  the  idea  of  Italian  unity,  to  act 
as  a  puller  down  of  the  hopeless  and  fool- 
ish little  insurrections  which  testified  to 
the  feverish  condition  of  Italy,  and  with 
which  he  could  not  but  sympathize  even 
while  he  disapproved,  would  have  been 
impossible.  Like  his  cousin  Massimo 
d'Azeglio,  he  made  of  history  itself  an  ally 
in  the  great  fight  for  Ital^,  and  brought 
forth  the  story  of  Dante  like  a  battalion,^ 
in  the.  secret  but  noble  war  against  all 
that  was  petty  in  the  popular  sentiment. 
Of  these  after  labors,  however,  he  has 
left  no  record;  but  the  early  chapter  of 
his  official  life  as  an  instrument  of  the 
great  Napoleonic  organization,  is  curious 
and  perfect  in  its  way,  as  showing  how 
that  organization  worked,  and  how  the 
moving  impulse  penetrated  to  the  very 
extremities  of  the  most  extraordinary 
governmental  mechanism  of  modern 
times.  ^ 


From  All  The  Year  Round. 
ALONG  THE  SILVER  STREAK. 

Just  as  midnight  had  struck  a  strong 
reinforcement  of  visitors  entered  the 
saion  dejeu  at  Trouville,  all  in  evening 
dress,  and  with  the  animation  and  gaiety 
of  people  who  have  made  up  their  minds 
that  they  won't  go  home  till  morning. 
Conspicuous  among  these  was  Redmond, 
in  the  very  best  of  spirits  and  looking  as 


if  he  had  not  a  care  in  the  worlds  which« 
likely  enough,  was  his  happy  lot. 

••  Well,  Tom,"  he  cried,  taking  my  part- 
ner by  the  shoulder,  *'  here  I  am,  faithful 
to  my  tryst.  And  you,  my  Indian  bird," 
nodding  familiarly  to  me,  "you  are  still 
making  money  by  the  odd  trick." 

The  count  looked  up  with  an  evil  ex- 
pression on  his  face.  He  was  perhaps  a 
little  nettled  at  losing  so  persistently,  and 
he  saw  at  the  same  time  an  opportunity 
for  forcing  on  a  quarrel. 

*'  That  is  an  unlucky  expression  to 
make  use  of  at  a  card-table,  especially 
when  one  can  command  a  diabolic  vein  of 
luck,  like  your  friend  there." 

**  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? "  asked 
Redmond  sharplv,  staring  at  the  count 
with  a  defiant  look  in  his  eves. 

"Well,  I  do  not  know',"  retorted  the 
count,  rising  from  his  seat  and  looking 
round  as  if  addressing  the  room  in  gen- 
eral. '"I  play  one  day  with  an  English* 
man,"  looking  at  Redmond,  "  and  I  win, 
and  he  asks  me  to  take  a  little  bit  of 
paper ;  another  day  I  play  and  lose  with 
another  Englishman,  who  wins  everything 
in  a  strange  fashion;  and  then  there  is 
not  talk  of  paper  then.  What  shall  we 
understand  by  that — of  these  comrades 
who  work  together  ?  " 

Redmond  turned  pale  with  anger,  but 
as  he  evidently- was  in  the  count's  debt 
for  money  lost  at  play,  he  could  not  for 
the  moment  replv  with  effect.  I  saw 
Tom  fumbling  in  his  pockets  for  his  note- 
case. 

"Pay  the  brute,  and  then  knock  him 
down,"  he  whispered  to  Redmond.  But 
it  would  have  been  disgraceful  in  me  to 
have  let  Redmond  take  up  my  quarrel,  and 
as  the  readiest  means  of  bringing  matters 
to  a  crisis  I  told  the  count  that  he  was 
both  mentenr  and  I  Ache,  This  last  word 
is  unpardonable,  and  in  a  moment  every- 
body had  sprung  to  his  feet,  and  the  whole 
room  formed  a  hedge  about  us. 

The  director  of  the  rooms  hurried  up 
with  a  formidable  band  of  assistants.  He 
implored  and  entreated  that  we  would  at 
once  adjourn  and  settle  the  dispute  else- 
where, 

"  But  there  is  no  dispute,"  cried  Colonel 
Peltier  with  a  voice  of  command;  "this 
Englishman  has  insulted  my  friend  and 
compatriot.  Let  it  be  understood  that  he 
is  willing  to  give  satisfaction;  it  is  all 
that  we  ask.  But  if  he  shelters  himself 
behind  his  nationality,  if  he  is  willing  to 
insult  and  run  awav,  then  I  demand  on 
the  part  of  my  friend  that  he  be  ignomio* 
iously  expelled  from,  these  rooms," 


14« 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


.  There  was  a  general  cry  of  assent  to 
the  justice  of  this  proposal. 

"  You'll  have  to  fight  him,"  said  Tom 
in  a  low  voice ;  ''  for  the  honor  of  old  En- 
gland«  you  will." 

And  indeed  there  seemed  to  be  no  other 
way  out  of  the  difficulty,  unless  at  the  cost 
of  incurring  a  load  of  ignominy  that  would 
make  life  itself  a  burden.  And  having 
once  confided  the  matter  to  the  care  of 
Tom  and  Redmond,  the  preliminaries 
were  adjusted  with  commendable  rapidity. 
No  one  would  care  to  have  such  a  thing 
hanging  over  his  head  for  longer  than  he 
could  help ;  and  so  I  was  glad  to  find  that 
the  meeting  had  been  fixed  for  early 
morning  —  half  past  five  o'clock,  before 
the  workmen  even  were  astir,  on  a  level 
piece  of  sand  beyond  the  Roches  Noires. 
Our  opponents  advised  that  the  yacht 
should  be  taken  out  of  harbor  and  an> 
chored  out  at  sea,  ready  to  slip  off  at  a 
moment's  notice,  while  a  boat  should  lie 
off  the  shore  ready  to  pick  us  up  —  the 
English  parties  to  the  quarrel  —  if  the 
affair  should  have  a  serious  result,  that  is 
to  sav,  if  I  should  happen  to  kill  the  count, 
whicn,  by  the  way,  I  had  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  doing.  Not  that  anything 
was  seriously  to  be  dreaded  from  the 
action  of  the  law  even  in  that  case;  but  a 
trial  would  necessarily  follow,  an  affair 
which  would  be  annoying  and  irksome. 

Tom  magnanimously  offered  to  the 
count  the  shelter  of  the  yacht  in  case  he 
attained  the  honor  of  homicide.  But  this 
offer  was  declined  with  many  thanks. 
The  inconvenience  to  the  count  of  beino^ 
arrested,  and  so  forth,  would  be  but  tri- 
fling; and  indeed  it  was  evident  that  he 
would  not  willingly  miss  the  honor  and 
glory  of  making  his  appearance  in  court, 
and  of  being  pointed  out  as  the  adroit 
swordsman  who  had  wiped  out  an  affront 
in  the  blood  of  his  adversary. 

We  had  agreed  that  Hilda  was  to  know 
nothing  of  the  meeting.  But  it  was  not 
easy  to  keep  her  in  the  dark.  Hilda  was 
sitting  up  for  us  when  we  reached  the 
yacht,  and  she  saw  at  once  in  our  faces 
that  something  had  happened.  Still  we 
contrived  to  deceive  her  as  to  the  immi- 
nence of  the  affair.  There  had  been  a 
quarrel,  no  doubt,  and  serious  results 
might  follow;  but  perhaps  the  matter 
would  be  arranged  amicably  after  all.  In 
the  mean  time  we  were  to  have  a  cruise  on 
the  following  day,  and  the  yacht  was  to 
lie  at  anchor  outside  for  what  remained  of 
the  night.  Hilda  was  satisfied  when  she 
felt  the  yacht  moving,  and  saw  that  she 
was  actually  steaming  out  of  the  harbor, 


and  she  retired  to  her  cabin.  And  thea 
we  stepped  quietly  into  a  boat  alongside, 
and  made  for  the  shore  like  so  many 
malefactors,  which  perhaps,  indeed,  we 
were  in  intention.  By  the  time  Hilda 
woke  in  the  rooming  the  affair  would  be 
over;  there  was  a  kind  of  comfort  ia 
thinking  of  this.  Whatever  mi^ht  hap- 
pen there  would  be  no  long  torture  of 
suspense. 

Already  dawn  was  in  the  sky,  a  heavy, 
lurid  dawn,  with  great  cloud*banks  massed 
over  the  sea,  while  the  sea  itself,  oily  and 
unruffled,  rolled  in  with  a  long,  undulating 
swell  that  broke  in  crisp,  angry  waves 
upon  the  shore.  There  was  some  little 
stir  in  the  harbor,  as  fishing-boats  ran  in 
and  landed  their  cargoes  at  the  fish-mar- 
ket, where  the  bell  was  ringing  constantiv, 
and  a  small  crowd  of  buyers  was  already 
collected.  The  fishermen  lugged  up  their 
baskets  and  emptied  them  upon  the  stone 
floor  of  the  fish-market.  A  couple  of 
lobsters ;  perhaps  a  fine  crayfish,  all  alive 
and  ready  to  pinch  any  too  forward  cus- 
tomer ;  a  few  soles,  maybe,  flapped  on  the 
wet  floor.  And  all  these  found  ready 
purchasers  among  the  retail  fishmongers, 
and  were  presently  transferred  to  the 
stalls  outside.  •  But  the  most  ordinary 
lots  were  twos  and  threes  of  villanoua- 
looking  dog-fish,  which  sold  readily  —  a 
dog  of  six  or  seven  pounds  fetching  a 
franc  or  so.  The  salesman  was  a  stout 
old  fellow,  in  baggy  garments,  with  an 
ivory-handled  stick,  the  ferrule  of  which 
did  duty  as  an  auctioneer's  hammer  as  he 
cried  in  a  nasal  sing-song,  **  Six  francs, 
cinq  cinquante,  cinq,  quatre  soixante 
quinze  —  quatre  cinquante;"  crack  went 
the  stick  on  the  stones,  and  the  lot  was 
sold.  Strictly  speaking,  we  were  told  this 
kind  of  Dutch  auction,  by  which  the  price 
is  lowered  instead  of  raised,  and  which 
seems  universal  in  the  fishing  world,  is 
not  legal.  Fish,  like  everything  else, 
should  be  sold  aux  ench^res^  or  by  reg- 
ular advance  biddings.  But  to  accommo- 
date the  fishermen,  and  at  the  same  time 
avoid  a  breach  of  the  law,  the  local  author- 
ities enact  that  the  seller  may  put  a  reserve 
price  upon  his  fish,  and  may  lower  his  re- 
serve price  at  anv  time  during  its  sale. 
And  thus  behold  the  thing  accomplished, 
the  illegal  Dutch  auction  harmonized  with 
the  proper  practice  in  a  quite  charming 
manner. 

We  watched  these  proceedings  for  some 
time ;  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  with  the 
dreamy  kind  of  intentness  which  is  said  to 
be  characteristic  of  the  man  who  is  going 
to  be  hanged.  My  companioas  were  more 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


M3 


cheerful,  and  were  fall  of  advice,  h  la 
Lucius  O'Trig^er,  as  to  the  most  effective 
ways  of  attack  and  parry ;  while  Redmond, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  good  at  the  foils, 
offered  to  instruct  me  in  some  wonderful 
trick  of  fence  which  mi^ht  give  a  tyro  a 
chance  with  an  experienced  swordsman. 
But  this  last  offer  I  declined,  preferring 
to  be  left  to  the  light  of  nature  and  the 
inspiration  of  the  moment.  As  we  walked 
down  to  the  beach,  past  the  boarded 
structure  that  did  duty  as  a  circus,  we 
heard  the  noise  of  stamping  and  shuffling 
of  feet  —  not  due  to  the  horses,  evidently, 
but  to  human  beings.  Tom,  who  is  of  an 
inquinng  disposition,  put  his  eye  to  a 
crack  between  two  boards,  and  presently 
withdrew  on  tiptoe. 

''The  arena  is  lighted  up,"  he  said, 
^'and  the  count  is  practising  fencing  with 
some  friends.  But,"  he  added  encourag- 
ingly, **with  all  his  quickness,  he  lavs 
himself  open  to  a  man  with  a  strong  de- 
fence." 

But  then  I  had  no  defence,  strong  or 
otherwise,  as  Tom  ought  to  know. 

'*  Then  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  *'  asked 
Tom  with  some  asperity;  *' stand  there 
like  a  Iamb  to  be  slaughtered  ?  '* 

My  notion  was  to  rush  in  and  throw 
the  count  over  my  head,  in  a  good  Devon- 
shire back-fall,  and  Redmond  pronounced 
the  idea  not  a  bad  one,  if  somewhat  irreg- 
alar. 

We  wander  along  the  beach  beneath 
the  black  overhanging  cliffs,  till  we  reach 
the  appointed  place  of  combat  —  a  smooth 
slip  of  sand,  well  sheltered  from  obser- 
vation, with  a  narrow  footpath  leading 
through  a  broken  ravine  to  the  top  of  the 
cliff.  There  is  still  an  hour  to  wait,  and 
we  light  our  pipes  and  discourse  in  short, 
disconnected  sentences.  Tom  looks  out 
to  windward,  and  says  he  hopes  it  won't 
rain  just  yet,  and  1  reflect  that  in  an 
hour's  time  it  very  likely  won't  matter  to 
me  whether  it  rains  or  not.  It  is  a  start- 
ling notion,  that  of  the  world  going  on  just 
as  usual,  sunshine  and  rain,  storm  and 
pleasant  breezes,  but  the  individual  e^o 
out  of  it  altogether.  The  thing  must  come 
sooner  or  later,  but  let  it  come  rather  later 
than  sooner  if  one  has  the  choice ! 

We  now  get  a  few  sharp,  stinging,  but 
momentary  showers,  and  the  wind  begins 
to  howl  overhead.  Tom  takes  the  part  of 
Sister  Anne,  and  runs  up  aloft  by  the  little 
footpath  to  see  if  anybody  is  coming. 
Nothing  is  visible  towards  the  land,  he 
reports,  but  the  "  Sea-Mew "  is  to  be 
made  out  lying  at  anchor.  To  windward 
everything  looks  wild  aad  stormy,  the  sea 


is  rising,  and  Neptune's  white  horses  are 
shaking  their  manes  in  the  distance.  And 
then  Tom  reports  that  he  sees  a  small 
boat  putting  out  from  the  harbor.  It  is 
the  only  moving  thing  on  all  the  wide  sea 
—  a  little  boat,  as  Tom  makes  out  through 
his  glass,  with  an  old  man  laboring  at  the 
oars,  and  a  girl,  as  far  as  he  can  make 
out,  who  is  helping  to  row.  The  boat 
seems  to  be  making  for  the  yacht,  but  it 
will  never  reach  her,  pronounces  Tom. 
Sometimes  it  is  lost  to  sight  in  the  trough 
of  the  sea,  and  again  the  white  crest  of  a 
wave  wraps  the  little  craft  in  foam.  Still, 
the  boat  is  well  to  windward  of  the  yacht, 
and  it  may  make  the  ship  after  all ;  if  not 
the  boat  must  go  down,  for  she  cannot 
live  long  in  the  rising  sea.  Tom  now 
comes  down  from  his  perch,  for  the  sea- 
drift  hides  boat,  and  yacht,  and  all  the 
horizon  from  sight.  Some  time  now 
elapses,  during  which  we  shelter  ourselves 
from  the  driving  mist  and  spray  behind  a 
fragment  of  rock. 

After  what  seemed  an  age  of  suspense, 
although  on  comparing  watches  it  seemed 
that  only  half  an  hour  had  elapsed,  we 
heard  voices  in  the  air,  and  presently  we 
saw  dark  forms  descending  the  path  from 
the  cliff.  These  were  our  adversaries  — 
the  count,  his  two  seconds,  and  a  fourth, 
who  turned  out  to  be  an  army  surgeon. 
All  saluted  us  gravely  and  punctiliously, 
and  after  a  rather  lengthened  confabula- 
tion between  the  seconds,  these  separated 
at  last  to  prepare  the  principals  for  the 
combat.  The  sea  air  blew  keenly,  and 
sent  a  shiver  through  my  frame  as  I 
stripped  off  coat  and  waistcoat.  The 
count  on  his  part  looked  superbly  confi- 
dent, with  an  air  of  triumph  on  his  face. 
Then  one  of  the  seconds,  Colonel  Peltier, 
I  think,  gave  some  directions,  of  which  I 
did  not  quite  catch  the  purport,  in  a  sono- 
rous voice. 

Just  as  our  swords  were  about  to  cross 
we  heard  a  loud  shout  from  the  heights 
above,  and  we  saw  two  douaniers  stand- 
ing on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  and  energet- 
ically signalling  and  shouting,  but  to  what 
purpose  we  could  not  make  out. 

**  Wait  a  moment,  gentlemen,"  cried 
the  colonel.  '*  I  must  explain  to  these 
people  that  we  are  not  contraband.  Then 
they  will  pass  on  quietly,  no  doubt,  with- 
out interrupting  us.^' 

The  count  recovered  his  sword  with  an 
impatient  exclamation.  But  one  of  the 
douaniers  had  already  descended  the  cliff, 
and  approached  us  at  a  run,  gesticulating 
and  pointing  seaward. 

Engrossed  in  our  evil  business,  we  had 


144 


ALONG  THE   SILVER   STREAK. 


hardly  noticed  bow  quickly  the  gale  had 
gathered  strength.  The  tide  was  out,  and 
the  rollers  broke  a  long  way  from  the 
beach,  and  then  dashed  onwards  in  masses 
of  while,  seething  surf,  and  as  the  mist 
and  drift  momentarily  cleared  away,  we 
could  make  out  some  dark  object  in  the 
direction  pointed  out  by  the  douanier.  In 
a  few  sentences  the  roan  explained  the 
situation.  He  and  his  comrade  had  no- 
ticed the  little  boat  which  had  made  from 
the  harbor  mouth  towards  the  yacht,  but, 
more  practised  observers  even  than  Tom, 
they  had  followed  its  course  with  their 
glasses,  and  had  seen  that  after  a  long 
and  g:allant  struggle  to  make  the  yacht, 
the  boat  had  drifted  hopelessly  to  leeward. 
The  danger  of  the  little  boat  had  been 
noticed  from  the  yacht,  and  a  boat  had 
been  manned  from  the  "Sea-Mew"  with 
four  stout  rowers,  while  the  douaniers 
were  certain  that  the  coxswain  of  the 
boat  was  a  lady.  The  boat  from  the 
"Sea-Mew"  reached  the  other  just  in 
time  to  rescue  her  crew,  for  their  craft 
was  sinking  beneath  them,  and  a  moment 
later  disappeared  in  the  waves.  But  in  its 
turn  the  larger  boat  was  overpowered  by 
the  force  of  wind  and  sea,  against  which 
all  the  exertions  of  the  oarsmen  were 
powerless.  The  boat,  indeed,  was  drift- 
ing hopelessly  away  from  the  yacht,  and 
must  come  ashore  in  a  few  minutes.  As 
soon  as  she  struck  the  sands,  the  waves 
would  tumble  her  over,  and  her  crew 
would  be  left  struggling  in  the  surf  —  in 
the  bitter  biting  surf  that  would  soon 
overpower  the  strongest  man.  As  for  the 
woman  and  the  girl  who  appeared  in  the 
boat,  their  chance  of  getting  to  the  land 
was  of  the  slenderest.  Our  douanier  ex- 
plained that  his  comrade  had  started  for 
the  nearest  j/iM7/^/tf^^  station  for  fopes  and 
the  rocket  apparatus.  But  there  was  no 
possibility  that  such  help  could  arrive  in 
time.  In  a  few  minutes,  indeed,  all  would 
be  over,  unless,  indeed,  we  were  to  make 
a  line  into  the  sea  —  there  were  eight  of 
us  altogether,  strong  men  not  exhausted 
by  a  losing  battle  against  the  storm. 

"  We  will  make  a  line,"  was  shouted  by 
everybody,  and  in  a  few  moments  the 
whole  of  us,  forgetful  of  the  purpose  that 
had  brought  us  there,  were  up  to  our 
waists  in  the  surf,  and  struggling  through 
It  to  reach  the  post  of  honor  in  the  front. 
We  could  now  hear  the  hoarse  shouts  of 
the  seamen  in  the  boat,  encouraging  each 
other  to  make  a  last  spurt  for  the  shore. 
Then  a  great  wave  dashed  in,  and  a  cry  of 
despair  was  heard  above  the  roar  of  the 
sea,  as  the  boat  was  hurled  bottom  up- 


wards towards  the  beach.  The  howling 
of  the  wind,  and  the  roaring  of  the  sea 
deafened  and  confused  us,  while  the  fierce 
bitinji;  surge,  that  cut  like  a  legion  of 
whiplashes,  took  away  breath,  and  even 
sensation,  and  the  sand  afforded  but  aa 
uncertain  footing.  Still  we  struggled  oa 
in  the  direction  where  we  had  last  seea 
the  boat  The  count  and  I  were  in  front, 
for  our  line  was  broken,  and  each  did  the 
best  he  could  for  himself,  when  presently 
I  saw  a  woman's  long  hair  streaming  in 
the  wind.  It  was  Hilda,  who,  with  her 
arm  about  another  younger  girl,  was  bat- 
tling with  the  surf.  The  count,  also,  must 
have  seen  her  at  the  same  moment,  and 
we  both  strained  every  nerve  to  be  the 
first  to  reach  her.  As  it  happened,  I  was 
the  first,  and  with  my  arm  about  her,  half 
carrying,  half  dragging  her  through  the 
surf,  we  struggled  towards  the  shore,  the 
other  girl  —  Zamora,  as  it  proved  —  cling- 
ing to  Hilda's  skirts.  As  soon  as  we 
reached  the  land  Hilda  fell  upon  her  knees 
in  thankfulness,  while  Zamora,  stretched 
at  full  length  on  the  sand,  panted  and 
struggled  for  breath.  Soon  other  figures 
appeared,  dripping  and  exhausted.  The 
four  seamen  were  safe.  Tom  and  Red- 
mond also  appeared,  each  helping  one  of 
the  sailors  along,  while  the  douanier  and 
the  rest  of  the  party  were  cheering,  and 
patting  the  rescued  men  on  the  shoulders. 
The  party  was  complete,  surely?  But 
no!  Where  was  the  count?  Nobody 
had  seen  him  since  he  rushed  forward 
with  me  to  rescue  Hilda.  There  was  not 
a  sign  of  him  in  the  white,  boiling  surf, 
unless  —  yes,  as  a  wave  receded,  we  saw 
for  a  moment  a  dark  object,  turning  over 
like  a  billet  of  driftwood  in  the  sea.  A 
general  rush  followed,  every  one  trying  to 
be  the  first  to  reach  the  drowning  man. 
Happily  the  wind  had  lulled  for  the  time, 
and  there  was  no  great  wave  coming  in  at 
the  moment,  although  a  monster  one  was 
hurrying  along  from  the  sea,  as  if  striving 
to  reach  us.  As  it  happened,  I  was  the 
first  to  reach  the  bodv  of  the  count,  which 
I  seized,  and  dragged  towards  the  shore  ; 
but  I  remember  nothing  more,  for  a  big 
comber  of  a  wave  broke  over  us  at  that 
moment,  and  carried  us  along  as  if  we  bad 
been  just  a  tuft  of  seaweed. 

When  I  came  to  myself  I  found  Hilda 
bending  over  me,  while  Zamora,  kneeling 
by  my  side,  was  busily  chafing  my  hands. 
I  had  been  onlv  a  little  stunned  and  dazed, 
and  soon  could  sit  up  and  look  about  me. 
The  other  men  were  gathered  about  an- 
other figure  which  lay  on  the  sands.  By 
I  this  time  more  coastguardmea  bad  come 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


US 


down,  and  a  few  fishermen ;  and  all  were 
watching  the  proceedings  of  the  doctor  as 
be  labored  to  restore  the  suspended  respi- 
ration. As  moment  after  moment  passed, 
and  each  increased  the  sad  certainty  that 
life  had  forever  fled,  I  looked  upon  the 
white,  marble  face  of  my  late  adversary, 
and  asked  myself  what  my  feelings  would 
have  been  had  his  death  been  my  doing. 
No,  people  might  call  me  what  they  liked, 
but  1  would  never  come  out  again  on  such 
a  business. 

And  then  the  thrill  of  delight  that  went 
through  everybody  as  a  sort  of  electric 
shock  seemed  to  agitate  the  little  group. 
**  He  breathes,"  cried  the  doctor,  and  at 
the  word  the  terror  that  held  our  nerves 
so  tightly  strung  relaxed  all  of  a  sudden. 
Hilda  wept  upon  my  shoulder,  while  Za- 
mora  executed  a  pas  seui  on  the  sands, 
making  her  wet  skirts  fly  about,  and  snap- 
ping her  fingers  gaily.  The  douaniers 
lifted  their  caps  into  the  air,  and  the 
colonel  sat  down  upon  a  sand-heap  and 
tagged  fiercely  at  his  moustaches. 

After  a  while  the  count  was  able  to  sit 
op  a  little,  and  looked  about  him  with  wild, 
haggard  eyes,  which  at  last  rested  upon 
me,  and  seemed  there  fixed  as  if  he  were 
striving  to  recall  something  that  eluded 
his  mental  grasp.  Then  he  feebly  held 
out  his  hand,  which  I  took  in  mine. 

'*  A  dead  man  has  no  enemies,'*  he  said, 
'*and  I  have  been  dead." 

The  colonel,  too,  and  his  friend  came 
forward  to  shake  hands,  and  Zamora  exe- 
cuted another  wild  dance. 

*' But  what  is  this  child  doing  here?" 
I  asked,  ^  and  you,  too,  Hilda,  why  should 
yon  be  in  that  particular  galley  which  has 
come  to  grief?  "    Then  Zamora  explained 
how,  from  her  little  nest  at  the  circus,  she 
had  seen  the  count  and  his  friends  fencing 
in  the  arena,  and  had  overheard  their  con- 
versation, from  which  she  gathered  that  a 
dael  was  imminent,  and  that  seeing  no 
other  way  to  save  me,  she  had  determined 
to  find  Hilda,  and  beseech  her  to  inter- 
fere.    And  so  she  had  engaged  an  old 
fisherman  to  row  her  out  to  the  yacht. 
But  the  storm  came  upon  them  too  ouicklv, 
and  they  would  have  been  lost  if  Hilcia 
had  not  come  to  their  rescue.    As  it  was 
the  sea  was  so  high  that  the  captain  very 
rightly  refused  to  lower  a  boat,  and  it  was 
only  by  something  like  mutiny,  and  taking 
her  place  as  coxswain,  that  Hilda  at  last 
got  the  boat  away. 

As  the  tide  came  in  the  waves  rose 
higher  and  higher,  dashing  up  against  the 
bathing-cabins,  and  setting  them  afioat, 

UVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2246 


and  causing  a  general  stampede  among 
the  settlers  and  traders  on  the  beach. 

Dried  and  restored  by  breakfast,  we 
watched  the  scene  with  a  good  deal  of 
amusement;  although  we  were  not  with- 
out anxiety  for  the  "  Sea-Mew,"  which 
labored  a  good  deal  in  the  sea,  and  threat- 
ened to  drag  her  anchors.  However,  the 
vacht*s  steam  was  up,  and  presently  the 
black  balls  from  the  signal-mast  by  the 
pier  announced  sufficient  depth  of  water 
to  cross  the  bar,  and  soon  she  came 
bravely  dashing  up  to  windward,  and 
presently  was  in  comparatively  still  water 
between  the  jetties. 

The  tide  went  out  once  more,  retiring 
like  a  lion  into  its  desert,  with  threaten- 
ings  of  coming  once  more  to  seek  its  prey, 
and  everybodv  was  on  the  alert,  raising 
barricades  ana  strengthening  the  founda- 
tions of  their  cabins,  and  carrying  the 
movable  ones  out  of  the  way.  But  the 
storm  died  away  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
arisen.  The  tide  came  in  again  in  quite 
halcyon  calm,  with  a  glorious  sunset  glow 
over  the  sea.  Crowds  of  people  were 
upon  the  pier  to  watch  the  Havre  boat  as 
she  came  in,  with  a  double  load  of  pas- 
sengers, for  the  storm  had  prevented  her 
from  crossing  this  morning.  When  once 
the  boat  has  passed  the  pierhead  every- 
body hurries  to  the  landing-place,  where 
the  hubbub  and  confusion  are  something 
indescribable.  People  are  landing  and 
embarking  all  at  the  same  time,  bales 
and  boxes  are  hurled  ashore  or  swung 
into  the  ship.  The  world  is  parting,  meet- 
ing, laughing,  crying,  quarrelling,  aod 
kissing,  all  in  the  same  moment,  and  the 
noise  is  intensified  by  the  clanking  of 
chains,  the  creaking  of  cranes,  and  the 
hoarse  rush  of  steam  from  the  waste-pipe. 
Over  everything  rises  the  shrill  voice  of 
one  who  cries  for  **  Auguste  "  —  the  real 
Auguste,  if  he  be  present,  taking  no  no- 
tice, but  spurious  Augustes  cropping  up 
in  every  quarter.  Among  the  passengers 
is  a  party  of  Americans  with  enormous 
packages,  huge  trunks,  and  cases  that  em- 
ploy all  the  loafers  and  hangers-on  of  the 
quay,  and  fill  all  the  omnibuses  that  are 
in  waiting.  Then  there  are  pretty,  dark- 
eyed,  Spanish-looking  women  from  Havre, 
with  children  still  more  pretty  and  be- 
witching ;  commercial  travellers  with  their 
fragile-looking  packages;  and  English 
tourists  with  handbags  and  knapsacks, 
proudly  independent  of  porters  and 
touts.  And  then  the  bustle  suddenly 
culminates  and  ceases  as  the  bell  rings, 
and  the  boat  casts  off  after  her  half-hour's 
stay. 


t46 


NOTES   OF  A  WANDERER   IN   SKYE. 


Another  embarkation  in  the  same 
night  is  conducted  in  quieter  fashion. 
Hilda,  her  father,  and  I  are  starting  for 
Combe  Chudleigh  to  take  one  last  look  at 
the  old  place  before  it  is  sold.  It  will  be 
only  a  flying  visit,  for  we  have  left  the  rest 
of  the  party  as  hostages  for  our  return  to 
Trouville.  The^  have  all  come  to  see  us 
off  —  an  all  which  includes  the  director 
and  his  Stephanie,  who  have  just  arrived 
in  the  place.  We  have  sent  to  inquire 
after  the  count,  and  the  reply  is,  that  he  is 
doing  well,  but  is  still  too  weak  to  receive 
visitors.  However,  we  have  no  misgiv- 
ings on  his  score  now.  The  sea  is  calm, 
the  sky  clear,  and  everything  promises  a 
pleasant  sail  to  the  shores  of  old  En- 
gland. 


From  Temple  Bar. 
VOTES  OF  A  WANDERER  IN  SKYE. 

The  beautiful  Isles  of  Greece 

Full  many  a  bard  has  sun^ ; 
The  Isles  I  love  best  lie  far  m  the  West 

Where  men  speak  the  Gaelic  tongue. 

Let  them  sing  of  the  sunny  South 

Where  the  blue  Mgezn  smiles. 
But  give  to  me  the  Scottish  sea 

That  breaks  round  the  Western  Isles. 

Lovest  thou  mountains  great. 

Peaks  to  the  clouds  that  soar, 
Corrie  and  fell  where  eagles  dwell 

And  cataracts  dash  evermore  ? 

Xiovest  thou  gjeen  grassy  glades 

By  the  sunlight  sweetly  kist, 
Murmuring  waves  and  echoing  caves? 

Then  go  to  the  Isle  of  Mist  I 

So  writes  SheriH  Nicholson,  the  bard 
of  the  Hebrides,  and  especially  of  Skye 
—  the  Eilan  Skianach  or  Cloudy  Isle  — 
so  named,  it  is  said,  from  the  Norwegian 
skt\  a  mist,  because  of  the  dark  clouds 
and  ethereal  mists  which  by  turns  enfold 
its  high  peaks. 

Bound  for  this  isle  of  beauty,  we  left 
Oban  at  daybreak  on  a  lovely  summer's 
morning;  and  anything  more  delightful 
than  our  fifteen  hours*  steam  could  hardly 
be  imagined.  Not  a  ripple  to  disturb  the 
glassy  calm  of  a  sea  wherein  lay  reflected 
each  shapely  form  of  island  and  main- 
land. On  our  right  towered  the  massive 
slopes  of  Ben  Cruachan,  while  to  the  left 
lay  the  green  shore  and  wild  mountain 
ranges  of  Mull. 

Presentlv  we  passed  the  green  pasture- 
lands  of  Muck,  '*  the  Isle  of  Swine,"  and 
then,  in  strange  contrast,  the  Scuir  of 


Eigg,  a  mighty  rampart  of  dark  trap  rock, 
and  slender  basaltic  columns  ;  tall  pillars, 
few  of  which  exceed  a  foot  in  diameter. 
Some  of  these  have  fallen,  and  others  are 
broken  across,  and  so  form  a  strange 
geometric  pavement  of  hexagonal  sec- 
tions. This  remarkable  columnar  citadel, 
which  is  itself  about  five  hundred  feet  in 
height,  forms  the  crest  of  a  hill  of  eight 
hundred  feet,  rising  from  one  end  ol  a 
low,  grassy  isle.  A  terrible  deed  of  ven- 
geance was  once  enacted  on  this  sea  girt 
rock  —  one  of  those  oft-repeated  acts 
which  must  have  conduced  so  largely  to 
the  amenities  of  life  in  the  "good  old 
times."  Then,  as  now,  the  two  great 
powers  in  the  Isles  were  the  MacLeods 
and  the  MacDonalds  —  the  former  of  pure 
Norse,  and  the  latter  of  Celtic  descent  — 
and  the  history  of  the  Isles  is  largely 
made  up  of  tales  of  the  turbulent  feasts 
and  bloody  frays  of  these  wild  clansmen. 
Ever  and  anon  a  temporary  peace  was 
cemented  by  some  inter-marriage  —  a 
peace  no  sooner  made  than  marred,  and 
followed  bv  some  such  deed  as  that,  the 
memory  ot  which  will  forever  cling  to  the 
rocky  Scuir  of  Eigg. 

Here  in  comparatively  recent  days 
dwelt  a  tribe  of  MacDonalds,  and  here  a 
party  of  MacLeods  landed,  and  seem  to 
have  been  hospitablv  treated  till,  in  an 
evil  hour,  their  attentions  to  the  daughters 
of  the  isle  roused  the  wrath  of  parents 
and  brothers,  who,  seizing  their  guests, 
bound  them  hand  and  foot,  and  turned 
them  adrift  in  an  open  boat.  A  favoring 
breeze  wafted  them  to  Skye,  where  they 
told  their  story  to  MacLeod,  who  straight* 
wav  collected  a  body  of  trusty  clansmen, 
and  sailed  to  Eigg  to  avenge  the  cause  of 
his  followers. 

The  affrighted  islesmen,  utterly  unable 
to  cope  with  such  a  force,  hid  themselves 
in  a  great  cave,  the  entrance  to  which 
was  partly  concealed  by  a  stream  of  water 
falling  over  it.  It  was  dreanr  winter,  and 
the  drifting  snow  soon  efi^ctually  con- 
cealed every  trace  of  a  footpath.  Finding 
only  a  deserted  village,  MacLeod  assumed 
that  his  intended  victims  had  fled  to  the 
Long  Island,  and,  with  his  followers,  had 
actually  re-embarked  on  !iis  galleys,  when 
one  rash  man,  deeming  all  danger  past, 
ventured  to  steal  out  from  his  hiding- 
place.  He  was  instantly  detected,  and 
the  foemen,  returning  to  shore,  tracked 
him  to  the  cave.  It  is  a  large  cave,  two 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  in  length,  and  about 
twenty  in  height,  but  the  entrance  is  by  a 
low  opening  only  three  feet  in  height. 

Not  caring  to  venture  in,  and  fight  band 


NOTES   OF  A   WANDERER  IN  SKYE. 


«47 


to  hand  with  desperate  meD,  they  quicklv 
diverted  the  course  of  the  stream,  which 
veiled  the  entrance  to  the  cave,  and  then, 
collecting  an  immense  pile  of  turf  and 
dead  bracken,  they  kindled  such  a  bonfire 
as  su£Eocated  all  within  —  two  hundred 
men,  women,  and  children  here  perished 

—  and  left  their  bleaching  bones  as  a 
warning  to  all  MacDonalds  to  despatch 
their  foes  securely,  and  take  good  care  to 
allow  them  no  second  chance  of  carrying 
complaints  to  their  chief. 

When  Sir  Walter  Scott  visited  this 
horrid  charnel-house  in  1814,  he  found 
the  place  still  thickly  strewn  with  skele- 
tons, in  such  fresh  condition  as  to  prove 
that  not  very  many  years  had  elapsed 
since  the  deed  of  horror  was  perpetrated. 

Not  far  from  this  cave  of  sad  memory 
lies  another,  with  very  different  associa- 
tions. A  large  and  lofty  cave,  wherein, 
in  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, the  islanders,  most  of  whom  were 
Roman  Catholics,  assembled  for  worship 
at  a  period  when  their  public  services 
were  barely  tolerated.  A  great  rock- 
ledge  did  double  duty  as  pulpit  and  altar, 
and  the  wild  waves  murmured  a  ceaseless 
undertone,  in  unison  with  chants  and  lit- 
anies. 

Beyond  this  isle  of  thrilling  memories 
rise  the  purple,  pyramidal  mountains  of 
Rum,  the  wildest  and  most  beautiful  isl- 
and of  the  group  known  ecclesiasticallv 
as  "the  Parish  of  Small  Isles,"  which 
consists  of  Muck,  Eigg,  Rum,  and  Canna. 
Haleval  and  Haskeval  are  the  two  highest 
peaks,  whose  shapely  outline  cuts  so  clear 
against  the  primrose-tinted  sky. 

We  neared  Skye  in  the  clear  evening 
light,  sailing  close  by  the  peninsula  of 
Sleat  (a  notable  spot  in  these  Isles,  where 
even  the  humblest  woods  are  now  exceed- 
ingly few  and  far  between),  and  catching 
a  eltmpse  of  Armadale,  the  pleasant  home 
of  Lord  Macdonald,  who,  in  this  nine- 
teenth century,  bears  his  title  as  Lord  of 
the  Isles  so  peacefully. 

Passing  through  the  Sound  of  Sleat, 
while  the  warm  flush  of  sunset  lighted  up 
the  wild  mountains  of  Knoydart  and 
Glenelg,  we  entered  the  "  Straits  of  the 
King,"  Kyle  Rhea,  a  narrow  channel  only 
a  mile  in  width,  overshadowed  by  Ben-na- 
Caillach,  ''the  Hill  of  the  Old  Woman" 

—  a  huge  mountain  of  red  granite,  so 
named  in  memory  of  a  viking's  daughter, 
who  could  not  brook  that  her  dust  should 
rest  beneath  green  turf,  so  she  bade  her 
people  carry  her  to  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain, that  she  might  sleep  right  in  the 
pathway  of  the  Norway  wind.    Steep  and 


difficult  was  the  ascent,  but  the  behest  of 
the  dead  must  be  obeyed.  So  they  bore 
her  to  the  summit,  and  marked  her  grave 
by  a  rude  cairn. 

There  they  left  her  alone  in  the  star- 
light, and  the  wild  winds  blowing  straight 
from  her  beloved  "Norroway"  sweep 
across  the  stormy  ocean,  ana  whisper 
their  messages  to  the  faithful  dead. 

Another  memory  of  "  the  hardy  Norse- 
man" suggested  itself,  as  we  passed 
through  Kyle  Akin,  the  Straits  of  Haco, 
another  narrow  channel,  and  coasted  the 
isles  of  Scalpa  and  Raasay. 

A  soft  full  moonlight  mingled  with  the 
gloaming  — the  lingering  twilight  of  the 
north,  which  in  the  long  summer  days 
scarcely  goes  awav  from  the  western 
skies,  ere  its  first  nush  begins  to  tinge 
the  east ;  indeed  1  have  seen  many  lovely 
nights  in  these  isles  when 

East  and  West,  without  a  breath, 

Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  Life  and  Death, 

To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 

On  this  night  the  blended  lights  of  sun 
and  moon  lent  a  dreary  poetry  to  the 
great  shadowy  Cuchullins,  the  most  beau- 
tiful mountain  group  in  Scotland,  and  as 
we  steamed  swiftly  past  an  ever-changing 
succession  of  "  glens,  and  bens,  and  cor- 
ries,"  the  night  seemed  still  )'Oung  when 
we  reached  Portree  (which  should  rather 
be  Portrigh  — the  King's  Port  —  whether 
so  named  in  honor  of  King  Haco,  or 
James  V.,  being  uncertain,)  and  realized^ 
that  it  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning," 
and  that  the  great  daystar  would  rise  ere 
we  sought  our  pillows  in  the  little  island 
capital. 

1  spoke  just  now  of  the  scarcity  of  tim- 
ber, which  is  so  marked  a  characteristic 
of  the  Isles.  Indeed  there  are  only  a  few 
scattered  nooks,  such  as  Armadale,  Dun- 
vegan*  and  Greshernish,  where  trees  make 
any  head  at  all.  Here  and  there,  some 
enterprising  person  determines  to  grow  a 
few  trees  near  his  home,  and  sinks  much 
good  gold  in  a  hopeless  struggle  to  over- 
come Nature.  He  surrounds  his  young 
plantation  with  a  high  stone  wall,  and  so 
far  protects  the  young  trees  as  to  enable 
them  to  get  a  fair  start,  and  all  promises 
well  till  the  day  when  his  nurslings  over- 
top the  guardian  wall  —  then  farewell  his 
hopes.  Ere  many  weeks  are  over,  the 
upper  boughs  of  his  hardiest  pines  are 
blasted  and  scorched,  as  if  by  the  breath 
of  a  furnace,  and  he  is  fain  to  submit  to 
the  inevitable,  and  resign  himself  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  bare  moorland. 

This  is  the  more  worthy  of  note,  as  it 


X48 


NOTES   OF   A   WANDERER   IN  SKYE. 


IS  certain  that  in  comparatively  recent 
times  many  parts  of  these  Isles  must  have 
been  well  wooded.  So  late  as  A.D.  1594* 
Dean  Munro  wrote  of  his  work  in  this 
diocese,  and  spoke  of  the  Isle  of  Pabba, 
a  small  island  lying  ofiE  Broadford,  as  be- 
ing **  full  of  wodes  and  a  main  shelter  for 
theives  and  cut-throats."  It  is  now  a  low, 
grassy  pasture,  without  the  vestige  of  a 
tree! 

Again,  near  Camusunary,  we  find  the 
Loch-na-Creich,  which  is  **  the  Lake  of 
the  Wooded  Valley."  The  valley  is  there, 
but  of  the  trees  there  survive  only  old 
stumps,  deeply  imbedded  in  the  peat- 
moss. This  is  also  the  case  in  many  ex- 
tensive districts,  where  remains  of  large 
trees,  both  hardwood  and  pine,  are  con- 
stantly dug  up  in  the  peat-moss;  indeed 
many  a  home  depends  wholly  for  its  light 
through  the  long,  dark,  winter  nights  on 
these  resinous  splinters,  and  great  is  the 
value  attached  to  the  knots  in  the  pine 
wood,  which  always  burn  with  the  bright- 
est flame. 

Strange  changes  indeed  must  succes- 
sive ages  have  witnessed  in  these  Isles,  if, 
as  Hugh  Miller  assures  us,  the  huge  rock 
rampart  which  forms  the  Scuir  of  £igg 
overlies  a  vast  forest  of  petrified  trees  — 
an  extinct  species  of  pine*  —  fossilized 
timber  which,  though  now  lying  deep  be- 
neath the  waves,  still  whispers  its  myste* 
rious  story  of  the  dark  coniferous  forests 
which  flourished  long  ere  that  mighty  co- 
lumnar cliff  was  upreared.  Now  it  stands 
fti  frowning  majesty,  towering  to  a  height 
of  thirteen  hundred  feet,  above  a  low, 
grassy  isle,  where  not  a  twig  grows  to 
suggest  kinship  with  those  antediluvian 
forests. 

Throughout  the  Isles  timber  is  a  rare 
and  precious  article,  most  frequently  the 
gift  of  ocean.  The  man  who  secures  a 
good  log  of  driftwood  has  obtained  a  prize 
worth  having.  It  may  have  been  a  brave 
old  tree,  tempest-torn  from  its  home  in 
some  distant  forest,  carried  to  the  sea  by 
rushing  torrents,  and  perchance  tossed  by 
the  waves,  and  wafted  to  and  fro  by  many 
a  current,  ere  it  drifted  to  its  rest  on  these 
far  Isles.  Or  it  may  be  the  mast  or  spars, 
or  perchance  the  cargo  of  some  wrecked 
vessel  —  whatever  its  story,  it  is  treasure- 
trove,  and  most  deeply  valued.  Though 
encrusted  with  barnacles  or  riddled  by 
pholades,  it  can  all  be  turned  to  good  ac- 
count: the  smallest  piece  will  make  a 
stool  or  a  settle,  or  a  box,  or  part  of  a 
door;  while  large  timbers  become  rafters 

*  PtMittt  Eiggtnti$t  an  ancteat  tree  of  the  Oolite. 


—  precious  heirlooms,  for  a  young  couple 
cannot  wed  till  they  have  accumulated 
enough  rafters  to  support  their  thatch, 
and  should  they  have  occasion  to  **  flit," 
the  only  part  of  their  bothy  that  com- 
mands any  pecuniary  compensation  is  the 
roof,  not  the  wood-work  only,  but  also  the 
heavy  thatch  saturated  with  thick,  greasy 
peat-reek  (in  other  words  with  a  thick 
coating  of  soot).  This,  when  broken  up, 
forms  a  valuable  manure  for  the  unfertile 
crofts. 

Poor  indeed  are  many  of  these  island 
homes,  generally  consisting  only  of  two 
room!( :  an  outer  byre  for  the  cattle,  and 
an  inner  room  for  the  family;  and  until 
recent  years,  all  such  bothies  had  a  fire- 
place in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  round 
which  the  whole  family  might  gather,  and 
equally  share  its  comfort.  But  now  most 
houses  have  the  fireplace  at  one  end  of 
the  house,  and  though  the  smoke  gener- 
allv  contrives  to  wander  at  will  among  the 
rafters  (forming  a  blue  haze,  stinging  to 
the  unaccustomed  eyes,  and  at  last  resolv- 
ing itself  into  the  rich  browns  so  dear  to 
the  artistic  mind),  it  does  sometimes  find 
a  wide,  open  chimney  prepared  for  its 
escape.  But  more  frequently  a  hole  in 
the  thatch  is  the  only  means  of  egress,  a 
hole  perhaps  crowned  with  an  old  herring- 
barrel  in  lieu  of  chimney-can;  this,  how- 
ever, is  an  elegant  superfluity,  to  which 
few  aspire.  All,  however,  must  take  the 
precaution  of  tying  on  their  roofs  with  a 
network  of  ropes,  and  weight  them  with 
large  stones,  in  order  to  resist  the  wild 
gusts  of  wind,  which  would  carry  off  any 
ordinary  cottage  roof. 

As  a  general  rule  these  bothies  are  too 
wretched  to  be  even  picturesque,  yet  here 
and  there  I  recall  one,  which,  happily 
rendered  on  canvas,  might  yield  to  the 
artist  more  gold  than  the  inmates  of  the 
hut  could  hope'  to  earn  in  all  their  lives. 
Such  a  one  I  noted  above  the  Falls  of 
the  Conan — a  sparkling  stream,  which, 
tumbling  noisily  over  a  dark  cliff,  flows 
past  a  quiet  old  kirkyard  into  Uig  Bay. 

The  little  river  glides  through  a  green 
valley,  in  which  are  piled  a  multitude  of 
conical  hillocks,  differing  in  size,  all  alike 
in  form,  and  like  tumuli  of  some  ancient 
giant  race.  All  are  marked  with  count- 
less concentric  rings,  which  may  either  be 
the  trace  of  ancient  water-marks,  or  else 
have  been  worn  by  the  footsteps  of  many 
sheep,  who  find  sweet  pasture  in  this 
flower-strewn  valley. 

I  had  wandered  up  this  quiet,  nameless 
dell,  gathering  fragrant  white  and  purple 
orchis,  and  trails  of  the  rich  honeysuckle 


NOTES   OF  A  WANDERER   IN   SKYE. 


149 


which  grows  so  freely  among  these  grey- 
rocks,  when  I  became  aware  of  the  scent 
of  burnt  oat-cakes,  mingled  with  peat- 
smoke,  very  pleasant  from  old  associa- 
tion. Presently  I  espied  a  light  curl  of 
blue  smoke,  which  guided  me  to  a  lonely 
sheiliog,  built  as  a  lean-to  against  a  great 
boulder  of  rock.  A  wealth  of  kindly 
honeysuckle  had  clambered  over  the 
heather  thatch,  and  in  the  bright  summer 
sunlight,  with  a  clear  blue  sky  overhead, 
it  was  indeed  a  study  for  a  painter. 

A  kindly  old  wife  welcomed  me,  and 
bade  me  enter.  She  *Miad  no  English," 
(as  the  phrase  is),  but  human  courtesies 
are  unmistakable,  and  not  even  the  '*  sav- 
age gutturals  **  of  the  Gaelic  tongue  could 
fail  to  convey  the  meaning,  seconded  by 
a  cordial  grip  from  a  kindly  old  hand  that 
doubtless  had  done  many  a  turn  of  hard 
work  in  its  day.  Within,  all  was  dark 
and  dingy,  walls  and  rafters  alike  coated 
with  the  rich  brown  peat-reek  of  many 
years.  The  window,  not  a  foot  square, 
was  darkened  by  the  honeysuckle,  so  the 
sole  ray  of  light  streamed  down  the  open 
chimney,  revealing  the  blue  smoke,  and 
falling  on  the  white  mutch  and  scarlet 
tartan  shawl  of  a  second  kindly-looking 
old  crone  who  sat  spinning  in  the  ingle- 
neuk,  while  occasionally  turning  the  large 
triangular  pieces  of  oat-cake,  the  fra- 
grance of  which  had  first  attracted  my 
notice. 

It  was  simple  fare,  but  no  Highlander 
will  deem  himself  ill  ofiE  so  long  as  there 
is  meal  in  the  kist,  and  **a  wee  pickle  of 
*taties "  •  safely  stored  for  winter  use. 
But  when  oats  and  potatoes  fail  utterly  — 
as  they  have  done  in  the  present  year  — 
when  the  fish  abandon  the  coast  —  and 
when  even  the  peat-stack,  which  alone 
represents  fuel,  is  all  destroyed  by  pro- 
longed rains  and  wild,  tempestuous  winds, 
then  in  truth  is  felt  the  pinch  of  an  exis- 
tence which  allows  for  no  margin,  and 
which  at  one  step  sinks  from  the  simple 
sufficiency  which  secures  content,  to  the 
cruel  pangs  of  want  and  starvation,  such 
as  now,  alas  !  weigh  so  heavily  on  all  the 
Isles  and  on  large  districts  of  the  main- 
land. 

But  the  season  In  which  I  visited  the 
Isles  was  one  of  plenty,  so  contentment 
reigned  in  all  these  humble  homes ;  and 
though  neither  cheerfulness  nor  alacrity 
are  insular  characteristics,  the  crofters 
were  all  busilv  employed  on  their  tiny 
patches  of  land. 

Poor  indeed  is  the  return  for  all  the 

•  Poutoes. 


labor  thus  expended.  At  the  best,  the 
farmer  only  looks  for  treble  his  outlay, 
and  if  he  sows  four  bolls  of  oats,  he  looks 
only  for  a  return  of  twelve  bolls;  but 
many  a  tiTne  even  this  modest  hope  is  dis- 
appointed, and  he  has  to  wait  with  sorely 
tried  patience,  while  his  poor  crop  lies 
rotting  in  the  drenching  rains  that  too 
often  continue  throughout  the  season  that 
should  have  been  harvest-time. 

But  if  a  fair  average  of  sun  ripens  his 
grain,  he  carries  it  to  some  breezy  knoll, 
and  there  threshes  it  with  a  little  flail,  and 
the  wind  separates  the  corn  from  the  chaH. 
Then  the  grain  required  for  the  day's  con- 
sumption is  dried  over  the  fire  in  an  iron 
pot,  and  thence  transferred  to  the  quern, 
the  primitive  old  hand-mill,  such  as  was 
used  by  our  ancestors,  in  common  with 
the  people  of  the  far  East. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  these  old 
querns  are  still  in  very  general  use ;  more 
modern  mills  have  gradually  come  into 
favor,  but  the  humble  hand-mills  are  still 
used  by  the  very  poor.  They  consist  of 
two  hard,  gritty,  flat  grindstones  laid 
horizontally  one  above  the  other.  The 
grain  is  poured  between  them,  through  a 
hole  in  the  centre  of  the  upper  stone, 
which  is  made  to  revolve  rapidly  by  means 
of  a  wooden  handle,  and  the  coarsely 
ground  meal  passes  between  the  stones, 
and  accumulates  on  a  cloth  spread  below. 

It  is  said  that  to  the  use  of  such  mills 
in  England  we  owe  the  well-known  saying 
concerning  an  idler  that  **Ae  will  never 
set  the  Thames  on  fire"  —  the  old  En- 
glish mill  being  known  as  a  ihammis^  the 
wood  of  which  sometimes  ignited  in  the 
hand  of  a  swift  worker  from  friction 
against  the  stone. 

Some  of  the  old  laws,  more  especially 
laws  ecclesiastical,  certainly  did  descend 
to  interfere  with  the  liberty  of  the  subject 
in  wondrously  trivial  matters.  As,  for 
instance,  when  the  General  Assembly  of 
the  Church  of  Scotland  regulated  how 
women  should  sit  in  church,  and  prohib- 
ited them  from  covering  their  heads  with 
the  customary  fold  of  their  plaid,  lest  they 
should  take  advantage  of  such  a  shelter 
to  sleep  unobserved  ! 

It  seems  that  till  long  after  the  Refor- 
mation there  were  no  pews  in  church  ex- 
cept those  set  apart  for  the  big  magistrates 
and  land-owners.  Humbler  men  brought 
their  own  benches  to  kirk  with  them,  and 
the  women  ventured  to  share  these  hard 
seats.  But  the  Kirk  Sessions  of  1597  for- 
bade such  familiarity.  1 1  was  enacted  that 
women  must  not  sit  on  the  forms  which 
men  should  occupy.    **A11  women  must 


ISO 


NOTES   OF  A  WANDERER  IN   SKYE. 


sit  together  in  the  kirk  and  sit  laigh  "  — 
that  is  to  say,  lowly,  on  the  ground! 
(Quite  a  South  Sea  Island  scene,  where 
men  and  women  sit  apart,  on  the  ground 
—  but  the  brown  races  at  least  provide 
themselves  with  mats  to  sit  upon.)  The 
Kirk  Sessions  were  on  the  alert  lest  the 
women  should  profit  by  this  lowly  posture 
and  sleep  in  peace,  so  they  ordered  that 
a  church  officer  should  periodically  go 
through  the  kirk  with  a  long  pole,  to  re- 
move the  plaids  from  the  heads  of  all 
women  whether  wives  or  maids.  The 
same  enactment  was  recorded  in  the  year 
1649,  and  at  various  subsequent  periods. 

It  was  forcibly  recalled  to  my  memory 
by  seeing  some  of  these  bonnie  Skye 
lassies  wno,  ignoring  the  ecclesiastical 
regulations,  ventured  to  appear  in  the  kirk 
at  Uig  with  their  plaids  so  folded  as  to 
form  a  hood,  a  simple  and  becoming  head- 
gear—  oh!  how  immeasurably  superior 
to  the  smart  bonnets  and  g^udy  imitation 
flowers  which  disfigured  most  of  their 
neighbors. 

Very  picturesque  is  a  great  sacramental 
gathering  in  some  lovely  valley,  selected 
as  being  a  central  position,  not  too  diffi- 
cult of  access  to  allow  of  the  assembling 
of  a  large  concourse  of  the  people.  Such 
"preachings'*  become  great  open-air 
camp-meetings,  and  often  continue  for  a 
week,  but  where  the  people  contrive  to 
find  shelter  at  night,  or  in  stormy  weather, 
I  cannot  imagine. 

I  had  been  present  at  such  a  meeting, 
where  about  three  thousand  persons  had 
assembled  on  one  of  the  wildest  parts  of 
the  Ross-shire  coast  Glancing  over  the 
bleak,  barren  wilderness  of  brown  hills,  it 
seemed  as  though  they  could  never  have 
yielded  so  large  a  congregation.  But  so 
It  was.  Every  shepherd's  hut,  every  lowly 
bothie,  or  village,  or  isle  within  forty 
miles  had  sent  its  inmates  —  some  on 
foot,  others  by  boat.  Not  the  strong  and 
healthy  only,  but  even  poor,  semi-paraivzed 
sufferers  who  had  toiled  and  crawled  for 
many  weary  days  — sometimes  even  crawl- 
ing on  hands  and  knees  — r  that  they  might 
be  present  on  the  great  day  of  the  feast ! 
Not,  however,  necessarily  m  the  charac- 
ter of  communicants,  for  I  noticed  on  that 
day,  that  of  the  three  thousand  assembled 
on  the  hillside,  only  eighty  (the  youngest 
of  whom  was  a  shepherd  upwards  of  forty 
years  of  ageX  drew  near  to  the  Ions  table, 
covered  with  fair  white  linen,  round  which 
were  gathered  this  handful,  passing  the 
sacred  cup  and  bread  from  band  to  hand. 
All  the  others,  who  had  assembled  from 
so  far  to  be  present,  were  deterred  from  a 


nearer  approach  by  the  awful  warnings 
known  as  '*  fencing  the  tables,"  whereby 
the  sick  and  sad-hearted  are  too  often 
turned  away  sorrowing,  while  those  only 
who  answer  to  a  human  standard  of  goocf- 
ness  may  approach  the  table  of  the  Great 
Physician. 

It  is  rare  indeed  that  our  grey  Isles 
produce  a  scene  so  striking  as  that  great 
company,  seated  on  the  grass,  or  cluster- 
ing up  the  side  of  the  hill,  amid  russet 
brackens  and  grey  rocks  —  the  old  wives 
with  large  white  handkerchiefs  tied  over 
their  clean,  white-frilled  caps,  many  of 
them  oversliadowed  by  large,  blue  cotton 
umbrellas,  to  shade  them  from  the  really 
oppressive  heat  of  an  unclouded  sun. 
But  the  men  all  sat  bare-headed,  gazing 
earnestly  at  the  preacher,  as  though  drink- 
ing in  and  critically  weighing  every  word 
he  uttered.  All  were  dressed  alike,  in 
suits  of  strong,  dark-blue  home? pun,  and 
all  had  broad  blue  bonnets.  (The  kilt 
never  seems  to  have  found  favor  in  the 
Isles,  where  the  shepherds,  as  well  as 
their  seafaring  kinsmen,  have  adhered  to 
one  uniform  garb.) 

On  the  rocky  hill  above  this  human 
congregation,  stood  groups  of  rich-colored, 
rough  Highland  cattle,  with  wide-spread 
horns,  and  large,  wondering  eyes,  wonder- 
ingly  watching  the  movements  of  the  in- 
vaders. At  our  feet  lay  the  great  calm 
ocean,  in  which  lay  mirrored  not  only  the 
near  cliffs,  but  even  the  grand  Skye  hills, 
which  seemed  to  float  above  the  hot, 
misty  haze.  And  mingling  with  the  voice 
of  the  speaker  came  the  distant  cries  of 
sea-birds,  with  now  and  again  the  nearer 
crow  of  grouse  or  blackcock. 

Vividly  remembering  this  scene,  I  was 
the  less  astonished,  when,  one  day  as  I 
sat  sketching,  from  a  lonely  turn  on  the 
bleak  road  from  Portree,  1  found  an  al- 
most continuous  stream  of  very  tidy  folk 
passing  onwards  towards  the  rock-wilder- 
ness, and  on  inquiry  learned  that  they 
were  all  bound  for  sacramental  preaching 
on  a  hillside  many  miles  distant.  Many 
of  these  people  had  already  walked  thirty 
miles,  and  purposed  devoting  a  week  to 
this  expedition,  being  apparently  endowed 
with  wonderful  faith  in  the  weather,  which 
on  this  occasion  surpassed  their  brightest 
hopes.  And,  indeed,  the  weather  in  Skye 
is  always  in  earnest.  When  it  rains,  it 
rains,  and  no  mistake.  But  when  the  sun 
shines,  its  glory  is  tenfold,  and  when  fair 
weather  does  set  in,  which  occasionally 
happens,  especially  in  spring  and  early 
summer,  then  it  is  indeed  a  season  of  de* 
light. 


KOISS  OF  A   WANDERER  IN   SKYE. 


'S? 


•  So  macb  of  the  grandest  scenery  of 
Skye  lies  along  the  seacoast,  that  who- 
ever would  truly  enjoy  it  must  necessarily 
travel  by  water.  Indeed  to  those  who 
dwell  in  the  Isles,  the  possession  of  a 
small  yacht,  or  at  least  of  a  20od  sailing- 
boat,  is  not  merely  a  luxury,  but  a  down- 
right necessity,  for  even  to  get  from  point 
to  point  of  any  one  island  probably  in< 
volves  a  most  toilsome  land  journey, 
whereas  by  sea  it  may  be  only  a  short  and 
beautiful  sail,  flying  before  a  favoring 
breeze,  or  gliding  silently  through  air  and 
water  —  the  only  method  yet  practicable, 
by  which  to  combine  the  delights  of  mo- 
tion and  stillness.  Besides,  it  would  be 
altogether  too  tantalizing  to  be  always 
living  within  sight  of  other  isles  without 
possessing  the  means  of  exploring  them. 

Happily  for  me,  my  hospitable  host,  the 
Laird  of  Kilmuir,  owned  a  beautiful  little 
yacbt  named  the  "  Gannet,"  in  compli- 
ment to  the  sea-gulls ;  and  many  a  delight- 
ful day  we  spent,  borne  by  her  white 
wings  across  the  merry  green  waves. 
Each  day  we  sailed  just  so  far  as  seemed 
desirable,  gliding  silently  over  the  wa- 
ter ;  and  at  night  anchoring  in  some  quiet 
haven  under  the  lee  of  some  bluff  head- 
land. Then  lowering  our  tiny  boat,  we 
rowed  close  in  shore,  to  explore  wonderful 
caves  and  cliffs,  landing  in  all  manner  of 
lonely  spots,  haunted  by  sea-fowl  or  weird 
Mack  cormorants,  and  sometimes  coming 
to  grassy  isles,  colonized  by  multitudes  of 
rabbits  —  no  mean  addition  to  our  larder. 

One  most  fascinating  anchorage  lies 
just  below  Duntulm  Castle,  a  very  strik- 
mg  ruin,  crowning  a  great  stack  of  clus- 
tering basaltic  pillars  which  rise  perpen- 
dicularly from  the  sea.  On  either  side  of 
it,  and  in   the  background,  lie  smooth, 

Srassy  slopes,  all  alike  crested  with  red- 
isb  columnar  basalt,  while  above  all, 
towers  the  great,  grassy  mountain, 
crowned  by  the  black  crags  of  the  Qui- 
rang. 

The  name  of  Duntulm  —  signifying  the 
Castle  of  the  Grassy  Hillock  —  seems 
strangely  inapplicable  to  any  one  first  ap- 
proaching it  from  the  sea;  but  from  the 
land  side  the  basaltic  columns  are  not 
seen ;  and  the  old  castle  seems  peacefully 
placed  on  a  grassy  headland.  It  was  one 
of  the  finest  holdings  of  the  old  Lords  of 
the  Isles,  and  indeed  was  their  original 
home,  built  on  the  site  of  an  old  viking 
fort.  Of  course  its  seaward  front  formed 
a  grand  natural  fortification;  and  the 
thickness  of  the  walls  still  tells  of  times 
when  only  security  was  sought,  and  lux- 
ury was  unheeded* 


I  From  the  clear  waters  of  Duntulm  Bay 
rises  a  pleasant  little  island,  which,  like 
all  the  headlands  in  the  neighborhood, 
consists  of  an  easy  slope  of  grass,  ending 
seaward  in  a  precipitous  clin.  This  was 
a  favorite  spot  on  which  to  land  in  the 
early  morning,  and,  in  defiance  of  the 
drenching  dews,  climb  to  the  summit  of 
the  crag,  and  thence  look  down  into  the 
depths  of  the  clear  green  waters.  Such 
an  invasion  was  always  sorely  resented 
by  the  gannets  and  other  sea-birds,  which 
here  make  their  homes,  and  testified  their 
anger  by  again  and  again  swooping  past 
us,  flapping  their  great  white  wings  close 
to  us,  and  uttering  shrill,  piercing  cries, 
as  if  to  bid  us  begone. 

Very  tempting  is  it  to  explore  some  of 
the  great  rock  caves,  but  nevertheless,  it 
is  rarely  safe,  for  a  sudden  swell  is  apt  to 
rise  in  the  outer  sea,  while  within  all 
seems  dead  calm,  and  escape  may  prove 
difficult,  as  I  experienced  on  one  occa- 
sion, when,  beguiled  by  the  loveliness  of 
a  fairy-like  cave  in  Kilmaluoc  Bay,  I  lin- 
gered within  its  sheltering  walls,  totally 
unconscious  that  a  heavy  ground-swell 
had  set  in,  which  made  it  a  difficult  mat- 
ter to  regain  the  yacht 

The  cave  in  question  was  a  circular  ba« 
sin,  whose  rocky  sides  were  tunnelled  bv 
several  long,  deep  caves.  To  this  shel* 
tered  spot  we  gained  access  by  a  low 
archway  in  the  rock,  and  found  ourselves 
floating  on  the  calmest  emerald  water, 
through  whose  transparent  depths  we 
could  see  our  own  shaaow  resting  on  the 
yellow  sand  far  below.  Far  overhead  was 
the  blue  canopy  of  sunlit  sky,  seen  through 
a  frame  of  waving  grasses  and  tall  fox- 
gloves, while  clusters  of  tremulous  blue- 
bells, or  tufts  of  purple  heather,  shone, 
gem-like,  from  all  the  crevices  of  the  rock. 
It  was  a  true  home  for  the  fairies,  but 
their  only  representatives  were  tiny  jelly- 
fish with  delicate  lilac  frinee,  which  floated 
among  the  pink « seaweeds  in  the  clear 
waters. 

Another  delightful  anchorage  was  Loch 
Staffin,  which,  like  the  Isle  of  Staffa, 
takes  its  name  from  the  perpendicular 
stacks  of  columnar  basalt,  towering  in 
three  distinct  masses,  from  the  summit  of 
green  banks  which  slope  gently  down  to 
the  water's  edge,  where  yellow  sands  offer 
a  most  tempting  bathing-ground ;  a  temp- 
tation of  which  we  were  not  slow  to  take 
advantage. 

From  this  point,  the  row  along  the  coast 
is  especially  beautiful;  and  its  wonders 
are  vastly  enhanced  by  taking  advantage 
of  the  early  morning  hours^  while  the  sua 


«s« 


NOTES   OF  A  WANDERER   IN   SKYE. 


is  still  in  the  east,  lighting  up  every  crev- 
ice of  the  cliffs,  and  bringing  out  the  form 
of  each  rock-mass  in  strong  relief  of  light 
and  shadow.  I  have  seen  the  same  coast 
in  the  deep  gloom  of  afternoon  shade, 
and  have  looked  in  vain  for  its  thousand 
beauties. 

A  most  wonderful  headland  is  that 
known  as  the  Kilt  Rock,  because  of  its 
strangely  varied  strata  and  colors,  which 
to  the  eye  of  a  Highlander  are  really  sug- 
gestive of  tartan.  The  summit  of  the 
headland  is  crowned  with  the  largest  ba- 
saltic pillars  of  the  Isles  —  very  much 
larger  than  those  of  Staff  a.  These  ver- 
tical columns  of  brown,  red,  and  yellow, 
rest  on  horizontal  strata  of  oolitic  lime- 
stone, oolitic  freestone  and  shale,  alter- 
nating with  green  layers  of  grass,  and 
forming  a  singular  combination  of  natural 
colors.  On  the  summit  of  this  headland 
lies  Loch  Mialt,  a  sedgy  pool  haunted  by 
many  wild-fowl.  Thence  flows  a  stream, 
which  overleaps  the  cliff,  forming  a  col- 
umn of  white  spray,  three  hundred  feet  in 
depth. 

Still  more  remarkable,  as  a  geological 
curiosity,  is  a  long  layer  of  pale  grey 
oolite,  lying  just  above  the  sea-level ;  and 
in  whicn  are  imbedded  a  number  of  great 
round  boulders,  like  huge  black  cannon- 
balls. 

Passing  by  these,  we  landed  at  Lon 
Fern,  where  black  volcanic  rocks,  smaller 
but  of  even  quainter  form  than  those  of 
Qui  rang,  are  grouped  together  in  strange 
confusion,  and  near  here  1  quite  unex- 
pectedly found  my  way  to  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  scenes  it  has  been  my  good 
fortune  to  witness  in  any  land.     My  com- 

{>anions  had  gone  to  visit  a  large  farm  in- 
and,  and  I  had  lingered  near  the  rough 
shelter  where  the  salmon-fishers  make 
their  abode  —  the  modest  sheiling  of  loose 
stones,  heaped  up  between  great  rock 
boulders,  whence,  at  the  earliest  glimmer 
of  the  dawn,  they  go  forth  to  haul  in  the 
nets,  and  see  what  speed  the  night  tide 
has  brought  them. 

As  1  idly  wandered  up  a  long,  grassy 
slope  called  Rhu-na-Braten,  —  the  Salm- 
on's Headland,  so  called  because  the  beau- 
tiful silvery  fish  love  to  lie  in  the  clear 
water  below  —  I  suddenly  found  that  I  had 
reached  the  highest  point,  and  stood  on 
the  brink  of  an  abrupt  precipice,  while  far 
below  me  lay  the  calm  sea,  and  all  along 
the  coast  a  series  of  sunny  bays,  each 
enclosed  by  great  masses  of  columnar 
basalt,  all  alike  forming  the  seaward  ram- 
part of  green  hills  of  richest  pasture. 
Beyond  the  near  headlands  towered  the 


Storr,  a  mountain  similar  in  character  to 
the  Quirang,  namely,  a  smooth  grass  slope, 
presenting  to  the  sea  a  precipitous  mass 
of  broken  crag  two  thousand  feet  in 
height.  Confused  piles  of  rock  lie  tossed 
about  in  every  direction,  like  ruins  of 
some  city  of  the  giants,  now  silent  and 
desolate.  One  gigantic  rock  needle,  one 
hundred  and  sixty-five  feet  in  height,  and 
two  hundred  and  forty  feet  circumfer- 
ence at  the  base,  stancls  quite  separate 
from  the  cliff,  and  is  visible  for  many 
miles  on  either  side,  like  a  huge  horn,  cut- 
ting clear  against  the  sky.  This  mighty 
monolith,  which  bears  an  extraordinary 
resemblance  to  the  double  horn  of  a  rhi- 
noceros, rises  from  a  rock  pedestal,  a 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  Arouqd  its 
base  floated  light  vapors,  so  that  this  won- 
drous citadel,  with  all  its  rock  towers  and 
turrets,  rose  eerily  from  out  the  ever-shift- 
ing clouds. 

Another  huge  basalt  needle  rose  from 
the  shore  immediately  below  me,  its  sum- 
mit being  level  with  the  headland  oa 
which  I  stood. 

All  this  wonderful  piece  of  coast  scen- 
ery was  but  the  foreground  to  the  beau- 
tiful blue  Cuchullin  and  Sconsor  Hills; 
and  the  wild  mountain  ranges  of  Torridon, 
Gairlock,  and  Applecross  (on  the  main- 
land), seemed  to  rise  like  pale  spirits  from 
the  waters,  scarcely  to  be  distinguished 
from  the  soft,  silvery-grey  clouds  which 
floated  in  the  blue  sky.  Not  a  sign  of 
human  life  and  toil  were  there,  save  a  few 
far-distant  herring- boats,  with  ruddy  brown 
sails.  It  was  a  scene  of  indescribable 
peace  and  loveliness. 

That  very  day,  however,  taught  roe  a 
practical  lesson  on  the  caprice  of  ocean. 
1  turned  to  leave  the  beautiful  headland, 
with  the  prospect  of  an  evening  row  as 
lovely  as  that  which  we  had  so  enjoyed  in 
the  morning,  but  ere  I  reached  the  shore, 
a  sharp  breeze  had  sprung  up,  long,  heavy 
waves  were  breaking  heavily  on  the  rocks, 
and  the  boatmen  declared  they  could  never 
take  us  back  to  the  yacht  in  such  a  sea, 
though  they  might  manage  the  empty 
boat.  So  it  was  determined  that  we  must 
make  the  best  of  our  way  by  land,  a  weary 
six  miles*  tramp  along  the  top  of  the  cliff, 
where  we  found  a  fairly  level  road,  but 
could  see  nothing,  for  a  dense  grey  mist 
enfolded  us  on  every  side,  magnifying 
every  sheep,  and  every  rocky  boulder  into 
some  ghost-like  semblance.  We  passed 
by  the  desolate  loch,  startling  the  wild- 
fowl, who  added  their  sharp  cries  to  the 
chorus  of  shrill  whistling  kept  up  by  the 
curlews  and  plovers,  who  never  ceased  to 


NOTES   OF  A  WANDERER  IN  SKYE. 


^53 


circle  round  us  til)  we  reached  the  little 
10D  at  Stencholl,  where  the  good  landlady 
gave  us  creature  comforts  in  the  form  of 
good  milk  and  scenes,  and  a  thorough 
drying  at  a  blazing  peat  fire,  ere  we  re- 
turned to  our  night  quarters  on  board  the 
yacht,  which  lay  in  comparative  shelter, 
under  the  lee  ol  the  sheltering  crags. 

The  morrow  proved  calm  and  beautiful, 
as  though  no  storm-wave  could  ever  vex 
the  glassy  surface  of  ocean,  and  all  the 
shapely  mountain  peaks  from  Torridon  to 
Applecross  lay  in  unclouded  loveliness. 
On  the  yellow  sands  stood  a  group  of 
small  Highland  cattle,  the  rich  browns  and 
yellows  of  their  rough  coats  recalling  the 
tones  of  the  sea-ware  from  which  they 
were  licking  salt,  while  some  waded  into 
the  water  as  if  to  escape  from  the  heat  of 
the  summer  sun. 

Looking  seaward,  we  could  discern 
many  islands  of  varied  form,  but  all  pos- 
sessing the  one  characteristic  of  a  sloping 
face  of  smooth  grass  to  the  west,  and  a 
precipitous  face  turned  eastward.  Curi- 
ously enough,  this  position,  as  regards  the 
points  of  the  compass,  varies  at  some 
parts  of  the  coast. 

Dunve<?an  is  especially  favored  in  its 
surroundings,  having  a  background  of 
woods,  Skye*s  rarest  treasure.  Here  I 
landed  at  early  dawn,  and  gathered  a 
store  of  wild  flowers,  including  golden 
mimulus,  which  was  growing  in  rich  pro- 
fusion. 

The  early  morning  was  bright  and 
beautiful,  every  outline  of  the  hills  clear, 
and  every  detail  of  the  castle  reflected 
faultlessly  in  the  clear  green  water,  on 
which  not  a  ripple  stirred.  Too  soon 
however,  the  cloucfs  lowered,  and  ere  Mac- 
leod's  piper  had  finished  his  morning 
greeting  from  the  castle  terrace,  pitiless 
rain  had  set  in.  Nevertheless,  in  answer 
to  a  cordial  welcome  from  old  friends,-we 
returned  ashore  after  breakfast,  and,  pass- 
ing up  the  steep  ascent  to  the  castle,  (a 
path  trodden  by  the  foot  of  many  a  hero 
of  old  romance  in  the  days  of  fighting  and 
forays,  Norsemen  and  Danes),  we  entered 
by  the  drawbridge  which  spans  the  moat, 
and  spent  a  delightful  day  in  the  sea-^irt 
fortress,  exploring  its  dungeons,  conjur- 
ing up  dreams  of  the  turbulent  feasts  and 
frays  which  these  old  walls  have  wit- 
nessed—  feasts  at  which  figured  a  pre- 
cious drin king-cup,  treasured  as  a  family 
heirloom. 

All  night  long  our  slumbers  were 
toothed  by  the  murmur  of  falling  waters, 
the  cradle-song  of  a  waterfall  close  to  the 
cattle,  which  is  ttill  known   at    Rorie  I 


Mhor*s  nurse,  because  that  big  knight 
loved  to  sleep  within  sound  of  its  lulla- 
bies. 

Once  more  we  sailed  round  the  beauti* 
ful  northern  coast  of  Skye,  but  this  time 
all  was  dim  and  grey.  A  cheerless  dawn 
broke  over  a  cheerless  land.  The  wind 
moaned  sullenly,  and  the  dull  sea  was 
all  leaden-hued.  We  looked  to  the  pale 
misty  crags,  which  on  our  last  cruise  had 
appeared  so  glorious,  as  the  clear  morning 
sun  had  lighted  up  their  rich  basalt,  and 
marvelled  at  the  transformation  wrought 
by  mere  atmospheric  effect. 

Happily  the  skies  cleared  ere  we 
reached  Portree,  where  we  found  our- 
selves becalmed,  and  had  ample  time  to 
row  about  that  fine  sea-loch,  fishing  and 
sketching  from  all  points.  The  loch, 
which  is  perfectly  land-locked,  naturally 
divides  itself  into  an  inner  and  an  outer 
harbor,  which  of  old  were  dedicated  to 
the  great  saints  of  the  Isles. 

Joyously  the  hours  sped  as  we  rowed 
about  on  those  calm  waters  —  sometimes 
landing  in  some  quiet  creek,  where  the 
wavelets  rippled  over  fine  white  sand,  and 
kindly  rocks  gave  us  shelter  from  the 
noonday  sun;  or  else,  seeking  some 
heathery  knoll,  we  lingered  amid  its  fra- 
grant purple,  till  we  saw  the  sun  sink  be« 
yond  the  ocean,  and  in  the  golden  gloam- 
ing returned  to  our  floating  home. 

After  a  while  we  craved  for  a  nearer 
view  of  the  great,  beautiful  Cuchullin 
hills,  so  leaving  Portree,  we  started  for 
Sligachan  Inn,  which  stands  on  the  bor- 
ders of  Lord  Macdonald's  deer  forest  of 
Sconsor.  When  we  speak  of  a  forest  in 
these  parts,  it  is  alwa)'s  necessary  to  rec- 
ollect the  definition  of  a  forest  as  given 
in  Johnson*s  dictionary  as  *'an  unfilled 
tract  of  ground,"  else  we  shall  fall  into 
the  snare  of  the  innocent  tourist  who 
gazed  around  in  perplexity  and  stammered 
out,  **  But,  I  do  not  perceive  the  forest. 
Where  are  the  trees  ?  "  "  Trees  !  "  quoth 
the  Highlander, "  Wha  ever  heard  o*  trees 
in  a  forest  ?" 

Loch  Sligachan,  at  the  head  of  which 
stands  the  comfortable  little  inn,  is  a  long, 
narrow  fiord  navigable  for  yachts,  and 
running  so  far  inland  as  almost  to  touch 
the  base  of  the  great  hills.  The  inn 
stands  on  a  flat  peat-moss,  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  a  clear  brown  trout-stream  which 
rushes  down  wild  Glen  Sligachan  from  its 
birthplace  among  the  mountains. 

To  the  right  of  the  valley  tower  the 
Cuchullins,  a  magnificent  cluster  of  dark 
peaks,  eight  of  which  are  upwards  of  three 
thoutana  feet  in  height,  the  highest  being 


riS4 


NOTES  OF  A  WANDERER  IN   SKYE. 


Scoir-na-Gillean,  which  is  about  three 
thousand  two  hundred  feet.  It  owes  its 
name  (the  Hill  of  the  Young  Men)  to  a 
legend  telling  of  the  fate  of  two  lads  who 
perished  in  the  attempt  to  scale  its  dark 
crags. 

These,  and  Mount  Blabhein  (pro- 
Dounced  Blaven),  a  ninth  peak  of  similar 
height  on  the  left  side  of  the  valley,  are 
all  of  the  same  formation  —  that  very  dark 
greenish-black  rock  known  to  geologists 
as  gabbro,  though  often  erroneously  called 
hypersthenite,  which  reveals  itself  in  hard, 
bare  crags,  cutting  against  the  sky  in 
strangely  serrated  outline,  and  generally 
gaining  intensified  solemnity  from  the 
deep  cloud  shadows  resting  on  the  sum- 
mits. 

In  strangest  contrast  with  these  dark 
mountains  deeply  furrowed  with  wild 
ravines,  are  a  range  of  rounded  conical 
red  hills,  composed  of  strangely  disin- 
tegrated syenite  and  porphyritic  rock,  and 
singularly  free  from  any  deep  glens  or  well- 
denned  crags.  These  huge  piles  of  pale 
flesh-colored  rock  and  gravel  are  all  water- 
worn  by  the  torrents  which  rush  down, 
literally  from  the  clouds.  Thev  are  cer- 
tainly more  curious  than  beautiful,  though 
a  brilliant  carpet  of  grass  has  contrived  to 
clothe  their  lower  slopes,  and  by  its  vivid 
green  tells  of  the  ever-recurring  rain- 
storms and  sunny  gleams  which  nurture 
it. 

Beautiful  indeed  is  the  three  hours* 
walk,  or  ride,  up  beautiful  Glen  Sligachan 
(for  the  sturdy  hill  ponies  are  not  much 
quicker  in  their  pace  than  is  a  good  walker 
on  this  rough  ground).  Wild  hills  rise 
high  on  every  side  of  you,  and  dark,  rocky 
crests  loom  ntfully  from  out  the  ever-shift- 
ing veils  of  floating  mist.  Exquisite  are 
the  gleams  of  brilliant  sunlight,  which 
ever  and  anon  burst  through  the  lowering 
clouds,  and  reveal  the  wealth  of  rich  color- 
ing of  moor  and  moss,  rock  and  stream ; 
but  above  all,  the  fairy-like  green  which 
contrasts  so  wondrously  with  the  pink 
hills.  We  pass  below  one  of  these  called 
Glamaig,  but  its  shoulder  Is  known  as 
Scuir-na-Mairi,  the  Crag  of  Mary,  who 
perished  in  the  attempt  to  rescue  her 
wandering  cow. 

Exquisite  indeed  was  the  coloring  of 
Loch  Scavaig,  a  sea-loch  of  clear,  trans- 
parent green,  connected  with  Loch  Cor- 
ruisk  by  a  rushing  river  of  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  in  length.  It  affords  a  haven 
for  fishing-boats  and  yachts,  a  good  an- 
choraze  and  perfectly  land-locked — yet 
aot  absolutely  secure,  so  mightily  do  the 
wild  gales  sweep  down  the  ravines.    Great 


iron  rings  are  fastened  to  the  rocks  on 
either  side,  and  to  these,  vessels  at  anchor 
are  moored  in  order  to  secure  themselves 
against  sudden  squalls  —  the  space  being 
so  confined  as  to  allow  of  no  swing. 

I  know  of  no  spot  on  earth  where  a 
more  striking  contrast  of  color  is  exhib- 
ited  than  in  this  cluster  of  lochs;  the 
fresh  water  so  sombre,  like  darkest  in- 
digo; the  salt  water  so  wondrously  greeo. 
And  beyond  Loch  Scavaig  we  look  away 
to  the  broad  blv^  ocean,  from  which,  clear 
and  beautiful  in  form,  rise  the  shapely 
mountains  of  the  Isle  of  Rum,  and  a  faint 
indication  of  the  low  shores  of  Canna  and 
other  isles.  Not  one  faint  haze  clouded 
any  outline,  save  where  pale  films  of  blue 
smoke  curled  upward  from  the  tiny  boats, 
telling  that  the  fishers  were  cooking  their 
newly  captured  herring. 

If  our  first  glimpse  of  Corruisk  did  not 
realize  our  high-pitched  expectations,  sul> 
sequent  visits  on  gloomier  days  amplv 
made  amends,  and  each  time  we  returnecf, 
we  found  deeper  delight  in  the  wild  ride 
up  Glen  Sligachan,  and  in  the  dark  valley 
where  the  deep  blue-black  tarns  gleam 
like  black  diamonds  beside  the  emerald 
sea-loch. 

Sometimes  we  varied  our  route,  by  in* 
vading  the  Hart  o'  Corrie,  a  deep,  dark 
gorge,  running  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
Cuchullins,  which  rise  on  every  side  ia 
mighty  crags  —  ash-colored,  seamed  with 
a  green  mineral  that  is  well-nigh  black, 
and  streaked  with  tremulous  lines  of 
white,  that  tell  of  rushing  waters.  It  is 
the  loneliest,  most  solemnly  silent  glea 
known  to  roe  in  Britain-* or  perhaps  ia 
any  land.  Yet  there  have  been  times 
when  these  dark  crags  have  re-echoed  the 
shouts  of  war,  and  the  heather  has  beea 
stained  with  the  blood  of  brave  men. 
Thus  the  rugged  mountain  overhanging 
Corruisk  bears  the  name  of  Strona  Stree, 
or  the  Hill  of  Strife,  in  memory  of  a  fierce 
struggle  between  jealous  chiefs  for  pos- 
session of  its  bare  and  rugged  cliffs. 

Again,  Corrie-na-Criech,  the  Corrie  of 
the  Fight,  a  deep,  dark  gorge  at  the  back 
of  Strona  Stree,  is  the  spot  where  the 
MacLeods  surprised  the  Macdonalds  ia 
the  act  of  dividing  the  spoil,  gathered  ia 
a  foray  on  their  own  homes.  Swift  re- 
venge ensued,  and  many  a  sturdy  clans- 
roan  here  fell  to  rise  no  more. 

In  the  Hart  o*  Corrie  itself  a  great 
boulder  of  red  rock,  called  the  *'  Bloody 
Stane,*'  marks  the  scene  of  a  fierce  battle 
which  was  here  fought  by  the  three  great 
families  of  MacLeod,  Macdonald,  and 
MacAUister,  whose  lands  then,  as  at  tb^ 


KX)R  LITTLE  LIFE. 


«ss 


fjresent  day,  met  at  this  very  spot.  So 
each  clan  buried  its  dead  on  their  own 
ground,  and  this  it  is  which  makes  the 
spot  so  especially  eerie,  for  every  High- 
lander knows  well  tliat  the  fairies  fashion 
their  bows  and  arrows  from  the  ribs  of 
men  buried  where  the  lands  of  three  lairds 
meet. 

Many  a  wild  legend  clings  to  these 
misty  peaks  and  craggy  glens  —  tales  of 
the  shadowy  heroes  o!  ancient  days,  such 
as  are  recorded  in  the  dreamy  poems  of 
Ossian.  One  of  these  tells  how,  in  the 
days  when  the  shores  of  Loch  Scavaig 
were  haunted  by  fierce  wild  boars,  the 
chief  of  the  Mackinnons,  in  following^a 
wounded  red  deer,  left  all  his  followers  far 
behind.  He  found  shelter  for  the  night 
in  a  cave  on  the  edge  of  the  loch,  and 
there,  having  kindled  a  fire,  prepared  to 
broil  some  of  his  venison  on  the  embers. 
In  one  hand  he  held  a  large  bone,  from 
which  he  was  cutting  slices,  ready  for 
dressing,  when  a  rustle  on  the  dry  sea- 
weed at  the  mouth  of  the  cave  made  him 
look  up.  To  his  horror  he  beheld  a  sav- 
age wild  boar,  in  the  act  of  charging 
him,  with  gaping  jaws  and  terrible  tusks. 
Quick  as  thou^^ht  he  grasped  the  bone 
more  firmly  in  his  hand,  and  as  the  grizzly 
brute  came  upon  him,  be  dashed  his  arm 
down  its  throat,  and  the  cross-bone  held 
the  cruel  jaws  wide  open,  leaving  him  full 
time  to  despatch  the  foe  with  his  hunting- 
knife.  It  is  in  memory  of  this  feat  that 
the  Mackinnons,  to  this  day,  bear  as  their 
crest  a  boar's  head,  open-mouthed,  appar- 
ently choked  by  a  great  bone. 

It  is  somewhat  curious  that  Oxford 
should  possess  a  literary  version  of  this 
legend,  telling  how  a  student  of  Queen's 
College  was  wandering  in  Shotover  Wood, 
deep  in  the  study  of  a  volume  of  Aristotle, 
when  he  too  was  charged  bv  an  open- 
mouthed  wild  boar.  He  had  the  presence 
of  mind  to  thrust  Aristotle  down  the 
brute's  throat,  and  certainly  no  wild  boar 
was  ever  more  efiFectually  choked.  This 
happy  deliverance  is  still  annually  com- 
memorated, when  the  boar's  head  is  car- 
ried into  hall,  with  all  due  ceremony,  to 
grace  the  Christmas  dinner  at  Queen's 
College. 

These  are  but  samples  of  the  most 
prosaic,  ungible  legends  of  the  Cuchul- 
lins.  Many  others  there  are,  dreamy  and 
poetic  as  the  natural  surroundings  which 
gave  them  birth.  Weird,  shadowy  leg- 
ends, in  which  the  wild  ocean  and  rocks, 
dreary  moorlands  and  stormy  mountains, 
sea-foam  and  drifting  vapor,  wraiths  and 
.spirits  of  earthy  sea,  and  air,  are  all  inter- 


woven with  each  heroic  deed,  and  magni- 
fied by  the  mists  of  ages,  ever  gaining  in 
poetic  imagerv  as  repeated  by  successive 
generations  ot  these  untutored  children  of 
the  mist,  than  whom  no  race  exists  more 
keenly  sensitive  to  all  spiritual  influences, 
of  whatever  nature. 

Day  after  day  glided  by  in  calm  delight, 
as  we  watched  the  ever* varying  aspect  of 
the  hills,  in  sun  and  storm.  Autumn  was 
now  creeping  on,  and  though  the  hills 
were  often  cloud-capped  all  day  long, 
there  were  sometimes  dawns  of  wondrous 
beauty,  when  the  cloudless  sky  was  of  a 
pale-lemon  color.  Whenever  I  awoke  to 
see  this  sign,  I  stole  out  of  the  little  inn, 
where  as  yet  few  if  any  were  astir,  and 
wending  my  way  to  the  shore,  watched 
for  the  red  light  which  I  knew  must 
quickly  overspread  the  dark  mountain 
summits.  The  brown  peat-moss  and  the 
great  mountains  were  all  enfolded  in  pur- 
ple shadow,  and  their  image  lay  mirrored 
in  the  calm  sea-loch.  Then  came  the 
touch  of  rosy  light  on  each  tall  peak  — <- 

A  cluster  of  Heaven's  own  roses 

—  and  soon,  the  whole  mass  gleamed 
crimson  in  the  clear,  frosty  air.  It  was 'a 
vision  of  beauty  which  far  more  than 
compensated  for  the  long,  grey  day  which 
sometimes  followed  —  days  too  often  of 
such  heavy  rain  as  drove  artists  to  de- 
spair, and  filled  us  with  compassion  for 
luckless  tourists,  with  sadly  limited  time 
at  their  disposal. 

But  often  towards  evening  the  storm 
relented.  The  clouds  lifted,  and  we  were 
able  to  watch  glorious,  ever-changing  ef- 
fects of  sunset  and  gloaming  play  over 
the  beautiful  mountains,  Blaven  and  all 
his  solemn  brethren,  now  ashy  grey  as 
the  heron's  wing,  rearing  dark  crests 
against  a  pale-green  sky,  while  Marskow 
and  Glamaig  glowed  ruddier  and  more 
golden  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun* 


From  ChambeiV  JoaniaL 
POOR  LITTLE  LIFE. 

A  FAMILY  EPISODE. 

Poor  little  life,  tbat  toddles  half  an  hour 
Crowned  with  a  flower  or  two,  and  there  an  end. 

L 

Perched  on  the  lofty  watch-tower  of 
the  Company's  wharf,  Kingston,  Jamaica, 
**Sir  Lord  ^felson  Esquire  "  had  been  oc- 
cupied since  daylight  in  looking  out  for 
the  English  steamer.    The  owner  of  this 


»S6 

self-bestowed  and  patrician  appellative 
was  an  old  negro  of  uncertain  age,  with 
leathery  skin,  grizzled  wool,  bandy  legs, 
and  bare  feet,  and  whose  powers  of  vision 
verged  on  the  miraculous.  Long  before 
thesteamer  was  visible  to  the  most  expe- 
rienced nautical  eye  armed  with  one  of 
DoIlond*s  best  glasses,  Lord  Nelson  had 
seen  the  tips  of  her  roasts  rising  above 
the  horizon.  Nay,  it  was  popularly  sup- 
posed that  before  she  was  actually  visible 
even  to  him,  he  was  able  to  prognosticate 
her  approach  by  certain  signs  in  the  sk^' 
itself,  whose  secret  be  guarded  as  if  it 
had  been  hidden  treasure. 

** Coming,  boy?"  inquired  the  clerk  at 
the  foot  of  the  scaffolding. 

"Yes,  massa;  him  coming,  fe  true. 
Him  pass  Morant  Point  now,  an'  de  pas- 
sengers dey  land  at  nine-thirty." 

'*  All  right,  then.     Hoist  the  flag ! " 

And  up  went  the  red  flag  on  the  top  of 
the  Gazebo,  giving  notice  to  all  Kingston 
that  the  anxiously  expected  "Rhone" 
was  in  the  offing. 

"  Cho !  dese  steps  is  mos'  distressful,*' 
said  the  old  negro,  descending  the  ladder 
backwards. 

"It's  you  that's  getting  old,  Nelson !  " 
said  the  clerk,  shaking  his  head.  "A 
roan  can't  live  forever,  even  an  old  sinner 
like  you.  Come  down  quickly,  and  go 
and  tell  Captain  Roberts.  You'll  find  the 
superintendent  in  his  ofEce." 

"  Dat  bery  true,  what  you  say,  Massa 
De  Souza,''  retorted  the  negro  with  a 
grunt.  "  But  if  you  tink  I  is  gwine  to  die 
to  oblige  you,  sa,  you  is  bery  much  mis- 
taken. Hi !  after  my  fader  lib  till  he 
couldn't  lib  any  longer,  do  you  tink  me  is 
gwine  to  die,  jus'  becausing  you  say  I  is 
getting  old.  Cho!  it  'tan  too  'tupid." 
And  the  old  man,  having  thus  clenched 
the  argument,  retired  with  many  a  sni£f 
and  snigger  and  chuckle  of  satisfaction  to 
obey  Mr.  De  Souza's  commands. 

Seven  miles  away,  in  the  upper  piazza 
of  one  of  the  largest  "  penns  "  in  the  Li- 
guanea  plains,  a  group  of  fair  girls  were 
seated  over  their  morning  coffee.  Clad 
in  loose  white  muslin  dressing-gowns,  with 
long,  dark  hair  floating  over  their  shoul- 
ders, and  sprigs  of  myrtle  or  oleander  in 
their  bosoms  —  chattering,  yawning,  in- 
dolent, and  altogether  delightful  —  they 
formed  a  charming  picture  of  tropical 
grace  and  beauty. 

"  The  flag's  up ! "  cried  Evelyn,  sud- 
denly starting  to  her  feet.  "Mother!" 
she  called  to  a  lady  extended  on  an  In- 
dian wicker-work  chair  in  the  inner  apart- 
ment "mother!  the  steamer^s  signalled. 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


George  will  be  here  in  about  a  couple  of 
hours." 

There  was  an  instant  rush  to  the  jalou^ 
sies.  The  shutters  were  thrown  open ; 
glasses  were  produced ;  and  the  whole 
family,  struggling,  shouting,  leaping,  danc- 
ing in  the  wild  frenzy  of  their  excitement, 
craned  their  necks  to  catch  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  eagerly  looked-for  mail. 

"Yes;  there  she  isl"  exclaimed  Eve- 
lyn. 

"  Where?"  cried  Sibyl,  the  youngest  of 
the  trio,  peering  on  tiptoe  over  her  sister's 
shoulder. 

"  There  —  look  !  passing  the  Palisades. 
You  can  just  see  her  smoke  over  the  tops 
of  the  cocoa-nuts  at  the  lighthouse." 

"No;  it's  only  the  mist,"  said  Eleanor. 

"Mist?  Nonsense!  It's  the  steamer's 
smoke.  There !  I  told  you  so,  Eleanor," 
added  Evelvn  triumphantly,  as  the  flash 
and  the  srooxe  of  the  signal-gun  announced 
her  arrival  at  Port-Royal. 

"You've  no  time  to  lose,  girls,"  said 
Mrs.  Durham,  approaching  her  daughters. 
"Go  and  bathe  and  dress.  I'll  tell  Tom 
to  get  the  carriage,  and  you  can  all  drive 
down  and  meet  your  cousin.  I'll  stay  at 
home  to  welcome  him  to  Prospect  Gar* 
dens.  You  will  make  my  excuses  for  not 
coming  to  meet  him.  But  the  drive  in  the 
sun  would  knock  me  up  for  a  week ;  and 
besides,  you  know  there  would  not  be 
room  for  all  of  us.  Now,  Evelyn,  you  are 
the  eldest.  Try  and  keep  these  riotous 
sisters  of  yours  in  order.  And,  children, 
mind  your  cousin  has  no  sisters  of  his 
own,  and  is  not  accustomed  to  the  madcap 
ways  of  three  witless  pickles  of  girls." 

"  All  right,  mother ! "  said  Evelyn,  with 
a  saucy  toss  of  her  head.  "  I  won't  dis- 
grace the  family,  never  fear.  I'll  be  dig- 
nity and  discretion  itself.  I'll  be  as  stately 
as  Lady  Longton  when  she's  receiving 
company  at  a  Queen's  House  Ball ;  and  if 
be  offers  to  kiss  me,  I'll  hold  up  my  faa 
and  say :  *  O  fie !  you  naughty  man  ! '  " 

"  But  she'll  let  him  do  it,  all  the  same," 
added  Eleanor. 

"  Go  along  with  you,  you  silly  girls ! 
You'll  be  too  late,  if  you  don't  be  off  to 
your  bath  at  once;"  and  acting  on  their 
mother's  monition,  the  three  bright  roaid- 
ens  flew  down  the  marble  steps  and  across 
the  courtyard  to  the  bathing'house,  and 
were  soon  all  three  splashing  and  swim« 
ming  and  laughing  amidst  the  cool  and 
crystal  water. 

Mrs.  Durham  of  Prospect  Gardens  was 
the  widow  of  a  high  official  in  the  colony. 
Her  husband  had  been  attorney-general 
of  Jamaica  at  a  time  when  that  office  was 


POOR  LITTLE   LIFE. 


»S7 


even  of  more  importance  and  influence 
than  it  is  now.  Herself  a  Creole  —  a  per- 
son born  in  the  West  Indies,  without 
reference  to  what  are  called  in  Jamaica 
**  complexional "  distinctions  ---  and  be- 
long ng  to  one  of  the  oldest  families  in 
the  colony,  she  still  retained  much  of  the 
pride,  perhaps  more  of  the  prejudices  of 
the  old  plantocracy;  the  haughtiest,  the 
most  conservative,  and  the  least  pliable  of 
aristocracies,  yet,  notwithstanding  all  its 
faults  and  shortcomings,  one  of  the  most 
generous  and  the  most  ill-used.  But  the 
influence  of  her  husband  — an  English- 
man —  had  toned  down  some  of  the  more 
conspicuous  of  these  prejudices;  at  any 
rate,  it  had  eradicated  from  her  mind  that 
jealousy  of  imperial  influence  and  imperial 
institutions,  which  was,  and  perhaps  still 
is,  one  of  the  most  obstinate  obstacles  to 
the  prosperity  of  the  colony.  She  had 
franklv  accepted  the  new  constitution, 
when  in  1866  that  **  unutterable  abomina- 
tion," the  House  of  Assembly,  had  de- 
creed its  own  extinction.  She  had  sided 
with  the  adherents  of  Governor  Eyre  dur- 
ing all  the  long  and  bitter  struggle  which 
had  succeeded  the  suppression  of  the  so- 
called  Jamaica  rebellion.  She  had  ex- 
tended the  hand  of  hospitality  *  to  the 
succession  of  governors,  colonial  secreta- 
ries, judges,  and  officials  of  all  grades 
who  had  been  imported  into  the  colony 
from  England,  with  the  happy  result  that 
she  had  consolidated  her  social  influence 
and  established  her  social  position  upon  a 
basis  which  preserved  for  her  the  respect 
of  all  but  the  most  irreconcilable  Creoles, 
white  it  procured  for  her  the  esteem  and 
the  friendship  of  all  the  inner  circle  of  the 
administrators  of  the  new  rigime.  Hence 
an  introduction  to  Prospect  Gardens  not 
only  secured  to  the  favored  stranger  the 
tntrie  to  the  best  society  in  the  colony, 
but  opened  to  him  the  door  of  one  of  the 
pleasantest  houses  in  new  Jamaica. 

The  late  attorney-general  had  been  a 
man  of  very  considerable  means.  He  was 
also  well  connected.  His  elder  brother. 
Sir  George  Durham  of  Deepdale,  was  one 
of  the  largest  proprietors  in  the  west  of 
England.  But  the  baronet  had  died  with- 
in a  year  of  his  brother ;  and  the  title  was 
now  held  by  his  son  and  only  child,  whose 
arrival  it  was  that  the  family  at  Prospect 
Gardens  were  now  expecting  with  such 
noisy  demonstrations  of  delight.  He  had 
come  out  to  spend  Christmas  with  his 
cousins,  and  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
his  aunt,  whom  he  had  never  seen.  To 
Evelyn  he  was  already  known  ;  for  Evelyn 
had  oeen  at  school  in  .England,  and  her 


holidays  had  been  spent  at  Deepdale* 
But  two  years  had  elapsed  since  she  had 
returned  to  Jamaica;  and  within  these 
two  years,  the  thin,  delicate  slip  of  a  girl, 
whom  George  was  accustomed  to  tease 
and  torment  all  through  the  summer  day, 
had  expanded  into  a  lovelv  and  elegant 
woman,  whose  powers  of  inflicting  torture 
on  the  other  sex  were  at  least  equal  to 
his  own. 

As  for  Eleanor  and  Sibyl,  they  shared 
their  sister's  beauty,  without  perhaps 
sharing  her  peculiar  sunniness  of  disposi- 
tion. They  were  at  that  objectionable 
age  when  the  child  has  not  yet  become  a 
woman.  Eleanor  was  fourteen,  Sibyl  was 
nearly  twelve.  They  had  all  the  incon- 
venient outspokenness  of  children,  and 
all  the  coquetry  of  more  advanced  years. 
They  were  adepts  in  the  theory,  though 
not  in  the  practice  of  flirtation.  But  they 
were  full  of  promise,  and  bade  fair  to  be 
in  due  time,  like  other  true  and  charming 
women,  at  once  the  delight  and  the  tor- 
ment of  the  opposite  sex. 

Certainly,  when  the  three  fair  girls,  in 
the  bewitching  light  attire  of  tropical 
climes,  armed  with  fans  and  parasols  and 
green  veils  to  protect  them  from  the  verti- 
cal sun,  had  been  packed  into  the  family 
coach,  their  mother  might  be  pardoned 
the  sigh  of  satisfaction  with  which  she 
regarded  her  children,  as  they  drove  down 
the  long  avenue  of  mango  and  tamarind 
trees  on  their  way  to  town.  *'  They  would 
be  thought  beauties  even  in  England,'' 
she  said  to  herself;  "and  they're  as  good 
as  they  are  pretty.  Now,  if  George  ^—  " 
But  she  did  not  finish  her  sentence.  She 
smiled,  and  shook  her  head  sadly,  and 
returned  to  the  house  to  give  orders  for 
the  preparation  of  her  nephew's  breakfast. 

"  I  wonder  if  George  will  recognize 
us  ?  "  said  Eleanor,  as  the  carriage  rolled 
into  the  grimy  courtyard  of  the  Company's 
wharf. 

"  Recognize  us  /  "  said  Evelyn.  "  Rec- 
ognize mcy  you  mean.  I'm  the  only  one 
of  the  family  he  has  ever  seen ;  and  be- 
sides, you  don't  suppose  he  would  take 
the  trouble  to  notice  such  chits  as  you  1 
But  keep  your  eyes  about  you,  girls  I 
Look  out  for  the  handsomest  young  man 
you  ever  saw  —  even  in  your  dreams ; 
with  blue  eyes  and  a  fair  moustache.  I 
hope  we're  in  time.  The  passengers  have 
begun  to  leave  the  ship  already.  Look  1 
there's  some  of  them  havmg  their  luggage 
examined  at  the  custom-house  shed." 

Down  they  came  from  the  landing-stage, 
one  after  another,  in  a  continuous  stream 
—  passengers  male  and  female,  young  and 


»S8 

old,  white,  black,  brown,  aod  yellow  — 
£n<;Iish  and  Creoles,  Cubans  and  Yan- 
kees, "true  Barbadians  born,"  Jews  and 
Gentiles  —  a  variegated  and  cosmopolitan 
crowd.  Grinning  negroes  shoulderinj;; 
portmanteaus ;  Englishwomen  laden  with 
handbags  and  flower-pots;  one  or  two 
colored  clergymen  tricked  out  after  the 
latest  fashion  of  High-Church  man-mil- 
linery ;  Cuban  ladies  with  lace  mantillas 
on  their  heads,  clamping  along  on  shoes 
whose  high  heels  clattered  like  pattens  ; 
half-a-dozen  planters  or  so  with  black 
alpaca  coats  and  bearded  faces ;  a  few 
young  men  of  the  Howell  and  James  type, 
come  out  to  be  **  assistants "  in  some 
Kingston  store ;  a  couple  or  more  stolid, 
square-faced,  sandy-haired  Scotch  book- 
keepers, consigned  to  sugar-estates  in 
Trelawney  or  St.  Ann's ;  and  the  ubiquit- 
ous travelling  English  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, spectacled  and  aggressive,  deter- 
mined to  investigate  to  its  hidden  depths 
the  whole  bearings  of  the  intricate  colo- 
nial question.  But  no  George,  nor  any 
one  that  looked  like  George. 

Already  the  work  of  coaling  the  steamer 
had  begun ;  and  a  long  line  of  men  and 
women,  coal-" boys"  and  coal-** girls"  — 
black  as  the  Coals  they  carried,  chanting 
a  wild  recitative,  and  walking  with  that 
peculiar  dorsal  swing  which  is  character- 
istic of  the  black  race  all  over  the  world 
—  were  trooping  up  the  gangway,  to  empty 
their  baskets  into  the  hold. 

Still  no  George,  nor  any  one  that  looked 
like  him. 

At  last,  when  the  patience  of  the  girls 
was  all  but  exhausted,  and  their  spirits 
had  sunk  to  zero,  there  appeared  on  the 
landing-stage  an  unmistakable  English- 
man. He  was  young  —  about  four  or  five 
and  twenty.  He  was  dressed  in  light 
tweeds.  He  had  a  pair  of  tan-colored 
gloves  on  his  hands.  He  wore  a  short, 
trim  beard,  of  a  shade  between  gold  and 
auburn ;  and  in  defiance  of  all  the  Com- 
pany's regulations,  he  was  smoking  a 
cigarette.  A  bedroom  steward  at  his  heels 
carried  a  portmanteau  and  a  travelling-bag. 
He  sauntered  slowly  down  the  stage  and 
across  the  courtyard  to  the  shed  where  the 
custom-house  officers  were  at  work  upon 
the  passengers'  luggage.  As  he  passed 
the  Durhams'  carriage  without  even  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  its  fair  occupants, 
Evelyn  muttered  a  timid  **  George  1 "  but 
he  took  no  notice,  and  held  on  his  lei- 
surelv  way. 

**H  that  isn't  George,  I'll  eat  him!" 
cried  Evelyn  in  her  vexation. 

"  Look,  sissy ! "  said  Sibyl ;  **  there's 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


the  steward  with  his  luggage;  and  see,  it 
is  George !  There  are  his  initials,  G.  D., 
on  his  handbag." 

**  O  please  I "  said  Evelyn  to  a  white* 
coated  constable  who  happened  to  be 
standing  near  her»  "run  after  that  gentle* 
man  and  tell  him  to  come  here.  I  want 
to  speak  to  him.  Look !  he  is  just  going 
out  through  the  gateway." 

**  Yes,  miss,'*  said  the  constable,  saint* 
ing,  and  starting  off  at  the  double.  **  Yoti, 
sa !  Hi  I  you,  sa !  Lor' !  him  don't  hear 
me.     Hil^^jy,  sal" 

The  gentleman  turned,  and  waited  till 
the  constable  made  up  to  him. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  ^  he  inquired. 

"  You  see  dem  missy  in  dat  buggy, ya  I " 
he  said,  pointing  to  the  Durhams   car- 


nage. 


"  Well  ?  " 

"  Dey  want  speak  wid  you ;  dat's  all." 

Sir  George  turned  sharply  round,  and 
throwing  away  his  cigarette,  approached 
the  carriage.  "By  Jove!  it  can't  be  — 
Evelyn ! "  he  said. 

"Yes;  it  is  I,  George.  And  here's 
Eleanor ;  and  this  is  Sibyl." 

And  then  handshakings  commenced  all 
round,  and  a  series  of  cousinly  salutes, 
which  the  girls  submitted  to  with  equa- 
nimity. 

"  But  he  kissed  Evelyn  twice  for  oor 
once,"  said  Sibyl  to  Eleanor  afterwards. 

"  1  told  you  she  wouldn't  object,"  re- 
marked her  sister. 

"  And  as  for  me,  I  had  never  any  in- 
tention of  objecting,"  remarked  Sibyl. 

"O  you;  you're  a  child;  it  doesn't 
matter  for  you.*  But  Evelyn  —  humph  I 
I'll  have  to  keep  my  eye  upon  her !  " 

**  Tom  has  engaged  a  dray  for  your 
luggage,  George,'' said  Evelyn,  after  these 
preliminaries  had  been  adjusted.  "  Here's 
one  of  the  clerks  coming  with  your  keys. 
Mannie  —  that's  one  of  our  boys,  George ; 
that  whity-brown  nigger  over  there  with 
a  white  puggree  round  his  wide-awake  — 
will  come  out  with  it.  It  will  be  at  the 
penn  almost  as  soon  as  we  are.  Tom  !  " 
she  added,  addressing  the  coachman, 
"have  you  got  the  ice  from  the  ice- 
bouse  ?  '^ 

"  Yes,  missis." 

"And  the  pineapple  and  the  naseber* 
ries  ?  " 

"Hi!  yes,  missis.  Dem  all  in  dere;** 
pointing  to  the  boot  of  the  carriage. 

"  Very  well.  Tell  Mannie  to  call  at  the 
post-office  for  the  letters.  And  that's  all, 
I  think.    Let  us  go  home." 

Never  had  George  enjoyed  a  merrier  or 
a  more  interesting  drive.    Everything  was 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


-Blew  to  htm,  everjihiog  was  strange  to 
him.  He  did  not  know  which  interested 
him  most,  his  winsome  companions,  with 
their  ceaseless  flow  of  musical  chatter, 
and  all  their  bright,  happv,  girlish,  cous- 
inly ways;  the  beauty  ot  the  crumpled, 
verdure-covered  hills ;  the  graceful  forms 
of  the  tropical  vegetation ;  the  quaintness 
of  the  gaily  painted,  jalousted,  toy-like 
wooden  houses ;  the  street  scenes ;  the 
broad  grins,  merry  faces,  and  marvellous 
get-up  of  the  peasantry.  He  told  Eve- 
lyn it  made  him  think  he  was  looking 
through  a  kaleidoscope,  so  sudden  were 
the  changes,  so  brilliant  the  combinations 
of  color  which  met  his  gaze  at  every  mo- 
ment. 

^  I  did  not  believe  there  were  so  many 
Diggers  in  the  world,"  he  remarked,  as  the 
carriage  drove  slowly  past  the  entrance  to 
the  Sollas  market,  and  looking  in  through 
the  open  gateway,  he  saw  the  Dusy,  noisy, 
chaffering  crowa,  packed  as  close  as  her- 
rings in  a  barrel. 

*«What!  does  the  heathen  Chinee  live 
in  Jamaica ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  a  blue-iack- 
eted,  pigtailed,  grave,  and  ginger-colored 
Celestial  elbowed  bis  way  through  the 
throng. 

••  Lots ! "  said  Evelp.  ••  They  keep  all 
the  little  shops  in  this  part  of  the  town ; 
and  when  they  have  saved  up  monev 
enough,  they  die ;  and  their  friends  pack 
them  up  in  boxes,  and  send  them  home  to 
China  to  be  buried.** 

**  And  coolies  too,  I  see  I " 

**  Yes,  any  number.  The  estates  couldn't 
do  without  them ;  and  as  for  us,  we  should 
have  no  gardens,  if  we  Ifad  not  them  to 
rely  on  as  gardeners.  But  here  we  are  at 
the  Racecourse  at  last.  What  a  relief  to 
be  out  of  that  hot,  nasty,  dusty  town.*' 

••Is  there  anything  going  on  to-day?" 
asked  Sir  George,  astonished  at  the  num- 
ber of  vehicles  he  met  on  the  road. 

**  It  is  market  day.  That  accounts  for 
our  meeting  so  many  of  the  country  peo- 
ple." 

**  But  all  these  carriages.*' 

*'  Oh,  it's  only  our  swells  —  officials  and 
judges  and  merchants  and  shopkeepers  — 
going  down  to  Kingston  from  their  coun- 
try-houses to  their  work.  No  one  that 
can  afford  it  lives  in  town,  you  know.  We 
all  live  at  penns  —  that  is,  country-houses, 
in  the  hills  or  in  the  plains  at  the  foot. 
Look  !  that  is  Queen's  House  you  can  just 
see  through  the  trees.  That  big  white 
bouse,  that  looks  as  if  it  were  right  at  the 
foot  of  the  hills,  though  it's  a  long  way 
off,  is  Longwood,  where  the  colonial  sec- 
letary  lives ;  and  that  one  a  little  to  the 


right,  standing  on  a  slight  elevation,  is 
Prospect  Gardens  — *-  " 

'*And  that's  our  house,"  interjected 
Sib^'l. 

George  here  diverted  the  conversation 
by  inquiring  who  was  the  swell  with  the 
red  liveries,  whose  carriage,  enveloped  in 
an  accompanying  cloud  of  dust,  was  rap* 
idly  approaching  them. 

••  Oh,  that  is  the  governor,"  said  Eve- 
lyn ;  *'and  Lady  Longton  is  with  him. 
He's  not  popular;  neither  is  she.  ^ut 
Lady  Longton  is  very  nice  to  her  friends, 
and  dresses  beautifullv ;  only  some  days, 
you  know,  she  has  no  oackbone,  and  does 
not  seem  as  if  she  could  be  bothered  with 
callers  or  company.  But  Captain  Hill- 
yard,  the  aide-de-camp,  is  a  dear  man,  and 
so  good-looking !  And  then  he's  so  clever 
too.  He  sings  beautifully,  and  can  do  all 
sorts  of  conjuring  tricks;  and  he  draws 
the  funniest  caricatures  you  ever  saw.  He 
did  one  the  other  day  of  Sir  William  draw- 
ing a  cork.  It  made  Lad^*  Longton  laugh 
till  I  thought  she  was  gomg  to  take  a  St. 
Oh,  speak  of  angels  —  there  he  is !  see  I 
—  riding  down  after  the  governor's  car- 
riage with  little  Maud  Longton.  There 
must  be  a  council  or  something  going  on 
to-day;  that  accounts  for  our  meeting  so 
many  swells  all  together.  You'll  have  to 
leave  your  card  at  Queen's  House,  George. 
You  ought  to  do  it  this  afternoon ;  that's 
the  etiquette,  you  know.  But  if  you're 
very  tired,  I  dare  say  it  will  do  on  Mon- 
day." 

They  had  branched  off  from  the  main 
road  now,  and  were  driving  along  a  shady 
lane,  edged  with  a  hedge  of  prickly-pear, 
over  which  trailed  wreaths  of  graceful 
creepers  —  convolvuli  and  ipomseas,  the 
liquorice  vine,  and  the  Circassian  bean. 
Negro  huts  lined  the  road;  and  at  the 
doors,  amongst  the  pigs  and  the  goats  and 
the  poultry,  gambolled  the  little  black 
obese  ptcknies,  sucking  huge  joints  of 
sugarcane,  and  saluting  the  occupants  of 
the  carriage  with  the  broadest  of  grins 
upon  their  ebony  faces. 

•*Look  here.  Cousin  George,"  said 
Sibyl,  pointing  out  a  low,  one-storied 
butlding  with  an  open  piazza,  and  a  great 

fuinep-tree  covering  it  like  a  huge  urn- 
rella — "that  is  one  of  our  grog-shops. 
You  can  buy  rum  there  and  bitter  beer, 
and  soap  and  paraffin  oil  and  salt  fish. 
You  see  that  group  of  draymen  at  its 
side ;  they  are  playing  nine-holes,  and  the 
man  that  loses  will  have  to  stand  quattie 
drinks  all  round." 

''  What  is  a  quattie  drink  ?  "  inquired 
her  cousin. 


z6o 


POOR  LITTLE   LIFE. 


*'Not  know  what  a  quattie  drink  is, 
George?"  said  Sibyl.  **A  quattie  is  a 
penny-halfpenny." 

**  And  the  smallest  coin  the  negroes  ac- 
knowledge/* added  Evelyn.  **  They  won*t 
use  the  new  nickel  pennies  and  halfpen- 
nies  at  all;  so  the  shopkeepers  sell  them 
a  halfpenny-worth  of  soap,  and  charge 
them  three-halfpence  for  it ;  and  that's 
very  convenient  for  the  shopkeepers. 
Look,  George;  that  is  a  quattU^^  she 
added,  taking  a  tiny  silver  coin  from  her 
purse ;  **and  a  very  pretty  little  thing  it  is 
too." 

'*  It  must  be  a  very  expensive  country 
to  live  in,"  replied  George,  "if  everything 
is  paid  for  in  the  same  proportion." 

**  Well,  not  exactly.  Of  course  you  pay 
a  dollar  for  things  you  could  get  at  home 
for  one  or  two  shillings.  But  then  you 
get  lots  of  things  so  cheap  —  meat  and 
fish  and  turtle  and  poultry  and  vegetables ; 
and  that  makes  up  for  it,  you  know.  But 
see !  —  here  we  are  at  the  foot  of  the 
avenue,  and  there's  Prospect  Gardens. 
You  can  just  see  the  shingled  roof  of  the 
bouse  through  the  trees." 

"If  you  will  stand  up,  vou  can  see  one 
of  the  windows;  and  that's  my  room, 
George  \ "  added  Sibyl  proudly. 

n. 

"What  a  charming  house!"  said 
George  involuntarily,  to  the  undisguised 
delight  of  his  cousins,  as  the  carriage 
drew  up  at  the  door  of  Prospect  Gardens. 

It  really  was  one  of  the  finest  houses 
in  all  the  Liguanea  plains.  It  was  two 
stories  high,  and  square  in  shape.  But 
its  somewhat  inelegant  form  passed  un- 
observed, so  occupied  was  the  eye  in 
regarding  the  beauty  of  its  site,  its  envi- 
ronment of  gigantic  trees,  the  grateful 
coolness  of  its  luxurious  verandas,  and 
their  lavish  adornment  of  plants  and 
flowers  and  creepers.  The  upper  and 
lower  piazzas  were  closed  in  with  jalou- 
sies, to  fend  ofiE  the  tropical  sun.  A 
square  porch,  paved  with  white  marble, 
with  two  broad  flights  of  steps  of  the 
same  material,  projected  in  front ;  whilst 
its  roof,  supported  by  wooden  pillars,  and 
surrounded  with  a  graceful  iron  railing, 
formed  a  terrace  from  which  a  magnifi- 
cent prospect  could  be  obtained  of  all 
the  flat,  well-wooded,  Liguanea  plains, 
with  Kingston  and  the  coral  reef  of  the 
Palisades  in  the  middle  distance,  and  the 
waveless  Caribbean  Sea  —  golden  or 
peach-colored  or  rose-red  or  silver,  ac- 
cording to  the  hour  of  the  day  — for  a 
background.    The  pillars  of  the    porch 


were  wreathed  with  jasmine  and  the  wax* 
plant.  Orchids  of  brilliant  hue  and  un- 
couth shape,  crimson  and  white,  orange 
and  chocolate-brown,  hung  in  wire  baskets 
from  the  roof ;  and  on  each  of  the  strides 
of  its  marble  steps  stood  a  couple  of  gi- 
gantic flower-pots  of  blue  Indian  china, 
filled  with  eucharis  or  bletia,  maiden-hair 
ferns  or  dwarf-palms,  myrtles  or  sweet- 
scented  lilies.  The  terraced  drive  in  front 
of  the  house  was  hedged  with  stephano* 
tis;  whilst  a  belt  oi  sweet-smelling  trees 
and  shrubs  —  the  frangipani,  the  tree- 
mignonette,  the  lime,  the  orange,  and  the 
Martinique  rose —  with  a  couple  of  foun- 
tains placed  in  the  midst  of  its  umbra- 
geous greenery,  shut  it  off  from  the  ex- 
tensive pastures  and  fields  of  Guinea- 
grass,  without  which  no  Jamaica  pena 
would  be  complete. 

Entering  from  the  porch,  the  visitor 
found  himself  in  a  spacious  piazza,  fitted 
up  with  hat-racks  and  tables,  something 
after  the  fashion  of  an  English  hall. 

Underneath  the  porch,  holding  a  large, 
white,  lace-edged  parasol  above  her  head, 
was  Mrs.  Durham,  readv  to  receive  her 
nephew.  She  looked  like  a  picture,  as 
she  stood  waiting  there,  in  the  midst  of 
the  flowers  and  the  creepers.  Although 
she  was  nearly  fifty  years  of  age,  she 
might  easily  have  passed  for  thirty.  Time 
and  fortune  had  dealt  very  gently  with 
her.  Her  fi%yxrt,  was  still  as  lithe  and  wil- 
lowy as  a  girKs.  Her  features  were  reg- 
ular and  refined.  Her  eyes  were  dark 
and  of  unwonted  brilliancy.  She  was 
dressed  in  some  soft,  cream-colored  In- 
dian stuff,  with  lx>ws  of  cardinal  at  neck 
and  wrist. 

"  Welcome  to  Prospect  Gardens, 
George ! "  she  said,  in  that  clear,  low 
voice  which  was  one  of  her  chiefest 
charms ;  and  then  she  kissed  him,  just  as 
his  mother  might  have  done. 

He  thanked  her,  still  retaining  her  hand. 
"  I  would  have  known  you  anywhere, 
aunt,"  he  remarked.  "VouVe  just  like 
Evelvn's  elder  sister." 

Sibyl  clapped  her  hands.  Eleanor 
made  him  a  stately  courtesy.  Evelyn 
blushed,  for  her  mother  had  been  a  fa- 
mous toast  amongst  the  planters  in  her 
younger  days;  and  George,  as  he  en- 
tered the  house  with  these  four  fair  wom- 
en clustering  round  him,  felt  he  had 
gained  the  hearts  of  the  whole  family  by 
his  simple  and  unpremeditated  remark. 

"Now,  George,"  said  Mrs.  Durham, 
after  she  had  shown  him  his  room, 
"  breakfast  is  ready,  and  I  dare  say  yoa 
are  hungry.    But  if  you  would  like  a  bath 


POOR   UTTLE   LIFE. 


i6x 


first,  we  could  keep  it  back  for  twenty 
minutes ;  though,**  she  added,  laying  her 
hand  upon  his,  "  I  would  not  advise  it ; 
I  think  you  had  better  wait  till  the  after- 
noon, when  you're  cool.  You  must  wait 
till  youVe  acclimatized,  before  you  take 
liberties  with  yourself." 

George  said  he  would  wait  for  his  bath. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  seated  at 
one  of  those  bountifully  spread  tables 
which  make  a  West  Indian  breakfast  a 
thing  much  to  be  remembered  by  the 
traveller  in  after-days.  The  long,  square 
mahogany  table,  with  its  snowy  cloth,  its 
flowers,  its  fruits,  and  its  antique  silver, 
groaned  under  a  profusion  of  dishes  all 
new  to  George,  who  failed  not  to  do  am- 
ple justice  to  the  inviting  repast.  In 
addition  to  such  ordinary  fare  as  spatch- 
cock, salmon  cutlets,  and  the  regulation 
ham  and  egg,  there  was  z  fricassee  of 
chickens  with  tomatoes,  which  George 
declared  it  was  worth  while  coming  to 
Jamaica  to  ta^te.*  There  was  calapiver 
roe  ^  the  salmon  of  the  tropics  —  which 
melted  in  one's  mouth  as  if  it  had  been 
some  delicious  sweetmeat.  There  was  a 
prawn  rurry,  to  which  George  insisted 
npon  helping  himself  twice.  There  was 
a  dish  of  soft-skinned  turtle  eggs,  nestling 
in  a  bed  of  the  greenest  parsley.  There 
were  half-a-dozen  different  sorts  of 
'*  bread-kind  "  —  roasted  plaintains,  bread- 
fruit, the  purple  Indian  yam,  the  delicate 
chest nut-t<isted  sweet  potato.  There  was 
a  salad  of  lettuce  and  water-cress,  fresh 
and  crisp  as  if  plucked  that  morning  from 
some  shady  garden  in  rural  England. 
There  was  the  avocado  or  alligator  pear, 
the  only  known  vegetable  substitute  for, 
and  in  the  opinion  of  some,  superior  to, 
butter.  For  the  fruit-course,  there  was  a 
dish  of  sapadillas,  just  lifted  from  the  ice- 
chest;  a  Ripley  pine,  than  which  the 
glasshouses  of  an  English  millionaire 
could  produce  no  finer.  Grapes  there 
were,  and  oranges  with  the  green  leaves 
on  their  stems  just  as  they  came  from  the 
trees.  Iced  claret  was  principally  used  to 
wash  down  this  plenteous  repast.  But  tea 
and  coffee  were  on  the  table ;  and  choco- 
late made  by  Cubans  in  Jamaica. 

"And  now,  George,'*  said  Mrs.  Dur- 
ham, leading  the  way  to  the  veranda, 
when  breakfast  was  over,  **sit  down  on 
that  rocking-chair,  light  your  cigar,  and 
tell  me  about  your  mother." 

III. 

The  day  passed  like  a  dream.  About 
the  hour  of  four,  callers  commenced  to 
arrive  —  the  colonial    secretary,  his  wife 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2247 


and  daughters ;  half-a-dozen  offlcers  from 
Up  Park  Camp;  the  commodore  from 
PortRoyal;  Captain  Hillyard  and  little 
Maud  Longton ;  heads  of  departments 
with  their  woroenkind  —  the  best  and 
pleasantest  society  of  which  the  colony 
could  boast. 

At  five,  came  afternoon  tea;  and  then 
about  six,  the  carriage  was  ordered 
round,  and  Mrs.  Durham  and  her  daugh- 
ters started  with  George  for  their  evening 
drive.  They  got  back  just  in  time  to 
bathe  and  dress  for  their  eight  o*clock  din- 
ner, which  was  a  repetition,  on  a  still 
more  lavish  scale,  of.  the  bountiful  feast 
of  the  morning.  After  dinner,  the  ladies 
sat  out  on  the  terrace,  George  smoked  his 
cigar,  and  Evelyn  sang  in  the  dark  draw- 
ing-room beyond.  By  half  past  ten,  the 
whole  family  were  in  bed;  and  by  eleven, 
all  but  George  were  asleep.  But  for  him 
slumber  was  out  of  the  question.  Despite 
all  the  instructions  which  he  had  received,, 
he  had  not  succeeded  in  managing  his 
mosquito  net.  One  bloodthirsty  tormen* 
tor  had  entered  with  him  inside  the  cur- 
tains, when  he  had  made  his  quick  and 
crafty  plunge;  and  now,  exulting  in  its 
triumph,  it  was  determined  to  exact  from 
him  the  full  fruits  of  its  victory.  It  was 
not  every  day  that  it  got  a  feast  of  fresh 
English  blood.  Whirring,  booming,  buz- 
zing, ** pinging**  around  him,  now  set- 
tling on  his  forehead,  and  darting  its 
maddening  fangs  into  his  flesh;  now 
rotating  wildly  about  his  head  in  search 
of  a  still  more  juicy  morsel;  now  taunt- 
ingly humming  behind  his  ear;  now  de- 
risively careering  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  bed;  now  resting, 
though  not  vet  satiated,  far  out  of  reach- 
of  his  hanakerchief,  on  the  very  top  of 
the  curtains  —  it  goaded  him  almost  into' 
frenzy.  It  was  his  own  fault  —  that  was 
the  worst  of  it ;  for  Mrs.  Durham,  anxious 
to  secure  for  her  nephew  a  good  night's 
rest,  had  offered  to  send  the  butler  to  tuck 
him  in,  and  to  brush  out  the  curtains 
after  he  was  himself  in  bed.  But  with 
English  self-confidence,  he  had  scornfully 
refused  it.  It  was  not  the  loss  of  actual 
sleep  that  he  so  much  begrudged,  though 
to  a  young  and  healthy  man  of  his  age 
this  was  an  unwonted  and  disagreeable 
position.  He  would  have  been  content  to 
lie  still,  outside  his  single  sheet,  and 
calmly  review  the  events  of  the  day.  He 
woulci  have  gone  over  again  in  memory 
his  merry  drive  from  the  wharf,  his  warm 
reception  at  Prospect  Gardens;  have 
thought  over  all  his  aunt*s  quaint  negro 
stories,  all  the  children's  odd  remarks; 


l62 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


oftener  than  all,  he  would  have  conjured 
up  Evelyn's  fair  face,  and  reproduced  to 
its  veriest  jot  and  tittle  every  word  of  his 
conversation  with  her  during  the  day. 
But  even  this  resource  was  denied  him. 
More  cruelly  tornnented  than  a  prisoner 
under  sentence  of  death,  he  was  not  per- 
mitted to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of  reflec- 
tion. Surely  the  tortures  of  a  captive  in 
the  dungeons  of  the  Inquisition,  with  a 
single  drop  of  water  falling  at  regular  in- 
tervals on  his  shaven  head,  were  nothing 
compared  Mth  the  malignity  of  bis  unseen 
tormentor. 

Fortunately  for  him,  the  heat  was  not 
excessive.  AH  the  w^indows  of  his  cham- 
ber were  open;  and  through  the  chinks 
of  the  closed  jalousies  the  ni^ht  winds 
came  rushing  down  from  the  hills,  filling 
the  room  with  their  cool,  balmv,  refresh- 
ing breezes.  Towards  four  o  clock,  he 
rose,  threw  open  the  jalousies,  and  gazed 
out  upon  the  scene.  The  sky  was  cloud- 
less, clear,  and  lit  up  with  an  infinity  of 
stars.  The  Southern  Cross  was  right 
above  his  head.  The  full  fair  moon 
poured  down  a  flood  of  silver  light  upon 
the  sea.  He  could  see  the  black  hulls  of 
the  ships-of-war  at  Port-Royal.  The  out- 
lines of  their  masts  and  rigging  were  dis- 
tinctly visible  against  the  luminous  back- 
ground of  the  water.  The  cocoanut-trees 
on  the  Palisades  stood  out  like  Corinthian 
columns  against  the  glistening  sky.  The 
lighthouse,  like  the  eye  of  a  cyclops,  cast 
alurid  glare  over  the  harbor. 

As  he  gazed,  a  stillness  as  of  death 
seemed  to  fall  upon  the  scene.  Not  a 
sound  was  heard ;  not  a  leaf  stirred ;  even 
the  myriad  voices  of  the  tropical  night 
.were  for  the  moment  hushed.  Suddenly 
a  faint  light  appeared  on  the  eastern  sky ; 
then  a  rosy  flush,  like  the  sudden  outbreak 
of  a  great  conflagration,  illumined  the 
landscape.  The  moon  paled-— one  soli- 
tary star  retaining  its  brilliancy  long  after 
that  of  the  others  had  gone.  A  gentle 
twittering  of  birds  was  heard.  A  white 
screech-owl  flapped  heavily  across  the 
pastures  on  its  way  to  its  hiding-place  in 
a  neighboring  cotton-tree.  And  then,  like 
an  exiled  monarch  returning  to  its  king- 
dom, uprose  the  glorious  sun,  and  it  was 
day  once  more. 

He  bathed  his  face  and  his  hands,  re- 
turned to  his  couch,  and  had  an  hour  or  two 
of  refreshing  sleep.  When  he  awoke,  the 
torrid  sun  was  pouring  into  his  apartment ; 
and  by  his  bedside,  looking  the  very  in- 
carnation of  coolness  in  his  white  jacket 
and  white  trousers,  stood  John  the  butler, 
with  a  cup  of  fragrant  coffee  and  a  plate 


of  crisp  cassava  cakes  on  a  silver  salver 
in  his  hand. 

**  Missis  hope  you  hab  slep*  well,  Sa 
Garge  t  an'  if  you  will  please  to  get  up, 
you  will  fine  de  young  ladies  in  de  piazza." 

There  was  considerable  excitement  in 
the  church  of  Halfway  Tree,  when  the 
party  from  Prospect  Gardens,  with  the 
young  English  baronet  in  its  train,  put  in 
an  appearance  at  service  that  morning. 
The  news  of  his  arrival  had  spread  abroad; 
and  from  the  rector  in  the  reading-desk, 
to  the  smallest  negro  girl  with  bare  feet 
and  starched  peticoats  who  sat  round  the 
steps  of  the  font,  the  eyes  of  the  con- 
gregation were  fixed  on  the  stranger.  As 
for  George,  the  quaint  little  church  and 
its  occupants  were  objects  of  interest  as 
attractive  to  him  as  he  was,  without  know- 
ing it,  to  the  remainder  of  the  congrega- 
tion. Never  before,  he  thought,  had  he 
said  his  prayers  in  such  a  heterogeneous 
company.  All  official  Jamaica  was  there, 
from  the  governor  to  the  humblest  clerk 
in  the  colonial  secretary's  office  —  official 
Jamaica,  clad  in  white  hats  and  black 
frock-coats,  with  blue  or  scarlet  or  bird's- 
eye  neckties,  patent-leather  shoes,  and 
white  umbrellas.  All  the  Christian  beauty 
of  the  plains  was  there,  dressed  after  the 
latest  English  fashions,  with  green  veils 
to  shade  its  charms  from  the  sun,  and 
palm-leaf  fans  to  protect  its  somewhat 
mixed  complexion  from  the  heat.  And  all 
the  negro  population  of  the  district  was 
there,  every  man  looking,  to  Sir  George's 
unaccustomed  eyes,  the  counterpart  of  the 
other;  and  all,  males  and  females  alike, 
displaying  an  unction  and  a  fervor  of  de- 
votion, conjoined-^ to  judge  by  appear- 
ances —  to  an  absorbing  love  of  dress. 

The  service  was  short,  plain,  and  im- 
pressive. The  briefest  of  rectors,  in  the 
briefest  of  surplices,  gave  the  briefest  of 
sermons.  The  music  was  good,  and  would 
indeed  have  been  excellent,  had  the  choir 
not  been  drowned  by  the  strident  voices 
of  the  negroes.  One  feature  of  part  of 
the  service  particularly  attracted  the  baro- 
net's attention,  and  that  was  when  the 
rector  amplified  the  well-known  petition 
in  the  litany  into  ** from  lightning,  earth- 
quake, and  tempest."  This,  coupled  with 
the  many  references  to  fever,  pestilence, 
and  hurricane  on  the  mural  tablets  on  the 
walls,  far  more  than  the  differences  of 
color  and  feature  which  he  saw  around 
him,  convinced  George  that  at  last  he  was 
really  in  Jamaica. 

when  the  service  was  over,  the  roost  of 
the  negroes  collected  in  the  church>*ard 
to  see  the  gentry  drive  away.  The  square 


POOR   UTTLE   LIFE. 


ID  front  of  the  church  was  crowded  with 
bua:gies  aod  carnages ;  and  whilst  their 
▼ebicles  were  being  brought  up,  the  gen* 
try  themselves,  clustering  in  groups  under 
the  shade  of  the  trees,  exchanged  saluta- 
tions with  one  another,  discussed  the  ser- 
mon or  their  neighbors,  or  made  appoint- 
ments for  Badminton  and  lawn-tennis  par- 
ties for  the  remainder  of  the  week. 

*'  It  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  vestibule 
of  Her  Majesty's  Theatre  on  an  opera 
night,"  said  George  to  Evelyn.  **  Do  you 
remember,  Evelyn,  when  my  mother  took 
you  aod  me  to  our  first  opera?  " 

**Yes.  It  was  'Faust.'  I  thought  I 
bad  never  seen  or  heard  anything  so 
beautiful." 

*'  Oh,  there's  the  governor  got  mother 
in  towi"  exclaimed  Eleanor,  breaking  in 
upon  their  conversation.  *'  They're  talk- 
ing about  you.  Cousin  George.  Look ! 
there's  mother  beckoning  to  you.  You'll 
have  to  go.  I  would  not  like  to  be  you  ; 
he's  such  a  cross  old  thing,  is  the  gov- 
ernor." 

But  his  Excellency  was  all  complacency 
in  the  presence  of  the  young  English  bar- 
onet. He  introduced  him  to  Lady  Long- 
ton;  and  her  ladyship,  as  an  especial 
mark  of  favor,  let  the  tips  of  her  lemon- 
colored  glove  rest  for  a  moment  in  his 
band. 

**  I  was  sorry  Lady  Longton  and  I  were 
out  when  you  called  yesterday.  Sir 
George.  It  was  not  a  visiting-day,  as 
perhaps  Mrs.  Durham  may  have  told 
yon;  but  we  should  have  been  glad  to 
have  seen  you.  I  hope,  however,  to  do 
myself  the  pleasure  of  returning  vour  call 
in  person  at  an  early  date;  ana  I  trust 
that  during  your  stay  in  Jamaica  we  may 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  good  deal  of 
you.  I  had  the  honor  of  your  father's 
acquaintance  —  the  late  Sir  Arthur  Dur- 
ham—  I  hardly  like  to  say  how  many 
years  ago.  We  were  boys  at  Eton  to- 
gether; and  though  your  uncle  had  ceased 
to  be  attorney-general  before  I  came  to 
the  colony,  I  have  had  occasion,  more 
than  once,  to  express  publicly  my  sense 
of  the  invaluable  service  he  rendered  to 
the  island.  I  hope  Mrs.  Durham  or  some 
of  your  charming  cousins  will  often  bring 
you  over  to  Queen's  House.  I  shall  tell 
iiillyard  that  we  shall  always  be  at  home 
to  you." 

**  Aunt,"  said  Sir  George,  as  they  drove 
off  from  the  churchyard  gate,  **  what  am  I 
to  do?  I  have  not  brought  a  court-suit 
with  me;  I  bad  no  notion  it  would  be 
required." 

Mrs.  Durham  laughed. 


163 

"  I  told  you  Sir  William  was  not  popu- 
lar," said  Evelyn.  **  You  can  understand 
the  reason  now." 

But  whatever  exception  George  might 
be  disposed  to  take  to  his  Excellency's 
high  sense  of  his  own  importance,  he  had 
no  reason  to  complain  of  Sir  William's 
want  of  civility. 

The  next  day  the  governor  called  on 
Sir  George.  He  had  scarcely  gone  when 
an  orderly  arrived  with  an  invitation  to 
dinner  for  the  following  evening. 

*Mt  is  not  a  'command'  this  time, 
George,"  said  Mrs.  Durham.  '*  I  think 
we  had  better  go.  The  Queen's  House 
little  dinners  are  always  p'reasant,  though 
I  can't  say  the  same  for  the  official  ones. 
You'll  meet  some  of  the  nicest  people  in 
the  island.  The  chief  justice  and  Lady 
French  are  sure  to  be  there ;  and  General 
Short,  the  director  of  roads;  and  very 
likely  the  commodore." 

It  turned  out  as  Mrs.  Durham  had  pre- 
dicted, a  very  pleasant  little  party.  All 
the  persons  whom  she  had  mentioned 
were  present,  and  in  addition,  a  couple  of 
rich  planters  —  non-oflicial  members  of 
the  Legislative  Council,  and  as  such  en- 
titled to  the  colonial  distinction  of  being 
styled  the  honorable  —  one  of  whom,  a 
Mr.  Da  Costa,  was  accompanied  by  two 
very  pretty  young  Jewesses,  his  daugh- 
ters, to  whom  the  commodore  paid  assid- 
uous attention. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  Sir  Wil- 
liam gave  his  arm  to  Lady  French  ;  Lady 
Longton  followed  with  Sir  George;  and 
then  the  rest  of  the  company  in  the  strict 
order  of  precedence.  Captain  Hillyard 
and  Evelyn  brought  up  the  rear. 

**  1  hope.  Sir  George,"  said  the  gov- 
ernor, addressing  him  across  the  table, 
**you  intend  to  make  the  round  of  the 
island.  You  cannot  say  you  have  seen 
Jamaica,  if  you  don't.  Kingston  is  no 
more  Jamaica  than  London  is  England. 
Every  parish  in  the  island  —  a  parish  with 
us,  you  know,  is  the  same  as  a  county  in 
England  —  has  its  own  distinguishing 
characteristics.  Even  the  patois  of  the 
peasantry  is  different  in  Westmoreland 
from  what  it  is  in  Portland,  for  example." 

"  I  should  like  to  do  so  very  much,  Sir 
William,  but  my  stay  is  limited.  I  must 
leave  for  home  the  first  mail  after  Christ- 
mas; and  I  believe  November  is  a  bad 
time  for  travelling  in  Jamaica." 

**Yes;  we  have  our  autumnal  rains  — 
our  'seasons,'  as  we  call  them  —  then. 
Still,  this  is  only  October.  You  might  do 
it  all  before  the  rains  commenced,  if  you 
started  at  once." 


z64 

*'  But  that/*  said  Mrs.  Durham,  joining 
in  the  conversation,  "  we  cannot  allow  my 
nephew  to  do.  He  has  come  out  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  his  relations^  Sir  Wil- 
liam, and  he  has  not  had  time  to  do  so 
yet." 

**  Ah !  my  dear  Mrs.  Durham,'*  replied 
the  governor  gallantly,  **that  alters  the 
case  entirely.  Interesting  as  an  extended 
study  of  our  social  peculiarities  would  un- 
doubtedly be  to  Sir  George,  he  has  an 
infinitely  more  charming  study  nearer 
home;'*  and  he  bowed  to  Mrs.  Durham 
with  the  grace  of  a  courtier. 

"  Nevertheless,  your  Excellency,"  broke 
in  Mr.  Campbell,  the  custos  or  lord 
lieutenant  of  St.  Ann's  —  a  shrewd 
Scotchman,  who  prided  himself  in  keep- 
ing up  the  old  Jamaica  traditions  of  hos- 
pitality —  **  nevertheless,  if  Sir  George 
Durham  could  spare  time  to  take  a  run 
over  to  the  North  Side,  l*m  sure  he  would 
be  both  delighted  and  amused.  We  have 
the  finest  estates,  sir,"  he  continued,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  the  baronet,  **  in  our 
parish.  It's  called  the  Garden  of  Jamaica 
—  and  the  best  lot  of  negroes  in  the 
island.  1  f  you  want  to  know  what  Quashie 
is  really  like,  you  must  go  to  the  sugar- 
estates.  Your  Kingston  nigger  is  a  poor 
creature  —  a  poor  feckless  creature.  But 
for  the  real  article,  youMl  have  to  go  to  the 
country." 

"  1  always  thought  the  finest  peasantry 
were  to  be  found  in  Manchester,"  said 
the  governor.  **  At  any  rale,  they  are  the 
most  money-making  and  the  most  inde- 
pendent. When  I  was  in  Manchester 
last,  I  was  shown  a  negro  who  had  saved 
two  thousand  pounds,  and  had  bought  a 
large  coffee-piece  besides.  It  is  not  often 
one  meets  with  a  thrifty  negro." 

**  It's  because  they  distrust  your  govern- 
ment savings-banks.  Sir  William,"  replied 
the  planter.  "They  think  their  money 
can  be  seized  for  taxes.  If  you  would 
get  that  idea  out  of  their  heads,  theyM  be 
as  saving  as  the  coolies.  The  negro 
hoards,  though  he  does  not  save.  The 
coolie  saves,  but  he  does  not  hoard.  But 
the  truth  is,  the  one  is  quite  as  fond  of 
money  as  the  other." 

'^  1  should  not  have  thought  they  were 
a  saving  people,'*  interposed  Sir  George. 
**  They  must  spend  a  great  deal  on  their 
dress." 

••  So  they  do  —  so  they  do.  Sir  George," 
repeated  Mr.  Campbell;  "far  more  than 
they  have  anv  business  to  spend.  And 
no  negro  would  condescend  to  take  care 
of  his  clothes ;  he  would  think  that  nig- 
gardly.   Don*t  you  see  the  way  the  women 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


go  about  the  streets,  sweeping  up  the  dust 
with  their  long  starched  petticoats  ?  If 
any  of  them  was  to  hold  up  her  dress,  she 
would  be  sneered. at  as  a  'mean  some- 
body.' " 

"1  wonder,"  interposed  the  commodore, 
**  what  a  negro's  ideas  of  beauty  are  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  laughed  the 
planter.  '*  But  I  do  know  that  no  one  in 
the  world  is  vainer  of  her  appearance  than 
a  negress.  If  you  notice.  Sir  George, 
you'll  see  that  every  second  girl  you  meet 
has  one  or  two  of  her  front  teeth  out." 

"  1  have ;  and  wondered  whether  it  was 
from  eating  sugarcane  or  anything  of  the 
sort.'* 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind.  She's  had  them 
pulled  out  to  improve  her  looks." 

"  You  do  not  mean  that  seriously  ? " 
exclaimed  the  baronet. 

"Indeed  I  do,"  responded  the  planter; 
"in  England,  the  loss  of  even  one  front 
tooth  fills  a  girl  with  dire  alarm ;  but  here, 
the  loss  of  two  is  quite  the  thing  !  There's 
no  accounting  for  taste." 

"Do  you  employ  coolies  as  well  as 
negroes  on  your  estate,  Mr.  Campbell?"' 
inquired  the  voung  baronet. 

"We're  obliged  to,"  was  the  reply. 
"  We  use  them  as  a  sort  of  decoy-ducks 
to  induce  the  negroes  to  work.  If  we 
could  dispense  with  them,  we  would  gladly 
do  so;  for  they're  very  expensive,  and 
need  a  lot  of  coddling  and  looking  after; 
and  all  that  takes  up  both  time  and  money. 
Besides,  they're  not  half  so  strong  as  the 
negroes.  They  can't  do  axe-work,  and 
they're  always  in  hospital.  But  we  can't 
do  without  them.  Since  the  abolition  of 
slavery  in  1838,  Quashie  has  become  so 
lazy  and  independent  that  he's  not  to  be 
relied  on.  He  works  only  when  and  how 
he  pleas*es.  Still,  we're  glad  to  get  him 
almost  on  his  own  terms.  It's  a  sort  of 
secret  of  the  trade,  Sir  George,  and  you 
mustn't  betray  us  if  I  tell  you ;  but  the 
best-paying  work  on  every  estate  is  re- 
served for  the  negro.  If  he  did  not  get 
that,  Quashie  wouldn't  come  near  us  at 
all." 

"But  I  thought  your  coolies  were 
physically  a  fine  body  of  men,"  replied 
the  baronet. 

"  The  scum  of  the  earth,  sir — the  scum 
of  the  earth.  The  women  come  from  the 
bazaars ;  the  men  are  fellows  who  have 
::ommitted  some  offence  against  the  laws 
or  the  caste  prejudices  of  their  country- 
men. Many  of  our  coolies  were  sepoys 
during  the  rebellion.  1  don't  believe  it 
is  entirely  the  fault  of  our  immigration 
agents  in  India.    They  would  get  us  bet- 


MODERN   DRESS. 


ter  if  they  could.  But  respectable  Indians 
can't  be  got  to  cross  *the  black  water/ 
and  hence  our  estates  are  recruited  from 
the  offscourings  of  our  Indian  population. 
However,  if  youVe  interested  in  the  sub* 
ject,  youVe  a  tine  opportunity  for  studying 
it.  The  'Hampshire'  has  just  arrived 
with  a  fresh  consignment  of  coolies  on 
board.  It's  that  has  brought  me  to  town. 
I*m  going  aboard  her  to-morrow  with  the 
agent-general  of  immigration ;  and  if  you 
would  like  to  go  over  a  coolie  ship,  I'll 
get  you  permission  to  go  with  us." 

"Pray,  do,  Mr.  Campbell;  I  shall  be 
very  much  obliged;  there  is  nothing  I 
should  like  better,"  said  Sir  George. 

"  Very  well ;  that's  agreed  then.  We'll 
meet  at  ten  to-morrow  at  the  agent-gen- 
eral's  office." 


From  The  Fortnightly  Review. 
MODERN  DRESS. 

The  progress  of  civilization  has  devel- 
oped the  decorative  tendencies  in*  every 
direction,  but  the  original  impulses  are 
found  in  all  countries  and  in  all  times. 
The  savage  who  shows  a  curious  taste  in 
DOse- pieces  and  body-paint  is  as  much  a 
votary  of  fashiou'as  the  Parisienne  whose 
whole  soul  is  concentrated  upon  the  efiEec- 
tiveness  of  lier  dress.  Both  sexes  have 
been  equally  weak  at  times  in  their  slavish 
surrender  to  this  tyrannical  despotism. 
But  the  males  have  in  a  measure  emanci- 
pated themselves.  The  garb  of  our  mod- 
ern bucks  and  bloods  compares  favorably 
with  that  of  the  dandies  and  macaronis  of 
the  past.  Their  attire  has  some  manli- 
ness in  it;  they  are  sensibly  shod;  the 
'  stuffs  they  wear  are  serviecable,  and  suited 
to  our  changeable  seasons.  1 1  is  no  longer 
the  custom  to  swallow  up  a  whole  patri- 
mony in  tailors*  bills.  The  lavish  employ- 
ment of  the  most  costly  materials  has  also 
disappeared.  Silks  and  satins,  except  as 
regards  gorgeous  socks  or  decorative 
neckties,  are  left  to  women.  The  use 
of  frills  and  jabots  of  rare  Valenciennes 
has  gone  with  full-bottomed  wigs  and 
small-clothes  of  gold  brocade.  Men  do 
not  wear  shirts  which  cost  ten  or  twenty 
pounds  apiece,  as  they  did  when  that  sum 
meant  six  or  seven  times  its  present 
value  ;  nor  do  they  fix  priceless  jewels  in 
their  shoe-laces,  or  carrv  muffs  of  rare 
furs  on  their  hands.  Tne  present  fash- 
ions are  a  distinct  improvement  upon 
those  of  even  a  more  recent  period.  The 
tight-fitting,  high-colored  monstrosities  of 


i6s 

the  Georgian  epoch  went  out  with  the 
king  who  permitted  a  seam  but  called  a 
crease  intolerable.  No  one,  not  the  most 
fatuous  and  empty-headed  devotee  of  high 
collars  and  single-studded  shirts,  would 
give  a  tithe  of  the  time  Beau  Brummell 
devoted  to  his  voluminous  and  largely 
unsuccessful  ties. 

But  with  the  weaker  sex  the  reverse  is 
still  the  case.  While  men  have  in  a 
measure  shaken  themselves  free,  women 
are  now  as  ever  completely  under  the 
dominion  of  dress.  The  passion  is  as  old 
as  the  hills.  Hebrew  wives  and  maidens 
laced  tightly  and  added  fringes  of  gay 
colors  to  their  snow-white  robes.  For 
them  a  sister  discovered  in  Solomon's 
reign  the  special  uses  of  the  silk-worm, 
**  Ce  ver  rampant  qui  habille  I'homme  de 
feuilles  d'arbres  elabor^es  dans  son  sein." 
Egyptian  beauties,  sitting  under  the 
shadow  of  the  pyramids  in  the  days  of  the 
Pharaohs,  sleeked  and  preened  themselves 
before  their  brightly  burnished,  brazen 
mirrors,  heightening  their  charms  with 
collyrium  and  henna,  and  trying  new  ef- 
fects in  costume.  Artifice  was  resorted 
to  by  the  ladies  of  Greece  to  increase  their 
beauty;  they,  too,  wore  body  bands  and 
belts  to  impro^'e  their  figures,  and  it  is 
more  than  probable  that  the  celebrated 
girdle  of  Venus  was  the  germ  and  proto- 
type of  the  modern  stays.  The  Roman 
matrons  carried  the  rage  for  dress  to  ex- 
travagant excess.  The  beauty  who  would 
preserve  her  complexion  slept  with  a  flour 
poultice  on  her  face ;  she  bathed  in  asses* 
milk,  and  spent  long  hours  at  her  toilette 
braiding,  dyeing,  and  dressing  her  beauti- 
ful hair,  of  which  all  the  ladies  of  Rome 
were  especially  proud.  Her  garments 
were  rich  and  varied  in  color,  if  not  in 
shape,  but  the  coquettish  taste  of  the 
wearer  could  give  endless  changes  to  the 
draping  of  the  palla,  or  stole.  Later  civ- 
ilization has  proved  as  fanciful  in  matters 
of  dress  as  the  old.  The  sex  through 
countless  generations  has  maintained  the 
traditions  handed  down  from  classical 
times.  Sovereigns  set  the  fashions  to  the 
ladies  of  their  court ;  the  crowd  followed 
suit,  and  set  sumptuary  laws  at  defiance. 
One  queen  introduced  the  bonnet d  canon; 
another  the  "  sugarloaf  "  head-tie.  Cathe- 
rine de  Medici  ruled  French  fashion  with 
the  most  imperious  sway.  She  laid  down 
limits  which  waists  should  not  exceed, 
and  popularized  a  cruel  steel  corset,  in- 
tended to  compass  these  dimensions.  Our 
own  Queen  Bess  was  a  woman  to  the 
finger-tips  as  regarded  matters  of  dress. 
She  was  fond  of  the  most  gorgeous  ap« 


1 66 


MODERN   DRESS. 


pare],  and  at  her  death  her  wardrobe  was 
found  to  contain  three  thousand  costumes. 
Her  loyal  female  subjects  freely  imitated 
her  example ;  and  their  fondness  for  colos- 
sal rufTs  stiff  with  the  newly  introduced 
starch,  for  long-waisted  gowns  made  of 
silk  velvet,  satin,  taffety,  or  grograine, 
brought  down  upon  them  much  caustic 
satire  at  the  time. 

On  the  Continent  also,  century  after 
century,  fashion  ran  riot.  France,  or 
more  exactly  Paris,  had  early  claimed  the 
right  she  still  exercises  to  dictate  the 
mode,  and  thence  issued,  season  after  sea- 
son, new-fangled  and  perpetually  changing 
styles.  Now  short  skirts  succeeded  long 
trains,  trailing  yards  behind ;  low  dresses 
were  followed  by  more  demure  high  col- 
lars and  frills;  after  **  strait  gowns"  came 
the  fardingale,  which  in  its  turn  developed 
into  the  hoop,  with  its  concomitants  of 
patches,  paint,  and  high-heeled  shoes.  A 
return  to  Arcadian  simplicity  was  the  nat- 
ural reaction  from  elaborate  artificial  con- 
structions which  altogether  concealed  the 
natural  lines  of  the  figure.  Short  waists, 
and  limp,  clinging  draperies  came  in  to 
expose  every  contour ;  stays  and  corsets 
were  for  a  time  discredited,  only  to  be 
reintroduced,  and  with  them  the  whole 
circle  of  fashions  which  had  once  already 
had  their  day.  Burton  has  well  summed 
up  the  case  against  the  sex  he  affected  to 
despise:  "They  fthe  women)  crush  in 
their  feet  and  boaies,  hurt  and  crucify 
themselves;  sometimes  in  lax  clothes,  a 
hundred  yards,  I  think,  in  a  gown  or  a 
sleeve;  and  sometimes,  again,  so  short 
ut  nudos  exprimant  art  us.  Now  long 
tails  and  trains,  and  then  short,  up  and 
down,  high,  low,  thick  and  thin ;  now  little 
or  no  bands,  then  thick  as  cart-wheels ; 
now  loose  bodies,  then  great  fardingales 
and  close  girt." 

Never  perhaps  in  the  whole  history  of 
female  costume  has  dress  exercised  a 
more  powerful  and  widespread  dominion 
than  in  the  last  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  More  than  one  explanation  may 
be  given  for  this.  It  may  be  traced  pri- 
marily to  the  influence  and  example  of 
one  beautiful  woman  at  the  head  of  soci- 
ety and  in  the  capital  which  from  time 
immemorial  has  been  the  centre  and  start- 
ing point  of  fashion.  The  ascendancy  of 
the  Second  Empire  was  paramount  in 
matters  of  taste.  The  empress  Eugenie 
swayed  the  social  world  of  Europe  more 
effectively  than  Napoleon  III.  the  politi- 
cal. A  single  circumstance  will  suffi- 
ciently prove  this.  Her  adoption  of  a 
wide  skirt  at  once  reintroduced  the  fash- 


ion of  hoops  and  brought  about  the  reign 
of  hideous  crinoline.    This  is  so  far  the 
last  instance  of  the  effect  a  single  indi- 
vidual in  high  place  can  produce  upon  an 
imitative  crowd.    Social  history,  indeed, 
is  full  of  such  cases:  of  the  patch  first 
applied  to  hide  an  ugly  wen  ;  of  cushions 
carried    to  equalize  strangely  deformed 
hips;  of  long  skirts  to  cover  ugly  feet, 
and  long  shoes  to  hide  an  excrescence  on 
the  toe.      The  well-known   case  of  the 
Isabeau  lace  may  also  be  quoted   here : 
the  yellowish  white,  dingy  colored   lace 
(foreshadowing  probably    the   coffee-col- 
ored lace  of  recent  days)  which  Archduke 
Albert's  queen   made  the  fashion  when 
she  swore  she  would  not  change  her  linen 
till   Ostend  was  taken;   an  oath   which 
must  have  cost  her  much,  as  **  the  siege, 
unluckily  for  her  comfort,  lasted  three 
years."    The  authority  of   the  empress 
Eugenie  was  not  limited,  however,  to  the 
popularization  of  the  crinoline.      It  also 
developed  enormously  the  rage  for  smart 
clothes.    The  empress  dressed  magnifi- 
cently, and  with  lavish  expenditure  her- 
self, and  she  expected  every  one  about 
her  to  do  the   same.      Like    Elizabeth, 
queen  of  Philip  II.,  she  seldom  if  ever 
wore  the  same  dress  twice.    It  was  dis- 
pleasing to  her  when  people's  wardrobes 
were  meagre.     Nassau  Senior  tells  us  in 
his  **  Conversations"  that  she  had  a  won- 
derful memory,  and  often  displayed  it  by 
reminding  some  unfortunate  woman  that 
she  had  admired  a  certain  dress  already. 
No  wonder  that  under  this  H^ime  the 
most  noted  dressmakers  fattened  and  rap- 
idly grew  rich.    The  artiste  whom  the 
empress  especially  patronized  made  her 
fortune  in  a  few  years  and  retired  into 
private  life  lone    before  the  empire  to 
which  she  owed  it  tottered  to  its  fall. ' 
This  same  period  saw  the  foundation  of 
several  Parisian  houses  which  have  now  a 
world-wide  reputation,  one  among  them 
being  that  established  by  an  Englishman, 
a  native  of  Lincolnshire,  Mr.  Worth. 

This  excessive  fondness  for  display  was 
not  long  limited  to  France.  It  soon 
spread  to  other  civilized  countries.  The 
United  States  was  perhaps  the  first  to 
surrender  to  its  engrossing  influence, 
probably  because  Americans  nave  always 
been  connected  in  very  close  ties  with 
Parts,  a  reason  no  doubt  too  for  their 
generally  correct  and  enlightened  taste  in 
dress.  The  wave  of  luxury  in  costume 
reached  this  country  later  and  made 
slower  progress.  But  the  movement  has 
never  halted  or  been  retrograde.  En- 
glishwomen were  at  one  time  open  to  the 


MODERN  DRESS. 


reproach  that  the  bulk  of  them  had  atro- 
ciously bad  taste.  This  has  by  no  means 
been  entirely  removed,  but  it  roust  be 
patent  to  even  the  most  uninstructed  ob- 
server that  there  is  a  very  considerable 
increase  in  the  number  of  our  country- 
women who  dress  well.  As  a  general 
rule,  this  free,  not  to  say  lavish,  expendi- 
ture is  most  common  among  the  opulent 
middle  class.  Many  of  the  greatest  ladies 
in  name  and  position  dress  as  cheaply  as 
they  can.  It  is  not  from  neediness,  nor 
vet  from  niggardliness ;  they  merely  fol- 
low the  traditions  in  which  they  have  been 
trained.  They  are  often  unable  to  recog- 
nize really  perfect  dressing  or  to  distin- 
guish it  from  bad.  They  pass  their  lives 
trusting  to  an  experienced  lady's-maid  to 
cut  out  and  fit  the  designs  which  they 
have  evolved  from  their  own  conscious- 
ness or  the  fashion-plates  of  the  lady's 
newspaper.  Under  such  circumstances 
they  cannot  be  said  to  lead  the  fashion  ; 
often  enough  they  are  not  even  interested 
in  it.  Now  and  again  some  active-minded 
personage  busies  herself  to  bring  about 
what  seems  to  her  an  imperatively  needed 
reform.  Thus  Lady  Harberton  has  de- 
voted much  energy  and  intelligence  to  the 
evangel  of  the  divided  skirt,  a  style  of 
dress  so  utterly  opposed  to  all  the  true 
springs  of  feminine  action  as  regards 
apparel  that  it  is  morally  impossible  that 
it  can  ever  be  made  popular.  The  prin- 
ciples which  underlie  the  Rational  Dress 
Association  are  false  to  nature.  Here 
again  the  female  sex  is  asked  to  accept 
ugliness  for  the  questionable  privilege  of 
being  the  more  able  to  practice  athletic 
sports.  The  supporters  of  this  move- 
ment practically  sealed  its  fate  wlien  they 
were  persuaded  into  exhibiting  publicly 
the  clothing  they  advocated. 

It  is  not  amongst  these  really  hare- 
brained reformers  that  we  must  look  for 
the  leaders  of  fashion  of  to-day.  Fash- 
ions are  in  reality  made  popular  by  hum- 
bler people  and  of  lesser  station,  members 
neither  of  the  aristocracy  nor  of  the  plu- 
tocracy, but  yet  persons  so  far  belonging 
to  both  that  they  can  boast  of  good  breed- 
ing and  the  right  to  enter  the  best  society, 
with  sufficiently  ample  means  to  meet  the 
considerable  outlav  which  an  addiction 
to  dress  imperatively  requires.  For  them 
the  inventiveness  of  dressmakers  and  de- 
signers is  forever  on  the  stretch.  Fash- 
ions are  originated  for  them,  and  costume 
runs  upon  new  lines. 

Another  class  of  patrons  and  leaders 
must  not  be  omitted  here,  although  their 
influence  is  less  potent  than  that  of  the 


167 

ladies  of  the  best  style ;  still,  they  exer- 
cise a  certain  effect  upon  fashions.  These 
are  the  prominent  actresses  upon  the  Pa- 
risian stage.  Not  seldom  the  dress- 
makers share  in  the  triumph  of  the  even- 
ing when  the  author's  name  has  been 
called  out  in  front  of  the  curtain,  and  the 
actors  have  received  a  full  measure  of 
applause.  There  is  in  all  this  sufficient 
to  foster  the  highest  efforts  in  design  and 
treatment;  there  is  not  only  the  praise 
always  so  intoxicating  to  the  artistic  tem- 
perament, but  also  the  material  advantage 
following  successful  advertisement  which 
is  still  more  grateful  to  the  commercial 
mind.  It  is  not  strange,  then,  that  the 
leading  houses  in  Paris  compete  eagerly 
for  the  privilege  of  dressing  the  great 
theatrical  stars,  and  give  their  customers 
their  best  efforts,  probably  for  the  time 
their  undivided  attention;  the  latter,  on 
their  side,  are  fully  alive  to  the  advan- 
tages it  will  bring,  and  willing  enough  to 
pay  the  price  for  the  talent  specially  put 
forth  on  their  behalf.  Thrifty  English- 
women would  scarcely  credit  the  cost  of 
some  of  these  gorgeous  and  elaborate 
creations  for  ''first  nights.''  Only  the 
other  dav,  when  Mile.  Magnier  came  out 
in  "  M,  le  Ministre^^  one  of  her  dresses, 
a  mass  of  extraordinarily  rich  embroidery, 
made  up  principally  of  the  feathers  of  the 
bright-plumaged  lophophore,  cost  a  couple 
of  hundred  pounds.  Again  the  trousseau^ 
as  it  was  not  improperly  styled,  of  Sara 
Bernhardt  for  her  American  trip  was 
worth  thousands  of  pounds ;  all  Paris 
talked  of  it,  and  all  who  were  privileged  to 
enter  the  ateliers  where  they  were  pro- 
duced went  to  see  the  show.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  dramatists  like  M.  Dumas 
and  critics  like  M.  Sarcev  complain  that 
dress  is  destroying  the  cframa,  and  sigh 
for  the  simpler  surrounding  which  pleased 
our  forefathers.  Something  of  the  same 
sort,  but  to  a  lesser  degree,  obtains  with 
us:  the  dresses,  if  they  are  noteworthy, 
of  any  popular  actress  who  has  won  a 
new  success,  are  certain  to  be  exhaus- 
tively canvassed;  they  are  mentioned  in 
general  conversation,  if  not  in  the  jour- 
nals of  the  day,  and  the  wearer  is  con- 
stantly applied  to  for  information  as  to 
where  they  were  made. 

Since  fashion  has  had  such  patrons 
and  exponents,  the  whole  tendency  of 
dress  has  been  towards  the  development 
of  personal  attractions.  The  greatest  at- 
tention has  been  paid  to  the  display  of  the 
figure.  To  secure  a  good  "  fit "  has  be- 
come quite  a  craze.  Nothing  less  than 
perfection,  skin  tight,  faultless,  and  with- 


1 68 


MODERN   DRESS. 


out  a  wrinkle,  will  satisfy  fastidious 
ladies  anxious  to  look  their  best.  In 
obedience  to  this  demand  the  employ- 
ment of  good  •*  fitters,"  or  •*  first  hands," 
is  indispensable.  In  every  good  dress- 
making house,  as  a  general  rule  the  best 
artistes  are  of  French  extraction.  Really 
capable  performers  command  high  sala- 
ries—  two,  three,  even  four  hundred  a 
year.  The  task  is  one  of  much  difficulty; 
indeed  it  demands  a  peculiar  talent  of  its 
own.  The  mysteries  of  the  droit  fil^  or 
cutting  out  to  follow  the  line  of  the  thread, 
the  skill  required  to  adapt  patterns  to  the 
figure,  cannot  be  exercised  without  long 
practice  and  deep  knowledge.  Added  to 
these  are  the  more  occult  considerations 
of  hiding,  supplementing,  or  toning  down* 
physical  shortcomings. 

It  is  for  this  same  absorbing  reason, 
that  of  heightening  effect  to  the  utmost, 
that  the  styles  of  recent  years  have  added 
rather  than  detracted  from  the  beauty  of 
form.  In  spite  of  all  that  has  been  pre- 
dicted, we  are  still  spared  the  threatened 
reintroduction  of  the  hideous  hoop.  The 
only  chance  of  its  reappearance  would  be 
to  satisfy  the  craving  for  an  abnormal 
slimness  of  waist.  But  this  latter  is  at 
present  accomplished  by  voluminous  dra- 
pery upon  the  hips,  which  can  be  em- 
ployed without  much  loss  of  symmetry,  or 
grotesqueness  added  to  the  natural  lines 
of  the  figure.  Those  lines  have  been 
uniformly  maintained,  at  their  best,  by 
the  most  recent  fashions.  The  worst  that 
can  be  said  of  any  style  of  late  has  been 
that  which  encouraged  exaggerated  long 
waists;  but  this  was  short-lived,  and  has 
already  given  way  to  a  less  artificial  shape. 
A  still  greater  concession  to  the  need  for 
decorative  embellishment  has  been  made 
by  the  incessant  introduction  of  more  and 
more  costly  and  varied  materials.  The 
inventiveness  of  manufacturers  is  ever 
on  the  stretch  to  try  new  combinations,  to 
introduce  new  designs,  new  patterns,  and 
new  stuffs.  Any  close  observer  of  the 
fashions  for  the  last  few  years  will  have 
noticed  how  change  has  followed  change. 
Satin,  tabooed  for  years  since  a  murder- 
ess gave  it  a  hateful  notoriety,  has  re- 
turned to  be  fashionable  for  a  time,  and 
once  more  to  die  out,  giving  way  to  silks, 
velvets,  and  velvet  brocade.  It  is  not 
many  years  since  that  plush  was  all  the 
rage;  a  stuff  so  strikingly  effective  and 
yet  not  too  costly,  that  it  soon  gained  wide- 
spread approval,  the  use  of  it  lingering 
even  with  people  of  good  taste,  even  after 
it  had  become  vulgar  and  commonplace. 
Brocaded  velvet  was  another  variety  of 


stuff  which  long  held  its  ground.  Only 
now,  after  half-a-dozen  years,  is  its  popo- 
larity  on  the  wane.  Shot  silk,  again,  a 
fashion  of  the  past,  has  been  recently  re- 
vived, and  is  now  in  the  full  tide  of  popu- 
lar favor.  Rare  brocades  carefully  imi- 
tated from  old  pictures;  velvets  in  com- 
bination with  tulle;  silks  with  velvet; 
laces  of  all  kinds,  and  in  rich  profusion  — 
all  these  in  turn  are  or  have  been  em- 
ployed. The  same  rule  of  constant  variety 
applies  with  yet  more  force  to  fringes  and 
ornamentation.  There  is  frequent  varia- 
tion in  trimmings  of  all  sorts.  Passetnen' 
teries  and  embroideries :  the  roost  elabo- 
rate applications  of  gold  and  silver,  silk, 
beads,  and  jet  upon  the  most  costly  stuffs, 
have  been  and  are  nearly  always  in  vogue. 
The  changes  are  rung  most  frequently 
upon  jet,  an  especially  favorite  and  al- 
ways cfecorative  material,  which  has  gone 
in  and  out,  out  and  in,  for  a  number  of 
years,  and  which  was  only  temporarily 
supplanted  by  colored  beads.  Ostrich 
feathers  have  bad  their  day,  and  will  al- 
ways be  worn,  especially  as  dress  trim- 
mings; so  has  chenille  in  all  colors  and 
varieties.  Colors  again  come  and  go  as 
they  did  centuries  back,  \vhen,  for  in- 
stance, all  was  **  neglected  for  purple,  and 
from  hat  to  shoe,  milliners,  mercers,  dyers, 
could  not  supply  enough."  We  have  seen 
quite  recently  the  reproduction  of  the 
shad^  of  lilac  once  known  as  mauve ;  the 
universal  use  of  navy  blue,  of  dark  green, 
of  cardinal  red,  of  grey,  and  yellow  for 
evening  wear.  Another  color  recently 
popularized  is  the  "crushed  strawberry," 
the  /raise  color  which  French  milliners 
introduced  last  vear,  but  which  in  this 
country  became  almost  immediately  vul- 
garized. The  raa;e  for  effective  orna- 
ment has  extended  to  artificial  flowers, 
which  have  been  imitated  with  the  most 
painstaking  and  artistic  accuracy.  Flow- 
ers are,  just  at  this  moment,  somewhat 
discredited,  but  it  is  the  mere  caprice  of 
fashion.  Never  have  the  reproductions 
of  all,  including  the  most  costly  varieties, 
been  more  perfect.  Full-blown  roses,  their 
falling  petals  gemmed  with  dewdrops; 
orchids  in  splendid  colors,  the  wisteria, 
azaleas,  water-lilies,  carnations ;  the  whole 
range  of  flowers,  cultivated  and  wild,  are 
available  for  decorative  purposes.  Fruit, 
again,  of  all  kinds,  grapes,  cherries, 
plums ;  birds  of  gorgeous  plumage,  set  up 
by  the  skill  of  a  naturalist  in  lifelike  atti- 
tudes, have  been  largely  utilized.  Last, 
but  not  least,  furs  — otter,  beaver,  skunk  ;  ^ 
seal-skin  jackets  and  mantles  in  every 
variety  of  shape  and  price.    Furs  are  per- 


MODERN   DRESS. 


haps  tbe  most  costly  of  all  the  materials 
used  in  feminine  aoornment.  One  hun- 
dred guineas  is  paid  for  a  blue  fox  boa, 
and  five  hundred  for  a  cloak  lined  with 
sables,  and  trimmed  with  sable  tails. 

It  will  be  readily  understood  from  the 
foregoing  that  many  causes  combine  to 
make  fashions  expensive,  especially  in 
their  earliest  phases,  and  when  patronized 
by  only  the  select  few.  There  is  first  the 
craving  for  "  fit  **  already  specified,  which 
calls  for  the  employment  of  highly  paid 
talent;  there  is  next  the  costliness  of  the 
materials,  which  can  only  be  manipulated 
by  skilled  and  experienced  needlewomen 
earning  good  wages.  These  items  must 
add  appreciably  to  the  cost  of  production. 
There  is  yet  again  the  considerable  ex- 
pense attendant  upon  the  introduction  of 
new  ideas.  These  are  not  struck  out  sud- 
denly and  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
Changes  in  dress  are  only  arrived  at  after 
infinite  patience  and  pains;  the  close 
study  of  ancient  works  of  art,  old  pictures, 
old  china,  and  rare  engravings;  all  kinds 
of  experimental  research  as  to  new  con- 
trasts of  colors ;  the  arrangement  and  re- 
arrangement of  drapery  in  artistic  folds, 
these  are  the  labors  which  precede  the 
creation  of  a  fresh  style.  Naturally  that 
style,  and  the  patterns  which  reproduce 
it,  cannot  be  given  away.  Hence  the 
seemingly  high  prices  charged  by  Pari- 
sian dressmakers  of  the  first  class  to 
English,  American,  and  other  foreign 
buyers,  through  whom  the  new  patterns 
are  distributed  throughout  the  world. 
These  prices  are  still  further  enhanced  by 
the  way  in  which  the  system  bears  upon 
the  leading  manufacturers.  It  is  their 
business  to  contribute  to  variety  by  intro- 
ducing new  designs.  The  whole  of  them, 
whether  they  make  silks  or  satins,  wool- 
lens, buttons,  or  fringes,  must  keep  their 
inventive  faculties  forever  on  the  stretch. 
They  must  produce  continually  or  they 
will  be  left  behind  in  the  race ;  produce 
too  on  the  mere  chance,  as  a  matter  of 
speculation,  never  certain  whether  or  not 
the  new  fabrics  will  please  their  fastidious 
clients,  to  whom  they  are  submitted  as 
the  probable  basis  of  new  designs  in 
dress.  New  looms  can  only  be  set  up  at 
great  cost.  If  the  new  stuns  do  not  suc- 
ceed, a  dead  loss  follows  immediately. 
Even  when  they  are  accepted  and  passed 
on  into  the  outer  world  the  period  of 
fruition  is  short-lived.  The  originals,  es- 
sentially costly  from  the  manner  in  which 
they  are  brought  out,  are  speedily  imi- 
tated, and  in  baser  materials.  The  next 
downward  step  is  their  adoption  by  the 


169 

crowd,  when  they  are  at  once  discarded 
by  the  select  few.  By  this  time,  however, 
new  styles  are  already  on  the  way,  the 
process  being  almost  always  the  same: 
introduced  with  difficulty,  accepted  with 
reserve,  slowly  made  popular,  and  finally 
seen  everywhere  in  a  debased  and  vulgar- 
ized form. 

Nothing  is  more  remarkable  in  modern 
dress  than  the  rapid  degeneracv  of  a 
fashion,  when  once  it  has  ceased  to  be 
uncommon.  All  its  worst  features  are 
immediately  emphasized  and  forced  into 
undue  prominence.  What  was  originally 
artistic  and  refined  deteriorates  into  gross 
caricature.  Many  instances  of  this  might 
be  quoted.  The  mantle,  known  on  its 
.introduction  as  the  **  domino,"  a  creation 
of  Worth's  adapted  by  English  taste  to 
English  ways,  soon  caught  the  fancy  of 
the  crowd.  Imitators  seized  upon  its 
peculiar  quaintness  of  outline  and  im- 
mediately exaggerated  it  into  the  ugly 
and  unbecoming  covering  so  long  popular 
as  the  Mother  Hubbard  cloak.  The  same 
happened  with  the  cleverly  insinuated 
tournure^  a  suspicion  of  rounded  contour, 
which  speedily  degenerated  into  the  hide- 
ous and  objectionable  crinolinette.  The 
same  was  observable  in  head-dresses. 
Pointed,  poked -out  bonnets  became 
** grannies"  in  the  hands  of  indifferent 
artists,  and  the  large  hats,  so  much  ap- 
proved of  by  French  ladies  a  year  or  two 
back,  grew  into  the  enormous  machines 
piled  up  with  ornament  and  vast  in  cir<» 
cumference  which  have  already  become 
unfashionable  in  this  countrv.  The  vul- 
gar depreciation  of  colors  has  been  equally 
marked.  Pink  has  come  into  fashion ;  so 
has  mauve,  Bismark,  enrag^y  eau  de  NiU^ 
peacock  blue,  all  in  turn  to  grow  uni- 
versally common.  The  same  has  hap- 
pened with  stuffs.  Embossed  velvets 
have  just  had  their  day,  as  plush  had  a 
short  time  ago,  as  satin  will  ere  long  again, 
and  broch^  and  silk. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  trace  the  stages 
through  which  a  fashion  passes  from  its 
prime  to  its  decadence,  or  to  explain  how 
it  becomes  depraved  and  debased.  It  is 
due  principally  to  the  insatiable  desire  of 
a  number  of  ambitious  people,  not  quite 
of  the  highest  class,  to  clamber  up  to  the 
topmost  platform,  and  there  ruffle  it  out 
with  the  best.  They  cannot  be  the  rose, 
but  they  will  live  near  it.  But  the  lesson 
is  necessarily  an  incomplete  one.  An 
artistic  triumph  in  dress  can  no  more  be 
carried  in  the  memory  than  an  exquisite 
grouping  of  forms,  or  a  changing  of  color, 
it  may  be  copied,  but  it  cannot  be  repro- 


170 


MODERN   DRESS. 


duced;  certainly  not  by  the  misdirected 
energies  and  little-instructed  talent  of  an 
amateur.  The  beautiful  original  intrusted 
to  unskilful  hands,  the  painstaking  lady's 
maid  or  the  cheap  dressmakers,  who 
**  make  up  ladies'  own  materials,"  appears 
next  in  a  lower  and  more  ignoble  jform. 
This  is  only  the  second  stage  in  the  de- 
terioration. There  are  few  women  with 
any  pretensions  who  are  not  a  centre  to 
another  and  a  lesser  group,  admired  and 
imitated,  as  they  have  admired  and  im- 
itated. The  style  they  have  adopted  and 
extolled  is  soon  the  property  of  dozens 
more.  By  this  time  it  is  familiar  to  the 
eye,  seen  frequentlv,  and,  with  the  crowd, 
in  constant  demana.  Its  widespread  dis- 
semination now  rapidly  sets  in.  It  has 
already  lost  its  charm  of  freshness;  its 
worst  features,  naturallv  the  most  salient, 
have  been  empbasizea  and  caricatured, 
and  in  its  depraved  form  it  is  turned  out 
in  thousands  and  thousands  by  the  whole- 
sale manufacturers  —  mechanically,  upon 
one  stereotyped  pattern,  and  at  a  price 
which  brings  it  within  the  limits  of  the 
narrowest  purse.  Every  kjtchen-maid 
presently  disports  in  what  her  mistress  a 
year  previously  had  imitated  from  some 
one  above  her,  and  the  fashion  is  doomed. 
But  the  sheep  have  many  leaders,  and 
do  not  always  rush  one  wav.  There  are 
always  many  divergences  from  the  ordi- 
nary line,  many  independent  movements 
along  strange  roads  outside  the  regular 
•grooves.  As  our  social  conditions  grow 
more  and  more  chaotic  and  disturbed,  so 
do  many  women  claim  to  be  a  law  to 
themselves  and  their  followers  in  dress. 
This  is  helped  partly  by  that  absence  of 
authoritative  models  already  referred  to; 
partly  by  the  increased  yearning  in  a 
large  section  of  the  sex  for  emancipation 
from  all  trammels.  From  this  comes  that 
spurious  aestheticism  which  has  made  so 
common  the  shapeless,  short-waisted  gar- 
ments of  faded  hues  embroidered  with 
lilies.  Artistic  aspirations  of  a  higher 
kind  have  led  others  to  strive  after  a  purer 
and  more  perfect  ideal ;  and  the  endeavor 
to  introduce  and  popularize  the  costumes 
of  ancient  Greece,  as  seen  by  the  produc- 
tion of  Homeric  tableaux,  which  Sir  Fred- 
erick Leighton  himself  condescended  to 
supervise,  is  only  another  instance  of  the 
independent  spirit  abroad  in  matters  of 
dress.  Increased  intercourse  with  Paris, 
again,  has  added  to  the  multiplicity  of 
styles.  A  superstition  largely  prevails 
that  whatever  comes  from  Paris  must  be 
the  ri^ht  thing;  whereas  there  are  as 
many  indifiEereot  dressmakers  there  as  in 


London,  if  not  more  —  artistes  without 
invention  or  taste  who  are  months  behind 
the  choicest  fashions  of  the  day.  Yet 
numbers  of  self-opinionated  people  flock 
to  Paris  to  buy  from  them  at  first  hand, 
and  upon  their  own  judgment.  Fit,  taste- 
fulness,  or  suitability  may  be  altogether 
ignored ;  it  is  sufficient  that  their  clothes 
come  from  Paris. 

Nevertheless  it  must  be  patent  to  every 
close  observer  that  the  number  of  En- 
glishwomen who  dress  well  is  daily  in- 
creasing. Good  taste  is  spreading,  and 
with  it  a  keener  appreciation  of  good 
style.  The  true  leader  of  fashion  is  more 
readily  recognized,  more  generally  ad- 
mired. There  is  no  mistaking  her.  From 
head  to  foot,  from  bonnet  to  boot,  her 
apparel  is  harmonious,  in  keeping  with 
her  complexion,  her  figure,  and  her  char- 
acter. Colors  are  skilfully  blended  or 
judiciously  contrasted  without  any  extrav- 
agance; the  one  bright  spot,  if  bright 
spot  there  be,  is  placed  artistically  as  in  a 
picture,  in  exactly  the  right  place  to  crowa 
the  effect.  The  dress  and  its  materials 
are  before  everything  appropriate  to  the 
wearer  and  the  occasion ;  as  much  earnest 
thought  has  been  devoted  to  make  it  espe- 
cially suited,  in  lines,  draperv,  cut,  to  the 
individual,  as  skill  to  the  perfection  of  the 
fit.  The  well-dressed  woman  again  knows 
not  only  what  to  wear  but  when  to  wear 
it.  In  the  summer  forenoon  you  will  see 
her  in  the  simplest  of  cottons,  a  dress 
absolutely  plain  and  without  ornament, 
without  laces,  fringes,  decoration  of  any 
kind.  In  winter  at  the  same  time  she  is 
equally  plainly  dressed  in  cloth.  Later 
in  the  day  she  changes  to  smarter  clothes 
for  more  ceremonious  duties,  visits,  after- 
noon parties,  and  teas  —  velvets  and  silks 
combined  in  winter,  in  summer  rich  gauzes 
and  costly  laces.  In  the  evening,  for 
dinner  or  ball,  the  most  choice  and  splen- 
did masterpieces  of  the  dressmaker's  art 
are  reserved ;  the  richest  stuff  set  o£E 
with  the  most  elaborate  embroideries  and 
the  rarest  jewels.  But  withal,  even  in 
this  the  last  gorgeous  stage  into  which 
the  modest  chrysalis  has  developed,  os- 
tentatious displav  is  scrupulously  avoided. 
The  highest  art  is  to  conceal  art :  to  use 
the  richest  materials  in  compassing  the 
utmost  seeming  simplicity.  There  is  no 
heaviness,  no  overloading  with  ornament* 
no  meaningless  superadded  decoration. 
The  attire  of  a  perfectly  dressed  woman 
is  original  without  eccentricity,  personal 
to  herself  yet  following  the  latest  fashion, 
attractive  yet  undemonstrative,  develop- 
ing to  the  utmost  her  peculiar  charms* 


£X-MARSHAL  BAZAINE's  APOLOGY. 


It  has  been  said  that  woman  io  her  dress 
owes  more  to  art  than  to  nature.  This  is 
especially  true  in  modern  days,  and  she 
who  can  use  fashionable  costume  wisely 
with  the  innumerable  adventitious  aids  it 
offers,  adds  much  to  the  charm  and  grace^ 
fulness  of  the  modern  world. 

G.  Armytage. 


From  Temple  Bar. 
EX-MARSHAL  BAZAIN£*S  APOLOGY. 

This  volume  *  recalls  the  darkest  epi- 
sodes of  the   memorable  war  of  1 870-1. 
Apart  from  its  most  disastrous  results, 
the  capitulation  of  Metz  threw  more  dis- 
credit on  the  arms  of  France  than  any 
other  event  in  the  Ion;;  series  of  her  sad 
reverses,    and    completely    eclipsed    the 
capitulation  of  Ulm,  deemed    previously 
the  worst  catastrophe  of  the  kind.    Se- 
dan, no  doubt,  was  an  appalling^  defeat; 
but  Macmahon*s  army  was  an  ill-organ- 
ized force,  caught  in  a  trap,  so  to  speak, 
through  an  act  of  folly ;  and  if  Paris  fell, 
it  was  after  a  display  of  heroism  and  en- 
durance which  amazed  Europe.    But  that 
a  vast  army,  which  had  given  ample  proof 
of  military  worth  in  two  great  battles,  and 
which,  moreover,  possessed  the  support 
of    the    roost    important    stronghold    of 
France,  should  have  permitted  a  scarcely 
superior  enemy  to  hem  it  in,  and  detain  it 
for  weeks ;  should  have  made  no  earnest 
attempt    to   escape;  and,  finally  should 
have  laid  down  its  arms,  without  striking 
a  blow,  at  the  conqueror's  bidding,  would, 
before  the  event,  have  been  thought  im- 
possible; and  history,  we  repeat,  affords 
no  other  example  of  a  surrender  equally 
humiliating  and  complete.     If  we  view  it, 
too,  in  all  that  ensued  from  it,  the  fall  of 
Metz  was  the  worst  calamity  that  overtook 
France  in  a  war  of  defeats ;  for  it  set  free 
the  investing  force  to  crush   the    new- 
made  army  ot  the  Loire ;  and,  in  the  cyn- 
ical words  of  the  German  camp,  it  "oc- 
curred just  in  the  nick  of  time  "to  pre- 
vent the  raising  of  the  siege  of  Parts,  and 
to  save  the  invaders  from  real  danger.    It 
was   no  wonder,  then,  that  the   French 
people  should,  after  the  close  of  the  un- 
happy contest,  have  unanimously  called 
to  a  strict  account  the  unfortunate  chief  of 
the  Army  of  the  Rhine;  and,  bearing  in 
mind  the  facts  of  the  trial,  and  the  neces- 
sarily  excited  passions  of  the  time,  we 

*  Episodes  de  la  Guerre  de  1870  et  1e  Blocus  de  Mett. 
Parres-MartelulBaiauie.    Madrid:  li&i. 


believe  they  displayed  no  small  forbear- 
ance in  not  insisting  on  making  a  victim. 
Not    unnaturally,    however,    ex-Marshal 
Bazaine  protests  against  even  the  milder 
sentence     of    degradation    pronounced 
against  him;  and  this  publication,  which 
briefly  describes  the  events  of  the  war  to 
the  fall  of  Metz,  and  more  fully  the  part 
he  took  in  them,  is  avowedly  a  vindication 
of  his  conduct  bv  himself.     We  have  con* 
scientiously  studied  the  book,  but  we  can- 
not say  that  it  has  in  the  least  changed  the 
view  we  formed  of  the  case  at  the  time,  on 
an  examination  of  the  admitted  evidence. 
M.     Bazaine,    indeed,     has     sufficiently 
proved,  what,  however,  had  been  already 
plain  to  competent  and  impartial  inquir* 
ers,  that  some  of  the  charges  against  him 
are  false,  and  many  exaggerated  and  over- 
strained, and  he  is  entitled  to  complain  of 
the  peculiar  character  of  the  tribunal  ar- 
rayed to  decide  his  cause.     He  fairly  re- 
fers, too,  to  the  disorganization  of  the  mil- 
itary services  of  the  Second  Empire,  as  at 
least  palliating  acts  of  his  which  other- 
wise   would    have    been    strongly    con- 
demned ;  he  justly  asserts  that  he  was  in 
a  position  of  extreme  difficulty  when  he 
took   the  chief  command;   he  has  truly 
said  that  he  was  badly  seconded,  on  sev- 
eral occasions,  by  his  lieutenants ;  and  he 
dwells  with  emphasis  on  the  undoubted 
fact,  that  these  officers  sanctioned,  or  at 
least  countenanced,  a  large  part  certainly 
of  the  very  conduct  which  has  been  the 
subject  of  the  gravest  censure.    Yet,  after 
making  allowances  of  this  kind,  this  apol- 
ogy is,  we  think,  a  failure;  and  history 
will,  on   the  whole,  ratify  the  sentence 
pronounced  by  the  court  of  inquiry.     It 
was  not  only  that  Bazaine  was  altogether 
unequal  to  a  great  command,  and  found 
himself  to  be  an  incapable  chief;  some 
of  the  serious  charges  against  his  con- 
duct have,  we   believe,  been  sustained; 
and  we  must  place  on  record  our  clear 
opinion,    that   in   circumstances    which, 
above    all,    required    single-mindedness, 
constancy,  and  the  patriot's  heart,  he  did 
not  do  his  duty  to  France. 

We  must  pass  over  the  ••  General  Re- 
niarks"  with  which  M.  Bazaine  begins 
his  work.  His  observations  on  the  de- 
fence of  France,  in  the  event  of  a  future 
German  invasion,  are  solid  and  just,  if  not 
original;  but,  as  regards  the  estimate  to 
be  formed  of  himself,  and  of  his  conduct 
in  the  war  of  1870,  they  certainly  disclose 
too  great  a  reliance  on  natural  and  artifi- 
cial obstacles,  as  means  of  contending 
against  an  enemy.  No  doubt  mountain 
ranges,  rivers,  and  fortresses  are  valuable 


172 


EX-MARSHAL  BAZAINE  S  APOLOGV. 


in  a  scheme  of  national  defence ;  but 
their  value  is  ever  lessening  in  modern 
war;  trusting  largely  in  them  is  a  sure 
sign  of  the  decay  of  military  worth  and 
strength ;  and  Bazaine,  we  shall  see, 
erred  in  this  direction,  though  up  to  a 
certain  point  his  error  was  one,  we  be- 
lieve, of  judgment  only.  Except,  too,  as 
they  tend  to  explain  his  own  operations 
when  in  chief  command,  we  shall  not 
discuss  his  opinion  at  length,  that,  having 
regard  to  the  relative  numbers  of  the 
forces  of  the  belligerent  powers  in  the  war 
of  1870-1,  the  strategy  of  the  French,  at 
the  beginning  of  the  campaign,  ought  to 
have  been  essentially  defensive  only ;  and, 
with  this  object,  that  the  French  armies 
should  have  been  assembled  far  within 
the  frontier,  should  have  occupied  strong 
and  well-known  positions,  and  should  not 
have  offered,  but  accepted  battles,  until 
they  had  baffled  the  enemy  and  worn  him 
out.  Unquestionably  there  is  much  to  be 
said  for  this  view ;  it  would  probably  have 
been  the  advice  of  Wellington  had  he  had 
the  direction  of  the  war  for  France ;  and 
as  modern  small  arms  greatly  increase  the 
efficacy  of  the  defence  on  the  field  of  bat- 
tle, and  it  is  a  mistake  to  supix>se  that 
French  troops  —  the  campaigns  of  Villars 
establish  the  contrary  —  are  incapable  of 
defensive  tactics,  we  shall  not  say  that  a 
plan  of  this  kind,  ablv  carried  out  by  a 
competent  chief,  woula  not  have  been  on 
the  i^'hole  the  best  What  concerns  us 
here  to  notice,  is,  that  Bazaine  attempted 
to  adopt  this  scheme,  though  he  did  so 
under  very  bad  conditions,  and  when  de- 
cided success  was  scarcely  probable ;  and 
this  certainly  shows  to  some  extent  that 
in  part  of  his  operations  at  least  he  acted 
up  to  the  best  of  his  judgment,  even  if  he 
was  wanting  in  insight  and  skill. 

M.  Bazaine  —  and  for  this  he  deserves 
credit  —  is  kind  to  the  memory  of  Na- 
poleon III.;  but  he  properly  dwells,  to 
excuse  himself,  on  the  mistakes  com- 
mitted bv  the  ill-fated  emperor,  during 
the  brief  period  when  he  had  the  chief 
command.  As  is  well  known,  his  plan  for 
the  campaign  was  founded  on  that  of  his 
great  uncle,  when  he  invaded  Belgium  in 
1815;  he  intended  to  collect  two  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  men,  to  assume  a  rapid 
and  bold  offensive,  and  to  separate  and 
defeat  the  German  armies,  making  up  for 
a  large  superiority  of  force  by  quick, 
vigorous,  and  well<ombined  movements. 
Unfortuately,  however,  not  to  dwell  on 
his  want  of  genius  and  experience  in  war, 
Napoleon  HI.,  unlike  the  first  Napoleon, 
was  ignorant  of   the  real  state  of  bis 


armies ;  and,  as  one  hundred  and  eighty 
thousand  men  only  were  assemblecT  by 
the  first  week  of  August,  his  meditated  at- 
tack became  impossible.  His  best  course 
certainty  would  now  have  been  to  have 
fallen  back  and  stood  on  the  defensive, 
but  he  hesitated  to  retreat  in  the  face  of 
Europe;  and,  just  like  Brunswick  before 
Jena,  he  clung  to  the  frontier,  with  a  force 
comparatively  weak,  and  widely  divided, 
within  easy  reach  of  his  gigantic  enemy. 
All  this  was  utterly  false  strategy ;  but  it 
is  at  least  curious  that  neither  I3azaine 
himself,  nor  any  general  in  the  French 
army,  seems  to  have  seriously  warned 
their  sovereign  of  the  probable  result. 

When  hostilities  broke  out  Bazaine  was 
given  the  command  only  of  a  single  corps. 
It  is  alleged  that  disappointment  at  this 
supposed  slight  made  him  sluggish,  and 
all  but  disloyal  from  the  first;  but  the 
charge  scarcely  deserves  attention.  By 
the  5th  of  August  he  was  placed  at  the 
head,  provisionally,  of  three  corps  d^ar- 
wie;  but,  as  he  was  still  under  the  con- 
trol of  the  emperor,  his  operations  need 
not  be  noticed.  He  has  been  severely 
blamed  for  not  sending  aid  to  Frossard 
at  Spicheren  on  the  6th ;  but  it  is  very 
doubtful  if  this  was  within  his  power;  and 
the  truth  seems  to  be  that  the  false  posi- 
tion of  Frossard  himself,  and  his  bad 
conduct,  assured  the  Germans  their  dear- 
bought  victory.  On  the  9th  Bazaine  was 
named  chief  of  the  whole  French  army 
west  of  the  Vosges ;  but  be  was  still 
scarcely  in  independent  command ;  and 
this  must  be  borne  in  mind  in  reviewing 
his  conduct.  The  position  of  the  whole 
imperial  army  had  already  become  ex 
tremely  critical ;  the  defeat  of  Spicheren 
had  broken  its  centre;  that  of  Worth  had 
shattered  its  right  wing,  and  sent  it  away 
in  eccentric  retreat;  and  its  separated 
parts,  confused  and  disheartened,  were 
falling  back,  at  increasing  distances,  while 
the  huge  German  masses  were  in  steady 
pursuit.  Bazaine,  in  command  of  the 
French  left  and  centre,  wished,  he  says, 
to  make  a  stand  on  the  Nied«  and  to  en- 
deavor to  drive  the  invaders  back ;  and, 
had  he  succeeded  in  winning  a  battle,  he 
would  have  tried  to  join  Macmahon,  who, 
after  Worth,  was  making  his  way,  with 
the  French  right,  through  the  passes  of 
the  Vosees,  for  the  plains  of  Champagne; 
Bazaine's  object  being  to  unite  the  whole 
French  army,  in  advance  of  Nancy,  and 
there  to  await  the  enemy's  attack,  in  for- 
midable and  carefully  prepared  positions. 
Whether  this  plan  would  have  succeeded 
or  not,  it  was  ia  accordance  with  sound 


EX-MARSHAL  BAZAINE'S   APOLOGY. 


173 


strategy;  aod,  as  we  wish  to  be  just  to  a 
fallen  man,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say  it 
was  the  best  conception  of  any  French 
chief  in  this  phase  of  the  war.  The  em- 
peror, however,  rejected  the  scheme ;  and 
as  he  still  directed  the  operations  as  a 
whole,  we  shall  not  blame  Bazaine  for 
yielding  on  the  point,  though  he  ought, 
we  think,  to  have  urged  his  advice  more 
decidedly  on  his  unhappy  sovereign.  On 
the  12th  of  August,  Napoleon  III., aware, 
,  doubtless,  of  his  incapacity  in  the  Beld, 
and  terrified  by  the  opinion  of  Paris,  re- 
signed formally  the  supreme  command ; 
and  Bazaine  was  appointed  general-in- 
chief  of  the  whole  mass  of  the  French 
forces,  with  full  power  to  control  every- 
thing. The  situation  had  not  greatly 
changed,  though  the  French  left  and  cen- 
tre had  approached  Metz,  Macmahon  had 
fallen  away  southward,  and  the  invaders 
had  very  nearly  interposed  between  the 
divided  hostile  forces;  and  Bazaine  re- 
curred to  his  original  plan,  hoping  to 
strike  the  Germans,  already  on  his  flank, 
and,  should  he  succeed,  to  effect  his  junc- 
tion with  the  Duke  of  Magenta  and  accept 
a  battle.  The  emperor,  however,  again 
made  objections  to  this  rational  project ; 
it  would  appear  too,  that  no  pains  were 
taken  to  communicate  with  Macmahon 
and  his  force;  and  Bazaine,  in  an  evil 
hoar  for  France,  abandoned  what  we  be 
lieve  was  the  right  course  for  himself  and 
his  army.  His  responsibility,  we  think, 
begins  here ;  and  his  conduct  must  be 
gravely  condemned.  He  ought  to  have 
offered  to  give  up  his  command  if  he  was 
not  permitted  to  carry  out  his  views,  he 
ought  certainly  to  have  sent  orders,  pre- 
cise and  complete,  to  his  distant  col- 
league ;  in  a  word,  if  he  was  to  lead  at  all, 
he  ought  to  have  done  what  became  a 
leader.  Yet,  let  us  add,  that  more  than 
one  chief  of  the  Second  Empire  gave 
equal  proof  of  indecision,  weakness,  and 
slackness  in  this  extraordinary  and  disas- 
trous campaign. 

The  directions  to  which  Bazaine  yielded 
were  to  retreat  from  the  Moselle  to  the 
Meuse,  and  to  move  the  army  from  Metz 
to  Verdun.  The  operation  was  to  begin 
on  the  13th  ;  but  it  was  undertaken  against 
the  marshal's  will;  and  there  is  ample 
proof  that  he  made  no  haste  on  an  occa- 
sion when  every  moment  was  precious. 
Meanwhile  the  Germans,  with  the  ulte- 
rior object  of  gathering  on  the  enemy's 
flank  and  rear,  attacked  the  French  just 
to  the  east  of  Metz,  their  purpose  being 
to  detain  Bazaine,  while  they  intercepted 
bis  retreat  to  the  Meuse.    The  marshal 


accepted  the  proffered  conflict;  and,  as 
this  fell  in  with  his  previous  view,  we 
believe  he  did  so  with  real  pleasure, 
though  he  has  since  declared  that  his 
lieutenants  made  the  battle  more  genera! 
than  he  intended.  At  Borny  he  showed 
some  tactical  skill,  and  succeeded  in 
throwing  the  enemy  back ;  but,  though 
the  Germans  had  suffered  in  the  field. 
Von  Moltke  had  gained  his  strategic  ob- 
ject, for  he  had  kept  back  the  whole 
French  army,  and  he  was  gradually  ap- 
proaching their  line  of  retreat.  On  the 
15th,  Bazaine  again  began  to  draw  his 
army  off  towards  the  Meuse ;  and  a  great 
commander,  we  certainly  think,  with  a 
settled  purpose  to  effect  the  movement, 
ought  to  have  succeeded  with  little  diffi- 
culty. At  this  moment  the  German  masses 
were  still  far  from  the  French  line  of 
retreat;  their  cavalry  only,  and  a  few 
divisions  of  foot,  were  even  menacing  the 
flanks  of  the  enemy;  and  as  Von  Moltke 
had  still  a  wide  circuit  to  make,  and  Ba- 
zaine held  all  the  shorter  lines,  he  ought 
to  have  made  good  his  way  to  Verdun. 
In  the  delays  that  ensued  he  has  pleaded 
excuses :  the  bad  state  of  the  bridges  at 
Metz,  and  the  little  zeal  of  more  than  one 
subordinate;  but  the  march  was  probably 
a^^ainst  his  will,  and  was  not  pressed  by 
him  with  an  earnest  purpose;  and  he 
committed  a  grave  error  in  not  destroying 
the  bridges  on  the  Moselle  above  Metz, 
which  he  must  have  known  would  be 
seized  by  the  enemy,  and  in  not  reconnoi- 
tring the  march  of  the  Germans  who,  he 
must  have  heard,  were  not  far  from  his 
flank.  By  the  evening  of  the  15th,  the 
French  army  was  several  miles  to  the 
west  of  Metz,  its  advanced  posts  reaching 
Mars  la  Tour;  and,  feeble  and  slow  as  its 
movements  had  been,  it  still  possessed 
the  means  of  an  easy  retreat.  A  dem- 
onstration, however,  by  a  few  German 
horsemen  threw  a  panic  into  its  leading 
divisions,  and  this  seems  to  have  stopped 
the  whole  army ;  at  least  a  night  march, 
which  was  quite  possible,  and  must  have 
succeeded,  was  not  attempted.  Bazaine 
censures  a  lieutenant  for  this  disastrous 
check ;  but  a3  commander-in-chief  he 
ought  to  have  been  at  the  point  where 
there  was  most  danger;  and,  in  any  event, 
he  is  responsible  for  allowing  a  mere  mis- 
hap to  arrest  a  movement  on  which  issues 
of  the  gravest  kind  depended.  The  next 
day  was  the  i6th  of  August;  and  had  a 
real  leader  commanded  the  French,  they 
would  not  only  have  effected  their  retreat, 
but  have  gained  a  brilliant,  perhaps  a 
great  victory.    On  that  day  a  single  Ger* 


174 


EX-MARSHAL   BAZAINE  S   APOLOGY. 


man  corps,  supported^  but  not  until  late, 
by  another,  attacked  and  brought  to  bay 
five  French  corps ;  that  is,  from  sixty  lo 
seventy  thousand  men  stopped  and  de-. 
feated  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand, 
not  inferior  to  them  in  martial  worth,  in 
an  operation  of  supreme  importance.  Ba- 
zatne  showed  personal  courage  at  Mars  la 
Tour,  and  led  the  troops  under  his  eyes 
ably;  but  he  had  no  command  over  the 
battle  as  a  whole,  and  whatever  excuses 
may  be  made  for  him,  he  proved  that  he 
haa  not  the  least  capacity  for  conducting 
great  operations  of  war.  Von  Moltke 
was  fortunate  on  this  occasion ;  his  bold 
plan  of  cutting  ofiE  his  enemy  ought,  on 
all  the  chances,  to  have  been  frustrated; 
and  Prince  Frederick  Charles,  who  con- 
ducted the  attack  with  an  audacity  that 
was  all  but  reckless,  had  reason  to  be 

flad  that  Bazaine  was  his  foe.  If  the 
'russian  chief  had  avenged  Auerstadt, 
he  had  not  had  to  deal  with  a  man  like 
Davoust ! 

The  Germans  had  suffered  as  much  as 
the  French  in  the  battle  of  the  i6th  of 
August ;  and  their  supports  were  still 
nearly  a  march  distant.  The  question 
thus  arises  why,  on  the  next  day,  Bazaine 
did  not  continue  to  retreat  to  Verdun, 
making  use  of  his  largely  superior  forces 
to  sweep  away  the  enemy  collecting  on  his 
flank.  The  German  commanders  feared 
this  stroke ;  Prince  Frederick  Charles, 
after  the  war  ended,  has  pertinently  asked, 
"Why  did  not  the  marshal  attack  boldly 
upon  the  17th?*'  —  and  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  means  of  escape  were  still 
open  to  the  French  army.  Bazaine,  how- 
ever, instead  of  advancing,  fell  back  with 
his  whole  force  towards  Metz,  alleging  as  a 
reason  that  he  had  not  munitions  sufficient 
to  fight  another  battle.  This  statement 
is  altogether  denied  by  many  witnesses  at 
the  court-martial ;  it  is  contradicted  by  the 
significant  fact  that  the  French  army  had 
enough  munitions  for  the  terrible  encoun- 
ter of  the  i8lh ;  and  we  are  constrained 
to  believe  that  in  this  particular  M.  Ba- 
zaine's  memory  must  be  in  error.  It  is 
evident,  in  truth,  that  in  his  inmost  mind 
he  had  never  approved  the  march  to  Ver- 
dun ;  he  readily  abandoned  an  operation 
he  disliked,  and  he  discloses  what  were 
his  real  thoughts,  when  he  remarks  that 
after  the  i6th  he  resolved  to  take  a  de- 
fensive position,  and  accept  a  battle. 
This  accounts  for  his  retrograde  move- 
ment, and  in  some  manner  explains  his 
slackness  and  indecision  at  Mars  la  Tour ; 
and  though  in  the  state  of  the  French 
affairs  he  ought  to  have  tried  to  make 


good  his  retreat  —  for  this  was  the  only 
certain  way  to  effect  his  junction  with  the 
Duke  of  Magenta,  and  to  avoid  terrible 
danger  for  himself  —  we  shall  not  say  that 
his  resolve  was  more  than  an  error  of 
judgment  on  a  doubtful  question.  By 
the  morning  of  the  i8th  the  whole  French 
army,  still  probably  one  hundred  and 
thirty  thousand  strong,  was  arrayed  in 
the  uplands  west  of  Metz,  its  right  hold- 
ing St.  Privat  la  Montague;  the  centre 
filling  the  space  between  Amanvillers, 
Montigny,  and  RozerteuUes,  and  the  left 
resting  on  the  slopes  that  lead  into  the 
deep  valleys  on  the  banks  of  the  Moselle. 
The  position  was  in  some  respects  of 
prodigious  strength:  the  French  front 
was  covered  bv  farms  and  villages  which 
formed  admirable  points  of  defence,  and 
the  swelling  ground  gave  the  fullest  scope 
to  the  play  ofcannon  and  of  arms  of  pre- 
cision. Towards  midday  the  great  Ger- 
man host,  concentrated  only  by  this  time, 
and  certainly  two  hundred  and  thirty 
thousand  men,  was  directed  against  this 
formidable  line;  and  for  several  hours  it 
made  no  impression,  and  at  more  than 
one  point  was  completely  beaten.  So 
strong,  indeed,  was  the  nature  of  the 
ground,  and  so  stern  and  fierce  the  de- 
fence, that  a  general  who  understood  the 
battle  would  certainly  have  retained  the 
position  that  day,  lor  until  night  ap- 
proached the  assailants'  efforts  had  every- 
where been  repulsed  with  success.  Ba- 
zaine, however,  as  at  Mars  la  Tour,  had 
no  eyes  for  his  army  as  a  whole ;  he  re- 
mained sluggishly  on  the  extreme  left, 
and  he  was  too  late  in  despatching  sup- 
ports to  the  French  right  in  the  time  of 
danger.  This  just  enabled  Prince  Fred- 
erick Charles,  as  darkness  fell,  to  outflank 
this  wing,  and  carry  St.  Privat  by  a  turn- 
ing movement,  and  the  whole  position 
having  become  untenable,  the  French 
army  was  compelled  to  retreat.  No  im- 
partial student  of  the  dav  can  doubt  that 
if  the  Imperial  Guard  had  been  moved  in 
time  to  the  assistance  of  the  imperilled 
right,  the  final  attack  would  have  been 
repulsed;  and  whatever  Bazaine  may  say 
to  the  contrary,  he  was  responsible  for 
the  loss  of  the  battle. 

The  result  of  Gravelotte  —  the  name  of 
the  conflict  —  was  to  cause  the  French 
army  to  return  to  Metz,  and  to  remain  un- 
der the  guns  of  the  fortress,  in  these 
operations,  since  the  13th  of  August,  the 
accusers  of  Bazaine  see  proofs  of  treason, 
and  have  accumulated  all  kinds  of  charges 
against  him.  He  had  resolved  to  isolate 
himself  from  the  empire,  to  await  the  is- 


EX-MARSHAL   BAZAINE'S   APOLOGY. 


>7S 


sue  of  events  at  Metz,  and  to  keep  intact 
his  arm^*  for  his  own  purposes ;  and  with 
this  object  he  had  refused  to  continue 
the  retreat  to  Verdun  on  the  17th,  and 
had  fallen  back  on  Metz  when  an  oc- 
casion offered.  These  charges,  we  think, 
are  far-fetched  and  absurd ;  and  Ha- 
zaine's  conduct  was  as  yet  consistent 
with  perfect  loyalty  to  the  State  and  his 
trust,  thouo[h  we  believe  he  disliked  the 
march  to  the  Meuse,  did  not  exert  him- 
self to  carry  out  the  movement,  and  in 
the  ^eat  battles  of  the  i6th  and  i8th 
showed  none  of  the  powers  of  a  great 
commander,  if  not  wanting  in  a  mere 
soldier's  courage.  The  French  army 
remained  inactive  for  nearly  a  week  after 
Gravelotte ;  and  as  its  losses  had  been 
immense,  we  shall  scarcely  censure  its 
chief  for  this,  though  we  may  observe  that 
the  invading  force,  which  had  suffered  at 
least  in  equal  proportion,  found  time  to 
begin  the  investment  of  Metz.  The  right 
wincr  of  the  Army  of  the  Rhine,  recruited 
by  large  additions  of  strength,  had  now 
been  rallied  under  Macmahon,  and  had 
already  begun  that  ill-omened  march,  with 
the  view  of  joining  hands  with  Bazaine, 
which  was  to  end  in  the  disaster  of  Se- 
dan. Here  again  treachery  has  been 
imputed  to  Bazaine:  it  is  said  that,  as 
early  as  the  23rd  of  August,  he  had  been 
informed  of  Macmahon*s  movement,  and 
that  not  only  he  made  no  efiFort  to  give 
aid  to  his  advancing  colleague,  but  that 
a  weak  demonstration,  attempted  from 
Metz  on  the  26th  by  part  of  his  forces, 
bad  only  the  e£fect  of  informing  the  Ger- 
mans of  the  operations  designed  against 
them,  and  may  have  been  made  for  this 
very  object.  This  charge,  however,  we 
are  convinced  is  false:  a  comparison  of 
dates  has  satisfied  us  that  neither  Ba- 
zaine oor  one  of  his  officers  was  aware, 
on  the  23rd,  that  Macmahon  was  coming; 
and  though  it  is  true  that  the  armv  at 
Metz  marched  out  of  its  camps,  ancl  re- 
turned on  the  26th,  without  even  firing  a 
hostile  shot,  it  is  only  fair  to  add  that  this 
singular  conduct  was  deliberately  ap- 
proved by  a  council  of  war,  which  ad- 
vised that,  in  the  existing  state  of  affairs, 
it  was  true  strategy  to  cling  to  the  for- 
tress. By  the  29th,  Bazaine  had  heard, 
we  believe  for  the  first  time,  of  Macma- 
hon's  approach;  and  unquestionably  he 
made  an  attempt,  at  least,  to  break 
through  the  investing  lines,  and  to  march 
from  Metz  to  support  his  colleague.  It 
has  been  justly  thought  that  a  real  com- 
mander would  have  succeeded  on  this 
occasion ;  for  the  spirit  of  the  French  was 


still  unbroken ;  the  German  lines  were 
not  nearly  completed ;  and,  disseminated 
as  the  besiegers  were  over  a  circle  of 
fully  fifty  miles,  they  were  in  weak  force 
at  almost  all  points.  Once  more,  how« 
ever,  Bazaine  showed  that  he  was  not 
equal  to  a  great  command ;  he  selected, 
indeed,  his  objective  well;  but  his  move- 
ments were  extraordinarily  slow;  he  did 
not  combine,  as  was  essential,  his  frontal 
attacks  with  attacks  in  fiank;  he  made  no 
use  of  his  ample  reserves;  and  the  re- 
sults were  that  the  superior  forces,  which 
the  French  might  have  brought  against 
the  points  assailed,  were  not  actively  or 
at  all  engaged;  and  that  the  Germans, 
though  hardly  pressed,  were  ultimately 
able  to  hold  their  ground.  After  several 
hours  of  ill-directed  fighting,  the  French 
sullenly  returned  to  camp ;  the  issue  being 
due,  not,  we  believe,  to  double-dealing  on 
the  part  of  Bazaine,  but  in  the  main  to  his 
own  want  of  skill,  though  his  lieutenants, 
too,  are  not  free  from  blame. 

Up  to  this  point  we  acquit  Bazaine  of 
the  gravest  accusations  made  against  him. 
He  had  certainly  committed  serious  mis- 
takes, and  had  proved  that  he  could  not 
direct  a  campaign.  He  was  wrong  in  not 
pressing  the  retreat  to  the  Meuse ;  he  had 
blundered  at  Mars  la  Tours  and  Grave- 
lotte; his  sortie  from  Metz  was  a  feeble 
attempt;  and  his  strategy  in  accepting 
battle  on  the  i8th,  and  clinging  to  Metz, 
had  proved  unfortunate.  Yet  though  he 
had  not  fought  as  good  a  fight  as  Worth, 
his  conduct  had  not  been  more  faulty, 
taken  altogether,  than  that  of  Macma- 
hon's ;  and  he  had  not  shown  the  abso- 
lute want  of  decision  of  that  marshal 
which  led  to  Sedan.  From  this  time, 
however,  we  must  concur  in  the  weighty 
charges  that  aSect  his  character,  thougii 
some  extenuation  may  be  pleaded  for  him. 
About  the  4th  or  5th  of  September  he 
became  aware  of  the  disaster  of  Sedan ; 
and  a  few  days  afterwards  he  was  in- 
formed of  the  fall  of  Napoleon  III.  and 
the  empire,  and  of  the  new  rigime  that 
had  been  set  up  in  Paris.  This  volume 
shows  what  were  the  effects  of  these 
grave  events  on  his  mind  and  conduct,  and 
explains  the  attitude  which,  unhappily  for 
himself,  he  assumed,  as  generalin-chief, 
at  Metz.  He  felt  assured,  it  is  quite  evi- 
dent, that  France  could  make  no  further 
resistance,  and  that  a  national  defence 
was  a  mere  illusion ;  and  he  doubtless  ex- 
pected that,  in  a  few  days,  triumphant 
Germany  would  dictate  peace,  and  that 
Napoleon  III.  would  return  to  the  throne, 
a  defeated  but  still  an  acknowledged  ruler. 


176 


EX-MARSHAL   BAZAINE'S   APOLOGY. 


At  the  same  time  he  had  become  satisfied 
that  he  had  not  the  power  to  break  out 
from  Metz,  and  that  it  was  inexpedient  to 
make  the  attempt;  and  he  wished  the  war 
to  come  to  an  end,  for  he  dreaded  the 
fate  of  Sedan  for  his  army.  Under  the 
influence  of  these  wretched  convictions, 
he  began  that  correspondence  with  the 
enemy  in  the  field  which,  palliate  it  as  we 
may  to  a  certain  extent,  was  certainly 
grossly  culpable  conduct.  We  shall  not 
blame  him  for  merely  seeking  intelligence 
from  Prince  Frederick  Charles,  for  that 
may  have  been  a  courtesy  of  war;  nor 
even  for  stupidly  lending  an  ear  to  the 
counsels  and  hints  of  a  spy  like  Regnier, 
though  stupidity  of  this  kind  was  all  but 
criminal.  But  it  was  inexcusable,  in  our 
opinion,  that  in  his  negotiations  with  the 
German  chiefs,  he  plainly  let  them  per- 
ceive his  view,  that  France  could  no 
longer  continue  the  war,  and  that  his  own 
army  was  already  powerless ;  and  it  was  a 
breach  of  duty,  of  the  very  gravest  kind, 
even  on  the  assumption  that  Napoleon 
in.  was  still  de  jure  the  sovereign  of 
France,  and  that  the  de  facto  government 
was  a  mere  shadow,  to  intimate  to  them 
that  the  force  at  Metz  might  be  employed, 
practically,  under  their  command,  as  an 
instrument  to  restore  order.  We  quote  a 
few  words  from  a  confidential  minute  to 
an  aide-de-camp,  which,  we  regret  to  say, 
proves  that  he  was  taking  a  wholly  mis- 
taken course,  and  cannot  in  any  way  be 
justified  :  "The  military  question  has  been 
decided ;  the  German  armies  are  victori- 
ous; and  the  king  of  Prussia  cannot  set 
much  value  on  the  barren  triumph  of  dis- 
solvittf^the  only  army  which^  at  this  crisis^ 
can  put  down  anarchy  in  our  unhappy 
country,  .  ,  .  The  French  army  (at  Metz) 
would  be  able  to  restore  order,  and  could 
protect  society.  .  .  .  By  its  action  it 
would  give  Prussia  pledges  for  the  de- 
fnands  which  she  may  be  entitled  to  make 
on  the  present  occasion." 

When  these  lines  were  written,  the 
Army  of  the  Rhine  was  still  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  strong ;  it  had  not  been 
really  beaten  in  the  field;  and  it  was  still 
a  well-organized,  nay,  a  splendid  force. 
It  was  shameful,  therefore,  that  its  com- 
mander should  represent  it  to  be  a  mere 
nullity;  and  should  offer  it,  as  it  were,  to 
its  foes  as  a  victim,  while  its  courage  and 
power  were  still  unbroken.  '*  Come  take 
our  arms,*'  was  the  Spartan's  reply  to  the 
summons  of  the  vast  Persian  hosts ;  "  We 
eive  you  up  our  arms,''  was  the  speech  of 
Bazaine  to  an  enemy  scarcely  victorious 
as  yet ;  and  history  will  certainly  point  the 


moral.  As  for  the  proposal  that  the  army 
at  Metz  should  be  made  use  of  "  to  re  es- 
tablish order,"  must  not  its  chief  have 
guessed  that  this,  very  probably,  would  be 
to  kindle  a  civil  war  in  France,  and  to 
employ  against  her  people  the  very  instru- 
ment entrusted  to  him  to  oppose  its  ene- 
mies? '  Nor  was  even  this  gross  betrayal 
of  his  trust  the  only  criminal  act  of  the 
marshal ;  his  political  intrigues,  it  is  but 
too  evident,  determined  his  conduct  as  a 
commander,  and  paralyzed  his  operations 
at  Metz.  His  first  duty  to  France  and  his 
troops  was  to  endeavor  to  force  the  lineR 
of  investment,  for  his  army  was  the  one 
hope  of  the  country,  and  its  fate  was  cer- 
tain should  it  remain  inactive;  yet,  after 
his  one  half-hearted  sortie,  he  made  not 
even  an  attempt  of  this  kind ;  a  few  dem- 
onstrations, not  worth  noticing,  were  the 
only  signs  he  gave  of  the  life  of  the  still 
magnificent  army  in  his  hands;  and  a 
force,  which  might  still  have  done  mighty 
deeds,  was  literally  allowed  "  to  rot  in  ob- 
struction." Let  it  not  be  said,  as  Bazaine 
asserts,  that  the  effort  would  have  been 
"criminal  folly;"  that  the  German  lines 
had  become  impregnable;  and  that,  in 
any  event,  had  his  army  broken  through, 
it  must  have  been  pursued  and  destroyed 
by  the  enemy.  Such  observations  are 
mere  drivelling;  had  he  harassed  the 
Germans  bv  constant  attacks,  and  steadily 
constructea  counter-approaches ;  had  he 
turned  to  account  the  immense  advantages 
he  possessed  in  the  possession  of  Metz, 
and  by  the  occupation  of  the  course  of  the 
Moselle,  it  stands  to  reason  that  he  would 
have  succeeded  in  carrying  the  besieger's 
works  at  some  points,  and  perhaps  in 
winning  a  great  pitched  battle.  As  for 
the  supposition  that  if  his  army  had  once 
made  good  its  way  out  of  Metz,  it  would 
have  been  followed  and  utterly  ruined, 
this  is  assuming  a  power  of  marching  and 
of  concentration  by  a  divided  enemy -^ 
distributed  over  a  vast  circumference  -^ 
which  never  has  yet  been  seen  in  war; 
and  it  may  be  confidently  said  that  the 
assumption  is  false.  On  the  whole,  we 
entirely  concur  in  the  view  of  a  competent 
critic  on  this  subject:  **What  ought  to 
have  been  done,  was  to  make  great  and 
repeated  sorties,  to  give  the  enemy  no 
rest,  in  a  word  to  wear  him  out,  and  ren- 
der the  investment  impossible.  •  •  •  By 
steadily  continuing  these  operations,  the 
marshal  would  not  only  have  set  himself 
free,  but^  with  a  little  intelligence  and 
skill,  might  have  assumed  the  offensive 
against  Prince  Frederick  Charles,  and 
made  him  suffer  for  the  rash  enterprise 


THE   BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


»77 


of  attempting:,  with  an  army  of  two  han- 
dred  thousand  men,  to  invest  another  of 
one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  in  an  en* 
trenched  camp."  And  as  for  what  was 
the  duty  of  a  marshal  of  France  in  such 
circumstances,  we  may  quote  Napoleon : 
**  What  is  a  general  to  do  if  he  is  hemmed 
in  by  superior  forces?  We  can  make  no 
answer  but  that  of  Horace.  In  an  ex- 
traordinary situation,  extraordinary  reso- 
lution is  needed;  the  firmer  the  resistance 
shown,  the  greater  will  be  the  chance  to 
obtain  aid,  and  to  cut  a  way  through.  .  .  . 
This  question,  we  think,  admits  of  no 
other  solution,  without  ruining  the  spirit 
of  a  nation  and  leading  to  terrible  dis- 
asters." 

Bazaine,  therefore,  was  greatly  to  blame 
for  not  endeavoring  to  break  out  from 
Metz,  and  for  not  making  an  active  de- 
fence. Yet  even  this  does  not  nearly  fill 
up  what  we  must  describe  as  the  measure 
of  his  guilt.  Granting,  for  the  sake  of 
argument,  that  he  had  not  the  power  to 
carry  by  force  the  German  lines,  it  was 
his  bouoden  duty  to  hold  out  at  Metz,  and 
to  maintain  a  passive  defence  to  the  last ; 
and  for  this  purpose  be  should  have 
spared  no  effort  to  extract  supplies  from 
the  adjoining  district,  and  to  husband 
these  with  the  roost  economic  forethought. 
A  study  of  the  evidence  convinces  us  that 
he  neglected  his  trust  in  both  these  re- 
spects ;  more  forage  and  food  might  have 
been  procured,  and  what  there  was  at 
Metz  was  not  strictly  cared  for;  and 
though  it  is,  no  doubt,  an  exaggeration  to 
say  that  the  place  might  have  held  out  till 
Christmas,  it  surrendered,  we  think,  three 
or  four  weeks  before  this  would  have  be- 
come necessary  under  judicious  manage- 
ment. This  alone  is  enough  to  condemn 
Bazaine ;  and  as  we  have  pointed  out,  the 
terrible  result  was  of  inestimable  value  to 
the  German  chiefs,  and  absolutely  fatal  to 
the  cause  of  France.  As  for  the  capitula- 
tion itself  —  that  one  hundred  and  seven- 
ty-three thousand  men,  with  the  support 
of  a  first-rate  fortress,  should  have  laid 
down  their  arms  to  two  hundred  thousand 
without  even  fighting  a  last  battle  —  this 
is  unparalleled  in  the  annals  of  war;  it  is 
a  stain  on  the  martial  renown  of  France, 
which  not  even  all  her  glories  can  hide ; 
and  we  shall  not  dwell  on  the  unhappy 
subject.  Our  estimate,  therefore,  of  Ba- 
zaine's  conduct  may  be  gathered  from 
what  we  have  already  written.  As  a  gen- 
eral-io-chief,  he  was  throughout  a  failure, 
though  not  without  some  of  the  gifts  of  a 
soldier;  but  up  to  the  fall  of  Napoleon 
III.  we  do  not  consider  any  of  his  acts 

LIVING   AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2248 


criminal.  From  that  time,  however,  he 
did  not  do  his  duty  in  three  points  of  the 
first  importance:  his  dealinnra  with  the 
enemy  made  his  army  useless,  when  it 
might  have  been  employed  with  immense 
effect;  his  neglect  to  endeavor  to  break 
out  from  Metz  was  culpable  in  the  highest 
degree ;  and  his  remissness  in  not  defend- 
ing the  fortress,  even  passively,  to  the 
last  moment,  was  a  capital  fault,  which 
had  fatal  results.  No  doubt  something 
may  be  said  for  him:  his  position,  in  the 
revolutionary  state  of  France,  was  one  of 
great,  nay,  of  extreme  difficulty  ;  and*  in 
all  that  he  did,  and  that  he  left  undone, 
his  lieutenants  must  share  the  blame  with 
him.  This,  however,  cannot  excuse  his 
conduct;  in  our  opinion  he  was  rightly 
condemned  ;  and  for  our  part  he  was,  we 
think,  fortunate  in  escaping  the  fate  of 
Admiral  Byng. 

*  His  lieutenants  would,  we  believe,  have  been  justi- 
fied in  insisting  on  his  changing  his  operations  and  in 
de(M)stnx  him  had  he  refused.  This,  however,  would 
have  been  an  extreme  measure ;  but  they  are  greatly  to 
blame  fur  their  acquiescence  in  his  conduct. 


From  Nature. 
THE   BRITISH  ASSOCIATION. 

INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  BY  ARTHUR  CAVLEY, 
M.A.,  D.C.L,  LUD.,  F.RS.,  SADLERIAN  PRO- 
FESSOR OP  PURE  MATHEMATICS  IN  THE  UNI- 
VERSITY OF  CAMBRIDGE,  PRESIDENT. 

Since  our  last  meeting  we  have  been 
deprived  of  three  of  our  most  distin- 
guished members.  The  loss  by  the  death 
of  Prof.  Henry  John  Stephen  Smith  is  a 
very  grievous  one  to  those  who  knew  and 
admired  and  loved  him,  to  his  university, 
and  to  mathematical  science,  which  he 
cultivated  with  such  ardor  and  success. 
I  need  hardly  recall  that  the  branch  of 
mathematics  to  which  he  had  specially 
devoted  himself  was  that  most  interesting 
and  ditlicult  one,  the  theory  of  numbers. 
The  immense  range  of  this  subject,  con- 
nected with  and  ramifying  into  so  many 
others,  is  nowhere  so  well  seen  as  in  the 
series  of  reports  on  the  progress  thereof, 
brought  up  unfortunately  only  to  the  year 
1865,  contributed  by  him  to  the  reports 
of  the  Association  ;  but  it  will  still  better 
appear  when  to  these  are  united  (as  will 
be  done  in  the  collected  works  in  course 
of  publication  by  the  Clarendon  Press) 
his  other  mathematical  writings,  many  of 
them  containing  his  own  further  devel- 
opments of  theories  referred  to  in  the 
reports.    There  have  been  recently  or  are 


beings  published  many  such  collected  edi< 
tions  —  Abel,  Cauchy,  Clifford,  Gauss, 
Green,  Jacobi,  Lagrange,  Maxwell,  Rie- 
mann,  Steiner.  Among  these  the  works 
of  Henry  Smith  will  occupy  a  worthy 
position. 

More  recently.  General  Sir  Edward 
Sabine,  K.C.B.,  for  twenty-one  years  gen- 
eral secretary  of  the  Association,  and  a 
trustee,  president  of  the  meeting  at  Bel- 
fast in  the  year  1852,  and  for  many  years 
treasurer  and  afterwards  president  of  the 
Royal  Society,  has  been  taken  from  us  at 
an  age  exceeding  the  ordinary  age  of  man. 
Born  October,  1788,  he  entered  the  Royal 
Artillery  in  1803,  and  commanded  batter- 
ies at  the  siege  of  Fort  Erie  in  1814; 
made  magnetic  and  other  observations  in 
Ross  and  Parry's  north  polar  ex|>loration 
in  1818-19,  ana  in  a  series  of  other  voy- 
ages. He  contributed  to  the  Association 
reports  on  magnetic  forces  in  1836-7-8, 
and  about  forty  papers  to  the  Philosophi- 
cal Transactions ;  originated  the  system 
of  magnetic  observatories,  and  otherwise 
signally  promoted  the  science  of  terres- 
trial magnetism. 

There  is  yet  a  very  great  loss ;  another 
late  president  and  trustee  of  the  Associa- 
tion, one  who  has  done  for  it  so  much,  and 
has  so  often  attended  the  meetings,  whose 
presence  among  us  at  this  meeting  we 
might  have  hoped  for  —  the  president  of 
the  Royal  Society,  William  Spottiswoode. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  say  anything  of  his 
various  merits:  the  place  of  his  burial, 
the  crowd  of  sorrowing  friends  who  were 
present  in  the  Abbey,  bear  witness  to  the 
esteem  in  which  he  was  held. 

I  take  the  opportunity  of  mentioning 
the  completion  of  a  work  promoted  by  the 
Association :  the  determination  by  Mr. 
James  Glaisher  of  the  least  factors  of  the 
missing  three  out  of  the  first  nine  million 
numbers :  the  volume  containing  the  sixth 
million  is  now  published. 

I  wish  to  speak  to  you  to-night  upon 
mathematics.  I  am  quite  aware  of  the 
difficulty  arising  from  the  abstract  nature 
of  my  subject ;  and  if,  as  I  fear,  many  or 
some  of  you,  recalling  the  presidential 
addresses  at  former  meetings  —  for  in- 
stance, the  risumi  and  survey  which  we 
had  at  York  of  the  progress,  during  the 
half  century  of  the  lifetime  of  the  Asso- 
ciation, of  a  whole  circle  of  sciences  — 
biology,  palaeontology,  geology,  astron- 
omy, chemistry —  so  much  more  familiar 
to  you,  and  in  which  there  was  so  much 
to  tell  of  the  fairy-tales  of  science ;  or  at 
Southampton,  the  discourse  of  my  friend 
who  has  in  such  kind  terms  introduced 


THE   BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


me  to  yon,  on  the  wondrous  practical  ap- 
plications of  science  to  electric  lighting, 
telegraphy,  the  St.  Gothard  Tunnel,  and 
the  Suez  Canal,  gun-cotton,  and  a  host  of 
other  purposes,  and  with  the  grand  con* 
eluding  speculation  on  the  conservation 
of  solar  energy :  if,  1  say,  recalling  these 
or  any  earlier  addresses,  you  should  wish 
that  you  were  now  about  to  have,  from  a 
different  president,  a  discourse  on  a  dif- 
ferent subject,  I  can  very  well  sympathize 
with  you  in  the  feeling. 

But,  be  this  as  it  may,  I  think  it  is  more 
respectful  to  you  that  I  should  speak  to. 
vou  upon  and  do  my  best  to  interest  you 
in  the  subject  which  has  occupied  me,  and 
in  which  I  am  myself  most  interested. 
And  in  another  point  of  view,  I  think  it 
is  right,  that  the  address  of  a  president 
should  be  on  his  own  subject,  and  that 
different  subjects  should  be  thus  brought 
in  turn  before  the  meetings.  So  much 
the  worse,  it  may  be,  for  a  particular  meet- 
ing; but  the  meeting  is  the  individual, 
which  on  evolution  principles  must  be 
sacrificed  for  the  development  of  the  race. 

Mathematics  connect  themselves  on  the 
one  side  with  common  life  and  the  physi- 
cal sciences ;  on  the  other  side  with  phil- 
osophy, in  regard  to  our  notions  of  space 
and  time;  and  in  the  questions  which 
have  arisen  as  to  the  universality  and 
necessity  of  the  truths  of  mathematics, 
and  the  foundation  of  our  knowledge  of 
them.  I  wouki  remark  here  that  the  con- 
nection (if  it  exists)  of  arithmetic  and 
algebra  with  the  notion  of  time  is  far  less 
obvious  than  that  of  geometry  with  the 
notion  of  space. 

As  to  the  former  side,  I  am  not  roakinjir 
before  you  a  defence  of  mathematics,  but 
if  I  were  I  should  desire  to  do  it  —  in 
such  manner  as  in  the  "  Republic  "  Soc- 
rates was  required  to  defend  justice,  quite 
irrespectively  of  the  worldly  advantages 
which  may  accompany  a  life  of  virtue  and 
justice,  and  to  show  that,  independently 
of  all  these,  justice  was  a  thing  desirable 
in  itself  and  for  its  own  sake  —  not  by 
speaking  to  you  of  the  utility  of  mathe- 
matics in  any  of  the  questions  of  common 
life  or  of  physical  science.  Still  less 
would  I  speak  of  this  utility  before,  I 
trust,  a  friendly  audience,  interested  or 
willing  to  appreciate  an  interest  in  mathe- 
matics in  itself  and  for  its  own  sake.  I 
would,  on  the  contrary,  rather  consider 
the  obligations  of  mathematics  to  these 
different  subjects  as  the  sources  of  math- 
ematical theories  now  as  remote  from 
them,  and  in  as  different  a  region  o£ 
thought  —  for  instance,  geometry  from  the 


THE   BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


'79 


meaauremeot  o£  land,  or  the  theory  of 
numbers  from  arithmetic  —  as  a  river  at 
its  mouth  is  from  its  mountain  source. 

On  the  other  side  the  general  opinion 
has  been  and  is  that  it  is  indeed  by  ex- 
perience that  we  arrive  at  the  truths  of 
mathematics,  but  that  experience  is  not 
their  proper  foundation :  the  mind  itself 
contributes  something.  This  is  involved 
in  the  Platonic  theory  o(  reminiscence; 
looking  at  two  things,  trees  or  stones  or 
anything  else,  which  seem  to  us  more  or 
less  equal,  we  arrive  at  the  idea  of  equal- 
ity :  but  we  must  have  had  this  idea  of 
equality  before  the  time  when  first  seeing 
the  two  things  we  were  led  to  regard  them 
as  coming  up  more  or  less  perfectly  to 
this  idea  of  equality ;  and  the  like  as  re- 
gards our  idea  of  the  beautiful,  and  in 
other  cases. 

The  same  view  is  expressed  in  the  an- 
swer of  Leibnitz,  the  i\Vxf  inteiUctus  ipse^ 
to  the  scholastic  dictum,  iVi'A/7/Vi  intellectu 
quod  non  firius  in  sensu  :  there  is  nothing 
in  the  intellect  which  was  not  first  in  sen- 
sation, except  (said  Leibnitz)  the  intellect 
itself.  And  so  again  in  the  *'  Critick  of 
Pure  Reason,''  Kant's  view  is  that,  while 
there  is  no  doubt  but  that  all  our  cogni- 
tion begins  with  experience,  we  are  nev- 
ertheless in  possession  of  cognitions  a 
priori^  independent,  not  of  this  or  that 
experience,  but  absolutely  so  of  all  expe- 
rience, and  in  particular  that  the  axioms 
of  mathematics  furnish  an  example  of 
such  cognitions  a  priori,  Kant  holds 
farther  that  space  is  no.  empirical  concep- 
tion which  has  been  derived  from  external 
experiences,  but  that  in  order  that  sensa- 
tions may  be  referred  to  something  ex- 
ternal, the  representation  of  space  must 
already  lie  at  the  foundation ;  and  that  the 
external  experience  is  itself  first  only 
possible  by  this  representation  of  space. 
And  in  like  manner  time  is  no  empirical 
conception  which  can  be  deduced  from  an 
experience,  but  it  is  a  necessary  represen- 
tation lying  at  the  foundation  of  all  intui- 
tions. 

And  so  in  regard  to  mathematics.  Sir 
W.  R.  Hamilton,  in  an  introductory  lecture 
on  astronomy  (1836),  observes:  *' These 
purely  mathematical  sciences  of  algebra 
and  geometry  are  sciences  of  the  pure 
reason,  deriving  no  weight  and  no  assis- 
tance from  experiment,  and  isolated  or  at 
least  isolable  from  all  outward  and  acci- 
dental phenomena.  The  idea  of  order, 
with  its  subordinate  ideas  of  number  and 
fizure,  we  must  not  indeed  call  innate 
ideas,  if  that  phrase  be  defined  to  imply 
that  all  men  must  possess  them  with  equal 


clearness  and  fulness ;  they  are,  however, 
ideas  which  seem  to  be  so  far  born  with 
us  that  the  possession  of  them  in  any 
conceivable  degree  is  only  the  develop- 
ment of  our  original  powers,  the  unfolding 
of  our  proper  humanity." 

The  general  questions  of  the  ideas  of 
space  and  time,  the  axioms  and  definitions 
of  geometry,  the  axioms  relating  to  num- 
ber, and  the  nature  of  mathematical  rea- 
soning, are  fully  and  ably  discussed  in 
Whewell'a  **  Philosophy  of  the  Inductive 
Sciences  "  (1840),  which  may  be  regarded 
as  containing  an  exposition  of  the  whole 
theory. 

But  it  is  maintained  by  John  Stuart 
Mill  that  the  truths  of  mathematics,  in 
particular  those  of  geometry,  rest  on  ex- 
perience; and  as  regards  geometry,  the 
same  view  is  on  very  different  grounds 
maintained  by  the  mathematician  Rie- 
mann. 

It  is  not  so  easy  as  at  first  sight  it  ap- 
pears to  make  out  how  far  the  views  taken 
by  Mill  in  his  "  System  of  Logic  Ratio- 
cinative  and  Inductive"  (ninth  edition, 
1879)  are  absolutely  contradictory  to  those 
which  have  been  spoken  of;  they  profess 
to  l>e  so;  there  are  most  definite  asser- 
tions (supported  by  argument),  for  in- 
stance, p.  263:  **It  remains  to  inquire 
what  is  the  ground  of  our  belief  in  axioms, 
what  is  the  evidence  on  which  they  rest. 
I  answer,  they  are  experimental  truths, 
generalizations  from  experience.  The 
proposition  *  Two  straight  lines  cannot 
inclose  a  space,'  or,  in  other  words,  two 
straight  lines  which  have  once  met  cannot 
meet  again,  is  an  induction  from  the  evi- 
dence of  our  senses."  But  I  cannot  help 
considering  a  previous  argument  (p.  259) 
as  very  materially  modifying  this  absolute 
contradiction.  After  inquiring  "  Why  are 
mathematics  by  almost  all  philosophers 
.  .  .  considered  to  be  independent  of  the 
evidence  of  experience  and  observation, 
and  characterized  as  systems  of  necessary 
truth  ?  "  Mill  proceeds  (I  quote  the  whole 
passage)  as  follows  :  '*The  answer  I  con- 
ceive to  be  that  this  character  of  necessity 
ascribed  to  the  truths  of  mathematics,  and 
even  (with  some  reservations  to  be  here- 
after made)  the  peculiar  certainty  ascribed 
to  them,  is  a  delusion,  in  order  to  sustain 
which  it  is  necessary^o  suppose  that  those 
truths  relate  to  and  express  the  properties 
of  purely  imaginary  objects.  It  is  ac- 
knowledged that  the  conclusions  of  geom- 
etry are  derived  partly  at  least  from  the 
so-called  definitions,  and  that  these  defini- 
tions are  assumed  to  be  correct  represen- 
tations, as  far  as  they  go,  of  the  objects 


i8o 


THE   BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


with  which  geometry  is  conversant.  Now 
we  have  pointed  out  that  from  a  definition 
as  such  no  proposition,  unless  it  be  one 
concerning  the  meaning  of  a  word,  can 
ever  follow,  and  that  what  apparently  fol- 
lows from  a  definition  follows  in  reality 
from  an  implied  assumption  that  there 
exists  a  real  thing  conformable  thereto. 
This  assumption  in  the  case  of  the  defini- 
tions of  geometry  is  not  strictly  true; 
there  exist  no  real  things  exactly  con- 
formable to  the  definitions.  There  exist 
no  real  points  without  magnitude,  no  lines 
without  breadth,  nor  perfectly  straight,  no 
circles  with  all  their  radii  exactly  equal, 
nor  squares  with  all  their  angles  perfectly 
right.  It  will  be  said  that  the  assumption 
does  not  extend  to  the  actual  but  only  to 
the  possible  existence  of  such  things.  I 
answer  that  according  to  every  test  we 
have  of  possibility  they  are  not  even  pos- 
sible.  Their  existence,  so  far  as  we  can 
form  any  judgment,  would  seem  to  be 
inconsistent  with  the  physical  constitution 
of  our  planet  at  least,  if  not  of  the  uni- 
versal [stc].  To  get  rid  of  this  difficulty, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  save  the  credit  of 
the  supposed  system  of  necessary  truths, 
it  is  customary  to  say  that  the  points, 
lines,  circles,  and  squares  which  are  the 
subjects  of  geometry,  exist  in  our  concep- 
tions merely,  and  are  parts  of  our  minds : 
which  minds,  by  working  on  their  own 
materials,  construct  an  a  priori  science, 
the  evidence  of  which  is  purely  mental 
and  has  nothing  to  do  with  outward  expe- 
rfence.  By  howsoever  high  authority  this 
doctrine  has  been  sanctioned,  it  appears 
to  me  psychologically  incorrect.  The 
points,  lines,  and  squares  which  any  one 
has  in  his  mind,  are  (as  I  apprehend) 
simply  copies  of  the  points,  lines,  and 
squares  which  he  has  known  in  his  expe- 
rience. Our  idea  of  a  point  I  apprehend 
to  be  simply  our  idea  of  the  minimum 
visibiU^  the  small  portion  of  surface  which 
we  can  see.  We  can  reason  about  a  line 
as  if  it  had  no  breadth,  because  we  have 
a  power  which  we  can  exercise  over  the 
operations  of  our  minds :  the  power  when 
a  perception  is  present  to  our  senses  or  a 
conception  to  our  intellects,  of  attending 
to  a  part  only  of  that  perception  or  con- 
ception instead  of  the  whole.  But  we 
cannot  conceive  a  line  without  breadth : 
we  can  form  no  mental  picture  of  such  a 
line:  all  the  lines  which  we  have  in  our 
mind  are  lines  possessing  breadth.  If 
any  one  doubt  this,  we  may  refer  him  to 
his  own  experience.  I  much  question  if 
any  one  who  fancies  that  he  can  conceive 
of  a  mathematical  line  thinks  so  from  the 


evidence  of  his  own  conscioasness.  T 
suspect  it  is  rather  because  he  supposes 
that  unless  such  a  perception  be  possible, 
mathematics  could  not  exist  as  a  science : 
a  supposition  which  there  will  be  no  diffi- 
culty in  showing  to  be  groundless." 

I  think  it  may  be  at  once  conceded  that 
the  truths  of  geometry  are  truths  precisely 
because  thev  relate  to  and  express  the 
properties  ot  what  Mill  calls  ''purely  im- 
aginary objects;"  that  these  objects  do 
not  exist  in  Mill's  sense,  that  they  do  not 
exist  in  nature,  may  also  be  granted ;  that 
they  are  *'  not  even  possible,"  if  this  means 
not  possible  in  an  existing  nature,  may 
also  be  granted.  That  we  cannot  "  con- 
ceive" them  depends  on  the  meanings 
which  we  attach  to  the  word  conceive.  I 
would  myself  say  that  the  purely  imaginary 
objects  are  the  only  realities,  the  wtu^ 
bvra^  in  regard  to  which  the  corresponding 
physical  objects  are  as  the  shadows  in  the 
cave;  and  it  is  only  by  means  of  them 
that  we  are  able  to  deny  the  existence  of 
a  corresponding  physical  object ;  if  there 
is  no  conception  of  straightness,  then  it 
is  meaningless  to  deny  the  existence  of  a 
perfectly  straight  line. 

But  at  any  rate  the  objects  of  geometri- 
cal truth  are  the  so-called  imaginary  ob- 
jects of  Mill,  and  the  truths  of  geometry 
are  only  true,  and  a  fortiori  are  only  nec- 
essarily true,  in  regard  to  these  so-called 
imaginary  objects;  and  these  objects, 
points,  lines,  circles,  etc.,  in  the  mathe- 
matical sense  of  the  terms,  have  a  likeness 
to  and  are  represented  more  or  less  im- 
perfectly, and  from  a  geometer's  point  of 
view  no  matter  how  imperfectly,  by  corre- 
sponding physical  points,  lines,  circles, 
etc.  I  shall  have  to  return  to  geometry, 
and  will  then  speak  of  Riemann,  but  I 
will  first  refer  to  another  passage  of  the 
"  Logic." 

Speaking  of  the  truths  of  arithmetic. 
Mill  says  (p.  297)  that  even  here  there  is 
one  hypothetical  element:  "  In  all  propo- 
sitions concerning  numbers  a  condition  is 
implied  without  which  none  of  them  would 
be  true,  and  that  condition  is  an  assump- 
tion which  may  be  false.  The  condition 
is  that  1  =  1:  that  all  the  numbers  are 
numbers  of  the  same  or  of  equal  units." 
Here  at  least  the  assumption  may  be  ab- 
solutely true ;  one  shilling  =  one  shilling 
in  purchasing  power,  although  they  may 
not  be  absolutely  of  the  same  weight  and 
fineness :  but  it  is  hardly  necessary  ;  one 
coin  -|-  one  coin  =  two  coins,  even  if  the 
one  be  a  shilling  and  the  other  a  half- 
crown.  In  fact,  whatever  difficulty  -be 
raisable  as  to  geometry,  it  seems  to  roe 


THE   BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


i8z 


that  no  similar  difficulty  applies  to  arith* 
metic;  mathematiciaQ  or  not,  we  have 
each  of  us,  id  its  most  abstract  form,  the 
idea  of  a  number;  we  can  each  of  us  ap- 
preciate the  truth  of  a  proposition  in  re- 
gard to  numbers ;  and  we  cannot  but  see 
that  a  truth  in  regard  to  numbers  is  some- 
thing different  in  kind  from  an  experi- 
mental truth  generalized  from  experience. 
Compare,  for  instance,  the  proposition 
that  the  sun,  having  already  risen  so  many 
times,  will  rise  to-morrow,  and  the  next 
day,  and  the  day  after  that,  and  so  on ; 
and  the  proposition  that  even  and  odd 
numbers  succeed  each  other  alternately 
nd  infinitum  :  the  latter  at  least  seems  to 
have  the  characters  of  universality  and 
necessity.  Or,  again,  suppose  a  proposi- 
tion observed  to  hold  good  for  a  long 
series  of  numbers,  one  thousand  num- 
bers, two  thousand  numbers,  as  the  case 
may  be :  this  is  not  only  no  proof,  but  it 
is  absolutely  no  evidence,  that  the  propo- 
sition is  a  true  proposition,  holding  good 
for  all  numbers  whatever;  there  are  in 
the  theory  of  numbers  very  remarkable 
instances  of  propositions  observed  to  hold 
good  for  very  long  series  of  numbers  and 
which  are  nevertheless  untrue. 

I  pass  in  review  certain  mathematical 
theories. 

In  arithmetic  and  algebra,  or  say  in 
analysis,  the  numbers  or  magnitudes 
which  we  represent  by  symbols  are  in  the 
first  instance  ordinary  (that  is,  positive) 
numbers  or  magnitucles.  We  have  also 
in  analysis  and  in  analytical  geometry 
negative  magnitudes;  there  has  been  in 
regard  to  these  plenty  of  philosophical 
discussion,  and  I  might  refer  to  Kant*s 
paper,  "  Ueber  die  negativen  Grossen  in 
die  Weitweisheit^^  (1703),  but  the  notion  of 
a  negative  magnitude  has  become  quite  a 
familiar  one,  and  has  extended  itself  into 
common  phraseology.  I  may  remark 
that  it  is  used  in  a  very  refined  manner  in 
bookkeeping  by  double  entry. 

But  it  is  far  otherwise  with  the  notion 
which  is  really  the  fundamental  one  (and 
1  cannot  too  strongly  emphasize  the  asser- 
tion) underlying  and  pervading  the  whole 
of  modern  analysis  and  geometry,  that  of 
imaginary  magnitude  in  analysis  and  of 
imaginary  space  (or  space  as  a  locus  in 
gua  ol  imaginary  points  and  figures)  in 
geometry:  1  use  in  each  case  the  word 
imaginary  as  including  real.  This  has 
not  been,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  a  subject 
of  philosophical  discussion  or  inquiry. 
As  regards  the  older  metaphysical  writ- 
ers, this  would  be  quite  accounted  for  by 


saying  that  they  knew  nothing,  and  were 
not  bound  to  know  anything,  abbut  it; but 
at  present,  and  considering  the  prominent 
position  which  the  notion  occupies  — say 
even  that  the  conclusion  were  that  the 
notion  belongs  to  mere  technical  mathe- 
matics, or  has  reference  to  nonentites  in 
regard  to  which  no  science  is  possible, 
still  it  seems  to  me  that  (as  a  subject  of 
philosophical  discussion)  the  notion  ought 
not  to  be  thus  ignored;  it  should  at  least 
be  shown  that  there  is  a  right  to  ignore 
it. 

Although  in  logical  order  I  should  per- 
haps now  speak  of  the  notion  just  re- 
ferred to,  it  will  be  convenient  to  speak 
first  of  some  other  quasi-geometrical  no- 
tions; those  of  more-than-three-dimen- 
sional  space,  and  of  non-Euclidian  two 
and-three-dimensional  space,  and  also  of 
the  generalized  notion  of  distance.  It  is 
in  connection  with  these  that  Riemann 
considered  that  our  notion  of  space  is 
founded  on  experience,  or  rather  that  it  is 
only  by  experience  that  we  know  that  our 
space  IS  Euclidian  space. 

It  is  well  known  that  Euclid's  twelfth 
axiom,  even  in  Playfair's  form  of  it,  has 
been  considered  as  needing  demonstra- 
tion ;  and  that  Lobatschewsky  constructed 
a  perfectly  consistent  theory  wherein  this 
axiom  was  assumed  not  to  hold  good,  or 
say  a  system  of  non-Euclidian  plane  geom- 
etry. There  is  a  like  system  of  non- 
Euclidian  solid  geometry.  My  own  view 
is  that  Euclid's  twelfth  axiom  in  Playfair's 
form  of  it  does  not  need  demonstration, 
but  is  part  of  our  notion  of  space,  of  the 
physical  space  of  our  experience  —  the 
space,  that  is,  which  we  become  ac- 
quainted with  by  experience,  but  which  is 
the  representation  lying  at  the  foundation 
of  all  external  experience.  Riemann*s 
view  before  referred  to  may  1  think  be 
said  to  be  that,  having  f>i  inte/iectu  a  more 
general  notion  of  space  (in  fact  a  notion  of 
non-Euclidian  space),  we  learn  by  expe- 
rience that  space  (the  physical  space  of 
our  experience)  is,  if  not  exactly,  at  least 
to  the  highest  degree  of  approximation, 
Euclidian  space. 

But,  suppose  the  physical  space  of  our 
experience  to  be  thus  only  approximately 
Euclidian  space,  what  is  the  consequence 
which  follows  ?  J\^ot  that  the  propositions 
of  geometry  are  only  approximately  true, 
but  that  they  remain  absolutely  true  in 
regard  to  that  Euclidian  space  which  has 
been  so  lon^r  regarded  as  being  the  phys- 
ical space  of  our  experience. 

It  is  interesting  to  consider  two  differ- 
ent ways  in  which,  without  any  modifica- 


l82 


THE  BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


tioD  at  all  of  our  notion  of  space,  we  can 
arrive  at  a  system  of  non*£uclidian  (plane 
or  two-dimensional)  geometry;  and  the 
doing  so  will,  I  think,  throw  some  light  on 
the  whole  question. 

First,  imagine  the  earth  a  perfectly 
smooth  sphere ;  understand  by  a  plane  the 
surface  of  the  earth,  and  by  a  line  the 
apparently  straight  line  (in  fact  an  arc  of 
a  {^reat  circle)  drawn  on  the  surface ;  what 
experience  would  in  the  first  instance 
teach  would  be  Euclidian  geometry;  there 
would  be  intersecting  lines  which  pro- 
duced a  few  miles  or  so  would  seem  to 
go  on  diverging,  and  apparently  parallel 
lines  which  would  exhibit  no  tendency  to 
approach  each  other;  and  the  inhabitants 
might  very  well  conceive  that  they  had  by 
experience  established  the  axiom  that 
two'straight  lines  cannot  inclose  a  space, 
and  the  axiom  as  to  parallel  lines.  A  more 
extended  experience  and  more  accurate 
measurements  would  teach  them  that  the 
axioms  were  each  of  them  false ;  and  that 
any  two  lines  if  produced  far  enough  each 
way  would  meet  in  two  points :  they  would 
in  fact  arrive  at  a  spherical  geometry, 
accurately  representing  the  properties  of 
the  twoKlimensional  space  of  their  expe- 
rience. But  their  original  Euclidian  geom- 
etry would  not  the  less  be  a  true  system ; 
oaly  it  would  apply  to  an  ideal  space,  not 
the  space  of  their  experience. 

Secondly,  consider  an  ordinary,  indefi- 
nitely extended  plane;  and  let  us  modify 
only  the  notion  of  distance.  We  measure 
distance,  say,  by  a  yard  measure  or  a  foot 
rule,  anything  which  is  short  enough  to 
make  the  fractions  of  it  of  no  consequence 
(in  mathematical  language  by  an  infini- 
tesimal element  of  length);  imagine,  then, 
the  length  of  this  rule  constantly  chang- 
ing (as  it  might  do  by  an  alteration  of 
temperature^  but  under  the  condition 
that  its  actual  length  shall  depend  only  on 
its  situation  on  the  plane  and  on  its  direc- 
tion :  viz.,  if  for  a  given  situation  and 
direction  it  has  a  certain  length,  then 
whenever  it  comes  back  to  the  same  situ- 
ation and  direction  it  must  have  the  same 
length.  The  distance  along  a  given 
straight  or  curved  line  bettveen  any  two 
points  could  then  be  measured  in  the 
ordinary  manner  with  this  rule,  and  would 
have  a  perfectly  determinate  value;  it 
could  be  measured  over  and  over  again, 
and  would  always  be  the  same;  but  of 
course  it  would  be  the  distance,  not  in  the 
ordinary  acceptation  of  the  term,  but  in 
quite  a  different  acceptation.  Or  in  a  some- 
what different  way:  if  the  rate  of  progress 
from  a  given  point  in  a  given  direction  be 


conceived  as  depending  onlv  on  the  coo* 
figuration  of  the  ground,  and  the  distance 
along  a  given  path  between  any  two 
points  thereof  be  measured  by  the  time 
required  for  traversing  it,  then  in  this 
way  also  the  distance  would  have  a  per* 
fectly  determinate  value;  but  it  would  be 
a  distance,  not  in  the  ordinary  acceptation 
of  the  term,  but  in  quite  a  different  accep* 
tation.  And  corresponding  to  the  nevr 
notion  of  distance,  we  should  have  a  new, 
non  Euclidian  system  of  plane  geometry ; 
all  theorems  involving  the  notion  of  dis* 
tance  would  be  altered. 

We  may  proceed  further.  Suppose  that 
as  the  rule  moves  away  from  a  fixed  cen* 
tral  point  of  the  plane  it  becomes  shorter 
and  shorter:  if  this  shortening  takes 
place  with  sufficient  rapidity,  it  may  very 
well  be  that  a  distance  which  in  the  ordi* 
nary  sense  of  the  word  is  finite  will  in  the 
new  sense  be  infinite;  no  number  of  repe* 
titions  of  the  length  of  the  ever-shorten- 
ing rule  will  be  sufficient  to  cover  it. 
There  will  be  surrounding  the  central 
point  a  certain  finite  area  such  that  (in  the 
new  acceptation  of  the  term  distance) 
each  point  of  the  boundary  thereof  will  be 
at  an  infinite  distance  from  the  central 
point;  the  points  outside  this  area  you 
cannot  by  any  means  arrive  at  with  your 
rule;  they  will  form  a  terra  incognita,  or 
rather  an  unknowable  land:  in  mathe- 
matical language,  an  imaginary  or  impos- 
sible space:  and  the  plane  space  of  the 
theory  will  be  that  within  the  finite  area 
—  that  is,  it  will  be  finite  instead  of  infi- 
nite. 

We  thus  with  a  proper  law  of  shorten* 
ing  arrive  at  a  system  of  non-Euclidian 
geometry  which  is  essentially  that  of  Lo* 
batschewsky.  But  in  so  obtaining  it  we 
put  out  of  sight  its  relation  to  spherical 
geometry:  the  three  geometries  (spheri- 
cal, Euclidian,  and  Lobatschewsky%) 
should  be  regarded  as  members  of  a  svs- 
tem :  viz.,  they  are  the  geometries  of  a 
plane  (two-dimensional)  space  of  constant 
positive  curvature,  zero  curvature,  and 
constant  negative  curvature  respectively; 
or,  again,  they  are  the  plane  geometries 
corresponding  to  three  different  notions 
of  distance;  in  this  point  of  view  they 
are  Klein's  elliptic,  parabolic,  and  hyper* 
bolic  geometries  respectively. 

Next  as  regards  solid  geometry:  we 
can  by  a  modification  of  the  notion  of 
distance  (such  as  has  just  been  explained 
in  regard  to  Lobatschewsky's  system)  pass 
from  our  present  system  to  a  non-Euclid- 
ian system ;  for  the  other  mode  of  pass- 
ing to  a  non-Euclidian  system  it  would  be 


THE  BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


necessary  to  regard  cmr  space  as  a  fiat 
tfaree-dimensional  space  existing  in  a 
space  of  four  dimensions  (j>.  as  the  ana- 
logue of  a  plane  existing  in  ordinary 
space):  and  to  substitute  for  such  flat 
three-dimensional  space  a  curved  three- 
dimensional  space,  say  of  constant  posi- 
tive or  negative  curvature.  In  regarding 
the  physical  space  of  our  experience  as 
possibly  non-Euclidian,  Riemann's  idea 
seems  to  be  that  of  modifying  the  notion 
of  distance,  not  that  of  treating  it  as  a 
locus  in  four  dimensional  space. 

I  have  just  come  to  speak  of  four-di- 
mensional space.  What  meaning  do  we 
attach  to  it?  or  can  we  attach  to  it  any 
meaning?  It  may  be  at  once  admitted 
that  we  cannot  conceive  of  a  fourth 
dimension  of  space;  that  space  as  we 
conceive  of  it,  and  the  physical  space  of 
our  experience,  are  alike  three-dimen- 
sional ;  but  we  can,  I  think,  conceive  of 
space  as  being  two  or  even  one-dimen- 
sional ;  we  can  imagine  rational  beings 
living  in  a  one-dimensional  space  (a  line) 
.or  in  a  two-dimensional  space  (a  surface), 
and  conceiving  of  space  accordingly,  and 
to  whom,  therefore,  a  two-dimensional 
space,  or  (as  the  case  may  be) -a  three-di- 
mensional space,  would  be  as  inconceiva- 
ble as  a  four-dimensional  space  is  to  us. 
And  very  curious  speculative  questions 
arise.  Suppose  the  one-dimensional  space 
a  right  line,  and  that  it  afterwards  be- 
comes a  curved  line :  would  there  be  any 
indication  of  the  change  ?  Or,  if  originally 
a  curved  line,  would  there  be  anything  to 
suggest  to  them  that  it  was  not  a  right 
line?  Probably  not,  for  a  one-dimen- 
sional geometry  hardly  exists.  But  let 
the  space  be  two-dimensional,  and  imag- 
ine it  originally  a  plane,  and  afterwards 
bent  (converted,  that  is,  into  some  form 
of  developable  surface)  or  converted  into 
a  curved  surface ;  or  imagine  it  originally 
a  developable  or  curved  surface.  In  the 
former  case  there  should  be  an  indication 
of  the  change,  for  the  geometry  originally 
applicable  to  the  space  of  their  experi- 
ence (our  own  Euclidian  geometry)  would 
cease  to  be  applicable ;  out  the  change 
could  not  be  apprehended  by  them  as  a 
bending  or  deformation  of  the  plane,  for 
this  would  imply  the  notion  of  a  three- 
dimensional  space  in  which  this  bending 
or  deformation  could  take  place.  In  the 
latter  case  their  geometry  would  be  that 
appropriate  to  the  developable  or  curved 
surface  which  is  their  space:  viz.,  this 
would  be  their  Euclidian  geometry :  would 
they  ever  have  arrived  at  our  own  more 
simple  system?    But  take  the  case  where 


.83 

the  two-dimensional  space  is  a  plane,  and 
imagine  the  beings  of  such  a  space  famil- 
iar with  our  own  Euclidian  plane  geom- 
etry; if,  a  third  dimension  being  still  in- 
conceivable by  them,  they  were  by  their 
geometry  or  otherwise  led  to  the  notion 
of  it,  there  would  be  nothing  to  prevent 
them  from  forming  a  science  such  as  our 
own  science  of  three-dimensional  geom- 
etry. 

Evidently  all  the  foregoing  questions 
present  themselves  in  regard  to  ourselves, 
and  to  three-dimensional  space  as  we  con- 
ceive of  it,  and  as  the  physical  space  of 
our  experience.  And  I  need  hardly  say 
that  the  first  step  is  the  difficulty,  and 
that  granting  a  fourth  dimension  we  may 
assume  as  many  more  dimensions  as  we 
please.  But  whatever  answer  be  given  to 
them,  we  have,  as  a  branch  of  mathemat- 
ics, potentially,  if  not  actually,  an  analyt- 
ical geometry  of  ii-dimensional  space.  I 
shall  have  to  speak  again  upon  this. 

Coming  now  to  the  fundamental  notion 
already  referred  to,  that  of  imaginary 
magnitude  in  analysis  and  imaginary 
space  in  geometry:  I  connect  this  with 
two  great  discoveries  in  mathematics 
made  in  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  Harriot's  representation  of  an 
equation  in  the  form/(r)=:o,  and  the 
consequent  notion  of  the  roots  of  an 
equation  as  derived  from  the  linear  fac- 
tors of  /(x)  (Harriot  1 560-1621 :  his  "  Al- 
gebra," published  after  his  death,  has  the 
date  163  iX  and  Descartes' method  of  co- 
ordinates, as  given  in  the  **  G^ometrie,'* 
forming  a  short  supplement  to  his  **  Traitd 
de  la  M^thode,  etc."    (Leyden,  1637). 

I  show  how  by  these  we  are  led  analyt- 
ically to  the  notion  of  imaginary  points 
in  geometry;  for  instance,  we  arrive  at 
the  theorem  that  a  straight  line  and  cir- 
cle in  the  same  plane  intersect  a/ways  in 
two  -points,  real  or  imaginary.  The  con- 
clusion as  to  the  two  points  of  intersec- 
tion cannot  be  contradicted  by  experience : 
take  a  sheet  of  paper  and  draw  on  it  the 
straight  line  and  circle,  and  try.  But  you 
might  say,  or  at  least  be  strongly  tempted 
to  say,  that  it  is  meaningless.  The  ques- 
tion of  course  arises,  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  an  imaginary  point?  and,  further, 
In  what  manner  can  the  notion  be  arrived 
at  geometrically  ? 

There  is  a  well-known  construction  in 
perspective  for  drawing  lines  through 
the  intersection  of  two  lines  which  are  so 
nearly  parallel  as  not  to  meet  within  the 
limits  of  the  sheet  of  paper.  You  have 
two  given  lines  which  do  not  meet,  and 


i84 


THE   BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


I 


ou  draw  a  third  line,  which,  when  the 
ines  are  all  of  them  produced,  is  found  to 
pass  through  the  intersection  of  the  given 
lines.  If  instead  of  lines  we  have  two 
circular  arcs  not  meeting  each  other,  then 
we  can,  by  means  of  these  arcs,  construct 
a  tine ;  and  if  on  completing  the  circles  it  is 
found  that  the  circles  intersect  each  other 
in  two  real  points,  then  it  will  be  found 
that  the  line  passes  through  these  two 
points  :  if  the  circles  appear  not  to  inter- 
sect, then  the  line  will  appear  not  to  inter- 
sect either  of  the  circles.  But  the  geo- 
metrical construction  being  in  each  case 
the  same,  we  say  that  in  the  second  case 
also  the  line  passes  through  the  two  inter- 
sections of  the  circles. 

Of  course  it  may  be  said  in  reply  that 
the  conclusion  is  a  very  natural  one,  pro- 
vided we  assume  the  existence  of  imagi- 
nary points ;  and  that,  this  assumption  not 
being  made,  then,  if  the  circles  do  not  in- 
tersect, it  is  meaningless  to  assert  that 
the  line  passes  through  their  points  of 
intersection.  The  difficulty  is  not  got 
over  by  the  analytical  method  before  re- 
ferred to,  for  this  introduces  difficulties  of 
its  own :  is  there  in  a  plane  a  point  the 
co-ordinates  of  which  have  given  imag- 
inary values  ?  As  a  matter  ol  fact,  we  do 
consider  in  plane  geometry  imaginary 
points  introduced  into  the  theory  analyti- 
cally or  geometrically  as  above. 

The  like  considerations  apply  to  solid 
geometry,  and  we  thus  arrive  at  the  notion 
of  imaginary  space  as  ^iocus  in  quo  of 
imaginary  points  and  figures. 

I  have  used  the  word  imaginary  rather 
than  complex,  and  I  repeat  that  the  word 
has  been  used  as  including  real.  But, 
this  once  understood,  the  word  becomes 
in  many  cases  superfluous,  and  the  use  of 
it  would  even  be  misleading.  Thus  '^a 
problem  has  so  many  solutions:"  this 
means  so  many  imaginary  (including  real) 
solutions.  But  if  it  were  said  that  the 
problem  had  '*so  many  imaginary  solu- 
tions," the  word  ^'imaginary  "  would  here 
be  understood  to  be  used  in  opposition  to 
real.  1  give  this  explanation  the  better  to 
point  out  how  wide  the  application  of  the 
notion  of  the  imaginary  is,  viz.,  (unless  ex- 
pressly or  by  implication  excluded)  it  is  a 
notion  implied  and  presupposed  in  all 
the  conclusions  of  modern  analysis  and 
geometry.  It  is,  as  1  have  said,  the  fun- 
damental notion  underlying  and  pervad- 
ing the  whole  of  these  branches  of  mathe- 
matical science. 

I  consider  the  question  of  the  geomet- 
rical representation  of  an  imaginary  vari- 


able. We  represent  the  imaginary  varia- 
ble X  -^  iyhy  means  of  a  point  in  a  plane, 
the  coordinates  of  which  are  (x^y)*  This 
idea,  due  to  Gauss,  dates  from  about  the 
year  183 1.  We  thus  picture  to  ourselves 
the  succession  of  values  of  the  imaginary 
variable  x-^  iy  by  means  of  the  motion 
of  the  representative  point :  for  instance, 
the  succession  of  values  corresponding  to 
the  motion  of  the  point  along  a  closed 
curve  to  its  original  position.  The  value 
X  X  ("Y  of  the  function  can  of  course  be 
represented  by  means  of  a  point  (taken 
for  greater  convenience  in  a  different 
plane),  the  coordinates  of  which  are  X,  Y. 

We  may  consider  in  general  two  points, 
moving  each  in  its  own  plane,  so  that  the 
position  of  one  of  them  determines  the 
position  of  the  other,  and  consequently 
the  motion  of  the  one  determines  the  mo- 
tion of  the  other:  for  instance,  the  two 
points  may  be  the  tracing-point  and  the 
pencil  of  a  pentagraph.  You  may  with 
the  first  point  draw  any  figure  3*ou  please* 
there  will  be  a  corresponding  figure  drawa 
by  the  second  point ;  for  a  good  penta- 
graph a  copy  on  a  different  scale  (it  may 
be);  for  a  badly  adjusted  pentagraph,  a 
distorted  copy;  but  the  one  6gure  will 
always  be  a  sort  of  copy  of  the  first,  so 
that  to  each  point  of  the  one  figure  there 
will  correspond  a  point  in  the  other  fig- 
ure. 

In  the  case  above  referred  to,  where 
one  point  represents  the  value  jt  -|-  (k  of 
the  imaginary  variable  and  the  other  the 
value  X  +iY  of  some  function  ^  (r  +  (k) 
of  that  variable,  there  is  a  remarkable 
relation  between  the  two  figures :  this  Is 
the  relation  of  orthomorphic  projection, 
the  same  which  presents  itself  between  a 
portion  of  the  earth's  surface  and  the  rep- 
resentation thereof  by  a  map  on  the  stere- 
ographic  projection  or  on  Mercator*s  pro- 
jection —  viz.,  any  indefinitely  small  area 
of  the  one  figure  is  represented  in  the 
other  figure  by  an  indefinitely  small  area 
of  the  same  shape.  There  will  possibly 
be  for  difiEerent  parts  of  the  figure  great 
variations  of  scale,  but  the  shape  will  be 
unaltered ;  if  for  the  one  area  the  boun- 
dary is  a  circle,  then  for  the  other  area 
the  boundary  will  be  a  circle ;  if  for  one  it 
is  an  equilateral  triangle,  then  for  the 
other  it  will  be  an  equilateral  triangle. 

I  have  been  speaking  of  an  imaginary  va- 
riable (jr4-  (k),  and  of  a  function  ^  {x-\-  iy) 
=:  X  -|- 1  Y  of  that  variable,  but  the  theory 
may  equally  well  be  stated  in  regard  to  a 
plane  curve  :  in  fact  the  jr-|-  iy  and  the 
X-f-<'Yare  two  imaginary  variables  con- 
nected by  an  equation ;  say  their  values 


THE   BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


are  u  and  v,  connected  by  an  equation  F 
{u,v)^o;  then,  re^^arding  m,  v  as  the 
coordinates  of  a  point  in  plano^  this  will 
be  a  point  on  the  curve  represented  by 
the  equation.  The  Curve,  in  the  widest 
sense  of  the  expression,  is  the  whole 
series  of  points,  real  or  imaginary,  the 
co-ordinates  of  which  satisfy  the  equation, 
and  these  are  exhibited  by  the  foregoing 
corresponding  figures  in  two  planes;  but 
in  the  ordinary  sense  the  curve  is  the 
series  of  real  points,  with  co-ordinates  if,  v^ 
which  satisfy  the  equation. 

In  geometry  it  is  the  curve,  whether 
defined  by  means  of  its  equation,  or  in 
any  other  manner,  which  is  the  subject 
for  contemplation  and  study.  But  we 
also  use  the  curve  as  a  representation  of 
its  equation  —  that  is,  of  the  relation  ex- 
isting between  two  magnitudes  jr,^,  which 
are  taken  as  the  co-ordinates  of  a  point  on 
the  curve.  Such  employment  of  a  curve 
for  all  sorts  of  purposes  —  the  fluctuations 
of  the  barometer,  the  Cambridge  boat 
races,  or  the  Funds  —  is  familiar  to  most 
of  you.  It  is  in  like  manner  convenient 
in  analysis,  for  exhibiting  the  relations 
between  any  three  magnitudes  x^y^g^io 
regard  them  as  the  coordinates  of  a  point 
in  space;  and,  on  the  like  ground,  we 
should  at  least  wish  to  regard  any  four  or 
more  magnitudes  as  the  coordinates  of  a 
point  in  space  of  a  corresponding  number 
of  dimensions.  Starting  with  the  hypoth- 
esis of  such  a  space,  and  of  points  therein 
each  determined  by  means  of  its  co-ordi- 
nates, it  is  found  possible  to  establish  a 
system  of  ndimensional  geometry  anal- 
ogous in  every  respect  to  our  two  and 
three-dimensional  geometries,  and  to  a 
very  considerable  extent  serving  to  ex- 
hibit the  relations  of  the  variables. 

It  is  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  space, 
whatever  its  dimensionality  may  be,  must 
always  be  regarded  as  an  imaginary  or 
complex  space  such  as  the  two  or  three- 
dimensional  space  of  ordinary  geometry; 
the  advantages  of  the  representation 
would  otherwise  altogether  fail  to  be  ob- 
tained. 

I  omit  some  further  developments  in 
regard  to  geometry;  and  all  that  i  have 
written  as  to  the  connection  of  mathe- 
matics with  the  notion  of  time. 

1  said  that  I  would  speak  to  you,  not  of 
the  utility  of  the  mathematics  in  any  of 
the  questions  of  common  life  or  of  physi- 
cal science,  but  rather  of  the  obligations 
of  mathematics  to  these  difiEerent  subjects. 
The  coQsideratioa  which  thus  presents 


Itself  is  in  a  great  measure  that  of  the  his- 
tory of  the  development  of  the  different 
branches  of  mathematical  science  in  con- 
nection with  the  older  physical  sciences, 
astronomy  and  mechanics :  the  mathe- 
matical theory  is  in  the  first  instance  sug- 
gested by  some  question  of  common  life 
or  of  physical  science,  is  pursued  and 
studied  quite  independently  thereof,  and 
perhaps  after  a  long  interval  comes  in 
contact  with  it,  or  with  quite  a  different 
question.  Geometry  and  algebra  must,  I 
think,  be  considered  as  each  of  them 
originating  in  connection  with  objects  or 
questions  of  common  life  —  geometry» 
notwithstanding  its  name,  hardly  in  the 
measurement  of  land,  but  rather  from  the 
contemplation  of  such  forms  as  the 
straight  line,  the  circle,  the  ball,  the  top 
(or  sugarloaf);  the  Greek  geometers  ap- 
propriated for  the  geometrical  forms  cor- 
responding to  the  last  two  of  these,  the 
words  ff^'pa  and  kCjvo^^  our  cone  and  sphere, 
and  they  extended  the  word  cone  to  mean 
the  complete  figure  obtained  by  produc- 
ing the  straight  lines  of  the  surface  both 
ways  indefinitelv.  And  so  algebra  would 
seem  to  have  arisen  from  the  sort  of  easy 
puzzles  in  regard  to  numbers  which  may 
be  made,  either  in  the  picturesque  forms 
of  the  Bija-Ganita  with  its  maiden  with 
the  beautiful  locks,  and  its  swarms  of 
bees  amid  the  fragrant  blossoms,  and  the 
one  queen  bee  left  humming  around  the 
lotus  flower;  or  in  the  more  prosaic  form 
in  which  a  student  has  presented  to  him 
in  a  modern  text-book  a  problem  leading 
to  a  simple  equation. 

The  Greek  geometry  may  be  regarded 
as  beginning  with  Plato  (B.C.  430-347): 
the  notions  of  geometrical  analysis,  loci, 
and  the  conic  sections  are  attributed  to 
him,  and  there  are  in  his  **  Dialogues*' 
many  very  interesting  allusions  to  math- 
ematical questions :  in  particular  the 
passage  in  the  **  Theaetetus,"  where  he 
affirms  the  incommensurability  of  the 
sides  of  certain  squares.  But  the  earliest 
extant  writings  are  those  of  Euclid  (B.C. 
285):  there  is  hardly  anything  in  mathe- 
matics more  beautiful  than  his  wondrous 
fifth  book ;  and  he  has  also  in  the  seventh, 
eighth,  ninth,  and  tenth  books  fully  and 
ably  developed  the  first  principles  of  the 
theory  of  numbers,  including  the  theory 
of  incommensurables.  We  have  next 
Apollonius  (about  B.C.  247),  and  Archi- 
medes (B.C.  287-212),  both  geometers  of 
the  highest  merit,  and  the  latter  of  them 
the  founder  of  the  science  of  statics  (in- 
cluding therein  hydrostatics) :  his  dictum 
about  the  lever,  bis  **  Evp^/co,*'  and  the 


i86 


THE   BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


story  of  the  defence  of  Syracuse,  are 
well  known.  Following  these  we  have  a 
worthy  series  of  names,  including  the 
astronomers  Htpparchus  (B.C.  150)  and 
Ptolemy  (a.d.  125X  and  ending,  say,  with 
Pappus  (A.D.  400),  but  continued  by  their 
Arabian  commentator,  and  the  Italian  and 
other  European  geometers  of  the  six* 
teenth  century  and  later,  who  pursued  the 
Greek  geometry. 

The  Greek  arithmetic  was,  from  the 
want  of  a  proper  notation,  singularly 
cumbrous  and  difficult;  and  it  was  for  as- 
tronomical purposes  superseded  by  the 
sexagesimal  arithmetic,  attributed  to  Ptol- 
emy, but  probably  known  before  his  time. 
The  use  of  the  present  so-called  Arabic 
figures  became  general  among  Arabian 
writers  on  arithmetic  and  astronomy  about 
the  middle  of  the  tenth  century,  but  it  was 
not  introduced  into  Europe  until  about 
two  centuries  later.  Algebra  among  the 
Greeks  is  represented  almost  exclusively 
by  the  treatise  of  Diophantus  (a.d.  150), 
in  fact  a  work  on  the  theory  of  numbers 
containing  questions  relating  to  square 
and  cube  numbers,  and  other  properties 
of  numbers,  with  their  solutions  ;  this  has 
no  historical  connection  with  the  later 
algebra  introduced  into  Italy  from  the 
East  by  Leonard!  Bonacci  ot  Pisa  (a.d. 
1 202- 1 208),  and  successfully  cultivated  in 
the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  by 
Lucas  Paciolus,  or  De  Burgo,  Tartaglia, 
Cardan,  and  Ferrari.  Later  on  we  have 
Vieta  (1 540-1603),  Harriot,  already  re- 
ferred to,  Wallis,  and  others. 

Astronomy  is  of  course  intimately  con* 
nected  with  geometry;  the  most  simple 
facts  of  observation  of  the  heavenly  bodies 
can  oniv  be  stated  in  geometrical  lan- 
guage ;  for  instance,  that  the  stars  describe 
circles  about  the  pole-star,  or  that  the 
difiEerent  positions  of  the  sun  among  the 
fixed  stars  in  the  course  of  the  year  form 
a  circle.  For  astronomical  calculations  it 
was  found  necessary  to  determine  the  arc 
of  a  circle  by  means  of  its  chord;  the 
notion  is  as  old  as  Hipparchus,  a  work  of 
whom  is  referred  to  as  consisting  of  twelve 
books  on  the  chords  of  circular  arcs  ;  we 
have  (A.D.  125)  Ptolemy*s  "Almagest," 
the  first  book  of  which  contains  a  table  of 
arcs  and  chords  with  the  method  of  con- 
struction ;  and  among  other  theorems  on 
the  subject  he  gives  there  the  theorem 
afterwards  inserted  in  Euclid  (Book  VI. 
Prop.  D.)  relating  to  the  rectangle  con- 
tained by  the  diagonals  of  a  quadrilateral 
inscribed  in  a  circle.  The  Arabians  made 
the  improvement  of  using  in  place  of  the 
xhord  of  an  arc  the  sine,  or  half-chord  of 


double  the  arc,  and  so  brought  the  theoij 
into  the  form  in  which  it  is  used  in  moo* 
ern  trigonometry:  the  before-mentioned 
theorem  of  Ptolemy,  or  rather  a  particular 
case  of  it,  translated  into  the  notation  of 
sines,  gives  the  expression  for  the  sine  of 
the  sum  of  two  arcs  in  terms  of  the  sines 
and  cosines  of  the  component  arcs;  and 
it  is  thus  the  fundamental  theorem  on  the 
subject.  We  have  in  the  fifteenth  and 
sixteenth  centuries  a  series  of  mathemati- 
cians who  with  wonderful  enthusiasm  and 
perseverance  calculated  tables  of  the  trig^ 
onometrical  or  circular  functions,  Purbacb, 
Miiller  or  Regiomontanus,  Copernicus, 
Reinhold,  Maurolycus,  Vieta,  and  many 
others;  the  tabulations  of  the  functions 
tangent  and  secant  are  due  to  Reinhold 
and  Maurolycus  respectively. 

Logarithms  were  invented,  not  exclu- 
sively with  reference  to  the  calculation  of 
trigonometrical  tables,  but  in  order  to 
facilitate  numerical  calculations  generally ; 
the  invention  is  due  to  John  Napier  of 
Merchiston,  who  died  in  1618  at  sixty- 
seven  years  of  age ;  the  notion  was  based 
upon  refined  mathematical  reasoning  oa 
the  comparison  of  the  spaces  described  by 
two  points,  the  one  moving  with  a  uniform 
velocity,  the  other  with  a  velocity  varying 
accordmg  to  a  given  law.  It  is  to  be  ob> 
served  that  Napier's  logarithms  were 
nearly  but  not  exactly  those  which  are 
now  called  (sometimes  Napierian,  but 
more  usually)  hyperbolic  logarithms-— 
those  to  the  base  e;  and  that  the  change 
to  the  base  10  (the  great  step  by  which 
the  invention  was  perfected  for  the  object 
in  view)  was  indicated  by  Napier  but  ac- 
tually made  by  Henry  Briggs,  afterwards 
Savilian  professor  at  Oxford  (d.  1630). 
But  it  is  the  hyperbolic  logarithm  which 
is  mathematically  important.  The  direct 
function  ^  or  exp.  ;r,  which  has  for  its 
inverse  the  hyperbolic  logarithm,  pre- 
sented itself,  but  not  in  a  prominent  way. 
Tables  were  calculated  of  the  logarithms 
of  numbers,  and  of  those  of  the  trigono- 
metrical functions. 

The  circular  function  and  the  logarithm 
were  thus  invented  each  for  a  practical 
purpose,  separately  and  without  any 
proper  connection  with  each  other.  The 
functions  are  connected  through  the  the- 
ory of  imaginaries,  and  form  together  a 
group  of  the  utmost  importance  through- 
out mathematics:  but  this  is  mathemati- 
cal theory;  the  obligation  of  mathematics 
is  for  the  discovery  of  the  functions. 

Forms  of  spirals  presented  themselves 
in  Greek  architecture,  and  the  curves 
were  considered  mathematically  by  Ar* 


THE   BRITISH   ASSOCIATION. 


chimedes ;  the  Greek  geometers  invented 
some  other  curves,  more  or  less  interest- 
ing, but  recondite  enough  in  their  origin. 
A  curve  which  mieht  have  presented  itself 
to  anybody,  that  described  bv  a  point  in 
the  circumference  of  a  rolhng  carriage 
wheel,  was  first  noticed  by  Mersenne  in 
1615,  and  is  the  curve  afterwards  consid- 
ered by  Roberval,  Pascal,  and  others,  un- 
der the  name  of  the  roulette,  otherwise 
the  cycloid.  Pascal  (1623-1662)  wrote  at 
the  age  of  seventeen  his  **  Essais  pour 
Us  Coniqnes^  in  seven  short  pages,  full 
of  new  views  on  these  curves,  and  in 
which  he  gives,  in  a  paragraph  of  eight 
lines,  his  theory  of  the  inscril)ed  hexa- 
gon. 

Kepler  (i 571-1630)  by  his  empirical 
determination  of  the  laws  of  planetary 
motion,  brought  into  connection  with  as- 
tronomy one  of  the  forms  of  conic,  the 
ellipse,  and  established  a  foundation  for 
the  theory  of  gravitation.  Contemporary 
with  him,  for  most  of  his  life,  we  have 
Galileo  { 1564- 1642),  the  founder  of  the 
science  of  dynamics ;  and  closely  follow- 
ing upon  Galileo,  we  have  Isaac  Newton 
(1643-1727):  \\\t  ^*  Phtiosophiee  naiuralis 
Principia  Mathematical^  known  as  the 
*" Principia^^  was  first  published  in  1687. 

The  physical,  statical,  or  dynamical 
questions  which  presented  themselves 
before  the  publication  of  the  "  Principia  " 
were  of  no  particular  mathematical  diffi* 
calty,  but  it  is  auite  otherwise  with  the 
crowd  of  interesting  questions  arising  out 
of  the  theory  of  gravitation,  and  which, 
in  becoming  the  subject  of  mathematical 
investigation,  have  contributed  very  much 
to  the  advance  of  mathematics.  We  have 
the  problem  of  two  bodies,  or  what  is  the 
same  thing,  that  of  the  motion  of  a  parti- 
cle about  a  fixed  centre  of  force,  for  any 
law  of  force;  we  have  also  the  (mathe- 
matically very  interesting)  problem  of  the 
motion  of  a  body  attracted  to  two  or  more 
fixed  centres  of  force ;  then,  next  preced- 
ing that  of  the  actual  solar  system  —  the 
problem  of  three  bodies;  this  has  ever 
b^en  and  is  far  beyond  the  power  of 
mathematics,  and  it  is  in  the  lunar  and 
planetary  theories  replaced  by  what  is 
mathematically  a  different  problem,  that 
of  the  motion  of  a  body  under  the  action 
of  a  principal  central  force  and  a  disturb- 
ing force;  or  (in  one  mode  of  treatment) 
by  the  problem  of  disturbed  elliptic  mo- 
tion. I  would  remark  that  we  have  here 
an  instance  in  which  an  astronomical  fact, 
the  observed  slow  variation  of  the  orbit 
of  a  planet,  has  directly  suggested  a  ntath- 
ematical  method,  applied  to  other  dynam- 


187 

ical  problems,  and  which  is  the  basis  of 
very  extensive  modern  investigations  ia 
regard  to  systems  of  differential  equations. 
Again,  immediately  arising  out  of  the 
theory  of  gravitation,  we  have  the  problem 
of  finding  the  attraction  of  a  solid  body  of 
any  given  form  upon  a  particle,  solvea  by 
Newton  in  the  case  of  a  homogeneous 
sphere,  but  which  is  far  more  difficult  in 
the*next  succeeding  cases  of  the  spheroid 
of  revolution  (very  ably  treated  by  Mac* 
laurin)  and  of  the  ellipsoid  of  three  un- 
equal axes :  there  is  perhaps  no  problem 
of  mathematics  which  has  been  treated  by 
as  great  a  variety  of  methods,  or  has 
given  rise  to  so  much  interesting  investi- 
gation  as  this  last  problem  of  the  attrac- 
tion of  an  ellipsoid  upon  an  interior  or 
exterior  point.  It  was  a  dynamical  prob- 
lem, that  of  vibrating  strings,  by  which 
Lagrange  was  led  to  the  theory  of  the 
representation  of  a  function  as  the  sum  o£ 
a  series  of  multiple  sines  and  cosines ; 
and  connected  with  this  we  have  the  ex- 
pansions in  terms  of  Legendre's  functions 
P«>  suggested  to  him  by  the  question  just 
referred  to  of  the  attraction  of  an  ellip- 
soid ;  the  subsequent  investigations  of 
Laplace  on  the  attractions  of  bodies  differ- 
ing slightly  from  the  sphere  led  to  the 
functions  of  two  variables  called  Laplace's 
functions.  I  have  been  speaking  of  ellip- 
soids, but  the  general  theory  is  that  of 
attractions,  which  has  become  a  very  wide 
branch  of  modern  mathematics;  associ- 
ated with  it  we  have  in  particular  the 
names  of  Gauss,  Lejeune-Dirichlet,  and 
Green ;  and  I  must  not  omit  to  mention 
that  the  theory  is  now  one  relating  to 
/f-dimensional  space.  Another  great  prob- 
lem of  celestial  mechanics,  that  of  the 
motion  of  the  earth  about  its  centre  of 
gravity,  in  the  most  simple  case,  that  of  a 
body  not  acted  upon  by  any  forces,  is  a 
very  interesting  one  in  the  mathematical 
point  of  view. 

I  may  mention  a  few  other  instances 
where  a  practical  or  physical  question  has 
connected  itself  with  the  development  of 
mathematical  theory.  I  have  spoken  of 
two  map  projections  —  the  slereographic, 
dating  from  Ptolemy;  and  M creator's 
projection,  invented  by  Edward  Wright 
about  the  year  1600:  each  of  these,  as 
a  particular  case  of  the  orthomorphic 
projection,  belongs  to  the  theory  of  the 
geometrical  representation  of  an  imag- 
inary variable.  I  have  spoken  also  of 
perspective,  and  (in  an  omitted  paragraph) 
of  the  representation  of  solid  figures  em- 
ployed in  Mongers  descriptive  geometry. 
Monge,  it  is  well  known,  is  the  author  of 


t88 


PROFESSOR   CAYLEYS  ADDRESS. 


the  geometrical  theory  of  the  curvature  of 
surfaces  and  of  curves  of  curvature:  he 
was  led  to  this  theory  by  a  problem  of 
earthwork  —  from  a  giveu  area,  covered 
with  earth  of  uniform  thickness,  to  carry 
the  earth  and  distribute  it  over  an  equal 
given  area,  with  the  least  amount  of  cart- 
age. For  the  solution  of  the  correspond- 
ing problem  in  solid  geometry  he  had  to 
consider  the  intersecting  normals  of  a 
surface,  and  so  arrived  at  the  curves  of 
curvature  (see  his  ^*^Mimoire  sur  les  Di- 
blais  et  Ics  Remblais^'*  Mint,  de  lAcad,^ 
1781).  The  normals  of  a  surface  are, 
again,  a  particular  case  of  a  doubly  infinite 
system  of  lines,  and  are  so  connected  with 
the  modern  theories  of  congruences  and 
complexes. 

The  undulatory  theory  of  light  led  to 
FresnePs  wave-surface,  a  surface  of  the 
fourth  order,  by  far  the  most  interesting 
one  which  had  then  presented  itself.  A 
geometrical  propertv  of  this  surface,  that 
of  having  tangent  planes  each  touching  it 
along  a  plane  curve  (in  fact,  a  circle),  gave 
to  Sir  W.  R.  Hamilton  the  theory  of  coni- 
cal refraction.  The  wave-surface  is  now 
regarded  in  geometry  as  a  particular  case 
of  Kummer*s  quartic  surface,  with  sixteen 
conical  points  and  sixteen  singular  tan- 
gent planes. 

My  imperfect  acquaintance  as  well  with 
the  mathematics  as  the  physics  prevents 
me  from  speaking  of  the  oenefits  which 
the  theory  of  partial  differential  equations 
has  received  from  the  hydrodynamical 
theory  of  vortex  motion,  and  from  the 
great  physical  theories  of  electricity, 
magnetism,  and  energy. 

It  is  difficult  to  give  an  idea  of  the  vast 
extent  of  modern  mathematics.  This 
word  **  extent "  is  not  the  right  one :  I 
mean  extent  crowded  with  beautiful  detail 
—  not  an  extent  of  mere  uniformity,  such 
as  an  objectless  plain,  but  of  a  tract  of 
beautiful  country  seen  at  first  in  the  dis- 
tance, but  which  will  bear  to  be  rambled 
through  and  studied  in  every  detail  of 
hillside  and  valley,  stream,  rock,  wood, 
and  flower.  But,  as  for  anything  else,  so 
for  a  mathematical  theory  —  beauty  can 
be  perceived,  but  not  explained.  As  for 
mere  extent,  I  might  illustrate  this  by 
speaking  of  the  dates  at  which  some  of 
the  great  extensions  have  been  made  in 
several  branches  of  mathematical  science. 

And  in  fact,  in  the  address  as  written, 

I   speak  at  considerable  length   of  the 

extensions  in  geometry  since  the  time  of 

.  Descartes,  and  in  other  specified  subjects 

since  the  commencemeot  of  the  century : 


these  subjects  are  the  general  theory  of 
the  function  of  an  imaginary  variable;  the 
leading  known  functions,  viz.,  the  elliptic 
and  single  thetaf unctions  and  the  Abelian 
and  multiple  theta-functions ;  the  theory 
of  equations  and  the  theory  of  numbers. 
I  refer  also  to  some  theories  outside  of 
ordinary  mathematics  :  the  multiple  alge- 
bra or  linear  associative  algebra  of  the 
late  Benjamin  Peirce  ;  the  theory  of  Ar» 
gand,  Warren,  and  Peacock  in  regard  to 
imaginaries  in  plane  geometry;  Sir  W. 
R.  Hamilton's  quaternions,  Clifford's  bi- 
quaternions,  the  theories  developed  ia 
Grassmann*s  ^^Ausdehnungslehre^^*  with 
recent  extensions  thereof  to  non-Euclid- 
ian space  by  Mr.  Homersham  Cox;  also 
Boole's  **  Mathematical  Logic,"  and  a 
work  connected  with  logic,  but  primarily 
mathematical  and  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance, Schubert's  ^^Abzdhlende  Geome" 
trie''  (1878).  1  remark  that  all  this  ia 
regard  to  theories  outside  of  ordinary 
mathematics  is  still  on  the  text  of  the 
vast  extent  of  modern  mathematics. 

In  conclusion  1  would  say  that  mathe- 
matics have  steadily  advanced  from  the 
time  of  the  Greek  geometers.  Nothing 
is  lost  or  wasted;  the  achievements  of 
Euclid,  Archimedes,  and  Apollonius  are 
as  admirable  now  as  they  were  in  their 
own  days.  Descartes'  method  of  coordi- 
nates is  a  possession  forever.  But  math- 
ematics have  never  been  cultivated  more 
zealously  and  diligently,  or  with  greater 
success,  than  in  this  century  — in  the  last 
half  of  it,  or  at  the  present  time:  the  ad- 
vances made  have  been  enormous,  the 
actual  field  is  boundless,  the  future  full  of 
hope.  In  regard  to  pure  mathematics  we 
may  most  confidently  say :  -^ 

Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  increas- 
ing purpose  runs. 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with  the 
process  of  the  suns. 


From  The  Spectator. 
PROFESSOR  CAYLEVS  ADDRESS. 

The  address  of  Professor  Cay  ley,  pres- 
ident for  the  year  of  the  British  Associa- 
tion, will  not  oe  much  discussed,  either  in 
print  or  in  society.  Not  many  can  descant 
on  landscape  as  seen  from  five  miles  of 
altitude  in  air.  Of  the  very  few  persons 
completely  qualified  to  form  an  opinion  on 
the  merits  of  the  address,  only  four  or 
^^^  could  throw  that  opinion  into  a  *'  pop« 
ular"  form,  —  by  which,  in  this  instance,  . 
we  mean  a  form  intelligible  to  the  edu* 


PROFESSOR  CAYLEYS   ADDRESS. 


cated;  and  they  would  think  the  labor 
almost  thrown  away.  They  would  as 
soon  explain  to  telegraph  *'  operators  "  the 
mathematics  of  electricity.  To  the  re- 
mainder  of  English  mankind,  the  address 
will,  we  fear,  be  a  sealed  book,  or  rather, 
an  intellectual  puzzle  at  which  they  may 
be  tempted  to  try,  but  the  interpretation 
of  which  they  know  while  they  are  tryinj;^ 
is  hopelessly  beyond  them.  Metaphysics 
are  to  many  minds  repellent,  and  there 
are  people,  otherwise  intellectual,  to  whom 
theology  seems  not  only  tasteless,  but  in- 
ootritious;  but  no  speculations  overawe 
and,  so  tq  speak,  alarm  the  ordinary  mind 
like  those  of  the  pure  mathematician, 
when  he  reaches  the  point  at  which  reason 
would  not  aid  him,  but  for  the  light  imag- 
ioation  throws.  It  is  not  dislike  which  is 
felt,  far  less  contempt,  but  an  uncomforta- 
ble awe,  quite  separate  in  kind  among 
mental  emotions,  and  arising,  as  we  con- 
ceive, from  a  suddenly  generated  and 
distressing  conviction  that  the  hearer  or 
reader  lacks  positive  mental  powers  which 
other  minds,  no  doubt  exceptional,  but 
still  quite  human,  evidently  possess.  Ig- 
norance of  science  is  not  in  itself  discon- 
certing, but  there  is  positive  discomfort 
among  men  ordinarily  intelligent,  but  not 
Bt  to  be  professors,  when  they  hear  a  man 
of  whose  right  to  say  so  they  cannot  doubt 
declare  that  he  can  conceive  of  sentient 
beings  living  in  space  of  one  dimension, 
in  a  pure  line.  They  know  they  cannot 
conceive  it,  and  feel  as  if  a  geological 
**fault"  in  their  minds,  a  want,  a  kind  of 
idiotcv,  had  been  revealed  to  them.  This 
does  not  generate  repulsion  exactly,  but 
awe  so  near  to  it  that  even  Professor 
Cayley  perceived  it,  and,  with  humorous 
cruelty,  declared  that  in  some  cases  '*a 
meeting  was  the  individual  which,  in  the 
process  of  evolution,  must  be  sacrificed 
to  the  development  of  the  race."  So  he 
sacrificed  his  meeting  with  a  clear  con- 
science,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  with  a 
completeness  which  left  nothing  to  be 
desired.  When  the  professor  ended,  lis- 
teners* headache  must,  for  all  his  lucidity 
of  expression  and  careful  explanation  of 
his  terminolog}',  have  been  prevalent  even 
among  the  mathematicians  scattered 
amidst  that  audience. 

But  though  the  address  cannot  be  dis- 
cussed, the  wisdom  of  the  Association  in 
arranging  for  its  delivery  will,  and  that 
not  in  amiable  terms.  It  will  be  said 
that,  although  the  object  of  most  of  the 
papers  read  in  the  meetings  of  the  British 
Association  is  **  the  advancement  of  sci- 
ence,'' the  use  of  the  president's  address 
is  a  different  one ;  that  his  duty  is  to  re- 


289 

view  progress  over  as  wide  a  field  as  he 
can,  to  indicate  the  line  of  scientific  ad« 
vance,  and  to  interest  the  people  of  Great 
Britain  in  scientific  inquiry.  His  business 
is  to  secure  an  audience  for  science,  *or 
rather  to  extend  the  audience,  not  to  nar- 
row it  by  an  address  the  main  effect  of 
which  upon  its  hearers  was  to  create  an 
impression  that  scientific  speculation  was 
too  lofty  an  occupation  for  any  but  ex- 
ceptional powers.  **  Popularization  *'  is  a 
horrible  phrase,  but  if  the  end  of  the 
Association  is  not  the  popularization  of 
science,  what,  it  will  be  asked,  is  the  use 
of  its  popularizing  machinery  ?  Why  does 
it  summon  all  mankind  to  attend,  and  why 
allow  those  discussions,  which  in  the 
main  must  be  the  comments  of  the  half- 
instructed  upon  the  views  of  selected  ex- 
perts ?  The  Association  surely  would  not 
allow  the  ablest  man  of  science  in  Europe 
to  deliver  the  president's  address,  if  he 
could  or  would  only  talk  in  an  unknown 
tongue,  or  a  tongue  the  grammar  of  which 
was  known,  and  that  but  imperfectly,  only 
to  one  section;  and  that  is  practically 
what  Professor  Cavley  did.  He  spoke, 
and  spoke  admirably,  of  high  mysteries, 
but  in  language  so  little  known,  that 
the  vote  of  thanks  proposed  must  have 
sounded  a  little  comic,  like  a  vote  of 
thanks  from  an  assemblage  of  deaf  mutes, 
with  a  partially  deaf  man  seated  here  and 
there,  to  some  great  pianist.  It  will  be 
said  that  the  greatest  opportunity  given  to 
science  during  the  year,  the  one  day  when 
her  advocates  are  sure  of  a  page  in  the 
Times  and  the  ear  of  the  world,  on  most 
days  closed  to  her  disciples,  is  wilfully, 
almost  perverselvy  thrown  away.  The 
Association  will  be  adjured  to  return  to 
common  sense  and  the  "practical,"  and 
in-future  to  confine  the  chair  to  men  who 
can  hold  an  audience  rapt,  or  induce  all 
Britain  to  consider  their  thoughts,  if  only 
for  the  day. 

The  ol)jector8  have  much  to  say  for 
themselves,  and  will,  we  suspect,  prevail; 
and  yet  those  who  listen  to  them,  if  not 
they  themselves,  are  conscious  that  a 
fallacy  lurks  in  their  plausible  rebukes. 
Carry  out  their  view  logically,  and  the 
greatest  men  in  science  could  never  be 
selected  as  presidents  of  the  year,  or, 
being  presidents,  must  be  prohibited  from 
talking  to  the  meetings  of  the  deepest 
truths  or  loftiest  speculations  they  have 
come  across  in  their  researches.  Such 
truths,  such  speculations,  must  constantly 
be  so  far  in  advance  of  those  attained  by 
the  majority  as  to  be  scarcely  intelligible 
to  them ;  and  even  sometimes  must,  as  in 
this  case,  be  altogether  beyond  their  ia- 


X90 


PRISON    PETS. 


tellectual  grasp.  So  is  the  idea  of  space 
beyood  the  grasp  of  children,  yet  how 
teach  astronomy  without  assuming  the 
idea  of  space?  To  limit  the  utterance  of 
stich  speakers  is  to  exclude  truth,  to  pro- 
scribe knowledge,  to  deprive  teaching  of 
its  highest  effect,  —  that  disciplining  and 
strengthening  —  why  have  we  not  the 
word  "  nervating"  ? —  strain  which  it  pro- 
duces on  those  who  stand  but  just  short, 
yet  not  far  short,  of  the  teacher's  stand 
point.  If  Professor  Cayley  so  excites  or 
so  illumines  the  mind  of  one  mathemati- 
cian that  he  is  induced  to  redouble  exer- 
tion, and  to  carry  the  torch  still  farther 
onward,  more  is  done  for  mathematics, 
and  therefore  for  science  generally,  than 
would  be  done  by  years  of  lectures  pro* 
diictive  only  of  mental  titillation,  or  of 
those  *' discussions"  which  are,  for  the 
most  part,  only  mellifluous  expressions  of 
gratified  wonder.  The  pain— for  it  is 
pain  —  that  such  a  lecture  causes  to  an 
audience  is  not  injurious  pain,  but  bracing 
pain,  making  those  who  even  partially 
understand  the  stronger  and  more  ardent. 
Those  who  understand  may  be  few,  but 
the  Association  cannot  seek  breadth  of 
audience,  for  if  it  did,  its  presidents  could 
never  utter  any  but  **  things  easy  to 
understand,^'  and  could  never  lift  their 
hearers  nearer  to  the  light  at  all.  The 
utmost  it  can  do  is  to  select  the  ablest 
man  in  any  subject,  and  be  sure  that  in 
the  address  he  delivers  there  shall  be  no 
obscurity,  and  of  obscurity  no  one  who 
understands  accuses  Professor  Cayley.  It 
is  with  science  as  with  learning,  —  the 
clearness  of  the  learned  will  not  always 
make  them  intelligible.  An  Association 
for  the  advancement  of  Oriental  learning 
would  be  very  foolish,  if  it  refusecT  its 
chair  to  a  Sinologue  of  the  highest  knowl- 
edge, because  when  giving  forth  what  he 
knew,  he  must  perforce  be  unintelligible 
to  the  mass  of  English  mankind,  and  un- 
printable besides.  He  might,  neverthe- 
less, be  stirring  up  minds  which,  though 
far  less  advanced  than  his  own,  were 
competent  even  more  than  his  own  to 
extract  out  of  Chinese  learning  all  the 
good  it  contains.  As  to  the  injury  done 
to  the  Association  by  the  unpopularity  of 
such  an  address,  we  do  not  believe  that  it 
occurs.  Men  never  quite  dislike  what 
they  respect,  and  the  old  woman's  submis- 
sive answer  when  asked  if  she  understood 
the  sermon,  *'  Wad  I  hae  the  presump- 
tion?" expresses  the  most  general  of 
mental  conditions.  The  frivolous  do  not 
read  the  "  heavy  '*  articles  in  the  quarter- 
lies, but  they  think  they  ought  to  be  there, 
and  respect  the  managers  the  more*    The 


real  danger  of  the  Association  Is  not  that 
of  allowing  its  presidents  to  soar  beyond 
their  audiences*  mental  ken,  but  of  tempt- 
ing them  to  indulge  in  ''popular  balder* 
dash,"  in  so-called  **  eloquence,"  or  ia 
those  foolish  appeals  to  the  lust  for  wonder 
which  are  the  instruments  of  charlatans. 
It  is  well  that  Englishmen  should  be 
reminded  now  and  again  that  progress 
in  science  involves  hard  thinking,  even 
though  during  the  lesson  a  few  of  their 
heads  should  ache  with  half-angry  bewil- 
derment, and  the  consciousness  that  they 
are  hopelessly  out  of  their  depth.  This 
time,  at  least,  no  one  can  accuse  the  pres* 
ident  of  tickling  the  ears  of  anybody. 


From  Chambers'  JoaniaL 
PRISON  PETS. 

There  are  numerous  instances  on  rec- 
ord of  persons  in  ** durance  vile"  making 
pets  of  the  most  unlikely  of  animals,  nay, 
even  reptiles  and  flowers.  The  instances 
considered  noteworthy  have  been  gen- 
erally those  of  persons  of  rank.  I  n  reality, 
the  passion  is  not  more  to  be  wondered 
at  in  the  Count  Picciola  of  school-book 
notoriety,  who  gained  over  the  good  feel- 
ing of  his  keeper  to  respect  the  pet  flower 
which  bad  sprung  up  between  the  stones 
of  the  prison-yard,  than  is  a  similar  feeling 
exhibited  by  the  deepest-dyed  criminal  of 
the  common  jail.  In  fact,  it  has  been 
noticed  that  the  feeling,  if  anything,  is 
stronger  in  the  man  of  few  resources.  The 
present  humanitarian  system  of  conduct- 
ing prisons  provides  the  educated  prisoner 
with  many  means  of  killing,  if  not  improv- 
ing, his  time,  which  a  bygone  system 
ignored.  Companionship  is  found  in 
books  of  the  very  best  kind.  In  the  case 
of  the  uneducated  prisoner  it  is  very  dif-  * 
ferent.  For  many  hours  of  the  day  he  is 
shut  off  from  everything  but  intercourse 
with  his  own  thoughts,  and  these  being, 
as  a  rule,  not  very  companionable,  he 
casts  about  for  something  to  engage  his 
attention  other  than  the  four  bare  walls  of 
his  cell.  Suddenly  he  hears  the  chirp  of 
some  impudent  sparrow,  enticed  by  a  few 
stray  bread-crumbs  which  the  poor  wretch 
has  spared.from  his  allowance  and  pushed 
through  the  grating  of  his  window.  Here 
is  something  which  certainly  bears  him 
no  ill-will ;  something  which,  to  one  given 
to  suspect,  is  above  suspicion.  There  is 
not  the  slightest  doubt  about  this  visitor. 
But  the  unsuspicious  feeling  is  not  re- 
ciprocal. The  crumbs  are  all  very  well  so 
long  as  they  can  be  reached  from  witboat 


PRISON   PETS. 


2:91 


the  bars.  The  dark  within  is  an  anex- 
plored  region.  But  there  comes  a  spell 
of  sharp  frost,  may  be,  which  whets  the 
appetite  of  the  feathered  visitor,  or  there 
is  something  in  the  manner  of  the  would- 
be  host  which  reassures  him,  and  the 
inquisitive  little  head  is  cautiously  pushed 
inside  the  bars,  in  order  to  follow  up  a 
trail  of  crumbs  judiciously  laid  by  the 
tempter.  No  harm  follows;  and  familiar- 
ity breeds  boldness.  The  little  fellow  is 
surprised  to  find  himself  quite  within,  tail 
and  all,  and,  as  though  astonished  at  his 
own  audacity,  beats  a  hasty  retreat.  The 
next  visit  finds  him  less  modest.  He  ad- 
vances across  the  floor;  then,  with  side- 
long glances,  makes  a  backward  move- 
ment, then  a  forward  one,  till  he  feels 
quite  positive  that  the  statue-like  figure 
in  the  corner  has  no  bellicose  intentions. 
As  a  sort  of  feeler,  the  figure  moves  a 
foot  or  a  hand.  This  is  too  much  for  Mr. 
Sparrow.  A  fluttering  retreat  to  the  bars, 
out,  and  away,  leaves  the  lonely  inmate 
still  more  lonely.  The  thought  of  the 
crumbs,  however,  steels  the  little  feath- 
ered breast,  and  by-and-by  he  makes  an- 
other essay.  At  last  he  loses  all  fear,  and 
hops  up  quite  close  to  the  immured  one 
to  snatch  some  crumbs  sprinkled  from 
the  hand  in  sight  of  the  bird.  From  this 
it  IS  oot  far,  as  confidence  is  gained,  to 
hop  on  to  the  knee  and  shoulder.  What 
sort  of  bird-logic  has  been  going  on  in  the 
breast  of  this  little  sparrow?  In  a  week 
or  two  he  learns  to  come  at  a  call,  and  to 
eat  his  meals  from  the  hand  of  the  man 
who,  very  possibly,  is  suffering  imprison- 
meat  for  kicking  his  wife  very  nearly  to 
death,  or  for  some  kindred  crime,  but 
who  would  take  infinite  pains  to  attach 
this  little  soulless  bird  to  himself,  and 
resents  with  blows  if  necessary,  any  inter- 
ference  with  his  pet.  What  is  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  matter?  Is  it  the  waking  up 
of  dormant  feelings?  the  softer,  better 
memories  of  happier  days,  when  the  love 
of  wife  and  children  had  not  become  es- 
tranged? Every  man,  even  the  lowest 
type  of  criminal,  loves  something  or  some- 
liody.  It  may  be  a  selfish,  base  love ;  but 
it  is  a  love  nevertheless.  Who  can  fully 
understand  the  anomaly  presented  by  the 
wife-kicking  "Black  Country"  puddler, 
who  feasts  his  favorite  bulldog  while  his 
poor  children  go  about  uncared  for? 
Most  likely  the  prisoner  who  has  been  so 
tender  with  the  sparrow  when  shut  off 
from  the  world,  rarely  noticed  such  an 
obscure  creature  in  his  days  of  freedom. 
There  existed,  however,  some  object  or 
objects  upon  which  he  lavished  his  love ; 
and,  refused  access  to  these,  be  turns  to 


the  sparrow  or  the  mouse.  To  whatever 
cause  the  passion  may  be  attributed,  it  is 
true  that  all  are  equally  ready  to  avenge 
any  insult  offered,  and  he  would  be  a  rash 
man  who,  of  malice  aforethought,  would 
injure  a  prison  pet.  We  have  seen  men, 
perfectly  tractable  and  well-behaved  on 
other  occasions,  behave  like  demons  when 
the  favorite  sparrow  or  mouse  has  suf- 
fered violence  at  the  hands  of  a  warder, 
who,  possessinsT  more  zeal  than  discretion, 
has  not  been  able  to  discover  anything  in 
the  affair  save  a  breach  of  prison  rules. 
Whether  or  not  the  domestic  mouse  is 
more  cognisant  of  the  baseness  of  human 
nature  than  his  relative  the  field  mouse, 
we  cannot  say;  but  certain  it  is  that  he 
rarely  succumbs  to  the  blandish ftients  of 
the  tamer,  is  less  docile,  and  more  apt  to 
return  to  his  normal  state  on  the  first 
opportunity.  A  pet  domestic  mouse  is  a 
rarity  compared  with  the  more  tractable 
field-mouse,  and  the  tamer  of  the  former 
is  looked  at  in  the  light  of  a  professional. 
His  ability  is  requisitioned  to  assist  the 
amateur,  and  his  proficiency  in  the  pro- 
fession thus  becomes  a  marketable  com- 
modity. A  "sixer'*  or  an  "eighter"  — 
prison  slang  for  a  six  or  an  eight  ounce 
loaf — ^occasionally,  is  payment  rendered 
for  assistance  in  bringing  a  domestic 
mouse  into  a  state  of  subjection.  A  free 
ma.n,  with  hundreds  of  other  matters  to 
engage  his  attention,  could  not  spare  the 
time  necessary  to  turn  out  such  marvels 
of  the  taming  art  as  are  to  be  found  among 
prison  pets.  At  work  in  the  fields,  hay- 
making or  harvesting,  a  mouse  is  seized, 
secreted  in  the  breast-pocket,  and  kept  in 
there  by  means  of  a  handkerchief  which 
closes  the  mouth  of  the  pocket.  Imagine 
with  what  anxiety  the  man  would  go 
through  the  customary  ordeal  of  being 
searched  on  his  return  from  labor,  fearful 
lest,  when  the  handkerchief  is  removed 
for  a  thorough  search,  mousie's  bright 
eyes  should  peep  over  the  ridge  of  the 
pocket,  and  thus  discover  himself  to  the 
searcher,  very  possibly  to  be  ruthlessly 
despatched.  Should  some  more  than 
usually  amiable  warder  be  the  searcher, 
he  may  —  seeing  that  a  mouse  cannot  aid 
the  prisoner  in  an  attempt  to  escape  — 
wilfully  pass  over  him,  or,  in  his  hurry, 
fail  to  "feel"  the  little  soft  creature. 
Mousie's  education  has  already  begun. 
After  having  been  taken  out  "to  work  " 
some  two  or  three  days,  he  learns  to  "  lie 
close,"  not,  however,  before  he  has  re- 
ceived sundry  tappings  on  the  nose,  as 
warnings  of  what  to  expect  in  case  he 
should  feel  disposed  to  wander.  Then 
the  experiment  of  leaving  the  little  fellow 


Z99 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


at  home  is  tried.  A  nest  of  picked  oakum 
has  been  made  in  an  out-of-the-way  corner 
of  the  cell ;  and  into  this  nest  he  is  put 
with  many  injunctions  not  to  stir  while 
the  master  is  from  home.  There  is  great 
perturbation  of  mind  on  the  convict's 
returnino;  from  labor,  for  many  things 
may  have  happened  during  his  absence. 
Everything  is  eagerly  scanned  to  see  if  it 
is  in  the  same  condition  as  it  was  left. 
On  being  satisfied  that  it  is,  the  little 
quadruped  is  taken  out  for  a  share  of  the 
meagre  meal ;  that  over,  he  is  put  through 
a  course  of  training — taught  to  run  up 
the  sleeve  and  come  out  at  the  shirt  col- 
lar; to  beg  for  crumbs,  and,  on  the  ap- 
proach of  the  slightest  danger,  to  rush 
into  the  harbor  of  refuge,  the  breast* 
pocket.  Some  unlucky  day,  the  prisoner 
returns  to  find  his  pet  gone ;  and  real  are 
his  secret  lamentations  over  his  loss  — 
far  more  real,  possibly,  than  when,  in  his 
days  of  freedom,  he  lost  his  child  by  death. 
The  unsentimental  prison  cat,  seeking: 
what  she  may  devour,  has  smelt  out  our 
little  friend,  and  in  a  moment  this  com- 
panion and  solace  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 
Or  seeking  **  fresh  woods  and  pastures 
Dew,*'  but  not  dreaming  of  forsaking  his 
old  home  altogether,  mousie  shyly  wan- 
ders off,  and  is  snapped  up  by  some  other 
representative  of  the  taming  fraternity. 
In  either  case  he  is  lost  to  his  old  mas- 
ter, who  is  inconsolable  at  his  disappear- 
ance. Should  he  be  able  to  fix  the  cause 
of  his  loss  on  anything  or  anybody,  it  is 
easy  to  see  that  he  will  become  that  thing 
or  that  body's  implacable  enemy.  A  case 
in  point  occurred  at  a  London  local  prison 
a  short  time  ago,  and  was  reported  in  the 
public  press.  An  order  had  been  issued 
for  the  extermination  of  prison  pets.  A 
warder  attempted  to  carry  out  this  order 
in,  perhaps,  not  the  kindest  or  most  judi- 
cious manner  possible,  and  received  a 
stab  with  a  shoemaker*s  knife  for  his 
pains.  A  fatal  affray  at  a  convict  prison 
in  the  south  of  England  was  the  cause  of 
this  order  being  given.  In  a  quarrel  be- 
tween two  prisoners  as  to  which  should 
be  the  possessor  of  a  certain  mouse,  a 
blow  was  struck  which  resulted  in  the 
death  of  one  of  the  disputants. 


From  Chambers'  JoanuL 
WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

The  public  have  been  not  only  some- 
what startled  lately,  but  all  true  lovers  of 
architectural  beauty  and  antiquity  have 
beea  sorely  dismayed  at  the  report  issued 


on  the  state  of  the  external  walls  of  West- 
minster Abbey,  which  are  declared  to  be 
if  not  exactly  absolutely  ruinous,  yet  in  a 
fair  way  to  become  so,  and  that  at  no  dis- 
tant period.  This  disastrous  intelligence, 
coming  immediately  after  the  statement 
that  the  central  tower  of  Peterborough 
Cathedral —- another  of  our  beautiful  ec- 
clesiastical monuments  —  was  in  absolute 
danger  of  falling,  is  certainly  significant, 
and  sufficiently  distressing.  It  would  ap- 
pear that  for  a  very  long  period  corrosion 
has  been  going  on  from  the  pernicious 
effects  of  coal-smoke,  damp,  and  frost, 
and  that  the  external  walls  are  in  many 
places  said  to  be  eaten  away  to  such  an 
extent  that  the  rubble  forming  the  interior 
layer  between  the  outer  and  inner  walls  is 
in  many  places  absolutely  visible.  This 
is  perfectly  true,  and  has  been  often  no- 
ticed by  the  writer.  If  this  is  really  .so  to 
the  extent  stated,  it  is  quite  evident  that 
decay  has  commenced  to  an  alarming  ex- 
tent, and  once  begun,  will  go  on  extend- 
ing its  ravages,  unless  immediately 
checked  by  prompt  and  energetic  meas- 
ures, such  as  have  been  so  judiciously 
adopted  at  Peterborough,  where,  appar- 
ently, not  even  a  single  day  was  allowed 
to  elapse  before  operations  were  at  once 
commenced. 

The  exterior  walls  of  the  abbey  are 
built  of  a  stone  which,  though  remarkable 
for  its  resistance  to  fire,  is  certainly  not 
proof  against  the  weather,  which  seems  a 
determined  enemy  where  it  has  the 
chance;  whilst  the  interior  is  entirely  of 
fine  limestone  from  Purbeck,  commonly 
known  as  Purbeck  marble,  and  remarka- 
ble for  its  hardness,  and  for  the  fine  polish 
it  takes  so  readilv  and  retains  so  long. 
The  glorious  interior  is  happily  in  a  per- 
fectly sound  condition,  and  it  is  only  the 
exterior  that  requires  immediate  and  judi- 
cious treatment  in  order  to  arrest  the 
steady  progress  of  the  decay  which  has 
undoubtedly  begun.  A  large  portion  — if 
not  indeed  nearly  the  whole  —  of  the 
outer  walls  will  need  recasing.  This  is  a 
serious  matter,  because  it  will  of  necessity 
involve  a  vast  expense ;  but  if  we  do  not 
intend  to  let  ourselves  be  digraced  as  a 
nation  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole  civilized 
world,  steps  must  immediately  be  taken 
to  save  from  impending  destruction  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  and  most  deeply 
interesting  of  our  historical  and  ecclesias- 
tical monuments.  A  public  subscription 
would  very  shortly  produce  the  required 
funds ;  for  ia  a  cause  so  genuine  and  so 
national,  we  trust  that  few  would  be 
found  who  would  refuse  to  contribute 
their  mite. 


LITTELL'S  LIVING-  AGE. 


Fifth  8eriM 
Volime  ZLIV 


I  \         No.  2053. -October  27,  1883.  l^Tou^ffi'*' 


CONTENTS. 

L  The  Religion  op  the  Paris  Ouvrier,     .  British  Quarierfy  Review,    .       .195 

II.  Poor  Little  Life.    Conclusion,  .        •        •  Chamber^  Journal,      .        .        •    205 

III.  Some  Things  of  Old  Spain,      .       .       •  All 'Die  Year  Round,  ^       .       .217 

IV.  Along  the  Silver  Streak.    Conclusion, .  All  The  Year  Round,  .       •       .    223 

V.  Lord  Braconsfield's  Character,     .       .  Temple  Bar,        •       .       .       •    229 

VL  Contemporary   Life   and    Thought    in 

France, Contemporary  Reviao, ,        .        .    239 

VII.  The    Expediency  of   Kilung  Eminent 

Men, Saturday  Review,         •        .        .    24S 

VIII.  The  Cause  of  the  Weakness  of  French 

Negotiations,     ••....    Economist^ 251 

IX.  Extinct  Miseries  of  Human  Life,  .       .  Saturday  Review,        .       •       .253 

poitry. 

The  Voices  of  the  Sea,    •       •       •    i94 1  Ariadne, 194 

•*r^BA<;!Q  ov  Pa»na<;<stt.«.*'        ...     icli  1 


'*  Grass  of  Parnassus,"      ...    194 


PUBUSHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,   BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  Dollars,  rtmiiUd  direetfy  tc  /A»  P^Mukert,  the  Livnio  Aos  will  be  pimctiially  forwarded 
lor  z^e9x,Jre0  o/pottare, 

KemUtaoces  should  be  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-office  money-order,  if  possible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  inoneyshould  be  sent  1  n  a  resistereid  letter.  All  postmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
Setters  when  requested  to  do  so.    DraftSt  checks  and  moneyordera  should  be  made  payable  to  the  oraeroi 

LiTTBLL  &  Co. 

Single  Numbers  of  Ths  Lsvwo  Aom,  i8< 


194 


THE   VOICES   OF  THE   SEA,   ETC. 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  SEA. 


Along  the  shell-wreathed,  shining  strand 

The  old  and  young  went  to  and  fro ; 
The  sinking  sun  (llled  all  the  land 

With  evening's  rich  and  ruddy  glow. 
The  hot  clouds  in  the  amber  west 

Lit  up  the  sea-kissed  shingly  bars. 
And  weary  ones  who  longed  for  rest 

Waited  the  dawning  of  the  stars. 

There  came  the  murmur  of  the  sea 

A^ong  the  soft  sands  of  the  shore ; 
'Twas  laden  with  deep  mystery. 

And  music  strange  was  in  its  roar. 
And,  as  the  voices  of  its  waves 

Were  borne  upon  the  listening  ears. 
They  sang  alike  of  songs  and  graves. 

Of  sunny  hearts  and  sacred  tears. 

• 

There  passed  a  little  blue-eyed  boy. 

As  sank  the  sun  on  ocean's  brim  ; 
Naught  but  the  sound  of  endless  joy 

Across  the  red  waves  came  to  hi  no. 
For  his  bright  fancy  chased  the  sua 

0*er  seas  of  emerald  and  gold ; 
And  the  sweet  life  he  had  begun, 

Its  first  fair  scenes  had  now  unrolled. 

With  merry  heart  a  maiden  came. 

The  shining,  sunlit  sands  along. 
To  her  the  sea  bore  one  dear  name 

Amidst  the  burden  of  its  song ; 
And  the  ten  thousand  glitterings 

That  stretched  across  the  sunlit  bay, 
Seemed  messengers  on  golden  wings 

From  her  true  loved  one  far  away. 

There  came  a  man  of  full  fourscore 

Into  the  twilight  all  alone. 
To  him  the  sea  broke  on  the  shore 

With  solemn  sway  and  sullen  moan ; 
The  voices  of  the  bygone  years 

Came  faintly  on  its  sad  refrain ; 
Yet  when  he  called,  mid  rising  tears. 

On  friends,  they  answered  not  again. 

Still  sank  the  sun.    Then  rose  the  stars. 

And  looked  down  on  the  cold  grey  shore ; 
Still  solemnly  the  moaning  bars 

Wailed  low  their  music  as  of  yore. 
And  some  with  sad  eyes  met  the  night. 

To  pass  its  watches  all  forlorn ; 
And  some  there  slept  mid  visions  bright 

Till  dawned  the  fragrant,  rosy  morn. 

All  the  Year  Round. 


"GRASS  OF  PARNASSUS." 

O  HAPFV*  singers,  and  happy  song, 
That  had  never  a  pang  of  birth. 

When  first  in  the  human  heart  grew  strong 
Earth,  and  the  wonder  of  Earth  1 


Had  I,  too,  lived  when  the  Earth  was  young, 

Earth  that  is  now  so  old,  — 
When  Faith  and  Fancy  were  of  one  tongue. 

That  are  aliens  now,  and  cold ; 

Then  half  of  fancy,  and  half  of  faith, 
I  had  woven,  fair  flower,  for  thee 

A  dream-like  legend  of  love  and  death. 
To  match  thy  purity. 

For  not  the  drooping  flower  by  the  stream. 
Nor  the  flower  that  is  written  with  woe, 

To  the  Earth  has  lent  a  lovelier  gleam. 
To  the  heart  a  holier  glow. 

But  now  I  should  mock  thy  loveliness, 

Or  do  thee  despite,  fair  flower. 
By  a  fable  fashioned  in  antique  dress. 

As  an  actor  tricked  for  an  hour. 

Rather  I  gather  thee  reverently 
From  thy  place  in  the  rush>grown  sod. 

And  think,  frail  flower,  were  it  only  for  thee, 
I  should  know  that  God  is  God  I 

For  If  haply  a  power  that  was  not  divine. 

Or  the  forces  of  earth  or  air. 
Could  have  moulded  matter  to  life  like  mine. 

Or  made  thee  a  form  so  fair ; 

Yet  only  the  God  whom  we  love  as  Love 
Could  so  have  jnade  me  and  thee. 

That  thou  by  thy  simple  beauty  canst  move 
Such  a  world  of  love  in  me. 

Rydal,  September,  1883.  F.  W.  a 

Spectator. 


ARIADNE. 


She  stood  on  the  sands  of  the  shelving  shore 
(The  summer  blooms  and  the  autumn  glows) 
And  the  languor  of  loving  her  eyes  down-bore 
For  the  ever  gone  —  and  the  never  more 
(For  the  autumn   reaps  and    the  summer 
sows). 

Afar  o'er  the  orient  ocean  gleams 

(The  summer  blooms  and  the  autumn  glows). 
Love  like  a  vanishing  vision  seems 
Sailing  to  distances  dim  of  dreams 

(For  the    autumn  reaps  and    the  summer 
sows). 

With  the  hate  of  love,  and  the  love  of  hate 
(The  summer  blooms  and  the  autumn  glows). 

She  murmuring  moans  —  Too  late  \  too  late  ! 

For  woman  is  wonted  to  wail  and  wait 
(While  the  autumn  reaps  and  the  summer 
sows). 

A  perfume  pierced  with  a  breath  and  bloom 

(The  summer  blooms  and  the  autumn  glows). 
And  lo  I  at  her  side  in  a  glimmering  gloom 
A  God  —  and  Love  was  no  longer  doom 
(For  the  autumn   reaps  and    the  summer 
sows). 

Blackwood's  Magaxine. 


THE   RELIGION   OF  THE   PARIS   OUVRIER. 


I9S 


From  The  British  Quarterly  Review. 
THE  RELIGION  OF  THE  PARIS  OUVRIER. 

Paris  ouvriers  are  supposed  to  be  the 
most  irreligious  people  in  the  world  ;  but 
those  who  have  seen  the  way  they  keep 
the  fete  of  the  republic,  July  I4lh,  the 
anniversary  of  the  first  great  day  of  the 
Revolution,  will  be  of  a  different  opinion. 
If  any  one  will  leave  the  cosmopolitan 
and  official  part  of  Paris  for  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Antoine,  or  any  other  locality  inhab- 
ited chiefly  by  the  working  classes,  he 
will  soon  discover  that  the  ouvrier's  de- 
votion to  the  Revolution  rises  to  the 
height  of  religious  enthusiasm.  Nothing, 
perhaps,  is  so  touching,  or  so  carries 
home  that  conviction,  as  the  sight  of  the 
narrow  side  streets,  mere  wynds,  fes- 
tooned from  end  to  end  with  wreaths  and 
Chinese  lanterns  and  the  beautiful  tri- 
color. And  then,  at  night  to  witness  the 
solemn  satisfaction  of  the  lines  of  family 
groups  arm  in  arm,  who  parade  these  un- 
fashionable quarters,  enjoying  with  all 
their  souls  the  great  triumph  they  cele- 
brate. No  one  pushes,  no  one  laughs, 
nor  talks  loudly,  the  only  shadow  of 
excitement  is  the  hurried  movement  of 
some  enthusiastic  young  man,  who  moves 
rapidly  through  the  crowd  carrying  a 
flag  and  crying,  •*  Vive  la  revolution  soci- 
ale ! " 

It  is  impossible  to  read  ZoIa*s  '*Z'^x- 
sommoir^^  and  Denis  Poulot*s  "  Le  Sub- 
lime et  U  Travailleur^  without  having 
all  sentimental  notions  concerning  the 
Paris  ouvrier  destroyed.  The  former, 
however,  notwithstanding  its  moral  power, 
conveys  no  truer  idea  concerning  him  than 
Hogarth's  "Beer  Lane  and  Gin  Alley*' 
did  of  the  London  workman  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century;  while  the  latter,  more 
authentic  and  full  of  valuable  information, 
is  written  from  so  utilitarian  a  point  of 
view  that  it  does  but  little  justice  to  the 
real  soul  of  the  Paris  ouvrier. 

In  the  NouvelU  Revue,  early  in  1882, 
M.  Louis  Pauliat,  sketching  the'  classe 
fiopnlaire  of  Paris,  describes  its  disinter- 
estedness as  so  extraordinary  that  no 
explanation  adequately  accounts  for  it, 
except  that  which  exhibits  the  Paris 
ouvrier's  faith  in  the  Revolution  as  rising 
to  the  level  of  a  religion.    **Tbe  defini- 


tion of  a  man,"  says  the  essayist,  **  as  a 
religious  animal,  is  profoundly  true."  It 
is,  as  it  were,  a  fatality  of  his  physiology 
to  want  an  idea  more  or  less  confused  of 
something  to  which  he  defers,  and  which 
he  regards  as  superior  to  himself,  and 
which  to  his  mind  commands  and  domi- 
nates all  things.  The  most  ardent  nega- 
tionists escape  it  so  little  that,  without 
suspecting  it,  and  by  a  natural  determina- 
tion, it  is  impossible  for  them  to  avoid  a 
sectarian  spirit,  and  they  immediately 
erect  their  negations  into  absolute  belief, 
/.^.,  into  religion.  "Now  all  the  ideali- 
ties, all  the  mystic  effusions,  that  strength 
of  a  power  so  curious  which  we  call  faith, 
the  plenitude  of  conscience  and  convic- 
tion which  all  religion  inspires  in  its 
believers,  that  existence,  extra-terrestrial 
and  beyond  the  present  life  which  the 
faithful  possess  in  the  form  of  hope  and 
aspiration,  in  a  word,  all  that  which  marks, 
constitutes,  and  accompanies  the  religious 
sentiment,  the  people  of  Paris  transfer  to 
and  spend  on  politics." 

The  origin  of  this  state  of  mind  is,  in 
the  essayist's  opinion,  to  be  traced  to 
the  Revolution,  "which,  if  studied  in  its 
depths,  and  in  its  general  movement 
among  the  nations,  will  be  found  every- 
where to  overflow  with  those  humani- 
tarian, philanthropic  ideas  and  that  human 
fraternity  which  is  the  ground  and  charm 
of  the  New  Testament."  He  considers 
that  this  thought  explains  and  binds  to- 
gether all  the  systems,  philosophic,  eco- 
nomic, political,  and  social,  which  have 
appeared  since  the  Revolution,  and  which 
certain  sections  of  the  people  of  Paris 
have  received  with  favor;  such  systems 
as  those  of  Saint-Simon,  Fourier,  Cabet, 
P.  Leroux,  J.  Reynaud,  and  the  majority 
of  the  Socialists.  "  There  is  not  one  of 
them,"  he  says,  "  which  does  not  begin  in 
the  gospel  or  end  there."  He  is,  in  fact, 
so  sure  of  his  ground  that  he  does  not 
fear  to  assert,  as  the  final  result  of  his 
analysis,  that  the  classe populaire  of  Paris 
would  differ  little  from  what  it  is,  had  it 
been  taught  by  the  apostles  in  person, 
and  that  its  most  advanced  tribunes,  even 
those  who  most  oppose  Christianity,  are 
only  the  epij^oni  in  the  nineteenth  century 
of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul. 


196 


THE   RELIGION   OF  THE   PARIS   OUVRIER. 


That  there  is  a  great  foundation  of  truth 
in  what  M.  Pauliat  says  cannot  be  denied, 
but  the  connection  between  this  popular 
faith  and  the  teachinof  of  Jesus  Christ 
ought  to  be  more  distinctly  traced,  and 
the  points  where  it  has  separated  and 
become  opposed  to  his  doctrine  more 
clearly  shown. 

The  great  prophet  of  the  Revolution, 
the    man    who   represents   it   above    all 
others,  was  Rousseau.     He  not  only  gave 
it  ideas,  but  was   an  exact  type  of  its 
temperament.     With   an  instinctive  feel- 
ing of  his  representative  character,  he 
told   the  world   in   his  famous  "Confes- 
sions "  how  his  ideas  and  character  were 
formed.    That  book  might  well  pass  as  an 
analysis  of  the  mind  and  soul  of  the  peo- 
ple of  Europe  in  the  eighteenth  century  — 
what  the  masses  of  Christendom  vaguely 
felt,  after  ages  of  feudal  oppressions,  min- 
gled, with   evangelical  teaching.    Timid, 
suspicious,  mean,  dirty  in  their  habits  and 
tone  of  mind,   the  people  preserved  in 
their  innermost  heart  the   true  ideal  of 
Christianity.     The   echo    of    that   voice 
which  was  first  heard  in  the  synagogue  of 
Nazareth   had   never  ceased  to  resound 
through   the  long,  dark  night  of  feudal 
tyranny.    •*  The  spirit  of  the  Lord  is  upon 
me,  because  he  hath  anointed  me  to  preach 
good  tidings  to  the  poor,  he  hath  sent  me 
to  proclaim  release  to  the  captives,  and 
recovering  the  sight  to  the  blind,  to  set  at 
liberty  them  that  are  bruised,  to  proclaim 
the  acceptable  year  of  the  Lord."    These 
good  tidings  the  poor  of  Christendom  have 
ever  believed  from  the  day  they  first  ac- 
cepted  the  gospel,  and,  spite  of  all  the 
tyrannies  they  have  suffered,  and  the  evil 
results  consequently  produced  in    their 
character,  they  have  held  persistently  to 
the  idea  that  an  universal  reign  of  justice 
was   established  on  the   earth  by  Jesus 
Christ,  and  that  if  its  results  are  not  ap- 
parent, it  is  owing  to  the  force  and  fraud 
of  the  rich  and  powerful. 

And  it  is  because  Rousseau  so  well 
focussed  the  character  and  aspirations  of 
his  age  that  he  is  peculiarly  representa- 
tive of  those  of  the  people  who  made  the 
Revolution.  This  character  and  these 
aspirations  were  formed  in  Rousseau  and 
in   the  Revolution  by  the  same  sort  of 


process.     Both    were    the    offspring    of 
Protestantism ;  but  the  best  and  worst 
influences  in  the  education  of  Rousseau, 
and  of  the  men  who  carried  out  the  Revo- 
lution, came  from  Catholicism.    This  ex- 
plains why  the   Revolution  was  at  once 
so  beifeficent  and  so  cruel.     It  had,  and 
still  has,  the  temperament  of  the  Roman 
Church,  which  has  combined  in  so  singu- 
lar a  manner  evangelical  sentiments  with 
relentless    tyranny.    Thus   we    find    the 
Paris  ouvrier,  notwithstanding  his  dislike 
of  the  priests,  a  Catholic  in  spirit,  display* 
ing  all  the  best  and  air  the  worst  tenden- 
cies of  the  old  religion.     Mystical,  his 
faith  rests  on  shadowy  foundations,  foun- 
dations he  would  not  dream  of  sounding. 
If  he  were  asked  why  a  man  is  a  bora 
king,  while  women  and  animals  have  no 
rights,  except  those  that  the  males  of  the 
genus  homo  choose  to  confer  upon  them, 
he  would  probably  regard  the  question 
with    the    same  suspicion   that  a  pious 
Catholic  feels  at  remarks  tending  to  throw 
doubt  on  the  spiritual  royalty  conferred 
by  a  few  drops  of  water.     It  is  a  striking 
fact  that  in  his  most  exalted  moments  it 
has  never  occurred  to  the  Paris  ouvrier  to 
claim    justice    for  women  and   animals. 
For  eighteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four 
the  hideous  crack  of  the  slave-driver's 
whip  is  to  be  heard  all  over  Paris.    A 
human  being,  drunk  or  in  a  fit,  has  every 
attention  lavished  on  him  by  a  sympa- 
thetic Paris  crowd,  a  horse  dragged  on  its 
haunches  over  the  rough  stones  of  a  steep 
incline,  with  a  heavy  load  at  its  back,  pro- 
vokes little  more  than  a  stare.    This  in- 
difference to  animal  suffering  must  again 
be  attributed  to  the  mediaeval  doctrine 
which   taught  that  the  souls  of  animals 
were  produced  by  nature,  while  those  of 
men  came  from  God.* 

Nothing  can  be  more  cynical  than  the 
way  the  author  of  "Z/  Sublime  et  ie  Tra* 
vailleur^^  represents  his  model  working 
man  as  speaking  of  prostitutes.  "They 
ask  nothing  belter,"  says  le  vrai  ouvrier^ 
"  than  to  be  at  your  service,  and  then  one 
has  no  remorse?^  Proudhon  argues  out 
the  question  of  the  physical,  intellectual, 
and  moral  inferiority  of  woman   to  man 

*  Dante,  Paradiso,  c  viL  139. 


THE    RELIGION   OF  THE   PARIS   OUVRIER. 


197 


with  a  brutal  logic.  He  formulates  it  as  a 
mathematical  term.  He  finds  man's 
physical  strength  as  compared  to  that  of 
woman  to  be  as  3  to  2,  and  his  intellectual 
strength  in  the  same  proportion;  multi- 
plying the  one  by  the  other,  the  physical 
and  intellectual  value  of  the  man  is  to  the 
physical  and  intellectual  value  of  the 
woman  as  9  to  4.  With  mathematical 
precision  he  states  it  as  a  sum  in  arithme- 
tic, 3X3:2X2::9  to  4.  From  which 
be  draws  the  truly  materialistic  conclu- 
sion :  **  Relatively  to  us,  woman  may  be 
termed  an  immoral  being."  She  is,  in  his 
idea,  a  sort  of  middle  term  between  man 
and  the  animal  kingdom.  Woman,  how- 
ever, has  her  revenge,  for  in  few  societies 
is  her  influence  greater  than  in  that  of  the 
Paris  ouvrier.  And  at  the  present  mo- 
ment the  chief  leader  the  revolutionary 
party  possesses,  who  combines  at  once 
faith,  courage,  and  entire  devotion  to  the 
cause,  16  a  woman  —  Louise  Michel.  Is 
not  this  in  accordance  with  the  Catholic 
tradition,  which  in  every  way  represents 
women  as  the  source  of  immorality  and 
corruption,  even  going  so  far  as  to  inter- 
dict priests  from  marriage,  while  it  divin- 
izes her  in  the  person  of  Mary? 

The  Parisian  people  are  often  repre- 
sented as  difficult  to  govern ;  they  need,  it 
is  always  alleged,  **  a  master."  However, 
the  exact  opposite  is  the  truth,  there  being 
no  people  who  have  such  an  innate  re- 
spect for  law  and  authority  as  the  French. 
Few  Englishmen  obey  the  law  from  any 
profound  respect  for  its  majesty,  but  for 
reasons,  high  or  low,  according  to  their 
moral  standard.  To  the  Frenchman  it 
seems  a  real  matter  of  conscience,  and  his 
admiration  for  law  and  its  wonderful 
power  is  so  intense  that  he  is  always 
ready  to  decree  and  command  the  rest  of 
the  world  to  obey  his  ideas  of  social  jus- 
tice. In  England  thousands  of  persons 
would  be  found  ready  to  break  a  law 
which  had  emanated  from  any  unconstitu- 
tional source,  but  how  readily  has  the 
Paris  ouvrier  again  and  again  obeyed  laws 
promulgated  by  self-constituted  authority, 
simply  because  they  bore  the  magic 
words,  loi  or  decret.  This  superstitious 
reverence  for  law  and  authority  is  clearly 
a  heritage  republican  France  has  received 


from  old  Rome,  fostered  by  centuries  of 
Catholic  teaching. 

Another  weakness  that  the  revolution- 
ist inherits  from  Catholicism  is  a  disposi- 
tion to  regard  his  principles  as  infallible. 
Red  Republicanism  is  but  Ultramontan- 
ism  turned  inside  out.  Its  spirit  is  the 
same:  pharisaical,  intolerant,  tyrannical, 
sanguinary.  How  exactly  its  action  re- 
produces that  of  Catholicism  I  In  the 
name  of  the  infallible  Church,  or  the 
equally  infallible  Revolution,  self-ap- 
pointed camarillas  issue  their  decrees. 
Obedience  proves  you  one  of  the  faith- 
ful ;  your  private  sins,  however  atrocious, 
are  all  passed  over  on  account  of  your 
faith. 

I  have  before  me  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciples and  constitution  of  the  Anti-cleri- 
cal League  —  a  society  formed  in  Paris  — 
which  may  be  taken  as  representing  the 
advanced  stage  of  the  present  intense  ha- 
tred and  contempt  for  all  religious  senti- 
ment and  opinion  whatsoever.  Its  object 
is  to  ameliorate  in  every  point  of  view  the 
fate  of  the  working  classes.  It  com- 
mences by  defining  clericalism  as  the 
great  obstacle  to  all  social  progress,  it 
therefore  proposes,  without  respite  and 
with  all  possible  energy,  to  combat  not 
only  all  superstitious  ideas  of  whatsoever 
nature,  but  their  propagators.  It  admits 
no  dogma,  no  rite,  no  worship,  but  repels 
any  kind  of  belief  in  any  deity  whatso- 
ever, and  proscribes  {proscrit)  the  idea  of 
a  supernatural  being  under  any  name. 
The  essential  creed  of  its  members  is 
democratic  socialism,  and  the  rejection  of 
a  belief  in  a  God  creator  or  regulator  of 
the  universe.  It  exacts  {exige)  from  each 
member  the  courage  of  his  opinions,  and 
imposes  on  him  the  duty  of  an  actual  and 
constant  rupture  with  all  the  practical 
consequence  of  all  the  doctrines  he  re- 
jects in  principle.  Its  organization  is 
compact,  extending  over  France  by  de- 
partments and  groups,  the  central  seat 
being  Paris,  and  the  administration  a 
council  of  ten,  always  capable  of  re-elec- 
tion. But  so  immutable  are  the  funda- 
mental principles  of  this  League,  th^t  it  is 
not  in  the  power  of  the  ten  or  even  of 
the  whole  society  to  alter  one  of  the  arti- 
cles or  statutes  on  which  it  is  established. 


THE   RELIGION   OF  THE   PARIS   OUVRIER. 


198 

The  whole  energy  of  the  society  is  to 
concentrate  itself  on  working  the  ma- 
chine. 

Thus  Parisian  atheists  reproduce  in  all 
its  essential  features  the  spirit  of  the  reli- 
gion they  detest.  An  immutable  and 
infallible  creed,  an  exterminatory  intoler- 
ance for  all  ideas  and  persons  opposed  to 
that  creed,  a  solidarity  among  its  believ- 
ers obtained  by  enrolling  them  into  a 
League,  compactly  organized  under  a 
strong  central  authority,  precise,  un- 
changeable statutes,  a  power  of  persecut* 
ing  heretics  and  backsliders,  which  will 
certainly  be  exercised.  We  have  never 
known  in  England  such  hatred  as  is  felt 
and  expressed  against  their  political  here- 
siarchs  by  the  Parisian  newspapers.  It 
is  more  than  exterminatory,  for  it  revels 
in  the  torture  of  its  victims  by  malicious 
references  to  their  physical  weaknesses. 
These  writers  enable  me  to  understand 
the  spirit  which  formerly  animated  the 
Catholic  Church  against  heretics,  a  spirit 
of  cruelty  it  would  be  impossible  by  any 
means  to  exaggerate.  The  tendency  to 
conspiracy  and  to  dark  crimes  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  Revolution  is  manifestly 
born  of  its  Catholic  mother.  The  orig- 
inal of  all  these  detestable  tribunals, 
which  devote  kings,  statesmen,  and  priests 
to  assassination,  is  the  Inquisition.  It  is 
true  that  the  Holy  Tribunal  has  never 
established  itself  in  France,  but  its  spirit 
has  infected  Catholicism  everywhere. 

But  this  revolutionary  faith,  this  Evan- 
gelic Radicalism,  as  it  was  called  in  1848, 
owes  not  only  the  darker  sides  of  its 
character  but  many  of  its  nobler  traits  to 
Catholicism.  Where,  indeed,  could  the 
spirit  of  equality  and  fraternity,  the  spirit 
of  devotion  and  disinterestedness,  have 
found  an  origin  in  modern  Europe  like 
that  it  found  in  Catholicism?  Equality 
is  a  thing  unknown  in  Protestant  coun- 
tries. Will  any  one  cite  the  United 
States .?  But  who  can  forget  that  this 
Protestant  republic  kept  the  ne^ro  in 
slavery  for  a  century.  Only  in  that  Church 
which  has  recognized  no  distinction  among 
men,  excepting  that  conferred  by  baptism, 
could  equality  really  be  born.  The  sculp- 
tured group  at  the  portals  of  the  Pantheon, 
of  Clovis  kneeling  before  St.  Denis,  and 
the  fine  frescoes  within,  of  St.  Germain 
and  St.  Loup  honoring  the  peasant  girl, 
Genevieve,  in  the  presence  of  all  the  in- 
habitants of  Nanterre,  show  how  early 
the  Gallican  Church  began  to  give  the 
overbearing  Franks  lessons  in  equality. 
And  all  through  its  history  this  has  been 
its  spirit.     It  was  the  least  submissive  of 


any  to  the  Roman  pontiff.  Prior  to  the 
Revolution  its  bishops  always  maintained 
the  doctrine  that  the  Bishop  of  Rome 
was  only  primus  inter  pares.  The  great 
prelates  of  the  Gallican  Church  may  be 
contrasted  favorably  with  their  Protestant 
contemporaries  with  reference  to  the  man- 
ner in  which  they  discharged  their  duty  to 
the  head  of  the  State.  "  You  do  not  love 
God  at  all,"  wrote  F^nelon  to  Louis  XIV., 
at  a  time  when  he  had  reached  the  apogee 
of  his  glory,  and  when  to  make  his  soul 
he  had  begun  to  persecute  the  Hugue- 
nots ;  "you  only  fear  him  with  the  fear  of 
a  slave ;  it  is  hell,  not  God  that  you  fear. 
Your  religion  consists  only  in  supersti* 
tions,  in  petty,  superficial  practices.  You 
are  scrupulous  over  trifles  and  hardened 
over  terrible  evils.  You  love  only  your 
glory  and  your  ease.  You  make  yourself 
the  centre  of  all  things  as  if  you  were  God 
on  earth,  and  all  the  rest  of  creation  had 
only  been  made  to  be  sacrificed  for  you." 
F^nelon  here  was  the  avani-courier  of  the 
Revolution,  his  just  soul  quivered  with  its 
spirit.  Thus  the  Gallican  Church  made 
equality  a  reality  in  France.  In  the  might 
of  the  Spirit  ot  God,  it  taught  that  the 
poorest  saint  could  rebuke  the  most  lofty 
and  exalted  persons  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  And  that  power  was  used  and  ad- 
mitted even  against  the  sovereign  pontiff 
himself. 

What  innumerable  lessons  in  fraternity 
the  Catholic  Church  has  given  the  people 
of  France  I  What  countless  brotherhoods 
and  sisterhoods,  from  the  days  of  St.  Ber- 
nard to  those  of  St.  Vincent  de  Paul,  have 
occupied  themselves  in  living  for  God  and 
man ! 

Nothing  would  be  easier  than  to  draw 
up  a  long  indictment  of  their  crimes,  but 
measure  the  evil  and  the  good,  and  the 
balance  rises  mightily  in  their  favor.  Is 
it  not  they  who  for  so  many  centuries 
have  maintained  the  socialistic  idea  in 
Europe,  and  prepared  the  French  nation 
to  be  its  chief  apostle?  Paris  ouvriers 
have  been  always  ready  to  give  their  lives 
in  defence  of  certain  principles,  however 
vague,  shadowy,  or  difficult  of  realization, 
simply  because  they  appeared  to  them  to 
represent  the  best  hopes  of  humanity. 
But  where  have  they  learned  this  spirit  of 
disinterestedness  and  devotion  if  not  from 
the  Catholic  Church  ?  There  is  a  close 
historical  parallel  between  the  spirit  of 
the  Revolutionary  armies  of  '93  and  that 
of  the  first  French  Crusaders ;  and  a  still 
closer  one  between  the  spirit  of  absolute 
self-surrender  in  which  the  Jesuit  of  the 
seventeenth  century  worked  and  that  of 


^    i 


THE  RELIGION   OF    THE   PARIS   OUVRIER. 


199 


the  modern  emissaries  of  the  Revolution. 
What  can  be  more  in  harmony  with  the 
philanthropic  principles  of  the  Revolution, 
the  best  traditions  of  the  Catholic  Church, 
and  the  mind  of  Jesus  Christ,  than  the 
following  story  related  by  Lady  Brassey 
in  "A  Voya^je  in  the  Sunbeam"?  A 
French  priest,  sent  as  a  missionary  to  the 
Sandwich  Islands,  finding  that  there  was 
one  which  was  a  sort  of  prison  for  all  per- 
sons smitten  with  leprosy,  determined  for 
the  love  of  God  and  man  to  pass  the  rest 
of  his  days  in  Leper  Island  that  he  might 
devote  himself  to  the  moral  and  spiritual 
good  of  these  unhappy  outcasts.  He  was 
still  living  when  Lady  Brassey  heard  the 
story,  and  although  he  had  beeii  laboring 
for  some  years  among  the  lepers,  had 
never  himself  been  affected  by  this  terri- 
ble disease. 

To  imagine  that  the  French  Revolu- 
tion was  a  great  cataclysm  in  the  history 
of  Christendom  is  to  understand  very 
little  of  the  working  of  the  doctrine  of 
the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Few  persons 
seem  to  estimate  at  its  true  value  the 
power  of  a  great  idea.  And  surely  there 
never  has  been  one  more  pregnant  with 
glorious  and  yet  terrible  consequences  to 
the  world  than  the  doctrine  of  Jesus 
Christ  with  reference  to  the  kingdom  of 
heaven«  That  ideal  once  given  to  the 
human  race,  nothing  could  effectually 
arrest  the  attempt  to  realize  it.  The 
effort  may  be  beaten  down  a  thousand 
times,  all  the  powers  on  earth  may  com- 
bine to  stamp  it  out,  but  it  will  prove 
indestructible.  Not  only  must  every  ves- 
tige of  the  New  Testament  and  every 
reference  to  it  in  the  literatures  of  Eu- 
rope be  destroyed,  but  every  Church, 
including  the  Roman  Catholic  Church 
itself,  with  the  record  and  memories  of 
all  its  saints,  must  be  forever  relegated 
to  the  limbo  of  forgetfulness ;  and  even 
if  this  entirely  impossible  work  were 
accomplished,  there  would  remain  a  thou- 
sand thoughts  embodied  in  European  law 
and  its  most  conservative  institutions 
which  would  still  proclaim  the  idea;  and 
last,  but  by  nop  means  least,  there  would 
be  the  word  written  in  the  heart  of  the 
masses  of  Europe,  a  word  which  all  the 
powers  of  the  universe  combined  could 
never  now  eradicate.  This  word,  opposi- 
tion, persecution,  defeat  only  serve  to 
intensify.  European  history  will  be  re- 
written, its  interest  will  no  longer  sur- 
round the  doings  of  kings,  courts,  or 
aristocracies,  but  will  centre  on  the  ef- 
forts of  the  people  to  realize  the  kingdom 
of  heaven. 


We  even  now  dimly  perceive  that  his- 
tory ;  we  see  the  idea  sown  broadcast  in 
Europe  during  the  early  Middle  Ages  by 
the  mediaeval  missionaries,  and  by  their 
successors  the  monks  and  the  friars.  St, 
Augustine,  St.  Bernard,  and  St.  Francis, 
these  and  thousands  of  holy  men  and 
women  kept  the  thought  alive  and  in 
many  ways  sought  to  realize  it.  Under 
their  teaching  the  conscience  of  Europe 
grew,  and  at  last  the  poor,  toiling  masses 
of  Europe  suddenly  realized  the  thought 
that  in  Jesus  Christ  they  were  free.  Not 
only  free,  but  equal  to  their  oppressors; 
not  only  free  and  equal,  but  their  broth- 
ers. This  powerful  thought  began  to 
surge  in  Europe  in  the  thirteenth,  four- 
teenth, and  fifteenth  centuries,  giving 
birth  to  democracy  in  Italy,  to  Lollardism 
in  England,  to  the  Jacquerie  in  F'rance, 
to  peasant  revolts  and  Anabaptism  in 
Germany  and  Switzerland  and  in  the  Low 
Countries.  1 1  was  stifled  everywhere,  but 
with  its  defeat  came  that  of  the  Reforma- 
tion, the  masses  in  all  lands  turning  their 
backs  on  a  movement  which  had  shown 
itself  their  enemy.  Thousands  returned 
to  the  old  Church,  and  most  of  all  in  the 
cities  and  lands  which  had  given  the  best 
welcome  to  the  doctrines  of  the  Reforma- 
tion. In  the  lands  of  Luther,  of  John 
Huss,  of  Jerome  of  Prague,  of  Calvin, 
and  of  Coligny  the  reaction  was  most 
complete. 

It  was  a  great  panic,  a  panic  which  cost 
the  people  of  Europe  a  still  greater  eclipse 
of  faith,  and  a  long,  dark  road  to  traverse 
of  cruel  wars,  general  des:radation,  miser- 
able poverty,  and  widespread  immorality. 
But  the  thought  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
was  not  dead.  In  its  misery  the  heart  of 
Europe  sighed  and  eroaned  for  the  estab- 
lishment of  that  universal  reign  of  justice 
which  seemed  to  go  out  in  the  travesty  at 
Munster.  God  heard  that  cry,  and  dur- 
ing all  the  eighteenth  century  everything 
worked  together  to  give  the  people  of 
Europe  another  opportunity.  This  time 
Paris  was  the  centre  of  the  effort;  that 
it  ended  again  in  scenes  even  more  ap- 
palling than  those  of  Munster  was  due, 
as  there,  to  the  fact  that  it  had  to  struggle 
for  its  existence  against  overwhelming 
odds,  and  that  its  defenders  were  them- 
selves the  children  of  Catholicism,  formed 
by  centuries  of  Catholic  training. 

The  only  Frenchmen  prior  to  the  Revo* 
lution  who  did  not  owe  their  education  to 
the  Catholic  Church  were  the  Protestants 
and  the  Jews,  and  neither  of  these  classes 
had  any  perceptible  influence  in  bringing 
about  the  Revolution  in  France.    On  tho 


900 


THE   RELIGION   OF  THE   PARIS   OUVRIER. 


other  hand,  there  is  clear  evidence  that 
the  Jansenists  had  much  to  do  with  pre- 
paring the  way.  They  had  got  rid  of 
their  old  opponents,  the  Jesuits,- and  by 
the  middle  of  the  century  had  formed  a 
strong  party  in  the  French  Parliament, 
and  were  beginning  to  malce  their  influ- 
ence felt  in  the  government.  Several  dis- 
tinguished men,  among  others  Turgot, 
are  said  to  have  shared  their  opinions. 
They  established  in  1728  a  mysterious 
publication  called  NouvelUs  Ecclesias- 
iiques^  which,  in  spite  of  the  police, 
was  kept  up  until  the  first  vear  of  the 
Revolution,  1790,  a  space  01  eighty-two 
years.  Founded  by  a  brave  old  priest, 
it  was  printed  in  a  boat  and  distributed 
throughout  the  country  by  a  method 
"which,  represented  on  a  card,  formed 
the  only  ornament  of  the  library  of 
the  Jacobin  Club  when  it  was  opened  in 

I7QI. 

In  one  of  the  finest  of  his  works,  "Za 
Rivolutiotiy^  Edgar  Qui  net  has  shown 
how  completely  Catholicism  dominated 
the  men  who  were  its  most  implacable 
representatives.  The  terror  of  the  popu- 
lar religion  was  on  the  Terrorists  ;  Marat, 
Danton,  Robespierre,  all  aided  in  uphold* 
ing  the  Catholic  faith.  When  Dom 
Guerle  proposed  that  the  Constituent 
Assembly  should  declare  that  the  Catholic 
and  Roman  religion  was  the  religion  of 
the  State,  Mirabeau  replied  that  to  declare 
such  a  thing  would  be  to  imply  that  it 
could  be  otherwise.  The  twenty-six  days 
of  the  worship  of  Reason,  though  the 
movement  was  headed  by  the  Archbishop 
of  Paris  and  twelve  of  nis  vicars,  threw 
the  Terrorists  into  such  a  fright  that  they 
began  to  utter  the  most  mediaeval  senti* 
ments  and  to  evince  their  determination 
to  stamp  out  in  the  approved  traditional 
fashion  all  deflection  from  authorized  reli- 
gious courses.  Sergent,  the  Septembrist 
butcher,  moved  that  a  priest  who  said  that 
he  was  yesterday  in  error  was  a  charlatan. 
Danton  caused  a  law  to  be  passed  against 
religious  masquerades  because  there  was 
a  bound  to  everything.  As  to  Robes* 
pierre,  he  denounced  all  attacks  on  the 
religion  in  force  as  treason,  and  indica- 
tions of  conspiring  with  Prussia  and  En- 
gland. 

But  it  is  in  their  spirit  that  the  Terror- 
ists show  themselves  true  children  of  the 
Church.  The  hideous  tale  of  their  mur- 
ders and  massacres  is  but  a  repetition  of 
the  destruction  of  the  Albigenses,  the 
massacres  of  St.  Bartholomew  and  the 
Dragonnades.  And  the  same  spirit  has 
revealed  itself  in  our  day  in  the  murder  of 


the  hostages  and  the   massacre  of  the 
Communards. 

The  spiritual  life  in  the  Gallican 
Church,  nearly  extinct  towards  the  close 
of  the  last  century,  awoke  with  the  reli- 
gious revival  which  marks  the  second 
(quarter  of  this  century.  In  a  very  short 
time  the  influence  was  shared  by  the  rev- 
olutionaries. No  longer  mere  deists,  in 
whom  the  old  superstitions  were  always 
more  powerful  than  their  philosophical 
indifferentism,  they  showed  themselves 
enthusiastically  religious  and  sometimes 
almost  orthodox.  St.  Simon,  Cabet, 
Pierre  Leroux,  L.  de  Toureil,  and  Louis 
Blanc  were  all  animated  by  a  religious 
spirit  more  or  less  Catholic.  De  Toureil 
had  a  disciple.  Father  N.  Sporalette,  who 
founded  the  club  of  the  Oratoire  and  of 
the  Paraclete  fusionists.  Such  associa- 
tions were  not  only  communist,  but  com- 
munionist ;  not  only  fraternal,  but  eucha- 
ristic.  And  as  if  to  prove  that  all  French 
revolutionists  are  the  offspring  of  Cathol- 
icism, those  who  profess  most  distinctly 
to  separate  themselves  from  Christianity 
are  the  ones  most  dominated  by  the  spirit 
of  Catholicism  —  the  ambition  to  embrace 
all  things,  to  dominate  all  things,  to  re- 
duce everything  to  the  level  of  their  own 
ideas. 

But  the  most  perfect  type  of  this  period, 
the  man  who  best  of  all  represents  the 
whole  course  of  this  revolutionary  devel- 
opment of  Catholicism,  is  the  Abb^  de 
Lamennais.  In  early  life  De  Lamennais 
was  so  orthodox  a  Catholic  and  so  great  a 
champion  of  authority  in  matters  of  reli- 
gion that  Leo  XII.  designed  to  make  him 
a  cardinal.  However,  in  this  fervently 
orthodox  believer  there  was  such  a  love  of 
justice  and  humanity  that  his  soul  sooa 
became  the  arena  of  a  series  of  struggles, 
each  more  violent  than  the  other.  He 
strove  in  vain  to  reconcile  the  contending 
principles.  Justice  and  humanity  always 
came  off  victorious,  until  at  last  Catholic 
dogma  was  slain  outright,  and  De  Lamen- 
nais ended  his  days  believing  only  in  God 
and  humanity. 

De  Lamennais  was  a  man  who  sought 
to  realize  truth  in  action.  All  the  strug- 
gles in  his  soul  had  their  correlatives  in 
the  outer  world.  He  breathed  in  exact 
harmony  with  the  most  living  thought  of 
his  age  and  his  country.  He  appears  at 
first  borne  on  the  crest  of  the  tidal  wave 
of  religion.  He  sees  the  truth  of  the  old 
times  and  the  new;  he  is  convinced  they 
have  a  common  source  ;  he  feels  himself 
at  once  a  believer  in  authority  and  in  lib- 
erty ;  he  proposes   to  reconcile  the  two. 


THE    RELIGION   OF  THE   PARIS   OUVRIER. 


201 


He  is  always  to  be  seen  id  companionship 
with  the  most  distinguished  men  of  his 
time,  striving  to  raise  a  lij^ht  to  guide  his 
tempest-tossed  people.  But  the  revolu- 
tionary torrent  carries  him  away  from  one 
set  of  friends  after  another,  until  at  last  he 
appears  alone,  a  solitary  voice,  crying  in 
the  wilderness.  Then  he  puts  forth  the 
work  which  will  last  as  long  as  anything 
this  century  has  seen  published.  *^Pa- 
roles  d^un  Croyant^  is  an  inspiration,  the 
most  perfect  expression  of  the  soul  of  the 
Revolution. 

A  chapter  or  two  selected  at  random 
from  this  famous  book  will  serve  better 
than  any  description  to  p;ive  an  idea  of 
the  religion  which  really  lives  in  the  heart 
o€  the  Paris  ouvrier. 

XXXIV. 

The  evils  which  afflict  the  earth  do  not  come 
from  God,  for  God  is  love,  and  all  that  He 
does  is  good ;  they  come  from  Satan  whom 
God  has  cursed,  and  from  men  who  have  Satan 
for  their  father  and  their  master. 

Bat  the  sons  of  Satan  are  numerous  in  the 
world.  As  soon  as  they  pass  away  God  writes 
their  names  in  a  sealed  book,  which  will  be 
opened  and  read  at  the  end  of  time. 

There  are  men  who  love  only  themselves; 
and  these  are  men  of  hatred,  for  to  love  one's 
self  alone  is  to  hate  others. 

There  are  men  of  pride  who  cannot  suffer 
equals,  who  wish  always  to  command  and 
dominate. 

There  are  men  of  greed  who  are  always  ask- 
ing for  gold,  for  honors,  for  enjoyments,  and 
are  never  satisfied. 

There  are  men  of  rapine  who  watch  the  weak 
in  order  to  rob  him  by  force  or  fraud,  and  who 
prow]  by  night  around  the  dwelling  of  the 
widow  and  the  orphan. 

There  are  men  of  murder  who  have  only  vio- 
lent thoughts,  who  say :  '*  You  are  our  brethren, 
and  kill  those  they  call  brothers,  as  soon  as 
they  suspect  them  of  being  opposed  to  their 
designs,  and  write  laws  with  their  blood." 

There  are  men  of  fear  who  tremble  before 
the  bad,  and  kiss  their  hands,  hoping  in  this 
way  to  escape  oppression,  and  who,  when  an 
innocent  person  is  attacked  on  the  open  way, 
make  haste  to  run  into  their  houses  and  to 
dose  the  doors. 

All  these  men  have  destroyed  peace,  security, 
and  liberty  on  the  earth. 

You  will,  then,  regain  liberty,  security,  peace 
only  in  fighting  against  them  without  inter- 
mission. 

The  city  which  they  have  made  is  the  city  of 
Satan ;  you  have  to  rebuild  the  city  of  God. 

In  the  city  of  God  each  loves  his  brothers  as 
himself,  and  this  is  why  no  one  is  abandoned  ; 
no  one  suffers  there,  if  there  is  a  remedy  for 
his  sufferings. 

In  the  city  of  God  all  are  equal,  none  domi- 
nant, for  justice  alone  reigns  there  with  love. 


In  the  citv  of  God  each  possesses  without 
fear  that  which  is  his,  and  desires  nothing 
more,  because  that  which  belongs  to  each  be- 
longs to  all,  and  that  all  possess  God,  who  is 
inexhaustible  riches. 

In  the  city  of  God  no  one  sacrifices  others 
to  himself,  but  each  is  ready  to  sacrifice  him- 
self for  others. 

In  the  city  of  God  if  a  wicked  man  creeps 
in,  all  separate  themselves  from  him,  and  all 
unite  to  restrain  him  or  to  drive  him  away; 
for  the  wicked  man  is  the  enemy  of  each  one, 
and  the  enemy  of  each  one  is  the  enemy  of  all. 

When  you  shall  have  built  the  city  of  God 
the  earth  will  flourish  again,  and  the  peoples 
will  flourish  once  more,  because  you  will  then 
have  conquered  the  sons  of  Satan  who  oppress 
the  peoples  and  desolate  the  earth,  the  men  of 
pride,  the  men  of  rapine,  the  men  of  murder, 
and  the  men  of  fear. 

Another  chapter. 

XXXVII. 

How  is  it  yon  wear  yourself  out  vainly  in 
your  misery?  Your  desire  is  good,  but  you 
do  not  know  how  to  accomplish  it. 

Hold  fast  to  this  maxim :  He  alone  can 
restore  life  who  has  given  life. 

You  will  succeed  in  nothing  without  God. 

You  turn  over  and  over  again  on  your  bed 
of  anguish  :  what  relief  have  you  found  ? 

You  have  overthrown  some  tyrants,  and 
there  have  come  others  worse  than  the  first. 

You  have  abolished  some  laws  of  servitude, 
and  you  have  had  laws  of  blood,  and  then 
again  new  laws  of  servitude. 

Distrust,  then,  men  who  put  themselves  be- 
tween God  and  you,  in  order  that  their  shadow 
may  hide  Him  from  you.  These  men  have 
baa  designs. 

For  it  is  from  God  that  the  force  comes 
which  delivers,  because  it  is  from  God  that 
comes  the  love  which  unites. 

What  can  a  man  do  for  you  who  has  only 
his  own  thought  for  rule,  and  for  a  law  only 
his  own  will  ? 

Even  when  he  means  well  and  only  wishes 
good,  he^  must  give  his  own  will  for  law  and 
his  own  idea  for  a  rule. 

For  this  is  what  all  tyrants  do. 

It  is  not  worth  the  trouble  to  overturn  all 
and  expose  one's  self  to  everything  in  order  to 
substitute  one  tyranny  for  another. 

Liberty  does  not  consist  in  that  one  man 
rules  instead  of  another,  but  in  this,  that  no 
one  rules. 

But  where  God  does  not  reign  a  man  must 
rule,  and  this  is  what  one  sees  going  on  alwa^rs. 

The  reign  of  God — I  tell  you  it  again  —  is 
the  reign  of  justice  in  men's  minds  and  of 
charity  in  their  hearts ;  and  it  has  on  earth  its 
foundation  in  faith  in  God  and  faith  like  to 
Christ's,  who  has  promulgated  the  law  of  God 
—  the  law  of  charity  and  the  law  of  justice. 

The  law  of  Justice  teaches  that  all  are  equal 
before  their  Father,  who  is  God,  and  before 
their  only  Master,  who  is  the  Christ 


203 


THE   RELIGION   OF  THE   PARIS    OUVRIER. 


The  law  of  charity  teaches  them  to  love  one 
another  and  to  aid  one  another  as  the  sons  of 
the  same  Father  and  the  disciples  of  the  same 
Master. 

And  then  they  are  free,  because  no  one 
commands  another  unless  he  has  been  freely 
chosen  of  all  to  command ;  and  their  liberty 
cannot  be  taken  from  them,  because  they  are 
all  united  in  its  defence. 

But  those  who  say  to  you :  Before  us  justice 
has  not  been  known ;  justice  does  not  come 
from  God«  it  comes  from  man  ;  trust  yourselves 
to  us,  and  we  will  give  you  some  one  who  will 
satisfy  you. 

These  deceive  you,  or,  if  they  sincerely 
promise  liberty,  they  deceive  themselves. 

For  they  ask  you  to  recognize  them  as  mas- 
ters, and  thus  your  liberty  will  only  be  obedi- 
ence to  new  masters. 

Reply  to  them  that  your  Master  is  the  Christ, 
that  you  do  not  wish  any  other,  and  the  Christ 
will  make  you  free. 

No  influence  did  more  to  bring  about 
the  Revolution  of  1848  than  these  writ- 
iDgs  of  De  Lamennais  ;  not  even  his  per- 
sonal word,  and  the  effect  of  that  was 
stneularly  powerful,  as  those  who  came 
under  it  can  testify.  One  who  has  suf- 
fered many  things  for  his  fidelity  to  the 
cause  of  which  these  books  are  the  high- 
est expression  remembers  that,  when  a 
student  in  Protestant  theology,  he  wrote 
to  De  Lamennais,  saying  that  he  would 
like  to  see  him,  that  he  might  place  be- 
fore him  some  of  his  difficulties.  A  note 
immediately  came  appointing  the  next 
morning  for  the  interview.  He  went,  and 
for  three  hours  they  conversed,  the  Prot- 
estant divinity  student  putting  a  series  of 
questions  to  the  Catholic  theologian. 
"You  have  come,"  said  the  latter,  "to 
examine  my  conscience :  I  will  let  you  see 
it  thoroughly,''  and  he  did  so.  When  his 
visitor  rose  to  go,  De  Lamennais  said 
solemnly,  "  You  are  young,  I  am  old  ;  we 
may  never  see  each  other  again ;  I  will 
kiss  you,  my  son."  Thus  sealed,  the 
young  student  went  forth  to  strugs:le  for 
the  principles  contained  in  the  ^^ Paroles 
d^un  Croyant^^  and  never  ceased  until 
struck  down  by  the  defeat  of  the  Com- 
mune. During  the  few  years  prior  to 
184S,  and  greatly  owing  to  these  works,  a 
new  form  of  religious  mysticism  arose, 
which,  by  the  time  the  Revolution  of 
February  broke  out,  had  taken  concrete 
form.  France  came  to  be  spoken  of  as 
the  Nation-Christ,  Jesus  as  the  first  rep- 
resentative of  the  people,  and  Jesus  sans 
culottes.  At  the  working-men's  clubs  it 
was  usual  to  have  a  picture  of  him  work- 
ing as  a  carpenter. 

A  few  facts  culled  from  the  Journal 


(Us  Dibats  of  the  last  days  of  February; 
1848,  will  serve  to  show  how  deeply  im- 
bued the  Revolution  was  with  a  spirit  at 
once  religious  and  Catholic,  the  spirit,  ia 
fact,  of  Rousseau's  ^^Vicaire  Savoyard^* 
and  De  Lamennais's  ^^ Paroles  d*un 
Croyant»^ 

On  the  Sunday  after  the  republic  was 
proclaimed  a  procession  of  women  and 
children,  led  by  certain  ladies  —  Madame 
de  Lamartine  was  one  —  and  surrounded 
by  armed  working-men  and  national  guards 
carrying  the  flag  of  the  republic,  made  its 
way  through  the  streets  of  Paris.  Among 
the  banners  carried  by  the  procession  one 
was  conspicuous,  bearing  the  legend, "  Let 
the  little  ones  come  unto  Me."  Finally 
came  a  banner,  "  Union  of  the  Religions,  * 
and  following  it  were  a  row  of  clergymen 
hand  in  hand  —  the  chief  rabbi,  some 
Catholic  priests,  a  Protestant  pastor.  It 
seemed  the  commencement  of  the  millen- 
nium. Liberty  and  religion  had  met  to- 
gether, Catholicism  and  humanitarianism 
had  kissed  each  other.  AH  the  finest 
spirits  in  France  were  moved  by  a  com- 
mon enthusiasm.  Ozanam,  one  of  the 
most  sincere  and  pious  of  Catholics, 
opened  his  course  at  the  College  of  France 
in  language  that  recalled  '93,  and  spoke 
of  the  "  flag  of  the  Revolution  descending 
into  Italy  to  become  the  oriflamme  of  the 
crusade  of  liberty  among  the  populations 
that  Pius  IX.  had  awakened,"  the  con- 
cluding words  marking  the  progress  made 
since  that  era.  The  Revolution,  last  de- 
velopment of  Catholic  France,  had  reached 
the  sovereign  pontiff,  and  the  pope  had 
become  a  Catholic  revolutionary.  The 
bishops  of  France  welcomed  the  repub- 
lic ;  the  Bishop  of  Langres  said, "  Liberty, 
Equality,  Fraternity  was  a  glorious  Chris- 
tian device,"  and  the  Archbishop  of  Paris 
ordered  Domine  salvum  fac  populum  to 
be  sung  in  the  churches. 

Catholicism  was  never  more  popular. 
When  the  people  entered  the  Tuileries  on 
the  24th  of  February,  1848,  they  stopped 
respectfully  before  the  Royal  Chapel,  a 
student  from  the  Polytechnic  School  ad- 
vanced and,  collecting  the  sacred  vessels, 
carried  them  to  the  cur^  of  St.  Roch  in 
the  midst  of  a  numerous  crowd,  who  fol- 
lowed him  with  uncovered  heads.  On 
the  Sunday  after  the  Revolution  the  con* 
gregatton  at  Notre  Dame  broke  out  into 
bursts  of  applause  because  Lacordaire,  in 
language  which  reads  like  the  fanatical 
utterance  of  a  pagan  priest,  exclaimed, 
"  To  demonstrate  God  to  you  !  you  would 
have  the  right  to  call  me  parricide  and 
sacrilegious  1    If  I  dared  to  undertake  to 


THE   RELIGION   OF  THE    PARIS   OUVRIER. 


203 


demonstrate  God,  the  ^ates  of  this  cathe- 
dral would  open  of  themselves,  and  you 
would  see  this  people,  superb  in  its  aoger, 
carrying  God  up  to  his  altar  in  the  midst 
of  reverence  and  adoration." 

A  National  Assembly  was  elected  deep- 
ly imbued  with  the  Catholic  revolutionary 
spirit,  and  then  came  the  critical  moment. 
Two  principles  struggled  in  the  womb  of 
the  Catholic  revolution :  Jesuitism  and 
Socialism.  The  latter,  like  the  red  and 
choleric  Esau,  soon  wore  out  its  furious 
energies,  so  that  the  former  was  able 
with  the  ruthless  cunning  of  Jacob  to 
carry  off  the  fruits  of  the  Revolution. 
The  Catholic  revolution  was  deceived  and 
made  over  its  future  to  Jesuitism.  By  the 
educational  law  of  March  15*  1850,  the 
power  to  mould  the. mind  of  France  was 
placed  in  their  hands,  and  with  what  re- 
sults all  who  have  followed  contemporary 
history  can  tell.  One  of  the  first  was  the 
coup  d'^itat  of  December,  185 1.  Well 
might  the  champion  of  Catholicism,  Mon* 
talembert,  exclaim,  **  Vote  Yes  for  Louis 
Napoleon,  for  his  government  has  already 
been  signalized  by  three  capital  facts  :  i. 
Liberty  of  teaching  guaranteed;  2.  The 
pope  restored  by  French  arms ;  3.  The 
liberties  of  the  Church  restored.'* 

But  twenty-one  years  of  Jesuit  rule 
have  destroyed  Christian  faith  among  the 
working  classes  in  France,  and  especially 
among  the  ouvriers  of  Paris.  It  would 
be  hard  to-day  to  find  an  assembly  of  re- 
publicans in  which  the  great  majority  are 
not  atheists.  The  hatred,  the  contempt, 
the  bitterness  extends  to  the  religious 
sentiment  itself,  which  some  would  extir- 
pate if  possible.  The  priests  are  loathed 
and  credited  with  every  infamy,  but  the 
hatred  extends  far  beyond  the  clergy  and 
the  Catholic  Church.  "Murder,"  it  was 
said  to  me  the  other  day,  '*is  the  very 
soul  of  religion.'*  The  proof  — that,  to 
avenge  fifteen  priests,  thirty  thousand  of 
the  working  classes  in  Paris  were  slaugh- 
tered. "  Between  us  and  them  there  is  a 
ditch  of  blood."  No  one  who  reads  the 
newspapers  which  the  ouvrier  of  Paris 
reads  can  doubt  his  sentiments  towards 
clericalism ;  but  in  the  absence  of  any 
attempt  to  imperil  republican  institutions, 
and  in  the  presence  of  general  prosperity 
and  the  growing  possession  of  all  kinds 
of  advantages,  he  is  dibonnaire  and  with- 
out enthusiasm.  Materialism  has  come  in 
to  strengthen  his  naturally  prudential,  in- 
dustrious character,  and  his  chief  thought 
at  the  present  moment  is  material  prog- 
ress. That  his  ideal  however  is  not  his 
own  personal  advantage,  but  the  well  be- 


ing of  all,  is  manifest  to  any  one  who 
watches  the  elections,  which  are  con- 
stantly occurring  in  one  or  other  of  the 
twenty  arrondissements  of  Paris.  The 
battle  always  lies  between  the  Opportunist 
republican  and  the  Socialist  republican, 
the  latter  being  of  late  nearly  always  in  a 
considerable  majority.  As  to  the  labor 
candidate  and  the  anarchist,  their  follow- 
ing, especially  that  of  the  latter,  is  small 
in  tho  extreme. 

But  those  who  think  that  because  to- 
day the  tendency  of  the  Paris  ouvrier  is 
towards,  atheism  and  materialism  he  is 
therefore  no  longer  under  the  influence  of 
the  spirit  of  Catholicism  will  be  very  much 
mistaken.  What  Shakespeare  says  of 
every  individual  is  manifestly  true  of  a 
nation :  — 

There  is  a  history  in  all  men's  lives 
FijEjuring  the  nature  of  the  times  deceased : 
The  which  observed,  a  man  may  prophesy 
With  a  near  aim  of  the  main  chance  of  things 
As  yet  not  come  to  life  ;  which  in  their  seecSi, 
And  weak  beginning^  be  intreasured. 

This  condition  of  things  is  fraught  with 
the  utmost  danger  to  the  cause  of  that 
universal  reign  of  justice  which  the  Revo- 
lution dimly  represents.  If  the  present 
organs  of  public  opinion,  are  to  be  our 
guides  to  the  sentiments  of  Paris  ouvriers 
with  regard  to  the  Catholic  Church,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  ani- 
mosity. However,  newspaper  editors  are 
mortal,  while  the  Church  of  Rome  never 
dies.  The  generation  that  is  now  nour- 
ished on  a  daily  and  systematic  warfare 
against  the  Catholic  priests  and  the  Cath- 
olic religion  will  go  down  into  the  tomb, 
and  other  generations  will  rise  a  hundred 
times  more  ignorant  of  what  is  being  said 
and  done  to-day  than  of  what  was  said 
and  done  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  re- 
ligious instinct,  never  dead,  will  wake  up, 
and  the  Revolution  may  experience  the 
fate  of  the  Reformation,  and  see  its  chil- 
dren returning  by  shoals  into  the  bosom 
of  the  old  Church. 

Nothing  would  be  more  disastrous  to 
Europe  than  such  a  result.  It  would  be 
the  moral  suicide  of  Christendom,  presag- 
ing the  resurrection  of  the  Christian  con- 
science in  a  few  generations  with  an  out- 
burst as  much  an  advance  in  terribleness 
on  the  French  Revolution  as  that  event 
exceeded  in  intensity  the  Anabaptist 
revolution  at  Munster.  How  is  such  a 
catastrophe  to  be  averted  ? 

When,  in  1857,  Edgar  Quinet  published 
his  "  Religious  Revolution  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,"  bis  cry  to  his  country- 


d04 


THE   RELIGION   OF   THE    PARIS   OUVRIER. 


men  was :  "  Come  out  of  the  old  Church, 
and  enter  into  one  of  the  many  free  forms 
of  modern  Christianity."  During  the  last 
few  years  certain  energetic  men  in  France 
have  advocated  this  remedy,  and  have 
succeeded  in  inducing  several  groups  of 
families  to  enrol  themselves  as  Protes- 
tants. But,  as  Edgar  Quinet  says  in  the 
work  we  have  named,  **Let  us  flee  illu* 
sions."  It  may  pain  many  who  are  deeply 
interested  in  the  religious  welfare  of 
France,  and  who  have  proved  it  by  a 
multitude  of  sacrifices,  to  be  told  that 
Protestantism  has  not  the  slightest  chance 
of  winning  the  heart  of  France.  In  say- 
ing this,  we  have  no  intention  for  a  mo- 
ment to  disparage  the  importance  of  the 
efforts  at  evangelization  made  with  so 
much  zeal  and  disinterestedness  in  all 
parts  of  France.  There  are  few  move- 
ments which  have  our  deeper  sympathy. 
These  missions,  we  believe,  have  done 
incalculable  good,  good  impossible  to  for- 
mulate in  reports,  since  it  consists  in  the 
dissipation  of  prejudice,  ignorance,  and 
superstition,  in  the  renewal  of  hope,  in 
the  strengthening  of  virtuous  resolution, 
in  the  awakening  of  the  religious  sense, 
and  perhaps  more  often  than  can  ever  be 
known  in  the  entire  conversion  of  souls 
to  God.  It  is  then  far  from  our  desire  to 
lessen  interest  in  these  works.  Let  us 
support  them  with  more  energy,  and  try 
and  render  them  many  times  more  suc- 
cessful. 

But  as  a  propaganda  on  behalf  of  Prot- 
estantism, they  clip  their  own  wings,  and 
fly  in  the  face  of  the  genius  of  France. 
Immense  changes  have  taken  place  in 
France  since  Quinet  published  his  work 
in  1857,  has  Protestantism  made  progress 
important  enough  to  give  any  color  to  the 
hope  that  France  may  one  day  accept  the 
religion  of  the  Hua;uenots? 

It  is  extremely  diflicult,  almost  impossi- 
ble, it  would  seem,  to  get  at  the  number 
of  the  adherents  of  each  religious  denomi- 
nation in  France,  all  parties  combining  to 
suppress  this  sort  of  information.  De- 
sirous to  know  if  the  statistics  given  by 
the  Abb^  Bougaud  in  his  pamphlet,  ^^Le 
Grand  Piril  de  PE/^iise  de  France ^^  were 
borne  out  by  recent  facts,  I  applied  to  the 
minister  of  public  worship  for  permission 
to  consult  the  official  documents  In  the 
library  of  the  ministry.  I  was  informed 
that  the  statistics  were  at  my  service  when 
I  chose  to  call  for  them.  I  accordingly 
went,  and  with  a  profusion  of  politeness 
the  librarian  informed  me  that  the  min- 
ister had  presented  me  with  Ave  volumes 
of  ••  La  France  EccUsiastique^'*  the  libra- 


rian remarking  that  I  had  the  honor  of 
being  served  next  to  a  cardinal,  who  had 
just  taken  away  the  most  recent  volume, 
that  of  1882.  I  carried  home  the  minis- 
terial gift,  but,  on  unpacking  the  parcel, 
found  the  contents  little  better  than  waste 
paper,  since  all  complete  statistics  were 
carefully  avoided,  one  volume  dififerin<j 
from  the  other  only  by  the  alteration  of  a 
few  names,  and  by  the  introduction  of  the 
text  of  any  new  law  affecting  the  Church, 
and  other  matters  occurring  during  the 
year.  All  further  efforts  to  obtain  infor- 
mation were  unavailing,  the  minister  evi- 
dently regarding  me  as  pertinacious  and 
ungrateful.  However,  by  watching,  I 
found  both  in  Catholic  and  Republican 
papers  some  of  the  statistics  I  sought; 
but  as  to  the  numbers  of  the  Protestant 
population,  not  even  a  work  so  encyclo- 
paedic as  Elis^e  Reclus*s  geography  con- 
tains the  information.  However,  there  is 
one  test  that  wjll  at  least  give  us  the  rela- 
tive numbers  of  the  official  churches : 
the  Budget  of  Public  Worship.  I  find 
there  that  the  respective  sums  for  1854 
and  1882  were  as  follows  — 


Catholic  Church. 
1854.    42,223,329  fr. 
1882.     51,464,966  fr. 


Protestant  Church. 

1,328.891  fr. 
1,879. 100  fr. 


From  this  it  is  clear  that  the  republican 
authorities,  no  friends,  as  we  all  know,  to 
Catholicism,  regard  the  adherents  of  Ca- 
tholicism as  thirty  times  as  numerous 
as  those  who  belong  to  the  Protestant 
Church.  And  further,  that  though  Prot- 
estantism has  obtained  in  the  last  twenty- 
eight  years  an  advance  a  little  beyond 
that  allowed  to  Romanism,  that  r^elative 
advance  is  only  estimated  by  authority  as 
equal  in  value  to  an  increased  grant  of  a 
little  more  than  fifty  thousand  francs  per 
annum. 

Allowing  that  this  represents  solid 
progress,  it  is  after  all  so  infinitesimal 
that  no  one  can  ground  upon  it  any  hope 
of  the  ultimate  success  of  Protestantism 
in  France.  This  state  of  things  is  sup- 
ported by  many  other  facts.  We  are 
accustomed  to  hear  that  the  Catholic 
churches  of  Paris  are  deserted  by  the 
people  —  a  fact,  however,  which  is  far 
less  true  than  is  supposed  —  but  let  any 
one  go  to  the  Protestant  churches,  and 
he  must  be  enthusiastic  indeed  if  he  can 
suppose  that  these  dreary  buildings,  with 
their  respectable  services,  can  ever  attract 
a  people  so  artistic,  so  idealistic  as  the 
French. 

Respectability  ts  indeed  the  great  weak- 
ness of  French   Protestantism.    In  the 


POOR  LITTLE   LIFE. 


205 


principal  parish  id  Paris,  that  of  the  Ora- 
toire,  the  candidates  proposed  by  the 
orthodox  party  at  the  recent  presbyleral 
elections  were  three  bankers^  the  excuse 
being  that  they  reflected  the  professional 
tendencies  of  this  quarter.  If  it  is  con- 
sidered that  there  is  nothing  the  working 
man  so  fears  as  the  tyranny  of  the  capi- 
talist, nothing  against  which  his  ors:ans 
so  declaim  as  the  plutocracy,  it  is  clear 
that  a  religious  party  which  acts  thus 
must  feel  that  it  is  useless  to  take  any 
Account  of  the  opinion  of  the  ouvrier. 
It  is  true  this  is  only  the  act  of  a  section 
in  one  parish,  but  it  is  typical.  Protes- 
tantism is  too  wealthy,  too  aristocratic  in 
its  tendencies,  ever  to  have  any  percep- 
tible influence  with  the  Parisian  democ- 
racy. 

If,  then,  the  spirit  of  France  is  still  so 
Catholic,  how  is  she  to  be  saved  from 
becoming  once  again  the  thrall  of  the 
Catholic  Church  ?  By  not  attempting  to 
contradict  her  genius,  but  by  cultivating 
it  in  the  light  of  its  original  idea.  I  have 
often  thought  that  if  you  could  one  by 
one  divest  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  of 
the  accretions  which  have  grown  around 
it  age  after  age,  you  would  come  at  last 
to  the  primitive  gospel  and  the  primitive 
Church.  And  if  I  were  asked  what  that 
primitive  gospel  would  be  which  I  sup- 
pose imbedded  under  eighteen  centuries 
of  ruins,  I  should  at  once  reply,  the  gos- 
pel preached  by  Jesus  Christ:  the  gospel 
of  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  That  this 
statement  rests  on  a  solid  historical  basis, 
and  is  almost  as  capable  of  demonstration 
as  a  scientific  fact,  will  be  seen  if  it  be 
considered  that  \\\^ first  Church  in  Rome 
was,  in  all  probability,  founded  by  Jewish 
Christians,  who,  if  not  some  of  the  very 
disciples  who  had  followed  the  Master 
over  the  plains  of  Galilee,  were  at  least 
fresh  from  listening  to  the  eleven  whom 
he  had  specially  instructed;  and  that  the 
great  communion  which  has  developed 
out  of  those  obscure  beginnings  has  al- 
ways been  most  scrupulous  in  preserving 
the  least  of  her  traditions,  hiding  and 
distorting  them,  but  never  wholly  losing 
or  destroying  any.  What  appears,  then, 
to  be  wantecf,  is  not  to  ofiEer  Paris  ouvri- 
ers  a  new  religion,  or  even  to  reform  the 
old  one  in  a  radical  sense,  but  so  to  strip 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church  of  its  accre- 
tions as  to  present  the  Church  founded 
by  Jesus  Christ  and  the  gospel  he 
preached.  For  that  gospel  is  not  only 
wonderfully  in  harmony  with  the  princi- 
ples which  lie  at  the  heart  of  the  faith  of 
the  Paris  ouvrier,  but  its  proclamation 


and  actual  realization  in  the  lives  of  be- 
lievers is  the  only  means  of  preventing 
those  principles  becoming  a  source  of 
terror  rather  than  of  blessing  to  the 
world,  and  of  transfiguring  them  and  giv- 
ing them  perpetual  vigor,  because  brought 
into  connection  with  their  source. 

Doubtless  if  this  gospel  were  preached 
among  Paris  ouvriers,  many  would  seek 
to  materialize  rt,  and  to  turn  it  into  a  rev- 
olutionary force.  Then  undoubtedly  would 
come  the  moment  of  trial  when  its  preach- 
ers would  have  to  choose  between  popu- 
lar rejection  and  popular  power,  or  per- 
haps between  martyrdom  or  becoming  the 
tools  of  reaction.  But  if  avoiding  errors 
into  which  men  as  great  as  Savonarola 
and  Luther  have  fallen,  they  refused,  like 
their  Master,  to  identify  themselves  with 
any  material  interests,  they  might  suffer 
a  temporary  rejection  ana  even  extinc- 
tion, but  the  germs  they  would  have 
brought  into  existence  would  produce 
that  better  Church  and  that  new  Europe 
we  are  longing  to  see  established. 

R.  HiSATH. 


From  ChambenP  JoanuL 
POOR  LITTLE  LIFE. 

IV, 

Punctually  at  the  appointed  time 
next  morning,  the  Durhams'  carriage 
drove  up  to  the  door  of  the  Immigration 
Office. 

"YouVe  exact  to  the  minute.  Sir 
George,*'  said  Mr.  Campbell,  looking  at 
his  watch,  after  having  introduced  him  to 
Mr.  Buchanan,  the  agent-general,  a  fair- 
haired  youngish-looking  man,  dressed  in 
a  light  alpaca  jacket  and  a  pith  helmet. 

Driving  down  to  the  Victoria  Market, 
the  party  hailed  a  canoe,  and  under  the 
skilful  paddling  of  two  sable  boatmen, 
were  soon  under  the  "Hampshire's" 
bows.  There  she  lay,  like  a  weary  crea- 
ture, resting  after  her  long  and  tedious 
voyage  through  the  trackless  seas. 

"Never  had  a  chance  of  sailing,'*  said 
the  captain  grumpily,  when  they  had  got 
on  board ;  "  never  got  a  wind  the  whole 
blessed  time." 

The  main  hatch  was  open,  and  looking 
down  through  it,  a  strange  sight  met  the 
visitors'  eyes.  A  mass  of  naked  limbs, 
thighs,  and  torsos,  gleaming  ivory  teeth, 
soft  jetty  eyes  —  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren all  salaaming  together  to  the  white 
faces  peering  through  the  hatches.  The 
men  were  almost  entirely  nude  ;  their  sole 


804 


THE   RELIGION   OF  THE   PARIS   OUVRIER. 


men  was :  **  Come  out  of  the  old  Church, 
and  enter  into  one  of  the  many  free  forms 
of  modern  Christianity."  During  the  last 
few  years  certain  energetic  men  in  France 
have  advocated  this  remedy,  and  have 
succeeded  in  inducing  several  groups  of 
families  to  enrol  themselves  as  Protes- 
tants. But,  as  Edgar  Quinet  says  in  the 
work  we  have  named,  **Let  us  flee  illu- 
sions." It  may  pain  many  who  are  deeply 
interested  in  the  religious  welfare  of 
France,  and  who  have  proved  it  by  a 
multitude  of  sacrifices,  to  be  told  that 
Protestantism  has  not  the  slightest  chance 
of  winning  the  heart  of  France.  In  say- 
ing this,  we  have  no  intention  for  a  mo- 
ment to  disparage  the  importance  of  the 
efforts  at  evangelization  made  with  so 
much  zeal  and  disinterestedness  in  all 
parts  of  France.  There  are  few  move- 
ments which  have  our  deeper  sympathy. 
These  missions,  we  believe,  have  done 
incalculable  good,  good  impossible  to  for- 
mulate in  reports,  since  it  consists  in  the 
dissipation  of  prejudice,  ignorance,  and 
superstition,  in  the  renewal  of  hope,  in 
the  strengthening  of  virtuous  resolution, 
in  the  awakening  of  the  religious  sense, 
and  perhaps  more  often  than  can  ever  be 
known  in  the  entire  conversion  of  souls 
to  God.  It  is  then  far  from  our  desire  to 
lessen  interest  in  these  works.  Let  us 
support  them  with  more  energy,  and  try 
and  render  them  many  times  more  suc- 
cessful. 

But  as  a  propaganda  on  behalf  of  Prot- 
estantism, they  clip  their  own  wings,  and 
fly  in  the  face  of  the  genius  of  France. 
Immense  changes  have  taken  place  in 
France  since  Quinet  published  his  work 
in  1857,  has  Protestantism  made  progress 
important  enough  to  give  any  color  to  the 
hope  that  France  may  one  day  accept  the 
religion  of  the  Huguenots? 

It  is  extremely  diflicult,  almost  impossi- 
ble, it  would  seem,  to  get  at  the  number 
of  the  adherents  of  each  religious  denomi- 
nation in  France,  all  parties  combining  to 
suppress  this  sort  of  information.  De- 
sirous to  know  if  the  statistics  given  by 
the  Abb^  Bougaud  in  his  pamphlet,  **Z^ 
Grand  Piril  de  rEf;Iise  de  France  ^^  were 
borne  out  by  recent  facts,  I  applied  to  the 
minister  of  public  worship  for  permission 
to  consult  the  official  documents  in  the 
library  of  the  ministry.  I  was  informed 
that  the  statistics  were  at  my  service  when 
I  chose  to  call  for  them.  I  accordingly 
went,  and  with  a  profusion  of  politeness 
the  librarian  informed  me  that  the  min- 
ister had  presented  me  with  Ave  volumes 
of  **Z^  France  EccUsiastique^^  the  libra- 


rian remarking  that  I  had  the  honor  of 
being  served  next  to  a  cardinal,  who  had 
just  taken  away  the  most  recent  volume, 
that  of  1882.  I  carried  home  the  minis- 
terial gift,  but,  on  unpacking  the  parcel, 
found  the  contents  little  better  than  waste 
paper,  since  all  complete  statistics  were 
carefully  avoided,  one  volume  differin<j 
from  the  other  only  by  the  alteration  of  a 
few  names,  and  by  the  introduction  of  the 
text  of  any  new  law  affecting  the  Church, 
and  other  matters  occurring  during  the 
year.  All  further  efforts  to  obtain  infor- 
mation were  unavailing,  the  minister  evi- 
dently regarding  me  as  pertinacious  and 
ungrateful.  However,  by  watching,  I 
found  both  in  Catholic  and  Republican 
papers  some  of  the  statistics  I  sought; 
but  as  to  the  numbers  of  the  Protestant 
population,  not  even  a  work  so  encyclo- 
paedic as  Elis^e  Reclus's  geography  con- 
tains the  information.  However,  there  is 
one  test  that  will  at  least  give  us  the  rela- 
tive numbers  of  the  official  churches : 
the  Budget  of  Public  Worship.  I  find 
there  that  the  respective  sums  for  1854 
and  1882  were  as  follows  — 


Catholic  Church. 
18154.     42.223,329  fr. 
1882.     51,464,966  fr. 


Protestant  Church. 

1,328.891  fr. 
1,679,100  fr. 


From  this  it  is  clear  that  the  republican 
authorities,  no  friends,  as  we  all  know,  to 
Catholicism,  regard  the  adherents  of  Ca- 
tholicism as  thirty  times  as  numerous 
as  those  who  belong  to  the  Protestant 
Church.  And  further,  that  though  Prot- 
estantism has  obtained  in  the  last  twenty- 
eight  years  an  advance  a  little  beyond 
that  allowed  to  Romanism,  that  rjelative 
advance  is  only  estimated  by  authority  as 
equal  in  value  to  an  increased  grant  of  a 
little  more  than  fifty  thousand  francs  per 
annum. 

Allowing  that  this  represents  solid 
progress,  it  is  after  all  so  infinitesimal 
that  no  one  can  ground  upon  it  any  hope 
of  the  ultimate  success  of  Protestantism 
in  France.  This  state  of  things  is  sup- 
ported by  many  other  facts.  We  are 
accustomed  to  hear  that  the  Catholic 
churches  of  Paris  are  deserted  by  the 
people  —  a  fact,  however,  which  is  far 
less  true  than  is  supposed  —  but  let  any 
one  go  to  the  Protestant  churches,  and 
he  must  be  enthusiastic  indeed  if  he  can 
suppose  that  these  dreary  buildings,  with 
their  respectable  services,  can  ever  attract 
a  people  so  artistic,  so  idealistic  as  the 
French. 

Respectability  is  indeed  the  great  weak- 
ness of  French   Protestantism.    In  the 


POOR  LITTLE   LIFE. 


205 


principal  parish  id  Paris,  that  of  the  Ora- 
toire,  the  candidates  proposed  by  the 
orthodox  party  at  the  receot  presbyteral 
elections  were  three  bankers^  the  excuse 
being  that  they  reflected  the  professional 
tendencies  of  thjs  quarter.  If  it  is  con- 
sidered that  there  is  nothing  the  working 
man  so  fears  as  the  tyranny  of  the  capi- 
talist, nothing  against  which  his  organs 
so  declaim  as  the  plutocracy,  it  is  clear 
that  a  religious  party  which  acts  thus 
must  feel  that  it  is  useless  to  take  any 
fiLCcouot  of  the  opinion  of  the  ouvrier. 
It  is  true  this  is  only  the  act  of  a  section 
in  one  parish,  but  it  is  typical.  Protes- 
tantism is  too  wealthy,  too  aristocratic  in 
Its  tendencies,  ever  to  have  any  percep- 
tible influence  with  the  Parisian  democ- 
racy. 

If,  then,  the  spirit  of  France  is  still  so 
Catholic,  how  is  she  to  be  saved  from 
becoming  once  again  the  thrall  of  the 
Catholic  Church?  By  not  attempting  to 
contradict  her  genius,  but  by  cultivating 
it  in  the  light  of  its  original  idea.  I  have 
often  thought  that  if  you  could  one  by 
one  divest  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  of 
the  accretions  which  have  grown  around 
It  age  after  age,  you  would  come  at  last 
to  the  primitive  gospel  and  the  primitive 
Church.  And  if  I  were  asked  what  that 
primitive  gospel  would  be  which  I  sup- 
pose imbedded  under  eighteen  centuries 
of  ruins,  I  should  at  once  reply,  the  gos- 
pel preached  by  Jesus  Christ:  the  gospel 
of  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  That  this 
statement  rests  on  a  solid  historical  basis, 
and  is  almost  as  capable  of  demonstration 
as  a  scientific  fact,  will  be  seen  if  it  be 
considered  that  the Jirst  Church  in  Rome 
was,  in  all  probability,  founded  by  Jewish 
Christians,  who,  if  not  some  of  the  very 
disciples  who  had  followed  the  Master 
over  the  plains  of  Galilee,  were  at  least 
fresh  from  listening  to  the  eleven  whom 
he  had  specially  instructed ;  and  that  the 
great  communion  which  has  developed 
out  of  those  obscure  beginnings  has  al- 
ways been  most  scrupulous  in  preserving 
the  least  of  her  traditions,  hiding  and 
distorting  them,  but  never  wholly  losing 
or  destroying  any.  What  appears,  then, 
to  be  wanted,  is  not  to  ofiEer  Paris  ouvri- 
ers  a  new  religion,  or  even  to  reform  the 
old  one  in  a  radical  sense,  but  so  to  strip 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church  of  its  accre- 
tions as  to  present  the  Church  founded 
by  Jesus  Christ  and  the  gospel  he 
preached.  For  that  gospel  is  not  only 
wonderfully  in  harmony  with  the  princi- 
ples which  lie  at  the  heart  of  the  faith  of 
the  Paris  oavrier,  but  its  proclamation 


and  actual  realization  in  the  lives  of  be- 
lievers is  the  only  means  of  preventing 
those  principles  becoming  a  source  of 
terror  rather  than  of  blessing  to  the 
world,  and  of  transfiguring  them  and  giv- 
ing them  perpetual  vigor,  because  brought 
into  connection  with  their  source. 

Doubtless  if  this  gospel  were  preached 
among  Paris  ouvriers,  many  would  seek 
to  materialize  rt,  and  to  turn  it  into  a  rev- 
olutionary force.  Then  undoubtedly  would 
come  the  moment  of  trial  when  its  preach- 
ers would  have  to  choose  between  popu- 
lar rejection  and  popular  power,  or  per- 
haps between  martyrdom  or  becoming  the 
tools  of  reaction.  But  if  avoiding  errors 
into  which  men  as  great  as  Savonarola 
and  Luther  have  fallen,  they  refused,  like 
their  Master,  to  identify  themselves  with 
any  material  interests,  they  might  suffer 
a  temporary  rejection  ana  even  extinc- 
tion, but  the  germs  they  would  have 
brought  into  existence  would  produce 
that  better  Church  and  that  new  Europe 
we  are  longing  to  see  established. 

R.  HiSATH. 


From  ChatmbenP  JoanuL 
POOR  LITTLE  LIFE. 

IV. 

Punctually  at  the  appointed  time 
next  morning,  the  Durhams'  carriage 
drove  up  to  the  door  of  the  Immigration 
Office. 

"  You're  exact  to  the  minute,  Sir 
George,"  said  Mr.  Campbell,  looking  at 
his  watch,  after  having  introduced  him  to 
Mr.  Buchanan,  the  agent-general,  a  fair- 
haired  youngish-looking  man,  dressed  in 
a  light  alpaca  jacket  and  a  pith  helmet. 

Driving  down  to  the  Victoria  Market, 
the  party  hailed  a  canoe,  and  under  the 
skilful  paddling  of  two  sable  boatmen, 
were  soon  under  the  "Hampshire's" 
bows.  There  she  lay,  like  a  weary  crea- 
ture, resting  after  her  long  and  tedious 
voyage  through  the  trackless  seas. 

"Never  had  a  chance  of  sailing,"  said 
the  captain  grumpily,  when  they  had  got 
on  board ;  "  never  got  a  wind  the  whole 
blessed  time." 

The  main  hatch  was  open,  and  looking 
down  through  it,  a  strange  sight  met  the 
visitors'  eyes.  A  mass  of  naked  limbs, 
thighs,  and  torsos,  gleaming  ivory  teeth, 
soft  jetty  eyes  —  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren all  salaaming  together  to  the  white 
faces  peering  through  the  hatches.  The 
men  were  almost  entirely  nude ;  their  sole 


3o6 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


garment  was  a  white  babba  wound  round 
their  loins.  The  women  were  more  de- 
cently draped  in  a  couple  of  pieces  of  cal- 
ico, the  one  surrounding  the  limbs,  the 
other  the  head  and  chest. 

"Before  I  call  the  roll,  Sir  George.*' 
said  the  agent-general,  **  would  you  like  to 
eo  below  and  get  a  nearer  view  of  this 
human  menagerie?" 

The  baronet  acquiesced. 

"Captain  Grimsby  and  I  have  some 
papers  to  look  over ;  but  the  second  mate 
will  go  with  you,  and  youMI  find  me  on  the 
quarter-deck  when  you  come  up." 

"Many  deaths  this  voyage?"  asked 
Mr.  Campbell,  as  they  descended  the  rick- 
ety ladder. 

"  Fifteen  all  told." 

"  A  considerable  number." 

"  Yes,  sir.  But  I  never  saw  such  a  set 
as  them  coolies.  When  they  think  they're 
sick,  they  die  off  just  like  a  pack  of  mon- 
keys." 

"  Any  births  ?  " 

"  Plenty,  sir,"  replied  the  mate,  cheer- 
ing up.  "Five  in  all.  We  had  one  the 
very  night  before  we  came  into  Kingston 
Harbor.  Take  care  of  your  heads,  gen- 
tlemen. One  step  more.  Here  you  are ! 
Plenty  of  light,  you  see,  when  your  eyes 
get  accustomed  to  the  darkness ! " 

And  when  their  eyes  did  get  accus- 
tomed to  the  twilight  gloom,  a  very  curi- 
ous scene  met  their  view.  They  could 
see  from  one  end  of  the  ship  to  the  other. 
The  main-deck  had  been  entirely  given 
up  to  the  accommodation  of  its  living 
freight. 

Following  their  guide.  Sir  George  and 
Mr.  Campbell  proceeded  to  thread  their 
wav  amongst  the  crowd.  Children  gam- 
boled around  them,  came  and  touched 
their  hands,  their  clothes,  their  umbrellas. 
Women  held  up  their  babies  to  be  ad- 
mired, then  salaamed  to  the  ground,  touch- 
ing their  feet,  and  then  their  own  heads, 
with  every  token  of  courteous  Oriental 
abasement.  Many  of  the  men  were  mod- 
els for  the  sculptor,  and  one  or  two  of  the 
children  were  really  pretlv.  But  the 
women,  with  the  exception  ot  a  few  young 
girls  of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  were  squat 
and  ungainly,  and  both  in  figure  and  fea- 
ture formed  a  striking  contrast  to  the  men. 
Both  sexes,  however  —  from  motives 
cither  of  vanity  or  religion  —  appeared  to 
have  done  their  best  to  disfigure  them- 
selves. Many  of  the  women  had  the  half 
of  their  brows  and  the  partings  of  their 
hair  stained  with  vermilion;  whilst  the 
majority  of  the  men  had  shaved  either  the 
whole  or  a  portion  of  their  beads. 


Each  man,  woman,  and  child  wore  sus« 
pended  from  the  neck  a  tin  medal,  on 
which  his  or  her  number  was  stamped. 
Several  of  the  women  were  gorgeously 
adorned  with  bangles  and  anklets,  neck- 
laces, nose  and  ear  rings.  One  woman 
had  sixteen  silver  bracelets  on  her  arm, 
which  had  been  fastened  on  when  she  was 
a  child,  and  had  now  eaten  into  her  flesh. 
Two  fair-skinned  bright  little  sisters  of 
thirteen  or  fourteen  wore  round  their  fat 
arms  what  looked  like  silver  napkin-rings, 
on  either  side  of  which  the  plump  flesh 
protruded  panifully. 

On  the  beams  and  pillars  of  their  saloon 
were  suspended  their  pipes  and  their 
drums  —  their  Hubble  bubbles  and  their 
tum-tums.  Mugs,  old  tins,  and  platters 
were  rolling  about  on  the  ground.  A  tall 
sirdar  in  red  jacket  was  distributing 
chupatties  —  thin  flour  scones  —  which 
the  children,  true  to  their  instincts,  greed- 
ily snatched  and  devoured.  The  men, 
crouched  in  idle  attitudes,  and  the  women, 
stretched  on  the  ground  in  every  variety 
of  easy  and  graceful  pose,  were  less  ac- 
tive in  appropriating  their  share  of  the 
viands. 

Amidst  these  motley  groups  were  one 
or  two  sick  people.  A  man  who  had 
fallen  from  deck  and  broken  his  leg,  was 
stretched  out,  bandaged  up  with  splints ; 
and  on  a  flithy  blanket  lay  another  poor 
fellow,  whose  emaciated  frame,  and  bones 
protruding  through  the  skin,  showed  only 
too  distinctly  that  he  never  would  cross 
the  kala pant  iy>\^cV  water)  again.  No  one 
seemed  to  trouble  himself  with  him,  or 
pay  him  the  least  attention.  And  indeed, 
he  looked  as  if  he  were  even  now  heedless 
of  human  care. 

Suddenly  the  boatswain's  pipe  was 
heard  summoning  a  general  muster.  In 
an  instant  the  whole  saloon  was  alive. 
Mothers  and  sisters  seized  hold  of  naked 
boys  and  girls,  draped  the  one  with  babbas^ 
and  the  other  in  sheets  like  grave-clothes. 
Then  proceeding  to  make  their  own  toilet, 
they  swathed  themselves  in  folds  of  pink 
muslin,  bought  for  them  in  Calcutta, 
against  this  the  day  of  their  goinor  ashore. 
Each  man  seized  his  hubble  bubble TiZiA  his 
tHm-ium.  Each  woman  made  up  her  little 
bundle  of  everyday  attire.  Then  with  her 
naked  pickaninny  astride  on  her  hip,  and 
perhaps  a  couple  more  hanging  on  by  the 
skirts  of  her  garment,  she  ascended  the 
ladder  to  present  herself  and  her  offspring 
before  the  inspecting  oflicer. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  deck  had  been 
roped  off,  and  chairs  and  a  table  brought 
out  for  the  use  of  Mr.  Buchanan  and  his 


1 


POOR  LITTLE   UFE, 


307 


derks.  Round  the  a<;ent-generaPs  table 
clustered  several  planters,  who,  like  Mr. 
Campbell,  had  come  on  board  to  receive 
the  coolies  allotted  to  them.  As  each 
man  or  woman  came  forward,  they  criti- 
cised his  or  her  muscular  development  in 
very  much  the  same  manner  as  of  old  they 
used  to  do  their  slaves. 

"  On  the  whole,  a  goodish  lot,**  said  Mr. 
Campbell  to  the  baronet,  when  his  quota 
was  made  up.  **  There  are  one  or  two 
not  much  worth.  Look  at  that  second 
fellow  from  the  end.  He  donH  look  strong 
enough  to  handle  a  hoe.  But  that*s  a 
sturdy  wench  next  him;  look  at  her  arms. 
I  hope  they'll  behave  themselves,  I'm 
sure.  They  need  a  deal  of  humoring 
when  they  are  landed  first.  They're  just 
like  bairns.  Sir  George,  and  have  to  be 
treated  accordingly.  It's  hard  work,  I 
can  assure  you,  keeping  your  temper  when 
you  see  these  great  men  and  women,  who 
ought  to  be  attending  to  their  work,  throw- 
ing wooden  images  of  Lulcki,  the  goddess 
of  Fortune,  into  the  river,  or  wreathing  a 
white  goat  with  flowers,  and  then  cutting 
ofiE  its  head  in  honor  of  Kili,  the  goddess 
of  destruction.  Well,  I  think  we've  seen 
all  that  there  is  to  be  seen,  so  we'd  better 
be  off,  and  leave  Mr.  Buchanan  to  his 
work,  ril  send  my  overseer  for  the  lot," 
added  the  Scotchman,  addressing  the 
agent-general,  **  in  the  afternoon." 

V. 

A  DAY  or  two  afterwards,  as  the  young 
baronet  was  leaving  his  room  to  join  his 
cousins  over  their  early  coffee,  he  heard 
the  girls  laughing  in  the  piazza  above  him. 

••Here's  Cousin  George!"  cried  Sibyl, 
rushing  to  the  top  of  the  staircase  to  meet 
him,  and  holding  up  her  rosy  mouth  for 
her  morning  kiss.  **  Let's  ask  his  ad- 
vice. 


ti 


•*  Come  along,  George  ! "  cried  Evelyn, 
flourishing  a  letter  in  her  hand.  "  We 
want  your  opinion.  Eleanor,  pour  out 
the  coffee  for  him;  he  likes  it  sweet,  with 
plenty  of  hot  milk.  Here's  old  Nana  — 
our  old  nurse,  you  know  —  has  got  a  letter 
from  her  granddaughter,  who  lives  in  an< 
other  part  of  the  island  called  Manchester, 
asking  her  to  go  and  stay  with  her;  and 
the  old  lady  can't  make  up  her  mind,  and 
wants  us  to  make  it  up  for  her.  Please 
take  the  letter  and  read  it  for  yourself, 
and  then  you  can  tell  us  what  you  think." 

George  did  so,  and  read  as  follows :  — 

***Mv  Dear  Grandmother,  —  Your 
having  resided  in  Kingston  has  hindered 
me  from  w^riting  to  you  as  often  as  I  could 


wish.  However,  I  now  embrace  this  op- 
portunity, trusting  what  I  have  to  say  may 
approbate  your  aged  mind.  I  have  con* 
sidered  your  diminishing  age  has  rendered 
you  the  greatest  inconvenience  of  life, 
although  your  manners  of  situation  would 
no  doubt  arise  diversify  of  an  opinion  in 
mind.  I  am  sorry  to  say,'"  continued 
George,  "  •  your  ever  anxious  to  see  your 
only  Charlotte  are  ever  deferred.'  The 
grammar's  a  little  mixed  at  this  passage. 
However,  to  proceed :  '  And  as  I  cannot 
tell  when  it  will  be  in  this  respect,  it  is 
my  earnest  endeavor  to  promote  myself 
in  the  branches  of  usefulness,  while  it  is 
the  greatest  joy  of  my  father  to  see  me 
wise  and  happy.' 

•**Pon  my  word,"  remarked  George, 
'*this  young  lady  seems  to  have  a  very 
good  conceit  of  herself." 

**Our  lives  so  uncertain,"  continued 
the  missive,  "  that  I  cannot'lose  the  pres- 
ent. Although  he  has  not  the  means,  yet 
he  is  willing  to  see  me  as  already  stated. 
I  will  not  leave  to  say  that  I  was  baptized 
on  the  first  sabbath  in  June ;  so  now  I 
am  a  member  of  the  church  whose  pastor 
is  Rev.  Isaac  Parker,  of  which  I  trust 
it  won't  be  little  joy  in  your  hope  and 
felicity  are  centred.  My  dear  mother,  if 
your  wish  are  still  so  great,  do,  my  dear, 
come  up  to  live  and  die  with  me.  Look 
not  on  what  you  possess.  Care  not  for 
house  and  home,  but  remember  you  are 
decreasing  every  day,  and  disadvantage 
is  before  you.  Therefore  I  beseech  you, 
answer  to  my  request.  Be  to  my  de- 
sire: hoping  when  this  reach  your  lovly 
hands " 

**  Nana's  lovely  hands !  "  shouted  Sibyl. 
**  Oh,  you  should  see  them.  Cousin  George ; 
they're  like  the  claws  of  some  old  mon- 
key I " 

•*  Hush,  Sib;  let  me  finish  :  — 

**  When  this  reach  your  lovly  hands, 
it  may  find  you  and  all  friends  in  health, 
as  it  leaves  me  at  present.  I  am  your 
unfeigned  and  affectionate 

Charlotte." 

•*  Well,"  said  George,  handing  the  letter 
back  to  Evelyn,  **  all  I  can  say  is,  that  if 
1  were  Nana,  I  should  think  twice  before 
I  went  to  live  and  die  with  such  a  supe- 
rior young  person.  She'd  soon  be  the 
death  of  me,  with  her  long  words  and  her 
learning." 

**  That's  what  education  has  done  for 
the  negroes,"  said  Evelyn.  **  I  don't 
think  Nana  appreciates  ail  her  grand- 
daughter's accomplishments.  You  see 
she  is  what  the  negroes  call  an  '  old'time 


208 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


somebody.'  She  was  an  old  slave  of  my 
father's.  But  she  would  not  leave  the 
family  at  abolition,  and  she  still  retains 
all  the  feelings  of  her  class.  Her  son, 
however,  is  different.  He  belongs  to  the 
new  school,  and  the  result  is  —  his  pre- 
cious daughter  Charlotte.  But  I  don't 
think  Charlotte's  education  will  advance 
much  further;  she's  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried to  a  young  drayman  in  Manchester ; 
and  I  dare  say,  after  marriage,  she'll  give 
up  all  her  learning,  just  as  ladies  give  up 
the  piano." 

"Ask  Evelyn  to  show  you  some  of 
Captain  Hillyard's  letters  to  her,*'  added 
Sibyl  maliciously.  "It  would  be  good 
fun  comparing  them.  Wouldn't  it,  Cousin 
George  ?  " 

"Sibyl!"  said  Evelyn  threateningly, 
but  blushing  all  the  while. 

"  Well,  he  does  write  to  you,  Evelyn," 
pursued  the  child.  "  You  know  he  does ; 
and  you  know  you  like  him  too,"  she 
added. 

"  Oh,  there  can  be  no  doubt  she  is  very 
fond  of  him,"  said  Eleanor,  with  an  air 
of  the  most  aggravating  candor. 

"  Captain  Hillyard  is  certainly  very 
amusing,"  said  Evelyn,  partially  recover- 
ing her  composure,  "  which  is  more  than 
can  be  said  of  all  the  governor's  guests." 

VL 

It  was  a  trifling  incident,  but  it  set 
George  a-thinking.  The  subject  occupied 
his  thoughts  during  the  whole  of  the 
morning.  He  was  conscious  that  this  in- 
cident of  Captain  Hillyard's  letters  pos- 
sessed an  interest  for  him,  for  which  his 
cou^nship  to  Evelyn  was  no  sufficient 

i'ustitication.  He  could  not  conceal  from 
limself  that  the  children's  malicious  rt- 
marks  had  caused  him  infinite  annoyance. 
He  was  forced  to  admit  that  when  Sibyl 
had  spoken  of  Evelyn's  correspondence 
with  Captain  Hillyard,  she  had  sent  a 
kind  of  stab  through  his  heart.  But,  after 
all,  why  should  she  not  correspond  with 
Captain  Hillyard?  And  if,  as  Eleanor 
had  added,  she  liked  him  —  what  then? 
What  was  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hec- 
uba? He  was  her  cousin,  to  be  sure, 
her  nearest  male  relation,  and  as  such, 
and  also  as  head  of  her  family,  deeply 
concerned  in  her  happiness.  He  was 
certainly  fond  of  her  too  —  in  a  brotherly, 
cousinly,  family  sort  of  a  way,  of  course. 
She  was  one  of  the  nicest  girls  he  knew 
—  bright,  happy,  guileless,  unsophisti- 
cated, and  very  pretty  too ;  there  could  be 
no  doubt  of  that.  All  that  assuredly  made 
him  deeply  interested  in  her  fortune.    But 


could  it  account  for  those  feelings  of  irri- 
tation —  to  call  them  by  the  mildest  term 
—  with  which  he  bad  received  his  impish 
little  cousins'  mischievous  intelligence? 
Clearly  it  could  not.  For,  after  all,  be 
repeated,  why  should  she  not  correspond 
with  Captain  Hillyard?  He  had  not  seea 
much  of  him;  but  the  little  he  had,  had 
impressed  him  not  unfavorably.  He  was 
amusing  enough  in  his  way.  For  a  soldier 
he  was  certainly  clever  —  better  educated, 
too,  on  the  whole,  than  men  of  his  pro- 
fession sometimes  were.  He  was  the 
nephew,  or  the  cousin  —  at  any  rate  some 
near  relation  of  the  governor's.  His  pros- 
pects were  good.  He  would  probably  be 
a  governor  himself  some  day.  He  would 
be  no  unsuitable  match  for  Evelyn.  "  I'll 
discover  whether  she  really  likes  him ; 
because,  if  she's  only  taking  her  fun  out 
of  the  fellow,  that's'  right  enough.  •;  But 
I'm  certain  these  chits  meant  to  imply 
that  there  was  something  more  serious 
between  them.  And  if  there  is,  I  sup- 
pose, as  Evelyn's  cousin,  I'd  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  the  match."  And  then  be 
fell  a-dreaming,  as  young  men  with  plenty 
of  money  and  no  particular  occupation 
are  liable,  perhaps  even  entitled,  to  do  — 
dreaming  of  Deepdale  and  the  Castle,  and 
his  mother,  and  his  future,  and  a  wife  — 
who,  somehow,  always  bore  an  extraordi- 
nary resemblance  to  Evelyn  —  who  looked 
with  her  eyes,  spoke  with  her  voice,  and 
went  about  the  panelled  halls  and  wide 
stone  terraces  of  his  ancestral  home  with 
her  peculiar  grace  and  gesture. 

"  The  plague's  in  the  girl ! "  he  said 
angrily,  as  the  dressing-bell  rang  forth 
from  the  piazza,  warning  him  to  bring  his 
ablutions  to  a  close.  **  She's  somehow  or 
other  got  into  my  head,  and  I  can't  get 
her  out  of  it.  I  remember  one  of  the  last 
things  my  mother  said  to  me  —  it  was  the 
night  before  I  left  Deepdale,  I  recollect  — 
was  to  be  sure  not  to  take  a  wife  of  the 
daughters  of  Heth.  It  was  her  way,  I 
suppose,  of  warning  me  not  to  marry  a 
i^^K^c''*  I  can't  say,  so  far  as  I've  gone, 
that  I  have  been  exposed  to  any  tempta- 
tion. These  two  Jewish  girls  I  met  at 
the  governor's  the  other  night  were  pretty 
enough.  By-the-by,  I  thought  Hillyard 
showed  that  youngest  one  a  good  deal  of 
attention.  But  I  have  not  seen  a  girl  in 
Jamaica  yet  —  and  very  few  out  of  it-^ 
that  can  hold  a  candle  to  Evelyn  in  point 
of  looks.  She  certainly  is  uncommonly 
pretty —  twice  as  pretty  as  when  she  used 
to  come  down  to  us  at  Deepdale.  I  know 
my  mother  used  to  admire  her  then,  and 
like  her  too!  Yes;  she  used  to  be  very 


POOR  LITTLE   LIFE. 


209 


fond  of  little  Evie;  and  so  was  my  father. 
I  wonder  if  my  mother  would  consider 
£velyn  one  of  the  daughters  of  Heth ! " 

vn. 

For  some  days  past,  there  had  been  a 
talk  of  George  and  Evelyn  riding  up  to 
**  the  hills,"  to  call  on  some  friends  who 
lived  at  Helvidere,  and  to  give  George  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  some  of  the  moun- 
tain scenery  for  which  the  parish  of  St. 
Andrew's  is  so  justly  famed.  Something, 
however,  had  always  occurred  to  prevent 
the  realization  of  the  project.  But  time 
was  fleeting;  the  November  "seasons*' 
were  at  hand.  Already  the  light  cirrus 
clouds,  which  the  negroes  designate  "  rain- 
seeds,"  were  to  be  seen  in  the  morning 
sky.  Already,  towards  evening,  the  air 
was  growing  thick  with  vapor;  and  at 
nights,  the  swarms  of  mosquitoes  and 
flies  were,  as  George  expressed  it,  "more 
than  human  nature  could  bear."  If  the 
trip  to  "the  hills"  was  to  take  place  at 
all,  it  was  incumbent  that  it  should  be  got 
over  before  "the  gullies  were  down." 
When  the  mountain  brooks  had  become 
raging  torrents,  when  the  dry  water 
courses  had  become  broad  and  swiftly 
flowing  rivers,  when  the  daily  rains  were 
falling  like  solid  sheets  of  water,  travel- 
ling was  difficult  even  in  the  plains. 
Amongst  the  hills,  it  was  not  to  be  thought 
of. 

"I  would  not  delay  another  day,  if  I 
were  you,  George!"  said  Mrs.  Durham 
at  breakfast  that  morning.  "  We*ll  start 
Mannie  with  the  ponies  to  the  Gardens 
now.  You  and  Evelyn  can  follow  in  the 
carriage  later.  Once  you  get  in  among 
'the  bush,'  you  won't  need  to  fear  the 
sun.  You  will  be  at  Belvidere  in  time  for 
afternoon  tea;  and  you  can  ride  home 
again  in  the  cool  of  the  evening." 
4  They  started,  therefore,  after  lunch ; 
•  Evelyn  in  her  gray  riding-habit  and  black 
hat;  George  equipped  with  spurs  and 
gaiters,  and  carrying  a  heavy  hunting- 
crop  in  his  hand.  A  little  above  the  vil- 
lage of  Gardens,  tliey  left  the  carriage. 
Evelyn  mounted  her  fat  old  pony  Jack; 
George  bestridold  Blunderbore,  a  famous 
hill-pony,  that,  after  having  been  owned 
by  a  succession  of  governors,  judges,  and 
other  high  officials,  had  now  become  the 
property  of  Mrs.  Durham  of  Prospect 
Gardens.  It  was  a  steep  though  lovely 
ride.  A  road  there  could  scar9eiy  be  said 
to  be.  But  a  mountain  track,  paved  by 
the  hard  soles  of  many  generations  of 
negroes,  and  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  and 
mules  of  the  country  people  who  daily 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  22  50 


brought  down  their  coffee  and  bread-kind 
to  sell  at  Kingston  market,  showed  the 
route.  And  if,  at  times,  there  were  great 
travelling  boulders  in  the  path  to  be  cir- 
cumvented, and  tiny,  trickling  rivulets  to 
be  crossed ;  or  a  fallen  branch  of  bamboo 
to  be  stepped  across  ;  or  bits  of  the  rock, 
worn  by  much  traffic  into  the  semblance 
of  miniature  staircases,  to  be  climbed;  or 
a  rustic  bridge,  spanning  the  scene  of 
some  recent  landslip,  to  be  gingerly  trav- 
ersed—these and  such  like  obstacles 
only  added  a  zest  to  the  journey,  whilst 
they  heightened  a  thousandfold  the  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  scene.  And  then, 
the  marvellous  setting  of  the  picture !  — 
the  arching  fringe  of  bamboos  that  bor- 
dered the  path,  the  checkered  shadows 
falling  across  the  roadway,  the  banks  of 
maiden-hair  fern  and  begonia  growing  by 
its  sides,  the  tree-ferns  at  intervals  on  its 
margin — was  there  ever  a  wood-walk 
more  like  a  poet's  dream,  more  meet  for 
lovers'  talk,  more  adapted  for  the  free 
thrust  and  parry,  the  mutual  interchange 
of  youthful  joys  and  sorrows  1 

It  was  the  influence  of  the  scenery  that 
provoked  the  conversation  which  ensued 
—  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  Noth- 
ing but  it  could  have  induced  George  to 
lay  bare  the  secret  recesses  of  his  heart. 
And  if  any  middle-aged  reader  haply 
doubts  the  assertion,  let  him  appeal  to 
his  own  memory  for  its  corroboration. 
Let  him  ask  himself,  looking  across  the 
table  to  her  who  sits  opposite  to  him,, 
whether  he  would  ever  have  been  able  to 
summon  up  courage  to  put  the  momen- 
tous question,  if  nature,  that  wise  coun- 
sellor, that  sympathetic  ally,  had  not  come 
to  his  aid  on  that  eventful  day?  It  was 
tltat  quiet,  wood-shaded  nook  on  the 
Thames,  that  solitary  crevice  between 
two  over-shadowing  rocks  by  the  sea- 
shore, the  gentle  murmur  of  the  waves 
on  that  sandy  beach,  that  lonely  hilltop,, 
the  ruins  of  that  deserted  castle  by  the 
Rhine,  the  placid  music  of  that  mountain 
brook,  the  plash  of  that  moss-grown  foun- 
tain in  those  unfrequented  gardens,  that 
armed  his  voice  with  strength  to  make 
the  fateful  demand.  And  when  he  had 
obtained  the  answer  that  he  sought  —  the 
answer  that  he  hoped  for,  yet  scarcely 
ventured  to  expect  —  was  it  not  kind  na- 
ture that  congratulated  him  the  first,  and 
with  its  thousand  voices  spread  abroad 
the  joyful  intelligence,  till  rock  and  shore, 
river  and  mountain,  wood  and  forest, 
seemed  to  echo  and  reverberate  with  his 
joy! 

It  was  not,  indeed,  till  their  return  jour- 


210 


POOR  LITTLE   LIFE. 


ney  that  Georee  yielded  to  the  powerful 
promptings  of  the  voice  of  nature;  and 
when  at  length  his  lips  were  unlocked, 
the  result  was  scarcely  such  as  to  justify 
the  expectation  of  even  a  qualified  suc- 
cess. Indeed,  the  conversation  began 
with  something  very  like  a  quarrel. 

"  I  say,  Evelyn,"  said  George  abruptly, 
'Ms  there  anything  between  you  and  Cap- 
tain Hillyard?" 

**  Between  me  and  Captain  Hillyard!" 
she  repeated  with  surprise.  "  I  don't 
understand  vou,  George. 

*'  I  thougnt  I  was  plain  enough,"  he 
replied,  with  ill-concealed  bitterness. 

"Perhaps  you  were,  George.  But  I 
fail  to  see  either  why  you  should  ask  me 
this,  or  what  gives  you  the  right  to  put 
the  question." 

"Oh,  if  that  is  the  way  you  wish  to 
take  it,  I  have  no  difficulty  in  giving  you 
an  answer.  I  asked  because  I  thought 
you  seemed  put  out  when  the  children 
mentioned  his  name  this  morning;  and 
as  for  my  right  to  ask,  Tm  vour  cousin, 
and  I  think  that's  title  enough." 

"  I  was  put  out,  I  admit,"  replied  Eve- 
lyn ;  "though  why,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 
Children  are  constantly  saying  disagreea- 
ble things;  they  do  it  to  torment.  Of 
course,  it  is  very  silly  to  be  annoyed  by 
them,  but  one  can't  help  it  always." 

"But  is  it  true,  Evelyn?" 

"Is  what  true?" 

"  That  you  correspond  with  him  ?" 

"Of  course,  it  is  true.  Why  shouldn't 
I  ?  He  is  one  of  our  most  intimate 
friends.  I  have  a  whole  drawerful  of  his 
letters,"  she  added,  with  a  young  girl's 
innocent  malice. 

"  You  keep  his  letters,  then?" 

"  I  keep  yours  too,  George,"  she  sai^, 
smiling  upon  him. 

"  But  that's  different.  I'm  your  cousin." 

"Oh,  no  doubt,  it's  different;  but  for 
the  matter  of  that,  I  keep  all  letters." 

"I  wish  you'd  burn  mine,  then,"  he 
answered  cynically.  "I've  no  particular 
desire  to  have  my  letters  tied  up  along 
with  those  of  that  fellow.'' 

"  Why,  George,  how  cross  you  are  1 
What  has  poor  Captain  Hillyard  done  to 
offend  you  ?  I  thought  you  said  he  wasn't 
half  a  bad  fellow,  alter  you  had  met  him 
the  other  night  at  the  governor's ;  and  I 
was  so  pleased  to  hear  you  say  so,  because 
we  are  all  so  fond  of  him  at  Prospect 
Gardens." 

George  flicked  his  pony  testily  with  his 
riding-whip.  "  I  don't  see  anything  so 
particularly  attractive  about  him.  He's 
pleasant  enough  for  a  soldier,  I  dare  say ; 


and  no  doubt,"  he  added,  "  he's  no  end  of 
an  Adonis  among  the  ladies.  I'd  like  to 
see  what  sort  of  a  figure  he'd  cut  in  Lon- 
don, though ;  he'd  soon  find  his  level 
there." 

"  And  his  level  would  be  ?  " 

George  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  think  you  are  very  unjust  to  Captain 
Hillyard,  George,"  said  Evelyn  with  rising 
color.  "A  gentleman  is  always  recog- 
nized as  a  gentleman  wherever  he  goes, 
and  Captain  Hillyard  is  quite  a  gentle- 
man. Besides,  I  don't  think  you  should 
speak  to  me  in  this  way  about  him.  I 
have  told  you  that  be  is  one  of  our  most 
intimate  friends." 

"And  likely,  no  doubt,  to  be  still  more 
intimate  than  he  is,"  said  George. 

"  I  hope  so,"  replied  Evelyn  calmly. 

They  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  space,  and 
then  George  returned  to  the  charge.  "  AH 
the  same,  Evelyn,"  he  said,  "you  have 
not  answered  my  question." 

"  What  Question  ?  "  she  asked  coldly. 

"  I  askea  if  there  was  anything  between 
you  and  Captain  Hillyard." 

"Once  for  all,  George,"  she  replied 
with  warmth,  "  that  is  not  a  question  that 
I  think  you  have  any  right  to  ask  me." 

"Ancf  once  for  all,  Evelyn,"  he  an- 
swered, "I  have,  told  you  I  have  that 
right.  I'm  your  cousin  —  your  nearest 
male  relation,  Evelyn." 

"  Then  you  are  presuming  on  your  rela- 
tionship, George,"  she  answered  hotly. 

"  I  don't  think  I  am.  I  do  care  for  you, 
Evelyn,"  he  added,  in  a  somewhat  lower 
tone ;  "  and  you  know,  if  I  could  do  any- 
thing to  promote  your  happiness,  I  should 
gladly  do  so." 

"  You  take  a  curious  way  of  showing 
your  interest  in  me,  then.  Do  you  think 
you  are  promoting  my  happiness  by  say- 
ing all  sorts  of  disagreeable  things  ?  " 

"HI  have  done  so,  I  am  sorry  for  it, 
and  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  I  don't  think 
the  question  I  asked  was  one  which  I  was 
not  entitled  to  ask." 

"But  indeed  it  was,"  she  said,  still  in 
anger.  "No  one,  excepting  my  own 
mother,  had  a  right  to  ask  me  any  such 
thing." 

"  I  told  you,  Evelyn,"  he  said  earnestly, 
"if  I  asked  it,  I  meant  no  impertinence." 

"  You  say  so  now ;  but  —  " 

"But  it  is  true,  Evelyn.  If  I  did  not 
care  for  you  —  more  even  than  a  cousin 
—  I  should  not  have  said  a  word  on  the 
subject.  I  asked  you,  and  I  ask  you  still, 
Evelyn,  because——"  He  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  and  then  he  added :  "  Because 
I  love  you  1 " 


POOR  LITTLE   LIFE. 


aix 


Evelyn^s  face  became  pale,  but  she  did 
not  speak. 

••  Because  I  love  you,  Evelyn,**  he  con- 
tinued ;  "and  because—  Evelyn,  roy 
darling  ! "  he  said  with  passion,  "  will  you 
be  my  wife  ?  "  He  drew  his  horse's  head 
nearer  to  her ;  but  she  moved  hers  away 
from  him. 

"  No,  no ! ••  he  cried,  seizing  hold  of  her 
horse*s  bridle.    "  Answer  me,  Evelyn  !  •* 

But  she  only  shook  her  head. 

"Evelyn,  say  you  love  me!  I  know 
you  love  me  !  "  he  added  with  all  a  lover's 
impetuosity.    *•  Say  you  will  be  my  wife ! " 

"  I  don't  know,**  she  murmured.  ••  O 
George,  don't  let  us  speak  about  such 
things!  We  have  been  so  happy  since 
you  came.    Why  should  we  change *' 

He  did  not  let  her  complete  her  sen- 
tence. "  Yes,  Evelyn,**  he  said,  interrupt- 
ing ;  "  just  so  happy,  that  we  must  never, 
never  parti  Evelyn!"  he  cried,  laying 
hold  of  her  hand,' "say  you  will  be  my 
wife ! " 

"  1  cannot,  I  cannot !  *'  she  answered. 
"O  George,  don't  ask  me  I" 

She  struggled  to  release  her  hand ;  but 
he  held  it  within  his  own  as  in  a  vice. 
"Evelyn,"  he  replied,  "you  roust  answer 
me!  Why  should  it  not  be?  Whv  should 
you  not  marry  me  ?  Can  you  not  love  me, 
even  a  little?"  he  said. 

"I  do ;  you  know  I  do,  George.  I  have 
always  loved  you  —  loved  you  dearly  —  as 
a  cousin.*' 

"  As  a  cousin  !  **  he  sneered. 

"There  is  no  one  I  love  better  —  no 
one,"  she  said  —  "and  there  never  will 
be !  But,  O  George,  spare  me  !  Be  gen- 
erous !  Let  us  continue  as  we  are.  Why 
should  we  change  ?  " 

"No!"  he  said  bitterly;  "that  can 
never  be.  You  say  you  love  me,  and  yet 
you  refuse  to  be  my  wife  ! " 

"  I  have  never  thought  about  marriage ; 
I  have  never  thought  of  you  except  as  a 
cousin.  I  am  too  young  to  think  about 
anything  else.  I  shall  not  be  eighteen 
till  Christmas  Day." 

"  Your  own  mother  was  married  younger 
than  that.  Evelyn,  if  you  refuse  me  now, 
we  can  never  be  the  same  to  each  other 
again !" 

The  girl  dropped  her  veil  —  her  tears 
were  falling  fast  now. 

"  Never  the  same  again  !  **  he  repeated. 

They  were  fast  nearing  the  end  of  their 
ride.  At  their  feet  lay  the  Hope  River, 
basking  in  the  pale  light  of  the  setting 
sun.  Through  the  breaks  in  "  the  bush,** 
they  could  discover  the  shingled  roofs  of 
the  houses.    The  heat  of  the  day  was 


over;  the  "dove's  twilight**  had  begun. 
Already  the  decreasing  light  was  assum- 
ing the  duskier  shades  of  the  raven's 
wing.  In  a  few  minutes  more  the  night 
would  be  upon  them. 

"  And  if  it  can  never  be,  Evelyn,**  he 
went  on,  "  the  sooner  we  part  the  better ! " 

Still  on  they  rode  side  by  side  without 
exchanging  a  word.  It  was  quite  dark 
now,  and  the  path  was  scarcely  distin- 
guishable. The  first  stars  were  "sprink- 
ling the  sky;"  the  first  fireflies  were 
flitting  out  and  in  amongst  the  black  foli- 
age of  the  bamboos  that  bordered  the 
side  of  the  road.  A  thick  dew  was  fall- 
ing too;  the  horses*  manes  were  wet  with 
it.  As  for  George,  he  felt  chilled  through 
and  through  to  the  bone. 

"  Ah !  '*  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  as  they 
emerged  upon  the  high  road  at  length,  "  I 
am  glad  we  are  out  of  the  wood;  I  can 
see  the  carriage  lamps  on  the  road  before 
us.    But ** 

*'^Georpe  /  "  said  Evelyn,  suddenly  bring- 
ing her  horse  over  beside  his  and  slipping 
her  hand  into  her  cousin's. 

"  How  late  you  are,  children ! "  said 
Mrs.  Durham,  coming  out  to  the  porch  to 
meet  them.  "  Have  you  enjoyed  your 
ride?" 

"  I  have  never  had  a  more  delightful  — 
and  if  I  live  to  a  thousand,  I  shall  never 
forget  this  day !  "  replied  her  nephew. 

"That*s  right!"  she  said,  kissing  her 
daughter  as  she  alighted  from  her  horse. 
"  And,  Evelyn,  I've  a  piece  of  news  for 
you.  Captain  Hillyard  has  been  here, 
and  tells  me  that  he  is  engaged  to  Miriam 
Da  Costa.  Now,  run  both  of  vou,  and 
dress.  Dinner  will  be  ready  in  less  tha\i 
half  an  hour.*' 

VIII. 

In  the  lives  of  all  men,  and  of  all 
women  also,  there  are  tracts  of  time,  of 
greater  or  less  extent,  that  have  no  his- 
tory. Some  are  happy,  some  are  unhap- 
py. Most  of  them  are  indifferent.  Like 
low-lying  valleys  between  two  mountain 
peaks,  they  serve  to  accentuate  the  events 
which  precede  and  succeed  them.  On 
one  of  these,  George  was  now  about  to 
enter.  It  lasted  till  the  week  before 
Christmas.  It  was  the  happiest  period 
of  his  life.  It  was  the  flowery  crown  of 
Evelyn's.  Their  days  glided  by  as  the 
days  were  wont  to  glide, 

When  Man  was  young,  and  Life  was  epic 

Jamaica  became,  for  the  nonce,  an  Arca- 
dia; George  and  Evelyn  were  Daphnis 


310 


POOR  LITTLE   LIFE. 


ney  that  Georee  yielded  to  the  powerful 
promptings  of  the  voice  of  nature;  and 
when  at  length  his  lips  were  unlocked, 
the  result  was  scarcely  such  as  to  justify 
the  expectation  of  even  a  qualified  suc- 
cess. Indeed,  the  conversation  began 
with  something  very  like  a  quarrel. 

*•  I  say,  Evelyn,"  said  George  abruptly, 
"is  there  anything  between  you  and  Cap- 
tain Hiilyard?" 

"Between  me  and  Captain  Hillyard!*' 
she  repeated  with  surprise.  "I  don't 
understand  vou,  George." 

"  I  thougnt  I  was  plain  enough,*'  he 
replied,  with  ill-concealed  bitterness. 

"Perhaps  you  were,  George.  But  I 
fail  to  see  either  why  you  should  ask  me 
this,  or  what  gives  you  the  right  to  put 
the  question." 

"Oh,  if  that  is  the  way  you  wish  to 
take  it,  I  have  no  difficulty  in  giving  you 
an  answer.  I  asked  because  I  thought 
you  seemed  put  out  when  the  children 
mentioned  his  name  this  morning;  and 
as  for  my  right  to  ask,  I'm  your  cousin, 
and  I  think  that's  title  enough." 

"  I  was  put  out,  I  admit,"  replied  Eve- 
lyn ;  "though  why,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 
Children  are  constantly  saying  disagreea- 
ble things;  they  do  it  to  torment.  Of 
course,  it  is  very  silly  to  be  annoyed  by 
them,  but  one  can't  help  it  always." 

"But  is  it  true,  Evelyn?" 

"Is  what  true?" 

"  That  you  correspond  with  him  ?" 

"Of  course,  it  is  true.  Why  shouldn't 
I  ?  He  is  one  of  our  most  intimate 
friends.  I  have  a  whole  drawerful  of  his 
letters,"  she  added,  with  a  young  girl's 
innocent  malice. 

"  You  keep  his  letters,  then  ?  '* 

"  I  keep  yours  too,  George,"  she  sai^, 
smiling  upon  him. 

"  But  that's  different.  Tm  your  cousin." 

"Oh,  no  doubt,  it's  different;  but  for 
the  matter  of  that,  I  keep  all  letters." 

"I  wish  you'd  burn  mine,  then,"  he 
answered  cynically.  "I've  no  particular 
desire  to  have  my  letters  tied  up  along 
with  those  of  that  fellow.'' 

"  Why,  George,  how  cross  you  are  I 
What  has  poor  Captain  Hillyard  done  to 
offend  you  ?  I  thought  you  said  he  wasn't 
half  a  bad  fellow,  alter  you  had  met  him 
the  other  night  at  the  governor's;  and  I 
was  so  pleased  to  hear  you  say  so,  because 
we  are  all  so  fond  of  him  at  Prospect 
Gardens." 

George  flicked  his  pony  testily  with  his 
riding-whip.  "  I  don't  see  anything  so 
particularly  attractive  about  him.  He's 
pleasant  enough  for  a  soldier,  I  dare  say ; 


and  no  doubt,"  he  added,  "  he's  no  end  of 
an  Adonis  among  the  ladies.  I'd  like  to 
see  what  sort  of  a  figure  he'd  cut  in  Lon- 
don, though;  he'd  soon  find  his  level 
there." 

"  And  his  level  would  be  ?  " 

George  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  think  you  are  very  unjust  to  Captain 
Hillyard,  George,"  said  Evelyn  with  rising 
color.  "A  gentleman  is  always  recog- 
nized as  a  gentleman  wherever  he  goes, 
and  Captain  Hillyard  is  quite  a  gentle- 
man. Besides,  I  don't  think  you  should 
speak  to  me  in  this  way  about  him.  I 
have  told  you  that  he  is  one  of  our  most 
intimate  friends." 

"And  likely,  no  doubt,  to  be  still  more 
intimate  than  he  is,"  said  George. 

"  I  hope  so,"  replied  Evelyn  calmly. 

They  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  space,  and 
then  George  returned  to  the  charge.  "  AH 
the  same,  Evelyn,"  he  said,  "you  have 
not  answered  my  question." 

"  What  Question  ?  "  she  asked  coldly. 

"  I  asked  if  there  was  anything  between 
you  and  Captain  Hillyard." 

"Once  for  all,  George,"  she  replied 
with  warmth,  "  that  is  not  a  question  that 
I  think  you  have  any  right  to  ask  me." 

"Anci  once  for  all,  Evelyn,"  he  an- 
swered, "I  have,  told  you  I  have  that 
right.  I'm  your  cousin  —  your  nearest 
male  relation,  Evelyn." 

"  Then  you  are  presuming  on  your  rela- 
tionship, George,"  she  answered  hotly. 

"  I  don't  think  I  am.  I  do  care  for  you, 
Evelyn,"  he  added,  in  a  somewhat  lower 
tone;  "and  you  know,  if  I  could  do  any- 
thing to  promote  your  happiness,  I  should 
gladly  do  so." 

"  You  take  a  curious  way  of  showing 
your  interest  in  me,  then.  Do  you  think 
you  are  promoting  my  happiness  by  say- 
ing all  sorts  of  disagreeable  things  ?  " 

"HI  have  done  so,  I  am  sorry  for  it, 
and  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  I  don't  think 
the  question  I  asked  was  one  which  I  was 
not  entitled  to  ask." 

"  But  indeed  it  was,"  she  said,  still  in 
anger.  "No  one,  excepting  my  own 
mother,  had  a  right  to  ask  me  any  such 
thing." 

"  I  told  you,  Evelyn,"  he  said  earnestly, 
"if  I  asked  it,  1  meant  no  impertinence." 

"  You  say  so  now ;  but " 

"But  it  is  true,  Evelyn.  If  I  did  not 
care  for  you  —  more  even  than  a  cousin 
—  I  should  not  have  said  a  word  on  the 
subject.     I  asked  you,  and  I  ask  you  still, 

Evelyn,  because "     He  hesitated  for 

a  moment,  and  then  be  added :  "  Because 
I  love  you  I " 


POOR  LITTLE   LIFE. 


aix 


Evelyn's  face  became  pale,  but  she  did 
not  speak. 

"  Because  I  love  you,  Evelyn,"  he  con- 
tinued ;  ••  and  because  -^^  Evelyn,  my 
darling  ! "  he  said  with  passion,  "  wilt  you 
be  my  wife  ?  "  He  drew  his  horse's  head 
nearer  to  her ;  but  she  moved  hers  away 
from  him. 

**  No,  no !  •*  he  cried,  seizing  hold  of  her 
horse^s  bridle.    •*  Answer  me,  Evelyn  !  *' 

But  she  only  shook  her  head. 

"Evelyn,  say  you  love  me  I  I  know 
you  love  me  !  "  he  added  with  all  a  lover's 
impetuosity.    •*  Say  you  will  be  my  wife !  ** 

"I  don't  know,"  she  murmured.  "O 
George,  don't  let  us  speak  about  such 
things!  We  have  been  so  happy  since 
you  came.    Why  should  we  change " 

He  did  not  let  her  complete  her  sen- 
tence. '*  Yes,  Evelyn,"  he  said,  interrupt- 
ing; "just  so  happy,  that  we  must  never, 
never  part!  Evelyn!"  he  cried,  laying 
hold  of  her  hand,' "  say  you  will  be  my 
wife ! " 

"  I  cannot,  I  cannot ! "  she  answered. 
••O  George,  don't  ask  me  1" 

She  struggled  to  release  her  hand ;  but 
he  held  it  within  his  own  as  in  a  vice. 
"Evelyn,"  he  replied,  "you  roust  answer 
me!  Why  should  it  not  be  ?  Why  should 
you  not  marry  me  ?  Can  you  not  love  me, 
even  a  little?"  he  said. 

"  I  do ;  you  know  I  do,  George.  I  have 
always  loved  you  —  loved  you  dearly  —  as 
a  cousin." 

"As  a  cousin  !'*  he  sneered. 

"There  is  no  one  I  love  better  —  no 
one,"  she  said  —  "and  there  never  will 
be !  But,  O  George,  spare  me  !  Be  gen- 
erous !  Let  us  continue  as  we  are.  Why 
should  we  change?" 

"No!"  he  said  bitterly;  "that  can 
never  be.  You  say  you  love  .me,  and  yet 
you  refuse  to  be  my  wife  ! " 

"  I  have  never  thought  about  marriage ; 
I  have  never  thought  of  you  except  as  a 
cousin.  I  am  too  young  to  think  about 
anything  else.  I  shall  not  be  eighteen 
till  Christmas  Day." 

"  Your  own  mother  was  married  younger 
than  that.  Evelyn,  if  you  refuse  me  now, 
we  can  never  be  the  same  to  each  other 


again 


f  »> 


The  girl  dropped  her  veil  —  her  tears 
were  falling  fast  now. 

"  Never  the  same  again  !  •*  he  repeated. 

They  were  fast  nearing  the  end  of  their 
ride.  At  their  feet  lay  the  Hope  River, 
basking  in  the  pale  light  of  the  setting 
sun.  Through  the  breaks  in  "  the  bush,** 
they  could  discover  the  shingled  roofs  of 
the  houses.    The  heat  of  the  day  was 


over;  the  "dove's  twilight"  had  begun. 
Already  the  decreasing  light  was  assum- 
ing the  duskier  shades  of  the  raven's 
wing.  In  a  few  minutes  more  the  night 
would  be  upon  them. 

"  And  if  it  can  never  be,  Evelyn,"  he 
went  on,  "  the  sooner  we  part  the  better ! " 

Still  on  they  rode  side  by  side  without 
exchanging  a  word.  It  was  quite  dark 
now,  and  the  path  was  scarcely  distin- 
guishable. The  first  stars  were  "sprink- 
ling the  sky:"  the  first  fireflies  were 
flitting  out  and  in  amongst  the  black  foli- 
age of  the  bamboos  that  bordered  the 
side  of  the  road.  A  thick  dew  was  fall- 
ing too;  the  horses'  manes  were  wet  with 
it.  As  for  George,  he  felt  chilled  through 
and  through  to  the  bone. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  as  they 
emerged  upon  the  high  road  at  length,  "  I 
am  glad  we  are  out  of  the  wood;  I  can 
see  the  carriage  lamps  on  the  road  before 
us.    But " 

*^Georf;e  /  "  said  Evelyn,  suddenly  bring- 
ing her  horse  over  beside  his  and  slipping 
her  hand  into  her  cousin's. 

"  How  late  you  are,  children ! "  said 
Mrs.  Durham,  coming  out  to  the  porch  to 
meet  them.  "  Have  you  enjoyed  your 
ride  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  had  a  more  delightful  — 
and  if  I  live  to  a  thousand,  I  shall  never 
forget  this  day !  "  replied  her  nephew. 

"That's  right!"  she  said,  kissing  her 
daughter  as  she  alighted  from  her  horse. 
"And,  Evelyn,  I've  a  piece  of  news  for 
you.  Captain  Hillyard  has  been  here, 
and  tells  me  that  he  is  engaged  to  Miriam 
Da  Costa.  Now,  run  both  of  you,  and 
dress.  Dinner  will  be  ready  in  less  tha\i 
half  an  hour." 

VIII. 

In  the  lives  of  all  men,  and  of  all 
women  also,  there  are  tracts  of  time,  of 
greater  or  less  extent,  that  have  no  his- 
tory. Some  are  happy,  some  are  unhap- 
py. Most  of  them  are  indifferent.  Like 
low-lying  valleys  between  two  mountain 
peaks,  they  serve  to  accentuate  the  events 
which  precede  and  succeed  them.  On 
one  of  these,  George  was  now  about  to 
enter.  It  lasted  till  the  week  before 
Christmas.  It  was  the  happiest  period 
of  his  life.  It  was  the  flowery  crown  of 
Evelyn's.  Their  days  glided  by  as  the 
days  were  wont  to  glide, 

When  Man  was  young,  and  Life  was  epic. 

Jamaica  became,  for  the  nonce,  an  Arca- 
dia; George  and  Evelyn  were  Daphnis 


313 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


and  Chloe.  Loogus  himself  might  have 
found  a  subject  Tor  his  pen  in  the  pure, 
the  faithful,  and  the  cloudless  loves  of 
the  cousins.  But  for  his  diary  —  a  diary 
kept  negligently  and  irregularly,  as  the 
diaries  of  happy  lovers  generally  are,  but 
which,  in  long  after-years,  came  to  be  re- 
garded by  him  as  the  most  precious  of  all 
his  earthly  possessions  —  George  could 
never  have  told  how  this  time  was  passed. 
Day  succeeded  day,  week  followed  week, 
ancf  each  was  brighter  and  happier  and 
more  pleasure-fraught  than  its  predeces- 
sor. One  night  there  was  a  great  ball  at 
Queen's  House,  given  in  George's  honor, 
at  which  Evelyn,  dressed  in  white,  with 
eucharis  in  her  hair,  and  pearls  round  her 
neck,  was  the  belle  and  the  queen.  One 
day  there  was  a  garden-party  at  the  chief 
justice's,  and  dancing  in  a  marquee  to 
the  stirring  strains  of  the  band  of  the 
Second  West;  and  here  again  Evelyn 
bore  off  the  palm  from  all  competitors. 
Another  day  the  excitement  was  the  ar- 
rival of  a  telegram  from  Lady  Durham, 
in  which  she  congratulated  her  son  on 
the  excellence  of  his  choice.  There  were 
entries  of  dinner-parties  innumerable; 
for  all  the  plains  had  deigned  to  approve 
the  engagement,  and  were  anxious  to 
show  their  approval  in  the  orthodox  man- 
ner. 

Then  came  "the  seasons,"  when  all 
festivities  perforce  ceased,  and  George, 
almost  entirely  confined  to  the  house,  was 
fain  to  confess  to  his  journal  that  he  ate 
too  much,  slept  too  much,  could  get  no 
exercise,  and  was  feeling  bilious  and  out 
of  sorts.  But  the  rains  passed  away,  and 
amusement  of  all  kinds  began  again  — 
dinner>parties,  dances,  and  at-homes,  ket- 
tledrums, luncheons,  and  balls.  Every 
day  had  its  function.  It  almost  seemea 
as  if  the  plains  had  taken  it  into  their 
head  that  Jamaica  hospitality  was  on  its 
trial,  and  that  they  were  determined  to 
vindicate  its  claim  to  be  socially  as  well 
as  physically  the  Queen  of  the  Antilles. 

*'  It's  as  bad  as  London  in  the  season," 
wrote  George  in  his  journal.  '*  It  is  a 
never-ceasing  round  of  gaiety  and  dissipa- 
tion. Evelyn  says  it  is  all  meant  out  of 
civility  to  me.  But  sometimes  I  would 
gladly  dispense  with  the  compliment.  I 
am  feeling  the  heat  a  good  deal.  All  the 
blood  in  my  body  seems  collected  in  my 
head.  I  have  not  got  over  my  thirst  yet. 
I  drink  all  day  —  anything  I  can  lay  my 
hands  on.  But  lemonade  —  the  juice  of 
two  or  three  limes  squeezed  into  a  tum- 
bler of  water,  sweetened,  and  with  a  big 
lump  of  ice  in  it  —  is  the  best  of  all." 


It  bad  been  decided,  after  numberless 
family  councils  and  much  communication 
both  by  telegraph  and  by  letter  with  Lady 
Durham  at  Deepdale,  that  George  and 
Evelyn  were  to  be  married  in  England ; 
and  as  there  was  really  no  reason  why  the 
happiness  of  the  lovers  should  be  de- 
layed, Mrs.  Durham  had  determined  that 
she  and  her  daughters  should  go  home 
with  George;  ana  that  as  soon  as  Eve* 
lyn's  trousseau  could  be  got  ready,  the 
marriage  should  take  place.  But  his 
aunt  was  resolved  that  George  should 
adhere  to  his  original  intention,  and  spend 
his  Christmas  in  Jamaica.  Christmas 
Day  was  Evelyn's  birthday;  and  Mrs. 
Durham  designed  to  celebrate  the  double 
event  with  a  dinner  and  a  dance,  which 
should  not  only  be  a  return  for  all  the 
attention  shown  to  George  by  "  the  dwell* 
ers  in  the  plains,"  but  a  .nort  of  official 
announcement  of  her  daughter's  approach- 
ing marriage. 

As  Christmas-tide  approached,  Mrs. 
Durham's  time  was  much  occupied.  Not 
only  were  there  the  preparations  for  her 
ball  to  be  made;  but  the  arrangements 
for  her  contemplated  "trip  off"  necessi- 
tated many  visits  to  Kingston  and  much 
consultation  with  attorneys  and  solicitors. 
The  cousins  were  consequently  left  very 
much  to  themselves. 

It  happened  that  Mrs.  Durham  had 
occasion  to  visit  a  small  property  of  hers 
called  Blairadam  Castle,  about  eleven  or 
twelve  miles  from  Kingston ;  and  as  the 
Falls  of  the  Mammee  River  had  to  be 
passed  on  the  way,  it  was  determined  to 
make  a  picnic  of  the  excursion,  to  give 
George  the  chance  of  seeing  the  only 
waterfall  in  Jamaica.  The  morning  of  the 
expedition  broke  bright  and  clear.  The 
heat  was  great;  but  a  fresh  "Rock" 
wind  —  locally  known  by  the  name  of  "  the 
Doctor"  —  was  blowing,  and  prevented 
it  from  being  oppressive.  The  cavalcade 
started,  shortly  after  breakfast,  in  two 
"  machines."  In  the  first  were  Mrs.  Dur- 
ham and  her  two  younger  daughters.  In 
the  other  —  a  single  buggy,  drawn  by  two 
stubborn  mules,  with  Mannie  the  under- 
groom  hanging  on  to  the  knifeboard  be- 
hind —  a  regular  "planter's  turn  out,"  as 
Mrs.  Durham  called  it —  were  George  and 
Evelyn. 

For  the  first  seven  miles  of  the  journey, 
following  the  course  of  the  Windward 
Road  and  passing  Rock  Fort,  where  the 
convicts  from  the  penitentiary,  under 
charge  of  boatswains  armed  with  loaded 
rifles,  were  at  work  on  the  limestone  quar 
ries,  they  emerged  upon  a  sliingly  beach, 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


aij 


bordered  with  bulrushes  and  the  broad- 
leaved  seaside  ^rape.  Then  came  a  stretch 
of  white  road,  hedged  with  gtg;antic  cactus 
and  prickly-pears ;  then  a  dry  river  to  l)e 
traversed ;  then  another  stretch  of  daz- 
zltncr  road ;  then  another  dry  river,  and  so 
on,  till  they  reached  the  little  roadside  tav- 
ern where  their  mountain  ponies  awaited 
them.  Entering  upon  a  mountain  gorge, 
through  which  flowed  the  impetuous 
Mammee  River,  they  rode  on  for  a  couple 
of  miles  farther.  The  road,  or  rather 
track,  crossed  and  recrossed  the  stream 
no  less  than  seven  times  in  the  most  ec- 
centric manner,  according  as  the  one  side 
or  the  other  of  the  bank  had  been  least 
eaten  away  by  the  late  November  floods. 
At  one  time,  the  travellers  had  actually  to 
wade  their  way  through  the  rough  bed  of 
the  mountain  torrent,  picking  their  steps 
between  blocks  of  limestone  as  large  as 
boulders  on  some  wild  Highland  moor. 

For  the  first  mile  or  so,  there  was  notb^ 
ing  very  particular  either  in  the  scenerv 
or  the  vegetation.  The  fanlike  thatch 
palm  was  common.  The  corato  or  aloe, 
with  its  spike  of  sweet-scented  flowers  — 
from  which,  tradition  relates,  the  idea  of 
the  candlesticks  in  the  Jewishvtabernacle 
was  derived  —  flourished  luxuriantly.  A 
few  llianas  hung  down  from  the  cliffs ;  and 
maiden-hair  and  the  flowering  fern  showed 
fresh  and  green  in  shady  nooks  amongst 
the  rocks.  But  as  they  advanced  farther 
into  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  they  felt 
as  if  getting  into  the  grip  of  a  vice.  The 
walls  of  the  gorge  narrowed,  and  became 
sheer-down  precipices,  almost  bare  of  ver- 
dure, and  rising  to  an  enormous  height. 
The  boulders  in  the  bed  of  the  stream 
grew  larger.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  they 
found  themselves  at  the  foot  of  the  Falls, 
looking  up  at  a  rope  of  water  some  two 
hundred  and  flfty  feet  high,  tearing  down 
over  the  cli£Fs,  and  making  the  whole 
gorge  resound  with  its  rush  and  its  roar 
and  its  shiver.  Crossing  the  stream  once 
again,  they  came  upon  the  Staircase,- a 
partially  covered  ascending  passage,  tun- 
nelled out  of  the  limestone  rock,  which 
led, by  a  winding  and  devious  route  to  the 
top  of  the  Falls.  It  did  not  require  an 
experienced  geological  eye  to  explain  the 
cause  of  this  curious  roadway.  It  was  the 
old  bed  of  the  river,  or  rather  the  outlet 
by  which  it  had  forced  a  way  through  the 
rock,  before  it  found  its  present  issue  in 
the  Falls.  There  were  portions  of  it  al- 
most like  Kits'  Coty  House  in  Cornwall; 
and  the  craggy  masses  which  formed  its 
roof  were  as  distinctly  separated  from  the 
parent  oiass  as  if  they  bad  been  dropped 


down  upon  it  by  a  glacier.  But  the 
rounded  outlines  of  the  inner  surface  of 
this  roof  disclosed  the  action  of  water, 
not  of  ice.  The  spaces  and  crevices  be- 
tween the  stones  were  only  the  result  of 
the  unequal  texture  of  the  limestone  of 
which  the  cliff  was  composed. 

Issuing  from  the  Staircase,  the  trav- 
ellers found  themselves  on  a  flat  plateau, 
shaded  with  magnificent  trees,  through 
the  midst  of  which  ran  the  little  Mammee 
River,  with  its  affluent  the  Cane  River. 
Both  streams  unite  just  before  they  fall 
over  the  clififs.  At  the  point  where  the 
two  conjoined,  the  children  and  the  ser- 
vants were  left  behind  to  prepare  lunch- 
eon ;  whilst  Mrs.  Durham,  George,  and 
Evelyn  continued  their  ride  to  the  old 
dower-house,  which  was  the  goal  of  their 
expedition.  At  every  step,  the  scenery 
became  wilder  and  less  civilized.  Wat- 
tled negro  huts,  bedaubed  with  mud,  with 
children  disporting  themselves  before 
them  in  all  the  sweet  simplicity  of  nature, 
at  least  so  far  as  their  attire  was  con- 
cerned; provision -grounds,  where  the 
yams  and  the  plantains  and  the  cocoas 
and  the  cassavas  appeared  to  be  growing 
out  of  the  barren  rock;  here  a  patch  of 
virgin  forest;  there  the  grass-grown  track 
of  a  "  thrown-up  **  road.  And  elevated 
though  they  were  more  than  a  thousand 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  above  them 
rose  the  eternal  hills,  clad  with  verdure 
even  to  their  summits,  looking  not  one 
whit  the  nearer  than  they  did,  when,  two 
hours  before,  they  were  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  gorge. 

But  the  heat  was  sickening.  They  had 
not  gone  a  mile  before  George  was 
obliged  to  succumb.  His  head,  he  said, 
felt  as  if  it  would  split;  he  was  so  tired 
that  he  could  scarcely  sit  his  horse ;  there 
was  a  haze  before  his  eyes ;  if  he  went  on 
for  Ave  minutes  longer,  he  was  certain  he 
should  have  sunstroke.  He  returned, 
therefore,  with  Evelyn  to  the  place  where 
he  had  left  the  children.  On  a  flat  rock, 
covered  with  a  snowy  tablecloth,  were 
spread  all  the  requisites  for  an  elaborate 
luncheon.  The  mules  and  horses  were 
browsing  peacefully  by  the  waterside. 
The  servants,  some  distance  farther  off, 
were  smoking  their  cutty  pipes  under- 
neath a  clump  of  mango  trees. 

"Now,  George,"  said  Evelyn,  when 
they  had  dismounted  from  their  horses, 
"we  shall  sit  down  here  and  rest  till 
mother  returns.  One  of  you,*'  she  said, 
turning  to  the  servants,  "run  and  fetch 
me  a  cool  plantain  leaf."  And  when  it 
came,  she  bound  it  round  George's  fore- 


214 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


head  with  a  handkerchief;  and  then,  mak- 
ing him  eat  a  morsel  of  turkey,  and  drink 
a  glass  of  champagne,  which  she  poured 
out  for  him  herself,  she  bade  him  light  his 
cigar  and  seat  himself  on  the  rock  by  her 
side. 

"  YouMl  be  better  soon,  dear  George," 
she  said.  "The  plantain  leaf  will  put 
your  headache  away." 

The  rest  and  the  shade  and  the  refresh- 
ment did  him  good.  But  he  could  not 
get  rid  of  his  headache;  on  the  contrary, 
as  the  day  went  on,  it  seemed  to  increase. 
He  felt  languid  and  good  for  nothing. 
He  complained  of  the  hardness  of  his 
saddle,  the  joltino^of  his  horse.  Once  or 
twice,  Mannie,  who  followed  him  on  foot, 
holding  on  by  his  horse's  tail,  had  to  put 
out  his  hand  to  prevent  him  from  falling. 
In  the  carriage  on  the  way  home  —  for 
Mrs.  Durham  had  insisted  upon  his  let- 
ting the  children  take  his  and  Evelyn's 
place  in  the  buggy  —  he  was  restless  and 
fidgety.  Long  before  they  reached  Pros- 
pect Gardens,  Mrs.  Durham  and  her 
daughter  had  communicated  to  each  other, 
by  glances,  the  suspicions  which  had 
simultaneously  crossed  the  minds  of  both. 

"  He's  in  tor  a  touch  of  fever,"  said 
Mrs.  Durham  to  Evelyn,  when  they  had 
reached  their  destination.  **  Send  Mannie 
off  to  Kingston  for  Dr.  Samuelson,  Eve- 
lyn, at  once.  It's  a  great  comfort  we  have 
such  a  nurse  as  old  Nana  to  attend  on 
him." 

**  I  shall  nurse  him  myself,  mother," 
said  Evelyn  resolutely.  "It  is  my  duty. 
But  if  he  gets  very  bad,  I  dare  say  I  shall 
be  thankful  for  Nana's  help." 

There  was  much  sympathy  shown 
Mrs.  Durham  by  all  "the  dwellers  in  the 
plains,"  when  it  was  known  that  her 
nephew  was  "down  with  fever."  The 
young  baronet  was  popular  with  all  that 
pleasant  society;  moreover,  he  was  the 
hero  of  a  little  cfomestic  romance.  Above 
all,  he  was  a  baronet,  and  titles  have  al- 
ways had  their  value  in  the  colonies.  The 
governor  sent  daily  to  inquire  for  him ; 
so  also  did  the  chief  justice  and  the  colo- 
nial secretary,  and  in  fact  everybody  who 
either  had  made,  or  hoped  in  future  to 
make,  his  acquaintance.  At  first,  there 
was  every  appearance  of  its  being  only  a 
slight  attack. 

"One  never  likes  to  prophesy  unless 
one's  sure,"  said  Dr.  Samuelson  after  he 
had  paid  two  or  three  visits ;  "  but  I  fancy 
it's  just  his  acclimatizing  touch  of  country 
fever.    I  hope  it  mayn't  turn  into  any- 


thing worse ;  I  don't  think  ft  will.  There's 
no  yellow  fever  going  about  —  to  speak 
of.  All  the  same,  1  don't  think  it  is  wise 
of  Miss  Durham  to  be  so  much  in  her 
cousin's  room.  She  sits  by  his  bedside 
for  hours.  I  think,  Mrs.  Durham,  you 
should  persuade  her  to  let  old  Nana  do 
a  good  deal  for  him  that  she  insists  upon 
doing  herself.  The  atmosphere  of  a  sick- 
room is  not  the  best  for  a  young  and  deli- 
cate girl." 

But  Evelyn  would  listen  to  no  such 
counsels.  "  You  need  not  be  afraid  for 
me,  doctor,"  she  replied;  "I'm  not  a 
fever  subject.  I've  been  two  years  in 
Jamaica  without  having  had  a  day's  ill- 
ness. You  remember,  mother,  the  year 
before  last,  when  yellow  fever  was  so 
bad  ail  over  the  plains,  and  even  the 
negroes  were  taking  it,  I  never  had  so 
much  as  a  headache.  I'm  a  true  Creole, 
doctor ;  I'm  perfectly  climate-proof.  Don't 
be  afraid." 

"  All  the  same.  Miss  Durham,  don't 
rush  recklessly  into  danger,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  No,  indeed ;  I  shan't.  But  Sir  George 
is  a  bad  patient.  I  don't  believe  he 
would  take  the  medicines  >ou  order  him, 
if  it  were  not  for  me.  It  needs  all  my 
coaxing  and  influence  to  get  him  to  swal- 
low all  the  horrible  things  you  give  him. 
And  he  feels  the  heat  so  much,   he  re- 

?|uires  constant  watching,  to  prevent  him 
rom  catching  cold." 

"Ah  well,"  said  the  doctor;  "since  it 
must  be  so,  I  shall  say  no  more." 

"Dr.  Samuelson  says  you  are  getting 
on  nicely,  George,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
returned  to  her  post  at  her  cousin's  bed- 
side. "  He  does  not  think  it  is  going  to 
be  a  bad  attack.  There's  no  fever  going 
about  just  now.  What  do  you  think  he 
told  me  ?  The  Kingston  papers  are  pub- 
lishing daily  bulletins  about  your  illness  1 
Whenever  he  gets  back  to  his  surgery,  he 
finds  a  reporter  waiting  to  hear  the  latest 
intelligence.  See  what  it  is  to  be  a  favor- 
ite and  a  baronet,  George  !  " 

He  put  his  hand  within  hers. 

"No;  put  your  hand  within  the  clotl^es 
immediately,"  she  said,  "or  I'll  go  away 
and  leave  you.  The  doctor  is  trying  to 
get  your  skin  to  act,  and  there  you  go 
doing  your  best  to  keep  yourself  from 
getting  well!" 

He  drew  in  his  hand  at  once.  "No; 
don't  go!"  he  said.  "I'll  do  any  thing 
you  want  me ;  only  don't  go  and  leave  me. 

0  Evelyn !"  he  continued,  "  I  don't  think 

1  could. -ever  get  better  without  you.  You 
don't  know  how  I  dread  the  nightSi  wheo 


POOR  LITTLE  LIFE. 


3x5 


Nana  takes  your  place,  and  how  I  long 
for  the  daylight  to  see  vou  again  1  '* 

**  Don't  be  foolish,  6eorge,"  she  said. 
**  Of  course,  I  can't  be  with  you  always. 

But "    And  then  she  blushed  a  rosy 

blush.  But  she  left  her  sentence  unfin- 
ished. 

**  But  it  is  quite  true,  Evelyn,"  said 
George,  not  noticing  her  confusion.  **  I 
really  don't  think  I  could  get  better  if 
you  were  to  go  and  leave  me.  And  even 
with  your  nursing,  my  darling,  I  feel  so  ill 
sometimes,  that  I  fear  I  may  never  re- 
cover.    Evelyn,  if  I  die——" 

*'0  hush!"  she  said.  '* Don't  talk 
nonsense,  George.  YouVe  no  more  going 
to  die  than  I  am.  WeVe  both  of  us  going 
to  be  married  In  spring,  and  live  a  hun- 
dred years  at  the  very  least.  We're  very 
near  the  end  of  the  third  volume  now. 
You  know  all  novels  end  with  a  marriage, 
and  *  they  lived  happily  ever  afterwards.* 
And  when  we're  married,"  she  continued, 
still  trying  to  amuse  him,  *^0  George, 
think  how  delightful  it  will  be  when  we  re 
married!  We'll  come  out  to  Jamaica 
every  year,  won't  we,  dear?  and  spend 
our  Christmas  at  Prospect  Gardens! 
And  mother  will  give  us  a  ball  —  "  She 
stopped  short  suddenly.  *'AhI  that  re> 
minds  me.  I  wonder  if  mother  has  sent 
out  notices  putting  ofif  the  one  we  were  to 
have  had  on  Christmas  Day?  Let  roe 
see.  This  is  the  19th.  If  she  has  not, 
there's  no  time  to  be  lost.  If  you'll  spare 
roe  for  a  moment,  George,-  I'll  run  and 
ask  her."  She  left  the  room,  but  returned 
almost  immediately,  saying  it  was  all 
right.  Her  mother  had  written  the  mo- 
ment George's  illness  had  declared  itself. 

"But  it's  only  postponed," added  Eve- 
lyn gaily.  "  Now,  do  get  better  quickly, 
like  a  dear  boy,  and  let  us  have  our  dance 
before  we  go  to  England." 

But  a  day  or  two  afterwards,  George's 
fever  took  an  unfavorable  turn. 

*'  Massa  Garge  dead  for  true  ! "  said  old 
Nana,  clasping  her  withered  hands,  when 
the  first  symptoms  of  the  fatal  black  vomit 
made  their  appearance.  "It  yellow  Jack. 
O  my  poor  missy !  An'  him  such. a  beau- 
tiful buckra  too;"  and  seizing  Evelyn's 
band,  she  covered  it  with  tears  and  kisses. 

Dr.  Samuelson  was  hastily  sent  for, 
and  arrived  only  to  confirm  the  terrible 
news. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  yellow  fever,"  he  said, 
shaking  his  head  gravely.  **  Don't  lose 
hope,  dear  Mrs.  Durham.  I've  seen 
cases  as  bad  as  this  in  which  the  patient 
has  recovered.  Sir  George  has  an  excel- 
lent constitution.    We  must  hope  for  the 


best.  In  the  mean  time,  we  must  try  to 
fight  against  that  unnatural  drowsiness. 
That  sleepiness  is  the  first  stage  of  coma, 
and  if  coma  ensues  —  "  The  doctor 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

**  I  am  going  to  sit  up  with  him  to-night, 
mother,"  said  Evelyn,  when  the  doctor 
had  taken  his  departure.  "  Nana  can  lie 
down  on  the  pallet  at  the  foot  of  his  bed, 
if  she  likes.  But  Nana  is  getting  old,  and 
if  anything  "  —  her  voice  trembled  —  •*  if 
anything  was  to  happen  to  him,  I  should 
never  forgive  myself!  No,  mother!'* 
she  continued,  seeing  her  mother  was 
about  to  speak;  "there  is  no  use  trying 
to  dissuade  me.     My  mind  is  made  up. 

If  George  dies "    She  burst  into  a 

flood  of  tears. 

"Miss  Ebelyn!"  said  Nana,  entering 
the  apartment,  "Massa  Garge  would  like 
speak  wid  you.  Him  cry  him  head  pain 
him  so." 

"Tell  him.  Nana,  I'm  coming  directly. 
Get  a  fresh  ice-bag  ready,  and  take  it  into 
his  room.  You  might  take  my  dressing- 
gown  with  you  too,  Nanal  I'm  going  to 
help  you  to  nurse  him  to-night.  It's  nearly 
ten  o'clock  now,  mother  dear,  so  I'd  better 
say  good-night.  If  he's  better  to-morrow 
morning,"  she  whispered  in  her  mother's 
ear  as  she  kissed  her,  "  it  will  be  all  right 
yet.  It's  the  ninth  day,  you  know.  Good- 
night, dearest  mother;  and  don't  forget 
us  both,"  she  added  softly,  "in  your 
prayers." 

X. 

Towards  morning,  the  patient  fell  into 
a  gentle  slumber  —  a  slumber  which  old 
Nana's  experienced  eye  at  once  detected 
as  being  different  from  the  drowsiness 
which  had  occasioned  so  much  anxiety; 
and  when,  shortlv  after  daylight.  Dr. 
Samuelson  entered  the  sick-room,  he  saw 
at  a  glance  that  the  .crisis  was  past. 

"  He  owes  his  life,  under  God,  to  you. 
Miss  Durham ! "  said  the  doctor,  address- 
ing Evelyn.  "There  are  influences  in 
this  world  more  subtle  than  medicine  — 
influences  both  to  kill  and  to  cure.  Yours 
is  one  of  the  latter.  I  believe  your  mere 
presence  in  the  sick-chamber  has  done 
him  more  good  than  all  the  resources  of 
art.  But "  He  stopped  short  sud- 
denly. "  Let  me  feel  your  pulse,"  he  said 
to  tlie  girl,  looking  her  in  the  face.  "  I 
think  you  had  better  go  and  lie  down. 
Miss  Evelyn.  You've  overtaxed  your 
strength,  I'm  afraid.  You  can  leave  Sir 
George  to  Nana  with  perfect  confidence 
now.  The  worst  is  over.  Go  and  lie 
down  as  quickly  as  possible.    I'll  bring 


2l6 


POOR   LITTLE   LIFE. 


yoo  something  to  take,  the  moment  I  hear 
you  are  in  your  bed." 

Evelyn  stooped  down  and  kissed  her 
sleeping  cousin,  and  turned  towards  the 
door.  Then  returning,  she  kissed  him 
once  more.  But  as  she  was  leaving  the 
room,  she  reeled,  and  put  her  hand  to  her 
head.  Dr.  Samuelson  sprang  forward 
just  in  time  to  save  her  from  falling. 

"Take  Miss  Durham  and  put  her  to 
bed  at  once ! "  he  said  to  the  old  nurse 
with  an  air  of  authority.  *'  And  ask  Mrs. 
Durham  to  go  down  and  sit  beside  her  till 
I  come." 

Just  then,  George  opened  his  eyes. 
**  Evelyn  ! "  he  cried  in  a  feeble  voice. 

"Good-morning,  Sir  George  ! "  said  the 
doctor  cheerfully,  advancing  to  the  bed- 
side. "  How^  are  you  this  morning? 
Better,  I  am  sure  ?  *'  laying  his  fingers  on 
his  pulse. 

George  shook  his  head.  "  I  think  not, 
doctor.  I  feel  so  weak,  weaker  than  I 
have  done  yet.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  hardly 
raise  my  hand.  Where  is  Miss  Durham  ? 
Where  is  Evelyn  ?*' 

"  A  good  sign,"  said  Dr.  Samuelson ; 
"none  better.  You  can't  expect  to  feel 
particularly  strong,  after  so  sharp  a  touch 
of  fever.  But  you'll  do  now,  Sir  George ; 
you're  on  the  right  road  now." 

"  Where  is  my  cousin,  doctor  ?  She 
was  with  me  all  night." 

"  Miss  Evelyn  ?  Oh,  she's  gone  to  lie 
down  for  a  little;  she's  a  little  tired  with 
being  up  all  night.  I've  sent  her  to  try  to 
get  a  sleep.  You  must  try  to  do  without 
her  to-day.  Sir  George.  A  young  lady's 
strength  is  not  so  great  as  that  of  an  old 
nigger's,  and  I  think  she's  been  overtax- 
ing her  powers  these  last  few  days." 

"  Is  she  ill,  doctor?"  said  the  patient, 
trying  to  raise  himself  in  his  bed. 

"  Lie  down  ;  pray,  be  still,  my  dear  Sir 
George !  You'll  never  get  better  unless 
you  try  to  keep  calm.  No,  no;  not  ill. 
Miss  Evelyn's  not  ill  —  only  a  little  over- 
fatigued,  you  know.  A  good  sleep  will 
put  her  all  right.  Oh,  here's  Nana!  — 
Nana,  stay  with  Sir  George  till  I  return. 
I'm  going  up-stairs  to  write  a  prescrip- 
tion. Meantime,  you  can  give  our  pa- 
tient a  little  of  that  jelly.  You  must  try 
and  take  some  nourishment  now  —  not 
too  much  at  first,  you  know."  And  nod- 
ding cheerfully  to  his  patient,  he  left  the 
room. 

The  morning  passed ;  the  noontide 
came  and  went,  but  no  Evelyn  came  to 
cheer  the  sick  man  with  her  gracious 
presence. 

It  struck  George,  as  be  lay  there  weary- 


ing for  her  coming,  that  never  since  the 
commencement  of  his  illness  had  be  re- 
ceived so  little  attention.  Nana  seemed 
constantly  leaving  the  room;  and  once 
when  she  returned,  he  fancied  he  saw  the 
marks  of  recent  tears  on  her  worn  and 
wrinkled  countenance.  The  doctor's 
visits  were  fewer  and  shorter  than  ever. 
As  for  his  aunt,  she  looked  in  only  once 
during  the  day,  staying  only  a  few  minutes. 
In  answer  to  his  inquiries  about  her 
daughter,  she  said  Evelyn  was  still  in 
bed ;  and  then,  making  some  excuse,  she 
hurriedly  left  the  apartment. 

He  passed  a  miserable  day.  He  could 
not  understand  why  his  betrothed  stayed 
away.  He  felt  hurt  —  deeply  hurt  —  at  her 
treatment  of  him.  And  why,  if  he  was 
getting  better,  did  every  one  shun  his 
chamber?  Above  all,  why  was  he  left 
alone  so  often  and  so  long  ? 

Not  even  from  Dr.  Samuelson,  when  he 
came  to  pay  his  evening  visit,  did  he  ob- 
tain the  satisfaction  or  the  information 
that  he  desired.  The  doctor  was  hur- 
ried, grave,  and  taciturn.  He  told  George 
he  was  going  on  nicely.  But  when  he 
asked  for  Evelyn,  he  evaded  saying  any- 
thing about  her,  by  telling  him  he  had  not 
seen  her  yet.  Tnen,  bidding  George  a 
hasty  good-night,  he  left  him  alone  with 
Nana. 

The  night  passed  somehow.  But  to 
George  it  was  a  night  both  of  uneasiness 
and  mystery.  It  seemed  to  his  fevered 
imagination  as  if  something  unusual  was 
going  on.  There  were  noises  forever  on 
the  stairs,  in  the  room  above  him,  in  the 
piazzas.  There  were  lights  constantly 
passing  and  repassing  across  the  court- 
yard. At  times,  he  thought  he  caught 
the  sound  of  mufHed  sobs.  Once  —  it 
was  just  about  second  cockcrow  —  he  was 
certain  he  heard  a  woman's  despairing 
scream. 

It  was  late  before  he  slept,  and  whea 
he  did  sleep,  it  was  a  troubled,  uneasy 
slumber,  broken  by  dreams  like  the  vis* 
ions  of  a  nightmare  —  a  sleep  which  gave 
him  no  refreshment,  and  brought  with  it 
no  solace.  Towards  morning,  he  awoke 
with  a  start.  To  his  great  surprise,  he 
found  that  he  was  alone  in  the  room-^ 
even  old  Nana  had  deserted  him.  He 
could  not  understand  it.  What  did  it  all 
mean  ?  But  he  was  too  drowsy  to  be  able 
to  reason  out  the  matter.  He  turned  over 
to  the  other  side,  and  in  five  minutes  after, 
he  was  asleep  again. 

When  he  next  awoke,  it  was  broad  day- 
light. It  was  Christmas  morning —  Eve 
lyn's  birthday.    The  birds  were  singing 


SOME  THINGS  OF  OLD  SPAIN. 


217 


ki  the  trees ;  the  sunlight  was  pouring  in 
throagh  the  jalousies  of  his  chamber. 
All  was  quiet,  tranquil,  and  still.  A  Christ- 
mas feeling  seemed  to  pervade  all  nature. 
In  fancy,  he  almost  heard  the  angelic 
voices  singing,  — 

Peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  men. 
As  he  lay  there,  revelling  in  the  light  and 
the  joy  and  the  sunshine,  the  door  opened 
softly,  and  Mrs.  Durham  appeared.  She 
was  clad  in  a  long  white  dressing-gown. 
Her  face  was  very  pale,  and  there  were 
deep  blue  circles  round  her  eyes,  which 
spoke  of  a  night  of  watching,  perhaps  of 
weeping. 

**Aunt!"  said  George,  as  she  ap- 
proached his  bedside,  **  what  brings  you 
here  at  this  hour  of  the  morning?  How 
is  Evelyn  ?"  he  said,  without  pausing  for 
a  reply,  for  something  in  her  face  excited 
bis  gravest  apprehensions. 

**  Better,  dear,"  she  replied  in  the  calm, 
low  voice  which  was  habitual  to  her. 
••Better —  much  better,  now.** 

**Is  she  up  yet?  It  is  her  birthday  1 
Shall  I  see  her  soon  ?  ** 

•*  No ;  j-ou  can't  see  her,  George,"  she 
answered,  with  an  almost  imperceptible 
tremor  in  her  voice.  **  But  she  sends  you 
this,  and  her  dearest  love,  and  wishes  you 
a  happy  Christmas  and  many  of  them." 
She  bent  down  and  kissed  him  on  his 
brow,  and  placed  a  little  Prayer-book  in 
his  hand. 

He  took  it,  half  awed,  half  wondering  at 
her  manner,  and  as  he  opened  it,  there 
fell  out  a  lock  of  Evelyn's  auburn  hair. 
''It  is  Evelyn's  Prayer-book,  and  this  is 
her  hair,"  said  her  nephew.  "  What  does 
it  all  mean,  aunt  ?  " 

For  only  answer,  the  bereaved  mother 
fell  on  her  knees  by  his  bed  in  an  agony 
of  tears. 

In  the  little  churchyard  of  Halfway 
Tree,  close  to  the  gateway  where  the  gen- 
trv  congregate  after  service  00  Sundays, 
whilst  waiting  for  their  carriages,  half 
hidden  amongst  the  profuse  growth  of 
flowers  and  greenery  which  surrounds  it, 
stands  a  pure  white  marble  cross,  which 
marks  the  grave  of  a  young  girl.  Years 
have  passed  since  that  poor  little  life 
found  its  last  resting-place  in  that  quiet 
grave.  But  any  one  who  is  curious  may 
yet  read  the  inscription  upon  it.  It  is 
this:  — 

Evelyn  Durham 

Went  to  her  rest  on  the  i8th  anniversary 
of  her  birthday. 

ytfAM  zv.  13th  verse. 


From  All  The  Year  Round. 
SOME  THINGS  OF  OLD  SPAIN. 

Quite  at  the  opening  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  the  Countess  Danois,  a  lady  of 
high  social  position  at  the  French  court, 
was  minded  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  kinswoman 
married  to  a  Spanish  grandee  of  rank  and 
influence,  who  resided  for  the  most  part 
at  Madrid.  The  countess  appears  to  have 
possessed  considerable  powers  of  obser- 
vation, combined  with  the  tendency  to 
hasty  generalization  which  characterizes 
the  French  people,  but  which  also  imparts 
an  indescribable  vivacity  and  sprightliness 
to  their  narrative  corresp>ondence.  It  is, 
perhaps,  unnecessary  to  premise  that  in 
all  compari.sons  the  Spaniards  and  their 
usages  are  pronounced  decidedly  inferior 
to  Frenchmen,  though  accredited  with 
many  excellent  qualities  and  accomplish- 
ments. 

At  that  period  no  country  in  Europe 
had  much  reason  to  boast  of  its  city 
streets  or  country  roads,  but  Spain  seems 
to  have  enjoyed  a  peculiarly  bad  pre-emi- 
nence in  that  respect.  Even  in  Madrid, 
the  streets  are  described  as  "  long  and 
even,  and  of  a  good  largeness,  but  there 
is  no  place  worse  paved.  Let  one  go  as 
softly  as  possible,  yet  one  is  almost  jum- 
bled and  shaken  to  pieces.  There  are 
more  ditches  and  dirty  places  than  in  any 
city  in  the  world.  The  horses  go  up  to 
the  bellies,  and  the  coaches  up  to  the 
middle,  so  that  it  dashes  all  upon  you,  and 
your  clothes  are  spoiled,  unless  you  either 
pull  up  the  gla.sses,  or  draw  the  curtains 
very  often.  The  water  comes  into  the 
coaches  at  the  bottom  of  the  boots,  which 
are  open."  Notwithstanding  the  filthy 
condition  of  the  streets,  it  was  a  common 
practice  for  dashing  young  cavalleros  to 
walk  by  the  side  of  a  carriage  containing 
ladies  to  whom  they  desired  to  be  partic- 
ularly attentive,  and  it  may  be  imagined 
that  their  brilliant  costumes  were  not 
beautified  by  the  operation.  A  worse  fate 
often  befell  those  who  at  nightfall  threaded 
their  way  through  the  dark  thoroughfares 
with  the  intention  of  .serenading  the  object 
of  their  passing  adoration,  for  in  Madrid, 
as  in  Edinburgh,  it  was  customary  to 
empty  the  slops  of  the  household  out  of 
the  windows. 

Apparently  to  compensate  for  the  slow- 
ness of  locomotion  in  the  capital,  fashion 
exacted  a  tremendous  pace  in  the  country, 
with  the  not  unfrequent  result  of  an  upset, 
or,  at  least,  of  a  broken  axle-tree,  or  a 
wheel  coming  to  grief.  Mules  were  in 
greater  request  than  horses,  six  being 


ai8 


SOME  THINGS  OF  OLD  SPAIN. 


harnessed  to  a  carriage  in  rural  districts, 
but  only  four  in  the  capital.  The  traces, 
made  of  silk  or  hemp,  were  outrageously 
long,  so  that  the  interval  between  each 
pair  of  animals  exceeded  three  ells.  The 
coachman,  instead  of  occupying  the  box- 
seat,  rode  one  of  the  foremost  mules,  lest 
he  should  overhear  the  conversation  going 
on  beliind  his  back,  as  happened  in  the 
case  of  the  coachman  of  the  Duke  d'Oli- 
vares,  who  revealed  a  matter  of  great  im* 
portance  with  which  he  had  thus  become 
acquainted. 

Country  houses,  when  not  actually  in- 
habited, were  shut  up  and  abandoned  to 
the  winds  of  heaven.  The  Escurial  itself 
was  practically  left  unguarded.  Travel- 
lers were  thus  obliged  to  take  with  them 
whatever  provisions  they  were  likely  to 
require  during  their  excursion,  for  even 
bread  was  seldom  procurable,  and  never 
of  good  quality.  Country  inns  were  sim- 
ply detestable.  The  entrance  was  always 
through  the  stable,  in  which  mules  and 
muleteers  were  huddled  promiscuously. 
Access  to  the  habitable  part  of  the  house 
was  obtained  by  means  of  a  ladder,  at  the 
head  of  which  stood  the  hostess  in  holi- 
day attire,  having  made  the  new  arrivals 
wait  in  their  litters  until  she  was  pre- 
sentable. Having  at  last  got  thus  far, 
**  you  are  showed  a  chamber  whose  walls 
are  white  enough,  hun^  with  a  thousand 
little  scurvy  pictures  ofsaints.  The  beds 
are  without  curtains,  the  covertures  of 
cotton,  the  sheets  as  large  as  napkins,  and 
the  napkins  like  pocket-handkerchiefs; 
and  you  must  be  in  some  considerable 
town  to  find  four  or  five  of  them ;  for  in 
other  places  there  are  none,  no  more  than 
there  are  forks.  They  have  only  a  cup  in 
the  house;  and  if  the  mule-drivers  get 
first  hold  of  it,  which  commonly  happens 
if  they  please  (for  they  are  served  with 
more  respect  than  those  whom  they 
bring),  you  must  stay  patiently  till  they 
have  done  with  it,  or  drink  out  of  an 
earthen  pitcher." 

The  only  fire  at  which  a  wet  and  shiver* 
ing  traveller  could  hope  to  dry  and  warm 
himself  was  in  the  kitchen,  to  which  there 
was  no  chimney,  the  smoke  escaping 
through  a  hole  in  the  ceiling.  **  I  think,'' 
the  countess  remarks,  **  there  cannot  be  a 
better  representation  of  hell  than  these 
sort  of  kitchens  and  the  persons  in  them ; 
for,  not  to  speak  of  this  horrible  smoke, 
which  blinds  and  chokes  one,  there  are  a 
dozen  men  and  as  many  women,  blacker 
than  devils,  nasty,  and  stinking  like  swine, 
and  clad  like  beggars.  There  are  always 
some  of  them  impudently  grating  on  a 


sorry  guitar  and  singing  like  a  cat  roast- 
ing.'' The  women  had  their  hair  di- 
shevelled and  hanging  about  their  ears, 
with  glass  necklaces  **  twisted  about  their 
necks  like  ropes  of  onions,"  but  which 
served  to  "cover  the  nastiness  of  their 
skin."  They  were  also  given  to  pilfering, 
and  regardea  the  eighth  commandment  as 
a  dead  letter. 

'  No  matter  at  what  hour  the  traveller 
arrived,  he  would  find  nothing  in  the 
house  fit  to  eat  or  drink.  A  messenger 
had  to  be  sent  round  to  the  different 
shops  to  buy  meat,  bread,  groceries,  and . 
wine,  and  then  the  cooking  spoiled  every* 
thing.  Mutton  was  fried  with  oil,  par* 
tridges  were  dried  up  to  a  cinder,  roast 
joints  were  served  up  as  black  as  smoke 
and  dirty  fingers  could  make  them.  The 
fish-pasties  might  have  been  good  bad 
thev  not  been  stuffed  with  garlic,  safiEron, 
ancf  pepper ;  while  the  bread,  though  white 
and  sweet,  was  so  badly  kneaded  and 
baked  that  it  lay  **  as  heavy  as  lead  in  the 
stomach."  It  was  made  in  the  shape  of 
flat  cakes,  about  the  thickness  of  a  man's 
finger.  The  grapes,,  however,  were  largo 
and  of  delicate  flavor,  and  the  lettuces  so 
excellent  that  the  whole  world  could  not 
afford  better. 

The  militia  may  have  been  good  food 
for  powder,  but  the  description  of  them, 
reminds  one  of  Sir  John  FalstafPs  tatter- 
demalions. "  You  shall  seldom  see,"  said 
Don  Sancho  Sanniento,  *Mn  a  whole  regi- 
ment any  soldier  that  has  more  shirts  than 
that  on  his  back,  and  the  stuff  they  wear 
seems  for  its  coarseness  to  be  made  of 
pack-thread.  Their  shoes  are  made  of 
cord ;  thev  wear  no  stockings ;  yet  every 
man  has  tiis  peacock  or  dunghill-cock's 
feather  in  his  cap,  which  is  tied  up  be- 
hind, with  a  rag  about  his  neck  in  form 
of  a  ruff;  their  swords  oftentimes  hang 
by  their  sides,  tied  with  a  bit  of  cord, 
and  without  anv  scabbard.  The  rest  of 
their  arms  is  seldom  in  better  order." 

The  postal  arrangements  left  much  to 
be  desired.  Letters  were  put  into  a  sack, 
tied  with  rotten  cord  to  the  shoulders  of 
the  postmen,  or  **  foot-posts "  as  they 
were  called,  and  as  these  worthies  were  in 
the  habit  of  drinking  themselves  drunk» 
the  contents  of  their  wallets  often  fell  into 
wrong  hands.  It  seems  strange  to  as  at 
the  present  day  that  the  Countess  Danois 
and  one  of  her  companions,  Don  Frede- 
rigo  de  Cardonna,  should  have  diverted 
themselves  with  opening  and  reading 
some  letters  which  had  accidentally  been 
dropped  on  the  staircase,  and  that  one  of 
them  should  have  been  translated  for  the 


SOME  THINGS  OF  OLD  SPAIN. 


319 


benefit  of  the  countess's  correspondent  in 
France.  Neither  the  lady  nor  the  cava- 
lier appears  to  have  thought  that  there 
was  anything  objectionable  in  their  con* 
duct.  The  countess  had  barely  finished 
transcribing  the  purloined  letter  when  she 
received  a  visit  from  the  alcalde's  son, 
who  is  described  as  a  ^uap^  correspond- 
ing to  our  dandy  or  exquisite. 

**  His  iiair  was  parted  on  the  crown  of 
his  bead,  and  tied  behind  with  a  blue  rib- 
bon, about  four  fingers'  breadth,  and  about 
two  yards  long,  which  hung  down  at  its 
full  length ;  his  breeches  were  of  black 
velvet,  buttoned  down  on  each  knee  with 
five  or  six  buttons ;  he  had  a  vest  on  so 
short  that  it  scarce  reached   below  his 
pockets,  a  scolloped  doublet,  with  hanging 
sleeves,  about  four  fingers'  breadth,  made 
of  white  embroidered  sattin.     His  cloak 
was  of  black  bays,  and  he,  being  a  spark, 
had  wrapped  it  round  his  arm,  because 
this  is  more  gallant,   with   a   very  light 
buckler  in  his  hand,  and  which  has  a  steel 
pike  standing  out  in  the   middle;  they 
carry  it  with  them  when  they  walk  in  the 
night  on  any  occasion  ;  he  held  in  the 
other  hand  a  sword,  longer  than  an  half- 
pike,  and  the  iron  for  its  guard  was  enough 
to  make  a  breast  and  back  plate.    These 
swords  being  so  long  that  they  cannot  be 
drawn  out  unless  a  man  has  the  arms  of  a 
giant,  the  sheath  therefore  flies  open  in 
laying  the  finger  on  a  little  spring.     He 
had  likewise  a  dagger,  whose  blade  was 
very  narrow;  it  was  fastened  to  his  belt 
00  his  back ;  he  had  such  a  straight  col- 
lar that  he  could  neither  stoop  nor  turn 
about  his   head.     Nothing  can  be  more 
ridiculous  than  what  they  wear  about  their 
necks,  for  it  is  neither  a  ruff,  band,  nor 
cravat.     His  hat  was  of  a  prodigious  size, 
with  a  great  band  twisted  about  it,  bigger 
than  a  mourning  one.     His  shoes  were  of 
as  fine  leather  as  that  whereof  gloves  are 
made,  and  all  slashed  and  cut,  notwith- 
standing the  cold,  and  so  exactly  close  to 
his  feet,  and  having  no  heels,  that  they 
seemed  rather  pasted  on.     In  entering  he 
made  me  a  reverence  after  the  Spanish 
fashion,  his  two  legs  cross  one  another, 
and  stooping  as  women  do  when   they 
salute  one  another;  he  was  strongly  per- 
fumed,  and  they  are  all  so." 

A  few  leagues  from  Madrid,  Countess 
Daoois  was  invited  to  dine  at  a  fine  house 
belonging  to  an  old  gentleman  named 
Don  Augustin  Pachelo,  who  had  lately 
married  his  third  wife.  Donna  Theresa 
de  Fegueroa,  a  lovely  young  girl  of  •*  sweet 
seventeen."  Although  it  was  ten  o'clock 
the  lady  bad  not  yet  left  her  bed,  to  which 


the  countess  was  conducted,  while  the 
gentlemen  remained  in  the  gallery,  **be- 
cause  it  is  not  the  custom  in  Spain  for 
men  to  go  into  women's  chambers  while 
they  are  in  bed;  even  a  brother  had  not 
this  privilege,  unless  his  sister  be  sick." 
So  particular  were  the  Spaniards  in  some 
matters,  that  before  Donna  Theresa  ven- 
tured to  put  on  her  stockings  and  shoes 
she  locked  and  bolted  the  door,  saying 
that  she  would  rafher  die  than  that  the 
gentlemen  should  see  her  feet,  which 
happened  to  be  remarkably  small.  The 
first  thing  in  the  morning  and  the  last 
thing  at  night  was  to  take  a  little  cup  full 
of  red  paint,  and  with  a  good-sized  pencil 
lay  it  on  cheeks  and  chin,  under  the  nose, 
over  the  eyebrows  and  tips  of  the  ears, 
and  even  inside  the  palms  and  fingers  of 
the  hand.  Donna  Theresa  confessed  that 
she  would  rather  dispense  with  all  this 
painting,  but  could  not  do  so  as  the  cus- 
tom was  universal.  One  of  her  women 
perfumed  her  from  head  to  foot  with  the 
smoke  of  choice  pastilles,  while  another 
squirted  through  her  teeth  a  shower  of 
orange-flower  water  over  her  face.  Din- 
ner was  served  at  an  early  hour,  a  cloth 
being  laid  on  a  table  for  the  gentlemen, 
and  on  the  floor  for  the  ladies  —  a  remi- 
niscence of  the  Moorish  times  whea 
women  occupied  a  very  inferior  position 
in  the  social  system.  The  countess,  how- 
ever, was  unable  to  accomplish  the  feat 
of  dining  with  her  legs  under  her,  so  that 
in  the  end  the  ladies  were  likewise  pro- 
moted to  the  dignity  of  sitting  at  the  ta- 
ble, though  Donna  Theresa  was  a  little 
awkward  at  first,  and  explained  that  she 
had  never  before  sat  on  a  chair. 

In  Madrid  the  number  of  domestic  ser- 
vants that  every  rich  man  was  expected  to 
maintain  was  an  intolerable  nuisance. 
The  menial  servants,  indeed,  were  paid 
no  more  than  two  reals  a  day  for  food  and 
wages,  or  about  sixpence  of  the  English 
currency  of  the  period.  Nor  did  the 
"gentlemen"  attendants  receive  above 
fifteen  crowns  a  month,  "with  which  they 
must  wear  velvet  in  winter  and  taffaty  in 
summer,  but  then  they  live  upon  onions, 
pease,  and  such  like  mean  stuff,  and  this 
makes  the  pages  and  footmen  as  greedy 
as  dogs."  Indeed,  the  Spaniards  were 
exceedingly  temperate  when  eating  and 
drinking  at  their  own  expense,  but  were 
not  so  easily  satisfied  when  feasting  at 
another's  cost.  "  I  have  seen,"  remarks 
the  countess,  ''persons  of  the  highest 
quality  eat  with  us  like  so  many  wolves, 
they  were  so  hungry."  They  themselves 
ascribed  their  voracity  to  the  excellencQ 


220 


SOME  THINGS  OF  OLD  SPAIN. 


of  the  French  ragouts.  For  the  most 
part  the  Spaniards  drank  very  little  wine, 
and  that  much  diluted.  At  the  death  of 
the  head  of  a  family  the  servants  were 
transferred,  as  an  addition  to  the  house- 
hold of  his  son  and  successor.  The 
women  servants  usually  were  taken  over 
by  a  dau<;hter,  or  daughter-in-law,  when 
the  mother  died,  and  so  on  to  the  fourth 
generation.  Very  often  they  were  not 
required  to  do  any  work  at  all,  but  were 
expected  to  present  themselves  now  and 
again  to  show  that  they  were  still  in  the 
land  of  the  living.  The  Duchess  of 
Ossuna  told  the  countess,  who  was  as- 
tonished to  see  so  many  chambermaids 
and  waiting-women,  that  she  had  got  rid 
of  five  hundred,  and  had  then  only  three 
hundred  in  her  service.  The  king,  it  was 
said,  had  fully  ten  thousand  persons  de- 
pendent on  him  in  Madrid  alone.  For  all 
that  it  was  forbidden,  save  in  the  case  of 
ambassadors  and  strangers,  to  go  out 
with  more  than  three  attendants,  of  whom 
one  must  be  a  groom,  to  walk  or  run  by 
the  side  of  the  horses,  **to  hinder  them 
from  putting  and  entangling  their  legs  in 
their  long  traces."  The  groom  was  not 
suffered  to  carry  a  sword,  as  the  footmen 
did.  All  three  were  middle-aged  men, 
of  a  tawny  hue  and  clownish  aspect,  with 
their  hair  cut  close  on  the  top  of  their 
heads. 

A  truly  Oriental  custom  existed  in  those 
days,  which  was  often  attended  with  much 
inconvenience.  If  one  inadvertently 
praised  any  article  belonging  to  another, 
the  latter  was  bound  to  urge  its  accep- 
tance on  the  admirer.  The  Countess 
Danois  chanced  to  compliment  Don  An- 
tonio of  Toledo,  son  to  the  Duke  of  Alva, 
on  the  beautv  of  his  harness,  which  was 
of  an  Isabella  color.  He  replied  that  he 
laid  them  at  her  feet,  and  that  same  even- 
ing she  was  informed  that  his  six  horses 
were  in  her  stable,  and  it  was  with  great 
difficulty  that  she  induced  him  to  take 
them  back  again.  She  herself,  at  the 
very  outset,  had  a  disagreeable  experi- 
ence of  this  custom.  She  was  in  the 
habit  of  winding  up  her  watch  at  noon, 
the  ordinary  dinner-hour,  and  one  of  her 
women  brought  it  to  her  as  usual  for  that 
purpose.  It  was  a  striking  watch  of 
Tompion*s  make,  and  cost  fifty  louis  d*or. 
Her  banker,  who  was  seated  beside  her, 
expressed  curiosity  to  look  at  it.  Where- 
upon she  carelessly  handed  it  to  him,  with 
a  few  words  of  civility.  To  her  dismay 
he  rose,  made  her  a  profound  reverence, 
avowed  his  unworthiness  to  receive  such 
a  favor,  and  protested  that  he  would  never 


part  with  the  watch  under  anv  circum« 
stances.  He  then  kissed  it,  and  dropped 
it  into  his  capacious  pocket. 

Male  and  female  dwarfs  constituted  a 
never-failing  feature  in  every  rich  house- 
hold. Both  sexes  were  hideously  ugly, 
but  the  women  looked  especially  repulsive 
from  their  hair  hanging  loose  about  their 
ears,  and  reaching  to  the  ground.  They 
were  clad  in  rich  apparel,  and  being  in 
their  mistress's  confidence,  were  denied 
nothing  they  coveted. 

Farthingales  were  no  longer  of  such  a 
prodigious  bigness  that  hardly  any  doors 
were  wide  enough  for  them.  At  that  time 
the  overgrown  article  was  worn  only  ia 
the  presence  of  royalty.  Elsewhere  la- 
dies contented  themselves  with  a  vest- 
ment of  much  smaller  dimensions,  **  made 
of  thick  copper  wire  in  a  round  form, 
about  the  girdle;  there  are  ribbons  fas- 
tened to  them,  with  which  they  tie  an- 
other round  of  the  same  form,  which  falls 
down  a  little  lower,  and  which  is  wider ; 
and  of  these  they  have  five  or  six  rounds 
which  reach  down  to  the  ground,  and 
bear  out  their  petticoats  and  other  gar- 
ments.** 

The  Spanish  women  being,  as  a  rule,  of 
short  stature,  they  supplemented  nature 
by  walking  on  tall  pattens,  as  high  as 
smalt  stilts.  They  have  certainly  im- 
proved in  their  gait  since  those  days, 
when  they  kept  their  elt)ows  close  to  their 
sides  and  glided  along  with  great  rapidity, 
without  raising  their  feet,  though  they 
made  slow  and  awkward  progress  with 
their  six-inch-high  pattens.  Not  unfre- 
quently  they  wore  a  dozen  undergarments, 
and  never  fewer  than  seven  or  eight  ia 
the  hottest  weather.  The  fashion  of  their 
dress  was  quite  unsuitable  to  their  abnor- 
mal leanness,  which  they  regarded  as  a 
beauty.  In  front  their  bodies  were  shaped 
very  high,  but  behind  they  were  cut 
very  low,  and  made  a  great  display  of 
the  brown  skin**glewed  to  their  backs.'* 
Their  shoulders,  however,  were  relieved 
by  red  paint.  Their  hands  were  small, 
white,  and  well-shaped.  People  of  quality 
indulged  in  very  fine  linen,  which  was  so 
scarce  and  dear  that  the  commonalty, 
whose  vanity  made  them  ape  their  betters, 
were  constrained  to  make  shift  with  a 
single  garment,  and  while  it  was  being 
washed  they  either  remained  in  bed  or 
went  about  without  one.  In  the  matter 
of  jewellery,  Spanish  ladies  were  very 
extravagant.  Precious  stones,  however, 
were  badly  set,  being  over-framed  in  gold. 
It  was  not  enough,  as  in  France,  to  pos 
seas  one  costly  set    Fasbioa  demaoded 


SOME  THINGS   OF  OLD  SPAIN. 


921 


that  a  Spanish  ladv  should  have  eight  or 
ten  sets,  some  of  diamonds,  others  of 
rabies,  emeralds,  pearls,  and  turquoises. 
**The  ladies,"  as  we  learn  from  the  Count- 
ess Danois,  "wear  at  the  top  of  their 
stavs  a  broad  knot  of  diamonds,  from 
whence  there  hangs  a  chain  of  pearls,  or 
ten  or  twelve  knots  of  diamonds,  which 
they  fasten  at  the  other  end  to  their  sides. 
They  never  wear  any  necklace,  but  they 
wear  bracelets,  rings,  and  pendants ;  the 
latter  of  which  are  longer  than  a  person's 
hand,  and  so  heavy  that  I  have  wondered 
how  they  could  carry  them  without  tear- 
ing out  the  lobes  of  their  ears,  to  which 
they  add  whatever  they  think  pretty.  I 
have  seen  some  have  large  watches  hang- 
ing there,  others  padlocs  of  precious 
stones,  and  even  your  fine-wrought  £n< 
glish  keys  and  little  bells.  They  also 
carry  upon  their  sleeves,  their  shoulders, 
and  all  about  their  cloatbs  Agnus  Deis 
and  small  images.  They  have  their  heads 
stuck  full  of  bodkins,  some  made  of  dia- 
monds in  the  shape  of  a  fly,  and  others 
like  butterflies,  whose  colors  are  distin- 
guished by  various  stones." 

In  the  best  houses  the  ladies  were  ac- 
customed to  sit  on  the  ground  cross- 
legged.  Visitors  were  announced  by  a 
dwarf,  kneeling  upon  one  knee,  where- 
upon all  the  company  rose  from  the 
ground,  an  operation  repeated  fifty  or 
sixty  times  during  a  call.  There  was  no 
kissing,  lest  perchance  they  might  rub  the 
color  o^  one  another's  faces.  The  ordi- 
nary form  of  salutation  was  with  ungloved 
hands,  and  in  conversation  the  second 
personal  pronoun,  thou  or  thee,  was  al- 
ways used.  They  never  addressed  one 
another  by  their  titles,  but  by  their  Chris- 
tian names.  Donna  Maria,  Donna  Clara, 
or  whatever  it  might  be,  so  that  all  ac- 
quaintances were  deemed  to  be  socially 
equal.  At  the  same  time  a  wide  gulf  was 
fixtd  between  the  nobility  and  members 
of  the  different  professions.  ''The  wives 
of  the  gentlemen  of  the  long  robe  never 
so  much  as  visit  the  court  ladies,  and  a 
man  of  inferior  birth  never  marries  with 
a  woman  of  quality ;  you  never  see  those 
who  are  not  gentlemen  mix  with  the  no- 
bility, as  in  France." 

The  toilet-table  was  meagrely  furnished. 
The  Countess  Danois  observed  in  the 
bed-chamber  of  the  Marchioness  of  Al- 
connizas,  "  one  of  the  neatest  and  richest 
ladies,"  that,  although  the  toilet-service 
was  laid  out  upon  a  silver  table,  it  con- 
sisted only  of  a  small  piece  of  calico,  a 
looking-glass  not  larger  than  one's  hand, 
two  combs,  a  i^tle  box,  and  a  small  China 


cup  containing  the  white  of  an  tgg  beaten 
up  with  sugar-candy,  which  was  used  to 
take  the  dirt  of!  the  face  and  make  it 
shine.  Notwithstanding  the  refinement 
of  Spanish  manners,  ladies  and  gentlemen 
picked  their  teeth  at  table  ''with  grave 
looks,*'  no  matter  who  might  be  present. 
Gravity  was  held  of  great  account.  To 
acquire  a  look  of  gravity  quite  young 
ladies  hadliuge  spectacles  on  their  noses, 
fastened  to  their  ears,  but  through  which 
they  were  never  minded  to  look.  An- 
other curious  fancy  was  to  eat  quantities 
of  medicinal  earth.  Penitents  were  some- 
times enjoined  to  abstain  from  eating  this 
unwholesome  stuff  for  a  whole  day,  which 
was  considered  a  severe  penance.  It  was 
believed  to  be  an  antidote  to  poison,  and 
to  cure  all  manner  of  diseases.  Count- 
ess Danois  had  a  cup  made  of  this  earth 
which  spoiled  the  flavor  of  wine,  but 
purified  water,  and  being  exceedingly 
porous  would  quickly  absorb  all  the  liquid 
poured  into  it. 

Some  ladies  went  a  dozen  times  in  the 
day  to  hear  mass,  but  paid  little  attention 
to  what  was  going  on  sacerdotally.  A  fan 
was  indispensable,  summer  or  winter. 
Their  muffs,  made  of  the  finest  martens 
and  sables,  were  above  half  an  ell  in 
length,  and  cost  four  or  five  hundred 
crowns  apiece.  In  church  they  squatted 
on  the  ground,  and  were  continually  tak- 
ing snuff,  though  without  letting  it  fall  on 
their  dress.  Each  time  the  elevation  took 
place  both  men  and  women  struck  their 
breasts  with  their  fists,  and  seemingly 
with  great  violence.  At  the  termination 
of  the  service  the  professed  gallants,  who 
were  marked  by  a  piece  of  crape  round 
their  hats,  ranged  themselves  round  the 
place  where  the  holy  water  was  kept,  and 
presented  some  to  each  lady  as  she 
passed,  together  with  a  little  complimen- 
tary speech  to  which  a  courteous  reply 
was  usually  returned.  Some  jealous  hus- 
bands, however,  complained  of  this  prac- 
tice to  the  pope's  nuncio,  who  forbade  its 
continuance  under  pain  of  excommunica- 
tion. 

Lent  was  a  very  trying  season  for  the 
French  travellers,  though  they  observed 
only  Passion  Week.  For  one  thing,  but- 
ter was  scarce,  dear,  and  bad.  It  was 
brought  in  hogs'  bladders  from  a  place 
thirty  leagues  distant,  and  was  full  of 
worms.  Most  people,  therefore,  preferred 
olive-oil,  when  capable  of  digesting  it. 
Salt-water  fish  was  seldom  procurable, 
though  sometimes  salmon  pies  seasoned 
with  spice  and  saffron,  could  be  had  and 
were  not  much  amiss.    But  nobody  who 


ft22 


SOME  THINGS  OF  OLD  SPAIN. 


could  afford  to  pay  a  shilling  to  the  pope^s 
nuncio  for  a  dispensation  ever  thought  of 
fasting  in  Lent,  especially  as  the  same 
license  gave  permission  to  eat  the  head, 
feet,  and  inwards  of  poultry  every  Satur- 
day throughout  the  year.  We  are  not 
told,  however,  what  became  of  the  nobler 
and  daintier  parts  of  the  bird.  Butcher's 
meat  was  as  easily  obtainable  in  Lent  as 
at  any  other  period  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
purchase  was  effected  with  the  same 
trouble  and  -annoyance.  The  meat  was 
not  exposed  to  view,  but  was  shut  up  in 
the  shop.  The  bargaining  was  transacted 
at  a  little  window.  The  customer  asked, 
perhaps,  for  a  loin  of  veal  and  paid  down 
the  money.  After  a  while,  a  leg  of  mutton 
would  be  offered  to  him,  to  be  succeeded, 
if  rejected,  by  a  short  rib  of  beef.  If  this 
too  was  refused,  his  money  would  be 
thrown  to  him,  and  the  window  shut 
down.  The  usual  plan  was  to  mention 
the  quantity  of  meat,  and  leave  it  to  the 
butcher  to  give  what  he  pleased.  In  any 
case  it  was  sure  to  be  lean,  dry,  and  black ; 
but  it  made  better  soup  than  French  meat. 
Good  wine  was  not  to  be  had  in  Madrid. 
It  was  strong,  and  both  tasted  and  smelt 
of  pitch  from  being  kept  in  bags  made  of 
buckskin.  It  was  retailed  in  very  small 
quantities.  The  stuff  sold  to  the  poor 
was  made  worse  than  it  would  otherwise 
have  been  by  being  allowed  to  stand  all 
day  in  an  open  basin,  so  that  it  became 
sour,  and  emitted  a  pungent  odor. 

Religion  and  gallantry  were  curiously 
mixed  up  together  in  those  days.  The 
disciplinarians  were  a  fantastic  reminis- 
cence of  the  flagellants  of  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries.  They  were  at- 
tired rather  gaily  and  walked  with  minc- 
ing steps,  but  when  they  stopped  before 
their  mistress's  window  they  showed 
themselves  very  much  in  earnest,  and 
were  encouraged  by  their  lady-love  to  flay 
themselves  alive.  **When  they  meet  a 
handsome  woman  they  whip  themselves 
after  such  a  rate  as  to  make  the  blood  fly 
about  her.  This  is  esteemed  a  particular 
civility,  and  the  lady  acknowledges  and 
thanks  them  for  it.'*  By  way  of  variety 
some  of  the  disciplinarians  stuck  needles 
into  sponges,  with  which  they  pricked 
their  shoulders  and  sides  as  it  they  en- 
joyed  the  operation.  Some  of  the  YpiYig 
sprigs  of  nobility  were  in  the  haflDit  of 
sallying  forth  at  night,  attended  by  friends 
and  footmen  with  lighted  flambeaux  of 
white  wax,  and  carrying  the  instrument  of 
penance,  ornamented  with  streahiers  of 
ribbon,  presented  by  their  mistress.  Hav- 
ing taken  up  their  station  beneath  her 


balcony,  they  would  lay  on  with  might 
and  main  until  their  blood  flowed  co- 
piously. Other  penitents,  like  the  Indian 
jogees,  would  walk  about  with  as  many  as 
seven  swords  run  through  the  skin  of 
their  arms  and  body,  and  as  they  went 
barefooted  over  the  sharp,  uneven  stones 
they  occasionally  tripped,  and  in  falling 
hurt  themselves  grievously.  A  good  deal 
of  irreverential  familiarity  was  combined 
with  the  religious  traditions  of  the  Span- 
iards of  that  period.  On  the  occasion  of 
the  Corpus  Christi  festival  the  kin^  and 
the  whole  court  followed  the  Holy  Sacra- 
ment through  the  streets,  carrying  each  a 
lighted  candle  of  white  wax.  After  the 
procession  had  returned  to  the  church 
whence  it  started,  everybody  hurried  home 
to  dine,  and  Uien  hastened  to  witness  an 
open-air  performance  of  a  curious  jumble 
of  things  sacred  and  profane.  The  one  at 
which  the  Countess  Danois  was  present 
purported  to  represent  an  assembly  of  the 
knights  of  St.  James,  to  whom  came  the 
Saviour  with  a  request  that  he  might  be 
admitted  into  Mieir  order.  The  knights 
drew  apart  and  discussed  the  application. 
Some  were  in  favor  of  receiving  the 
Saviour  into  their  order,  but  the  elder 
men  objected  that  the  applicant  was  aa 
individual  of  very  humble  extraction. 
His  father,  they  said,  was  a  poor  carpen* 
ter,  while  his  mother  was  a  sempstress, 
and  worked  with  her  needle.  Meanwhile 
the  Saviour  testified  extreme  impatience 
at  the  delay,  and  was  quite  overcome  on 
learning  that  their  flnal  decision  was  un* 
favorable.  To  soothe  his  wounded  feel- 
ings, however,  they  agreed  to  institute  a 
new  order,  to  be  called  the  Order  of  Christ, 
and  the  proposition  appeared  to  give  sat* 
isfaction  to  every  one. 

It  is  quite  intelligible  that  the  countess 
should  be  unable  to  control  her  painful 
emotions  on  beholding  for  the  flrst  time 
the  horrors  of  the  bull-ring.  At  that  time 
lives  were  wantonly  thrown  away  in  the 
hope  of  winning  a  smile  or  the  flutter  of 
a  handkerchief  from  an  indulgent  mis- 
tress. Men  of  noble  birth  then  entered 
the  arena,  and  prided  themselves  on  their 
dexterity  in  avoiding  the  rush  of  the  in- 
furiated beast,  and  on  their  steadfast  cour- 
age in  accepting  death  when  escape  be- 
came impossible.  The  horses  that  were 
then  pitted  against  the  bull  were  valuable 
and  thoroughbred  animals,  easily  manage- 
able, though  of  a  bold  and  unflinching  tem- 
perament. They  were  frequently  gored, 
and  even  tosseci,  amid  the  rapturous  ap- 
plause of  high-born  lords  and  dames,  who 
had  no  ruth  for  the  sufferings  of  roan  or 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


223 


beast,  so  lon^  as  they  themselves  were 
thrilled  with  inhuman  excitement. 

The  working  classes  were  naturally  bru* 
talized,  not  only  by  such  hideous  specta- 
cles, but  also  by  the  extreme  poverty  and 
scanty  fare  to  which  they  were  reduced. 
In  Madrid,  indeed,  they  were  better  off, 
and  mijrht  have  earned  a  tolerable  liveli- 
hood, could  they  have  divested  themselves 
of  their  besetting  sin  of  laziness.  Their 
great  delight  was  to  bask  in  the  sun  and 
discuss  public  affairs  with  great  vehe- 
mence and  considerable  shrewdness. 
**  You  cannot,"  the  countess  remarks, 
'*see  a  joiner,  a  saddler,  or  other  sort  of 
shopkeeper,  without  his  velvet  and  satin 
suit  like  the  king*s,  with  his  long  rapier 
and  dagger,  and  his  guitar  hanging  up  in 
his  shop."  After  idling  through  the  week 
they  would  work  on  Sunday,  or  any  other 
sacred  festival,  and  carry  their  goods  to 
their  employers.  *'If  it  is  a  shoemaker, 
and  he  has  two  apprentices,  he  takes  them 
both  with  him,  and  each  of  them  carry  a 
shoe ;  nay,  if  he  has  three  they  must  all 
go  along  with  him,  and  it  is  with  much 
ado  that  he  will  stoop  to  try  the  shoes  he 
has  made." 

It  is  surely  nothing  wonderful  that  such 
a  people  should  have  vanished  from  the 
political  firmament  of  Europe,  almost  as 
completely  as  the  lost  Pleiad  from  the 
starry  heavens  above  and  around  us. 


From  AU  The  Year  Round. 
ALONG  THE  SILVER  STREAK. 

What  a  sight  met  our  eyes  as  we  came 
on  deck  in  the  early  morning,  and  found 
the  "  Sea-Mew  **  gently  steaming  along 
by  Spithead,  the  narrow  waters  all  bright 
with  sunshine,  and  studded  with  countless 
sails!  It  was  the  time  .of  regattas,  and 
the  sea  was  alive  with  yachts  of  all  sizes 
and  shapes,  among  which  big  ironclads  at 
anchor  showed  like  birds  ofprey  among 
the  fluttering,  quickly  darting  flock. 
Crowded  ferry  steamers  were  wending 
their  way  among  the  press  of  sailing  craft. 
The  roofs  of  Ryde  were  glittering  in  the 
morning  sunshine,  and  the  long  pier 
stretched  towards  us  as  if  to  tempt  us  to 
land  on  the  pleasant  green  shores.  A 
band  in  the  distance  played  the  part  of 
Circe,  but  Captain  Mac,  as  Ulysses,  held 
us  firmly  to  our  course,  and  Ryde  was  left 
behind,  and  the  wooded  slopes  of  Os- 
borne appeared  in  view.  Everywhere 
white  sails  were  piled  higher  and  higher 
on  tapering  masts,  as  the  gentle  breeze 


raised  a  curling  ripple  on  the  blue  waters. 
Cowes  was  hardly  to  be  seen  for  the 
cloud  of  sails,  and  the  mouth  of  the  Me- 
dina was  full  of  the  cobweblike  tracery 
of  spars  and  rigging.  Everything  cried 
out  "Stay I"  but  cried  in  vain,  for  the 
indicator  showed  **  Ahead  full  speed," 
and  except  when  some  adventurous  cutter 
or  schooner  with  all  her  spread  of  canvas 
thrust  herself  across  our  course,  full 
speed  ahead  continued  to  be  expected 
from  the  laboring  eng^ines.  For  Captain 
Mac  had  promised  Hilda  that  she  should 
sleep  under  the  roof  of  home  that  night, 
and  the  prospect  of  losing  his  passengers 
before  nightfall  stimulated  him  to  un- 
wonted energy. 

And  so  the  varied  panorama  of  the 
coast  passes  before  our  eyes,  with  its 
white  cliffs  and  grey,  its  red  cliffs  and 
blue ;  the  coast-line  that  has  no  equal  in 
its  variety,  brightness,  and  charm  in  all 
this  hemisphere  —  that  is,  when  the  sun 
shines  as  it  does  toKlay,  while  the  shad* 
ows  of  the  clouds  rest  softly  on  land  and 
sea.  And  thus  we  pass  along  the  Solent 
and  out  of  the  narrow  neck  of  water  with 
Hurst  Castle  threatening  us  from  the 
mainland  with  ancient  majestic  force, 
while  we  run  close  under  the  guns  of  the 
modern  forts  on  the  island.  And  then 
the  pinnacled  rocks  of  the  Needles  with 
their  tall  lighthouse  are  passed,  and  we 
steam  across  Christchurch  Bay  with  its 
perplexing  tides,  where  there  is  high 
water  four  ti  mes  a  day.  And  then  Bourne- 
mouth appears  in  the  distance  with  its 
dark  pine  woods ;  and  Swanage  Bay  opens 
out,  while  the  round-backed,  limestone 
hills  rise  solidly  in  the  background ;  and 
then  we  stretch  out  to  sea  to  negotiate 
the  Bill  of  Portland,  the  sun  flashing  mes- 
sages to  us  from  the  upper  windows  of 
Weymouth,  whence  I  started  to  look  for 
Hilda.  How  long  ago  is  it?  It  seems  a 
lifetime  since.  And  we  take  the  flashes 
from  Weymouth  as  congratulating  signals 
testifying  satisfaction  that  what  was  be- 
gun there  is  in  the  way  of  being  brought 
to  a  happy  conclusion.  And  then  the 
broad  back  of  Portland  Island  shuts  out 
everything  else  from  view;  that  island 
with  its  grand  and  portentous  outline, 
with  its  associations  of  misery  and  de- 
spair entombed  in  its  rock-cut  terraces. 
we  run  close  to  the  rock,  and  Hilda 
shudders  as  she  sees  a  long  line  of  con- 
victs slouching  along  under  the  rifles  of 
their  warders.  A  terrible  island  that  of 
imprisoned  sighs  and  groans,  and  yet 
with  a  stern  grandeur  of  its  own,  its  clilfs 
crowned  with  frowning  forts  and  towers. 


234 


ALONG  THE  SILVER  STREAK. 


Now  we  stand  out  across  Lyme  Bay,  with 
Its  rigid  wall  of  cliffs  affording  here  and 
there  a  eap,  hollowed  out  by  sonse  plod- 
ding little  river,  where  a  little  town  has 
crept  in  with  a  clump  of  red  roofs  and  a 
cluster  of  masts  and  sails;  and  then  we 
make  Berry  Head  by  Brixharo  with  a  fleet 
of  fishing-boats  disporting  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  look  back  across  Torbay,  with 
its  ultra-Protestant  memories,  to  where 
Torquay  rises,  (^littering  from  the  blue 
waters,  embosomed  in  wooded  hills,  with 
foliage  feathering  down  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  sea. 

A  long  summer's  day  was  coming  to  an 
end,  a  perfect  and  halcyon  day  of  rest 
and  languid  enjoyment,  and  still  the 
coast-line  stretched  on  before  us,  an  un- 
broken  line  of  cliff  and  beetling  precipice, 
with  Start  Point  as  the  farthest  headland, 
showing  stern  and  grim  against  the.orange 
glow  of  the  setting  sun.  We  were  slip- 
ping westward,  indeed,  at  a  pretty  good 
pace,  with  no  sign  of  a  friendly  harbor 
anywhere  near.  The  man  at  the  wheel 
had  hardly  moved  a  little  finger  for  the 
last  half-hour,  and  the  engines  drummed 
along  monotonously,  as  if  they  had  got 
well  into  the  way  of  working,  and  wanted 
nobody  to  drive  them  now,  and,  indeed, 
the  engineers  had  come  on  deck  for  a 
breath  of  fresh  air,  and  were  taking  this 
prolonged  breath,  tempered  with  tobacco 
smoke,  in  company  with  the  cook  and  a 
couple  of  sailors,  in  a  light-hearted  man- 
ner. Captain  Mac  was  in  his  cabin,  sup- 
posed to  be  looking  over  the  charts,  but 
in  reality,  I  fancy,  indulging  in  a  kind  of 
cat*s  sleep,  when  suddenly,  as  if  she  had 
sprung  out  of  the  rocks,  a  huge  ocean 
steamer  appeared  round  a  jutting  point. 
A  piercing  scream  from  her  steam-whis- 
tle showed  that  she  had  caught  sight  of 
us  at  the  same  moment  Captain  Mac 
sprang  from  his  cabin,  the  engineers  scut- 
tled down-stairs,  while  the  steersman  be- 
gan to  haul  at  his  wheel,  the  natural 
impulse  of  man  under  such  circumstances 
being  to  port  his  helm.  But,  '*  Stand 
your  course,  John,**  cried  our  captain 
like  one  demented,  and  then,  **  Starboard 
a  little,"  as  we  felt  the  throb  of  the  huge 
steamer,  that  seemed  to  throw  a  darkness 
upon  us  as  she  came  between  us  and  the 
setting  sun.  The  orders  given  carried  us 
right  athwart  the  track  of  the  big  steamer, 
and  far  from  slackening  speed  our  captain, 
as  he  grasped  the  handle  of  the  indicator, 
seemed  to  want  to  have  it  **  Aheader  fuller 
speed,"  if  such  a  signal  were  possible. 
One  could  see  a  bustle  on  board  the  big 
steamer,  and  a  crowding  of  heads  over 


her  bulwarks,  and  then  our  little  steamer 
begins  to  dance  in  the.  swell  of  her  as  she 
passes  harmlessly  astern. 

Sundry  gold-banded  heads,  from  the 
bridge  of  the  big  steamer,  now  peered 
over  at  us,  and  expressed  uncomplimen- 
tary opinions  of  our  gallant  captain,  who 
contented  himself  with  burying  his  head 
between  his  shoulders  and  wriggling  half 
apologetically  and  half  defiantly.  And 
then  From  the  poop-deck  we  were  held  in 
view,  and  addressed  in  more  or  less  em- 

Chatic  chaff,  by  a  crowd  of  bronzed  and 
earded  faces,  with  a  sprinkling  of  sallow 
unbearded  ones  among  them,  with  here 
and  there  a  dark  ebony  face,  lighted  up 
with  gleaming  ivory,  or  the  stolid  mahog- 
any visage  of  some  Arab  traveller ;  bright- 
plumaged  birds  chattered  and  screamed 
at  us,  and  a  monkey,  loose  among  the 
rigging,  joined  in  the  general  confusion  of 
tongues. 

**  Now,"  said  Captain  Mac,  approach- 
ing us  in  a  deprecating  manner,  *'  if  ye'd 
been  all  cast  away  ye'd  have  blamed  me." 

The  probability  was,  that  we  should 
not  have  been  in  a  position  to  blame  any- 
body; but  the  old  squ're,  who  had  just 
come  on  deck,  shook  his  head,  and  re- 
marked, — 

**  You  should  have  put  your  helm  down, 
captain  —  hard  down." 

"And  if  I  had,"  rejoined  the  captain, 
*•  where  would  you  have  been  ?  —  ashore 
now  on  a  bank  of  rock.  Now,  the  sailing- 
rules,  and  common  sense,  moreover,  bid 
me  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the  other  pack- 
et, which  was  on  my  starboard  bow,  mark 
you." 

The  result  justified  Captain  Mac.  It 
was  certainly  much  pleasanter  to  be  sail- 
ing merrily  along  towards  our  port  than  to 
be  stuck  on  a  rocky  shelf  waiting  to  be 
salved  by  a  congress  of  rapacious  tugs. 
The  wonder  still  remains  at  meeting  such 
a  huge  craft  in  these  quiet  seas,  and  so 
close  inshore ;  but  our  captain  allays  the 
wonder  by  explaining  that  no  doubt  this 
packet  was  one  of  the  east-African  steam- 
ers straight  from  Mozambique  and  Mada- 
gascar, at  least  as  straight  as  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope  will  allow,  with  her  port  of 
call  at  Dartmouth,  thus  bringing  the  quiet 
coast  of  Devon  into  direct  relations  with 
Afric*s  coral  strand. 

And  now  we  head  up  for  the  northward, 
straight  for  the  rocks  as  it  seems,  but 
presently  the  rocks  open  out  as  they 
might  do  in  some  Arabian  Nights*  en- 
chantment, and  we  pass  suddenly  from 
the  open  sea  into  the  quiet  and  seclusion 
of  a  romantic  river  gorge.    Twilight  has 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK* 


225 


suddenly  come  upon  us,  and  rows  of 
lights  are  shining  from  the  hill  above, 
where  houses  rise  terrace  above  terrace, 
looking  over  each  other's  roofs,  and  the 
bold  headland  with  its  castle  and  quaint 
St.  Petrox  rising  above  are  thrown  in 
clear  obscurity  as:ainst  the  evening  glow. 
Yachts  are  floating  gently  to  their  moor- 
ings, folding  their  pinions  as  they  come 
to  rest ;  the  sound  of  oars  echoes  from  the 
rocks,  and  the  ferry  steamer  is  taking  her 
last  trip  across  the  harbor.  All  this  is  in 
wonderful  contrast  to  garish  Trouville. 
The  quiet  old-world  town,  not  much  al- 
tered in  general  aspect  since  the  Cru- 
saders sailed  thence  for  the  Holy  Wars ; 
the  stiff  and  solemn  deportment  of  the 
Datives,  seamen,  fishermen,  and  coast 
guardsmen,  meir  slow,  soft  way  of  talking, 
and  energetic  way  of  working;  all  are 
widely  different  to  affairs  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Channel. 

But  we  have  no  time  to  lose  if  we  mean 
to  reach  Combe  Chudleigh  to-night.  The 
tide  is  making  up  the  river,  and  a  gentle 
sea  breeze  is  rippling  the  tranquil  cove, 
and  a  boat  is  lowered  from  the  yacht,  and 
with  a  sprit-sail,  and  the  occasional  help 
of  a  couple  of  seamen  at  the  oars,  we  sail 
forth  towards  Totnes.  Hilda  sits  at  the 
tiller,  she  knows  every  wind  and  turn  of 
the  beautiful  stream,  which  in  the  soft 
gloaming  recalls  some  tropical  river  with 
its  vegetation  so  luxuriant  that  it  seems 
here  and  there  as  if  we  roust  force  a  pas- 
sage through  the  foliage,  until  another 
reach  opens  out  like  a  lake,  all  embowered 
in  trees. 

But  it  is  quite  dark  when  we  reach  the 
little  cove  which  opens  out  towards  Combe 
Chudleigh,  and  the  boat  is  made  safe  in 
the  half-ruinous  boathouse,  and  the  sailors 
are  sent  off  to  make  themselves  comforta- 
ble for  the  night  in  the  village  ale-house. 
The  village  is  still  wide  awake,  and  we 
can  bear  the  harvest-men  singing  over 
their  cups  after  a  long  day's  toil.  And 
presently  as  we  walk  slowly  up  towards 
the  house  we  hear  the  bells  of  the  village 
church  tolling  one  after  the  other,  and 
then  breaking  out  suddenly  into  a  merry 
peal.     Hilda  clutched  my  arm  nervously. 

"  Why  should  they  be  ringing  the  bells 
to-night?*'  she  asked.  **It  can't  be  for 
our  coming  back.  Is  it  possible  Mr. 
Chancellor  has  come  down  to  look  at  bis 
new  purchase  ?  " 

Sure  enough  when  we  reached  the  hall 
door  we  found  a  Qy  standing  there  that 
had  just  come  over  from  the  station.  But 
Mrs.  Murch  was  in  the  doorway  ready  to 
receive  us.     She  had  been  told  to  expect 

LIVING  AGB.  VOL.  XLIV.  22  5 1 


US  any  day,  and  everything  was  in  readi- 
ness—  the  small  suite  of  rooms  in  the 
west  wing  were  all  prepared  for  our  hab- 
itation. But  who  was  the  other  arrival  ? 
Not  Mr.  Chancellor  indeed,  but  a  gentle- 
man connected  with  him,  a  certain  Mr. 
Wyvern,  with  a  solicitor  and  a  surveyor 
from  London.  They  had  been  looking 
over  the  timber  and  everything  in  the 
house,  and  now  they  were  hard  at  work 
writing  and  calculating  in  the  library. 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  hadn't  come,"  sobbed 
Hilda,  "to  hear  of  strangers  appraising 
the  old  timber,  and  putting  a  price  on  the 
family  pictures !  I  knew  it  would  come 
to  this,  but  the  reality  is  too  appalling^ 
and  our  people  ring  the  bells  for  it !  " 

"  Well,  that  shall  be  put  a  stop  to  any- 
how," said  Mrs.  Murch  grimly,  and  a 
small  boy  was  despatched  to  the  village  to> 
give  notice  to  the  ringers.  But  presently 
the  youth  came  back  grinning  from  ear  to> 
ear. 

•*  It  warn't  for  he,"  with  a  pantomimic 
indication  by  a  thumb  over  his  shoulder  of 
some  contemptible  person  —  presumably 
Mr.  Chancellor;  "it  warn't  for  he,  but  for 
young  miss,  and  Master  Frank,  her  sweet- 
heart, that  the  bells  were  set  a-ringing,^ 
and  they  warn't  going  to  stop  —  no,  not 
if  anvbody  was  to  offer  'em  a  suvreiga 

Here  was  joy  for  Hilda;  her  people 
had  not  forgotten  her,  they  had  not  gone 
over  to  the  enemy  1  After  all  this  it  would 
be  more  of  a  trial  than  ever  to  leave  the 
place.  The  old  squire,  strange  to  say, 
did  not  seem  to  care  a  bit  about  the  home 
of  his  ancestors.  He  grumbled  that  there 
was  no  evening  paper— he  grumbled  at 
poor  Mrs.  Murch's  honest  but  misguided 
attempt  to  send  up  an  appetizing  repast. 
Everything  was  much  more  comfortable 
in  Westbourne  Terrace,  and  even  on 
board  the  "Sea-Mew"  things  were  better 
arranged.  And  certainly  tiie  old  hail 
struck  one  as  uncommonly  dreary.  A 
thin,  fine  rain  had  come  on,  a  soft,  misty 
cloak  enveloping  everything.  Hilda  went 
to  bed  with  a  headache,  and  the  old  squire 
retired  to  the  society  of  a  tub  of  hot  water  ■ 
and  a  basin  of  gruel. 

In  a  general  way,  when  some  unavoid- 
able evening  engagement  takes  you  out, 
an  overpowering  desire  for  rest  takes  pos- 
session of  the  soul.  In  the  same  way^ 
when  there  is  nothing  else  in  the  world  to 
do,  the  idea  of  going  to  bed  and  trying  to 
sleep  becomes  absolutely  repulsive.  And 
then  I  came  to  know  that  other  people  in 
the  house  were  passing  their  time  in  a 
more   amusing  way.     The    professional 


226 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK. 


people  from  London  had  been  invited  to 
stay  the  night  and  make  themselves  com- 
fortable in  the  old  hall,  and  they  seemed 
to  be  quite  equal  to  the  occasion.  A 
pleasant  smell  of  tobacco  took  away  the 
rawness  of  the  air,  and  now  and  then  a 
gentle  waft  of  laughter  gave  evidence  that 
some  quiet  joke  had  been  perpetrated  or 
good  story  told.  At  last,  unable  to  en- 
dure the  solitude  of  the  place  any  longer, 
I  got  Mrs.  Murch  to  take  in  to  these 
merry  people  an  ofiEer  on  my  part  to  join 
their  society,  and  I  soon  made  a  fourth 
among  them.  At  first,  of  course,  my 
presence  acted  as  a  wet  blanket ;  the  flow 
of  talk  and  anecdotes  was  checked.  But 
then  I  was  a  fourth,  and  the  fact  sug- 
gested whist,  and  whist  we  played  into 
the  small  hours.  The  London  solicitor 
and  myself  were  partners,  and  we  pun- 
ished Wvvern  and  the  surveyor  so  hand- 
somely that  my  partner  seemed  charmed 
with  my  prowess.  As  dawn  had  now 
broken  we  took  a  torn  round  the  grounds 
to  admire  the  different  points  of  view,  and 
watch  the  vapors  curling  over  the  river, 
and  floating  away  to  the  distant  sea. 

My  new  friena  was  well  up  in  all  the 
news  of  the  day,  and  not  at  all  reticent. 
He  knew  all  about  the  breaking  off  of 
John  Chancellor's  engagement,  and  was 
able  to  tell  me  that  so  little  had  Hilda's 
former  lover  taken  his  loss  to  heart,  that 
he  was  already  engaged  to  marry  the  Hon. 
Miss  Wyvern,  an  alliance  which  would 
bring  him  most  distinguished  connections. 
The  Wyverns  were  certainly  poor  and 
somewhat  rapacious;  but  still  their  po- 
litical influence  would  be  of  immense 
advantage  to  a  man  in  John  Chancellor's 
position.  And  to  bind  the  families  more 
firmly  together,  it  was  proposed  that 
young  Wyvern  should  marry  Chancellor's 
sister. 

I  wondered  what  Tom  would  think  of 
this,  for  he  certainly  was  wonderfully 
taken  with  Miss  Chancellor.  And  then  I 
objected  that  as  the  Wyverns  were  poor, 
surely  it  would  hardly  be  a  good  match 
for  the  youth,  seeing  that  Miss  Chancellor 
could  not  have  much. 

**  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  there,"  said 
my  friend  the  lawyer.  '*  She  has  twenty 
thousand  pounds.  John  Chancellor  was 
not  the  sole  architect  of  his  fortunes. 
There  was  a  cousin  who  made  a  great 
fortune,  and  took  up  John  Chancellor,  and 
this  cousin  left  his  sister,  Fanny  by  name, 
the  score  of  thousands." 

Another  item  of  information  I  drew 
from  my  new  friend.  John  Chancellor's 
capital  was  mostly  locked  up  in  commer- 


cial enterprises,  and  he  had  not  sufficient 
money  lying  idle  to  pay  for  the  Chudleigh 
estate.  So  that  he  proposed  to  borrow 
his  sister's  twenty  thousand  from  her 
trustees,  and  the  lawyer  and  surveyor  had 
come  down  to  value  the  security.  They 
were  tolerably  well  satisfied,  it  seemed ; 
but  as  the  young  lady  had  just  come  of 
age,  it  would  be  necessary  to  consult  her 
on  the  matter.  The  purchase  was  to  be 
completed  in  the  following  week,  and  in 
the  mean  time  the  lawyer  would  have  to 
run  over  to  Trouville  to  obtain  Miss 
Chancellor's  signature  and  assent. 

And  if,  for  any  reason,  the  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds  were  not  forthcoming  ?  Well, 
in  that  case  Mr.  Chancellor  would  have  a 
great  difficulty  in  completing  the  purchase 
—  in  fact,  perhaps  he  would  have  to  de- 
clare off  altogether.  And  that  would  be  a 
pity,  for,  as  it  was,  the  purchase  money 
would  pay  all  mortgages,  and  leave  a  few 
thousands  over  for  the  old  squire  ;  where- 
as with  a  forced  sale,  land  being  just  now 
heav^  in  the  market,  perhaps  he  would  get 
nothing  at  all. 

Upon  this  I  offered  to  take  the  lawyer 
with  the  rest  of  os  in  the  '*  Sea-Mew  " 
and  land  him  at  his  destination  at  Trou- 
ville, and  Banks,  as  our  friend  was  called, 
accepted  the  offer  with  much  pleasure.  I 
doubt  if  he  would  have  shown  such  alac- 
rity if  he  had  divined  the  notion  which 
was  running  in  my  head,  and  which  was 
to  keep  him  afloat  till  the  day  for  ratifying 
the  sale  of  Combe  Chudleigh  had  passed, 
and  so  to  give  myself  a  chance  of  getting 
hold  of  the  property. 

As  it  happened  this  buccaneering  plan 
was  never  carried  out,  for  next  morning 
came  a  telegram  from  Tom  demanding 
our  congratulations.  Fanny  had  prom- 
ised to  be  his ;  and  so  on.  We  deter- 
mined, Hilda  and  1,  to  carry  our  con- 
gratulations in  person,  and  so  that  after- 
noon we  dropped  down  the  river  with  the 
tide,  and  found  ourselves  once  more  on 
board  the  •*  Sea-Mew,"  our  party  in- 
creased by  the  presence  of  the  lawyer,  to 
the  great  disgust,  I  fancy,  of  Captain 
Mac,  who  had  been  looking  forward  to 
a  week  of  solitary  musing  in  harbor. 
This  time  we  made  a  direct  course  from 
point  to  point,  and  saw  no  land  after  leav- 
ing behind  the  red  cliffs  of  old  Devon,  till 
we  made  Cape  la  H^ve  and  the  chalky 
downs  about  the  mouth  of  the  Seine. 
Trouville  was  still  more  bright  and  gay, 
and  a  good  deal  more  crowded  than  when 
we  left.  Tom  and  his  sweetheart  were  on 
the  pier  to  watch  us  in.  Tom  had  been 
busy  enough  since  we  left.    In  addition 


ALONG  THE   SILVER  STREAK, 


227 


to  wiDDing  his  bride,  he  had  won  a  trot- 
ting-match  agaiDst  an  American  with 
Contango  at  the  Deauv^Ue  races.  The 
count  had  gone  away  to  Vichy  to  drink 
the  waters  and  to  recover  from  the  effects 
of  his  immersion.  But  Mr.  Banks  had 
his  journey  for  nothing,  except  the  pleas- 
ure of  the  cruise.  For  Miss  Chancellor, 
when  she  heard  how  matters  stood,  firmly 
refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
Combe  Chudleigh  property.  And  so  Mr. 
Banks  took  back  with  him  an  offer  to 
let  the  whole  business  of  the  purchase 
be  cancelled,  returning  the  money  al- 
ready paid,  which  otherwise  might  be  for- 
feited. 

While  we  are  waiting  for  Mr.  Chan- 
cellor's reply,  to  keep  the  "Sea-Mew" 
employed  —  a  ravenous  kind  of  bird  that 
in  the  way  of  coals,  and  stores,  and  har- 
bor-charges devours  as  much  as  any  of 
the  celebrated  sea-monsters  of  ancient 
days  —  to  keep  her  employed  and  Cap- 
tain Mac  from  too  much  metaphysics,  we 
determine  upon  a  run  up  the  Seine,  start- 
ing with  the  first  of  the  flood-tide.  To 
catch  the  tide  we  must  lay  up  for  the 
night  in  Havre,  where  we  gel  a  berth 
alongside  the  Southampton  steamer  (into 
which  we  ship  poor  Contango,  who  is  to 
travel  from  Southampton  to  Devonshire 
by  easy  stages),  and  then  in  Che  early 
morning  the  "Sea-Mew  "slips  out  just  in 
the  wake  of  the  little  steamer"  Chamois," 
which  makes  the  voyage  to  Rouen  every 
other  day. 

The  tide  is  hardly  stirring  as  we  leave 
the  harbor,  but  before  we  are  in  mid- 
stream it  is  rushing  in  with  tremendous 
power,  racing  over  the  flat  sand-banks, 
and  bending  the  tall  poles  that  mark  out 
the  channel.  The  "  Chamois "  has  to 
call  for  passengers  at  Honfleur,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  estuary,  and  so  we  get 
the  start  of  her,  and  race  along  at  the 
very  head  of  the  flood.  We  have  got  a 
pilot  on  board,  a  jolly  old  fellow,  who  is 
always  cracking  jokes  with  Tom  —  dimly 
understood  on  either  side,  but  none  the 
less  relished.  And,  indeed,  the  naviga- 
tion at  the  mouth  of  the  Seine,  what  with 
shifting  sand-banks  and  the  tide,  that 
runs  like  a  mill-race,  requires  the  skill  of 
a  pilot  who  can  study  the  tides  and  the 
channels  from  day  to  day.  A  noble  river, 
too,  is  the  Seine  from  the  very  mouth  — 
with  no  low  country  of  flats  and  marshes 
to  pass  through,  and  amphibious  regions, 
half  sea  and  half  river,  but  running  in  a 
noble,  well-defined  valley  up  to,  or  rather 
down  to,  the  junction  with  the  sea. 

Hardly  is  the  channel  fairly  entered 


when  the  English-looking  spire  of  Har« 
fleur  appears  under  the  distant  hills  — 
the  Harfleur  of  Henry  the  Fifth,  the  once 
girded  Harfleur,  the  royal  port  and  great 
mart  of  the  Seine,  but  now  left  high  and 
dry  in  a  little  nook  by  the  lazy  river  I^- 
zarde.  And  then  come  the  towers  of 
Tancarville  rising  proudly  on  their  bold 
headland,  while  the  hills  and  cliffs  on 
either  side  approach  as  if  this  were  once 
the  outlet  of  a  mighty  lake  that  filled  up 
the  whole  vallcv  above.  Then  we  hurry 
past  Quillebeut,  a  neat  and  taking  little 
town,  drawn  up  on  its  strongly-built  quay, 
and  from  Quillebeuf,  the  river  narrowing 
rapidly,  the  tide  rises  suddenly  in  a  huge 
wave,  a  bore  that  stretches  from  bank  to 
bank,  dashing  in  surf  along  the  banks  on 
either  side,  while  foaming  breakers  hurry 
along  in  its  wake.  Just  in  the  rear  of 
these  troubled  waters  the  "Sea-Mew" 
drives  along  with  all  the  speed  that  Cap- 
tain Mac  and  his  engineers  can  get  out 
of  her.  There  is  a  pleasant  breeze  too 
from  the  west,  and  the  "Sea-Mew" 
stretches  out  her  canvas,  and  with  sail 
and  steam  bids  fair  to  outrace  the  tide, 
and  the  little  flotilla  that  is  urging  on 
behind. 

Everywhere  along  the  banks  of  the 
river  we  hear  the  cry,  "Z>y^/,  U  fldt^'  in 
a  soft,  melancholy  cadence,  carried  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  a  warning  cry  that  has 
echoed  along  these  banks  no  doubt  for 
countless  generations,  and  was  heard  by 
the  men  in  Caesar's  galleys,  and  by  the 
fierce  Northmen  as  they  followed  the  tide 
with  sail  and  oar  on  their  mission  of 
plunder  and  destruction.  Then  as  the 
river  takes  a  sudden  bend  to  the  north 
we  see  a  vast  forest  stretching  to  the 
right,  while  on  the  other  bank  great  white 
cliffs  rise  behind  a  margin  of  verdant 
prairie.  Yonder  is  Villequier,  a  pleasant 
village  with  a  venerable  church,  and  a 
little  quay,  with  an  inn  looking  over  it, 
where  the  pilots  sit,  we  are  told,  playing 
picquet  all  day  long,  and  waiting  for  a 
turn ;  and  here  we  drop  our  jolly  old  pilot, 
and  take  in  another  with  his  belongings 
all  packed  up  in  a  round  bag,  whose  busi- 
ness it  is  to  take  the  ship  to  Rouen. 

Candebec  now  appears  on  our  left, 
brightest  of  little  towns,  with  its  broad 
quay,  and  avenues  of  trees,  and  comfort- 
able, old-fashioned  houses,  aligned  in  the 
rear  with  gardens  and  green  shrubberies, 
and  here  there  is  a  signal-mast  that  shows 
the  depth  of  water  on  the  bar  farther  on, 
the  signal  man  stringing  up  one  ball  after 
another  as  the  tidal  wave  changes  the 
state  of  affairs  all  of  a  sudden  from  dead 


228 


ALONG  THE  SILVER   STREAK, 


low  water  to  nearly  full  tide.  And  here 
we  come  upon  a  railway  train  that  races 
with  us  and  with  the  tide  for  a  while,  but 
leaves  us  as  we  take  another  great  bend 
to  the  south,  and  so  come  upon  the  forest 
again,  which  occupies  the  whole  penin- 
sula; and  then  we  see  the  strange  twin 
towers  of  Jumi&s:es,  with  a  film  only  of 
the  central  tower  remaining  —  Jumi^ges 
that  was  once  the  nursery  of  English  pre- 
lates, with  its  traditions  that  stretch  back 
to  the  very  infancy  of  the  Christian  faith. 

And  then  there  is  another  great  bend 
of  the  river,  with  stupendous  chalk  cliffs, 
first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other, 
rising  sheer  from  the  margin  of  the  stream 
on  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  a  stretch 
of  green  prairie,  with  tall  poplars  rising 
in  long  lines.  And  above  the  level  of  the 
water  meadows,  the  valley  is  one  vast 
orchard,  a  perfect  garden  of  the  Hesper- 
ides,  all  now  bright  with  golden  fruit. 
At  Duclair,  which  lies  at  the  top  of  the 
bend  —  another  pleasant-looking  little 
town,  with  its  quay,  and  its  little  steam 
ferryboat  shooting  to  and  fro,  its  white 
houses  with  their  green  persiennes,  and  a 
snug-looking  hotel  overlooking  the  quay 
-^  at  Duclair  there  are  English  steamers 
loading  up  with  fruit,  conical  baskets  of 
plums  and  the  first  of  the  apples.  The 
huge  cliffs  that  rise  above  the  town  are 
quarried  and  excavated  into  great  caverns, 
and  farther  on  the  chalk  assumes  all 
kinds  of  fantastic  shapes  of  feudal  cas- 
tles and  grey,  time-worn  towers. 

From  this  point  the  hills  are  all  cov- 
ered with  forest,  where  the  deer  and  the 
wild  boar  can  roam  up  to  the  very  gates 
of  Rouen,  and  where  William  the  Con- 
queror would  find  himself  still  very  much 
at  home,  the  ancient  art  of  v^nerie  hav- 
ing changed  but  little  since  his  days. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  bend  we  come  to 
La  Bouilie,  a  nice  little  place  lying  in  the 
very  elbow  of  the  river,  with  an  hotel 
which  has  a  great  verandah  overlooking 
the  river,  where  it  is  pleasant  to  sit  and 
watch  the  ships  coming  up  with  the  tide. 
By  crossing  a  narrow  isthmus  here,  you 
cut  off  a  bend  of  the  river  of  some  twenty- 
four  miles,  and  here  when  Henry  the 
Fifth  was  besieging  Rouen  he  dragged 
his  ships  across,  so  as  to  shut  in  the 
ships  of  Rouen  on  both  sides.  Close  by 
is  a  grand  and  ancient  earthwork  known 
as  the  Ch&teau  of  Robert  le  Diable, 
where  there  was  a  fierce  encounter  dur- 
ing the  Prussian  war.  And  at  La  Bouilie 
our  captain  proposes  to  anchor  the  ship, 
to  avoid  the  delays  of  a  crowded  port, 
and  also  no  doubt  to  give  him  an  interval 


of  quiet  reflection,  as  from  this  pornt  nu- 
merous steamers  ply  to  Rouen,  which  is 
just  at  the  top  of  the  bend. 

And  so  we  finish  our  course  on  one  of 
the  river  steamers,  a  pleasant  sail  under 
wood-crowned  heights,  with  green  islands 
dotting  the  river,  and  so  take  a  rapid 
glance  at  Rouen,  familiar  to  most  of  us, 
and  then  drive  across  the  neck  of  the 
isthmus  to  Duclair,  for  the  sake  of  the 
magnificent  view  of  the  city  of  Rouen, 
and  its  network  of  valleys,  from  the 
heights.  At  Duclair  the  "Sea-Mew" 
picks  us  up  again,  and  we  descend  the 
river  in  a  more  leisurely  way,  anchoring 
again  at  C'andebec  to  explore  the  pictur- 
esque old  town  and  admire  the  charming 
panoramic  views  from  its  wooded  heights, 
and  then  towards  morning,  when  the 
points  of  flame  on  headlands  and  capes 
are  just  beginning  to  die  away  in  the  soft 
light  of  dawn,  we  double  Cap  de  la  H^ve, 
and  boldly  steer  out  again  to  sea,  this 
time  with  our  prow  directed  straight  for 
the  South  Foreland. 

At  first  we  skirt  the  long  wall  of  chalk  ' 
cliff  —  the  ruddy  tinge  of  Capde  la  H&ve 
giving  place  to  the  pure  white  of  the 
cliffs  above  Etretftt,  where  we  can  make 
out  with  ouf  glasses  the  bathing-cabins 
on  the  beach,  and  monsieur,  madame 
and  ^/^/ taking  their  early  morning  swim. 
And  then  Fecamp  opens  out  its  narrow 
cleft  in  the  great  chalk  escarpment,  and 
we  work  into  mid-channel  and  lose  sight 
of  land  altogether. 

As  evening  draws  on  the  coast-line  of 
England  becomes  visible,  and  presently 
the  bright  electric  lights  of  the  South 
Foreland  flash  out  upon  us.  At  the  sight, 
the  world  on  board,  hitherto  inclined  to 
silence,  and  dozing  in  solitary  corners, 
revives  and  becomes  sociable  and  cheer- 
ful. 

"  It  is  a  very  comforting  reflection," 
Mrs.  Bacon  remarks,  "that  everything 
should  have  gone  off  so  well."  Her 
nephew  John  and  her  niece  Fanny  so 
likely  to  be  so  well  allied,  and  that  poor 
count  not  likely  to  suffer  from  the  effects 
of  his  ducking,  and  even  the  young  lady 
in  spangles  able  to  ride  a  bare-backed 
horse  already,  and  jump  through  a  couple 
of  hoops  —  this  according  to  Mr.  Court- 
ney's account,  who  kept  up  a  correspon- 
dence with  Zamora's  employer  —  all  these 
things  the  good  lady  found  it  pleasant  to 
think  of. 

Finally,  Mrs.  Bacon  asked  of  Hilda 
confidentially,  but  doubtfully,  — 

**  Are  you  satisfied,  my  dear  ?  " 

••  Perfectly,"  replied  Hilda  with  a  proud 


LORD  BEACONSFIELD  S   CHARACTER. 


239 


srnile.  "  I  have  got  ray  Frank,  and  I 
don't  want  anything  more.** 

And  so  as  night  comes  on  we  gather  on 
the  poop,  while  lights  flash  upon  us  out 
of  the  gloom  from  the  fleet  of  fishing- 
boats  that  are  silently  gathering  the  har- 
vest of  the  deep.  Dover  Castle  is  faintly 
visible  against  the  evening  glow,  and  by- 
and-by  Ramsgate  shines  out  gaily  with  its 
rows  of  diamond  lights.  Before  midnight 
there  is  a  dark  shore  line  on  either  hand, 
and  shore  lights  on  each  side  twinkle 
forth  cheerily,  and  presently  we  glide 
softly  to  our  moorings  off  Gravesend. 

Next  morning  Hilda  and  i  pay  a  visit 
to  our  friendly  solicitor  in  Bedford  Row, 
who  receives  us  most  cordially.  Every* 
thing  is  going  on  well.  John  Chancellor, 
finding  a  difficulty  in  getting  together  the 
purchase  money  for  Combe  Chudleigh, 
and  having  other  objects  in  view,  is  quite 
ready  to  give  up  his  bargain,  and  by  pay- 
ing off  and  consolidating  the  mortgages, 
we  can  secure  a  sufficient  income  for  the 
old  squire  — quite  enough  anyhow  for  the 
modest  establishment  in  Westbourne  Ter- 
race, which  is  the  limit  of  the  old  man*s 
desires.  And  Hilda  and  I  are  to  occupy 
Combe  Chudleigh  as  soon  as  the  wedding 
comes  off,  while  Redmond  is  to  try  his 
fortunes  and  develop  his  talent  for  cattle- 
dealing  at  the  AntipKKles. 

We  are  going  to  sell  the  *'  Sea-Mew  " 
as  too  expensive,  and  purchase  a  nice 
little  8ailing<raft,  in  which  we  hope  to 
make  many  another  cruise  along  the  Sil- 
ver Streak. 


From  Temple  Bar. 
LORD  BEACONSFIELD'S  CHARACTER. 

Lord  Beaconsfield  had  so  many 
enemies,  that  when  he  died  there  was  no 
abuse  of  him  which  had  not  become  trite. 
But  the  persistent  malevolence  with  which 
the  Conservative  leader  was  pursued  all 
his  life  sprang  from  a  feeling  which  was 
itself  conservative.  Benjamin  Disraeli 
was  so  different  in  character  from  roost 
Englishmen,  that  if  he  had  tried  to  make 
his  way  as  a  Liberal,  the  Tories  would 
have  resented  him  as  an  impossible  inno- 
vation. Disraeli  attacking  the  old  En- 
glish Constitution,  the  "Jew  boy  "  assail- 
ing Church  Establishment,  would  have 
been  an  intolerable  sight.  Disraeli  early 
understood  this.  His  personal  appear- 
ance, not  less  than  his  character  and 
flowery  genius,  marked  him  out  as  a 
loreigaer;  and  the  most  acceptable  com- 


pliment which  foreigners  can  pay  to  the 
people  among  whom  they  sojourn  is  that 
of  professing  to  admire  their  institutions. 
There  is  no  example  of  a  foreigner  having 
made  himself  popular  amongst  us  by  any 
other  means.  Princess  Dorothea  Lieven 
and  Count  D'Orsay,  Baron  Bunsen,  Baron 
Stockmar,  and  Count  Sylvain  van  de 
Weyer,  who  all  at  different  times  and  in 
various  ways  exercised  great  influence  on 
the  course  of  public  affairs  in  England, 
were  unanimous  in  recognizing  the  ex- 
treme sensitiveness  of  Englishmen  as  to 
criticism  from  foreigners.  *Mf  1  were  not 
a  Frenchman,*'  said  the  Chevalier  de 
Boufllers  to  Lord  Stair,  **  I  should  like  to 
be  an  Englishman.'*  **  If  I  were  not  an 
Englishman,  I  should  wish  to  be  one,** 
was  the  unconciliatory  answer.  Our  peo- 
ple push  their  self-complacency  to  the 
length  of  never  admitting  in  the  presence 
of  an  alien  that  things  can  be  done  better 
abroad  than  here.  The  Frenchman  in  his 
politeness  will  poke  fun  at  his  native 
failings  for  the  amusement  of  an  English 
hearer ;  he  will  deplore  his  want  of  sirieux^ 
his  political  instability,  and  while  he  grate- 
fully accepts  any  compliment  to  the  genius 
of  his  nation,  he  will  pay  it  back  instantly 
in  chinking  small  change.  Our  tendency 
as  a  people  to  grumble  only  among  our- 
selves has  its  counterpart  in  a  class  pride 
which  keeps  all  political,  professional,  or 
social  orders  in  this  country  armed  against 
the.  attacks  of  outsiders.  Archbishop 
Whately  said  that  if  you  wanted  to  get 
rank  heresy,  you  should  overhear  two 
curates  talking  in  private  ;  it  may  be  that 
an  eavesdropper  listening  to  a  pair  of  ex- 
perienced dukes  exchanging  confidential 
opinions,  might  in  the  same  way  surprise 
some  notable  sayings  on  the  imperfections 
of  the  aristocracy ;  out  it  does  not  follow 
that  their  Graces  would  like  to  have  their 
views  put  into  strong  language  for  them 
by  a  sharp  young  man  who  was  not  of 
their  set.  The  late  Lord  Derby  was 
therefore  quite  right  when  he  remarked 
*'that  Disraeli  would  have  stood  no 
chance  as  a  Liberal."  Lord  Palmerston 
put  the  case  even  more  strongly,  by  say- 
ing that  the  Liberal  party  would  have  had 
no  chance  of  popularity  if  Disraeli  had 
been  among  them.  The  premier,  who 
had  *^a  drawer  full  of  Mr.  Gladstone's 
resignations,"  found  one  restless  genius 
enough  to  manage.  "What  on  earth 
should  we  have  done  with  him  ?  "  he  once 
asked  when  somebody  suggested  that  the 
member  for  Bucks  would  have  been  a 
great  gain  to  the  Whigs. 
But  because  ambition  made  Disraeli  a 


230 


LORD   BEACONSFIELD  S  CHARACTER. 


Conservative,  that  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  attach  himself  very  heartily  to 
the  interests  of  the  party  which  he  joined. 
Mr.  Bright  relates  that  walking  away  from 
the  House  of  Commons  one  night  after 
hearing  a  speech  of  Disraeli*s,  he  and  his 
friend  together  deplored  that  so  much 
ability  should  be  continually  put  at  the 
service  of  bad  causes.  This  was  just  like 
Mr.  Bright,  who  has  always  been  happy 
in  the  thought  that  the  balances  of  right 
and  wrong  were  committed  to  his  keep- 
ing; but  imputations  on  Disraeli's  sin- 
cerity were  too  often  the  only  rejoinders 
which  opponents  could  make  to  his  argu- 
ments. He  was  more  sincere  thanWhigs 
cudgelling  their  brains  for  party  cries  that 
might  keep  them  in  office,  or  than  Radi- 
cals who  knowingly  exaggerate  the  abuses 
of  every  institution  which  they  want  to 
demolish.  It  is  not  even  fair  to  say  that 
ambition  alone  prompted  his  somewhat 
sudden  conversion  to  Toryism  soon  after 
he  had  issued  a  reform  address  to  the 
Marylebone  electors.  Gratitude  had 
something  to  do  with  the  matter,  for  he 
was  more  kindly  treated  by  the  Tories 
than  by  the  Whigs.  Among  the  latter 
every  young  man  of  talent  aspiring  to 
something  higher  than  an  undersecretary- 
ship  of  state  was  regarded  as  a  danger- 
ous competitor  to  the  crowd  of  younger 
sons  who  think  themselves  born  leaders 
of  the  people  and  heirs  to  all  the  emolu- 
ments of  leadership.  The  wonderstrqck, 
half-amused  manner  in  which  Lord  Mel- 
bourne drew  himself  up  when  young 
Disraeli  announced  to  him  at  Mrs.  Nor- 
ton's dinner-party  that  he  meant  to  be 
prime  minister,  must  have  given  the 
author  of  "  Vivian  Grey  *'  an  exact  meas- 
ure of  the  encouragement  he  was  likely  to 
get  from  the  Whig  party.  Conservatism 
naturally  attracts  fewer  adventurers  than 
Liberalism,  for  it  is  easier  to  be  eloquent 
in  attacking  old  institutions  than  in  de- 
fending them.  When  Disraeli  found 
himself  welcomed  as  a  valuable  recruit  by 
Lord  Lyndhurst  and  the  first  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  it  was  only  consistent  with 
human  nature  that  he  should  feel  flat- 
tered ;  and  when  he  discovered  what  kind 
of  men  Tory  noblemen  were,  how  they 
were  in  fact  much  less  imbued  with  caste 
pride  and  generally  more  indifferent  to 
office-holding  than  the  Whigs,  it  was 
equally  in  keeping  with  the  instincts  of  a 
generous  mind  that  he  should  discard  the 
prejudices  which  had  been  conceived 
through  ignorance.  Disraeli  was  essen- 
tially warm-hearted  and  generous;  and 
when  he  took  bis  first  plunge  into  public 


life  he  went  with  the  stream  which  was 
then  carrying  most  young  men,  not 
trained  at  public  schools  and  the  univer- 
sities, towards  humanitarian  theories  of 
all  kinds ;  but  from  the  first  he  showed  a 
disposition  which  would  have  made  him 
unfit  to  work  with  Parliamentary  Liberals. 
In  his  earliest  speeches  and  writings  his 
satire  always  flies  straightest  when  lev* 
elled  at  the  petty  devices  of  place-hunting, 
at  political  hypocrisy,  social  shams  and 
dull  arrogance.  There  was  no  pettiness 
in  him;  he  had  a  poet's  mind  which  took 
grand,  sweeping  views  'of  things  and  con* 
jured  up  gorgeous  visions  of  human  prog- 
ress and  national  triumphs.  He  might 
have  become  the  most  dangerous  of  Rad- 
ical agitators;  but  he  settled  into  his 
proper  place  as  a  defender  of  the  institu* 
tions  which  had  made  England  great,  and 
as  a  friend  of  the  most  highly  cultured, 
most  spirited,  and  most  tolerant  aristoc- 
racy the  world  has  ever  seen.  If  he  had 
been  educated  at  the  College  of  Winches- 
ter, instead  of  in  a  private  school  of  that 
town,  and  if  he  had  afterwards  gone  to 
Christ  Church,  or  to  Trinity,  Cambridge, 
he  would  have  been  drawn  towards  Con- 
servatism in  his  boyhood;  but  it  so  hap- 
pened that  at  his  Winchester  school,  and 
at  another  in  Walthamstow  where  he 
spent  a  couple  of  years,  he  had  much  to 
put  up  with  on  account  of  his  Jew  looks ; 
and  he  seems  to  have  imbibed  a  passion* 
ate  hostility  towards  Toryism  because  it 
was  expounded  in  these  places  bv  a  Low 
Church  parson's  '*  bullying  brat,'  and  by 
"the  haughty,  snuffling  son  of  a  city 
knight."  He  did  not  often  allude  to  his 
schooldays,  but  from  casual  remarks  it 
appears  that  he  must  have  been  an  oppo- 
sition leader  in  them  both.  "  My  first 
tyrant,"  he  used  to  say, "  was  a  boy  we 
called  Freckles  (the  parson's  brat).  He 
lorded  it  over  two  cringing  ushers;  he 
called  me  a  son  of  Belial  for  reading 
'  Roderick  Random  '  on  a  Sunday,  and 
we  were  always  fighting."  Of  the  city 
knight's  son  at  Walthamstow,  he  said : 
*'  He  was  a  fat  boy  who  became  my 
enemy  because  I  nicknamed  him  *Sir 
Loin  ; '  I  might  more  appropriately  have 
given  him  some  name  connected  with 
sheep,  for  he  was  sheepish  at  work,  but 
would  run  at  me  like  a  battering  ram  ia 
the  playground,  and  he  had  a  shoulder-of* 
mutton  fist." 

Having  become  a  Conservative  —  hav* 
ing,  that  is  to  say,  recognized  that  the 
opinions  of  the  Conservative  party  were 
most  congenial  with  his  own  —  Disraeli 
bad  to  commence  the  difficult  task  of  wia* 


LORD  6EACONSFIELD  S   CHARACTER. 


231 


ning  the  full  confidence  of  bis  patrons. 
No  man  ever  took  shrewder  views  than 
he  as  to  the  policy  which  was  best  suited 
to  keep  the  empire  strono^,  and  the  people 
happy.  Yet  he  had  to  fi^ht  daily  battles 
against  the  prejudices  of  men  who  not 
only  wanted  to  preserve  old  things,  but  to 
preserve  them  by  old  methods  and  argu- 
ments. Most  of  these  encounters  were 
waged  in  society  drawing-rooms.  In  Par- 
liament or  on  hustings  bis  ornate  rhetoric, 
biting  sarcasm,  and  flashes  of  humor 
swayed  audiences  powerfully,  but  when 
he  had  to  discuss  politics  with  Tory 
squires  over  a  dinner  table  or  to  formulate 
them  in  epigrams  for  the  instruction  of 
ladies,  his  exuberant  manner  proved  a 
serious  drawback.  Those  who  only  knew 
Lord  Beaconsfield  in  his  later  years  when 
be  had  grown  cool  and  cautious,  can 
hardly  have  an  idea  of  his  fiery  talkative- 
ness in  younger  days.  One  of  his  earliest 
friends,  Lord  Chandos  (the  late  Duke  of 
Buckingham),  was  a  man  to  whom  such 
enthusiasm  was  incomprehensible.  He 
bore  no  resemblance  except  that  of  fea- 
tures to  his  business-like  son,  the  present 
duke.  He  spoke  sententiouslv,  with  a 
high-pitched  drawl,  and  made  free  use  of 
the  term  blackguard  (which  he  pronounced 
blackguyard)  to  designate  all  kinds  of  per- 
sons, save  peers,  who  said  or  did  uncon- 
ventional things.  Paying  a  visit  to  a  lady 
on  a  week-day,  and  hearing  that  she  had 
been  to  church,  he  said  seriously :  "  I 
think  it  a  *  blackguyard '  thing  to  go  to 
church  on  week-days."  He  and  his  father 
were  noblemen  of  the  Georgian  school 
who  called  the  king  **  My  SuvrMn,"  ad- 
dressed their  parish  clergyman  as  <*  Par- 
son," and  had  no  particular  theories  about 
the  Church,  except  that  it  was  a  proper 
place  to  go  to  on  Sundays  even  if  they  slept 
there  during  the  sermon,  as  they  mostly 
did.  They  hated  Dissenters  without  en- 
tering into  their  dogmas,  and  Reformers 
much  in  the  same  way.  Their  method  of 
facing  popular  measures  was  to  resist 
without  compromise,  and  to  declare  that 
the  kingdom  was  going  to  the  dogs ;  but 
when  they  had  said  this  in  the  most  highly 
flavored  language  at  their  command,  they 
would  shake  hands  like  prize-fighters  with 
political  opponents  of  their  own  order, 
and  think  none  the  worse  of  these  latter 
for  having  been  engaged  in  **  treasonable  " 
schemes  —  for  they  used  the  word  treason- 
able as  freely  as  the  epithet  blackguard. 
Lord  Chandos  often  took  it  upon}hiroself 
to  rebuke  young  Disraeli  for  being  too 
warm. 
It  took  Disraeli  a  long  time  to  under- 


stand all  this  —  to  perceive  that  men  could 
be  opponents  without  becoming  enemies, 
and  that  the  measure  of  a  man's  guilt  as 
a  political  miscreant  was  to  be  determined 
solely  by  his  social  status.  Many  of  the 
old  Tory  lords  seemed  to  look  upon  poli- 
tics as  a  game  of  cricket,  which  they  were 
playing  against  Whig  lords,  having  some 
professionals  in  their  eleven;  but  while 
they  systematically  despised  these  profes- 
sionals, they  took  no  lasting  offence  at 
any  underhand  play  of  the  **  gentlemen.*' 
They  often  frowned  when  they  heard 
voung  Disraeli  speak  at  their  tables  as  if 
he  had  an  equal  right  with  themselves  to 
use  hard  wprds  against  party  leaders. 
Lady  Lyndhurst  repeatedly  warned  him 
of  this.  One  day,  when  he  had  been  rail- 
ing with  overflowing  irony  at  Lords  Mel- 
bourne, Durham,  Morpeth,  John  Russell, 
and  Palmerston,  she  put  her  handkerchief 
to  her  mouth  to  smother  her  laughter,  and 
presently  said,  **  You  talk  as  if  you  would 
hang  these  men,  but  half  the  Tory  fami- 
lies would  go  into  mourning  if  you  could 
work  your  will  on  them,  remember  that." 
Lady  Jersey,  on  another  occasion,  damped 
Disraeli's  ardor  by  exclaiming,  "  Dear  me, 
don't  throw  me  into  a  fever,  I  am  going 
out  of  town  next  week,  and  I  should  like 
to  leave  London  without  the  thought  that 
my  house  is  going  to  be  burned  during  the 
recess."  These  snubs,  and  others  even 
harder  to  bear,  accounted  for  Disraeli's 
fits  of  taciturnity.  He  was  sometimes 
very  morose  in  society,  and  if  annoyed  at 
such  tiroes,  would  turn  round  and  say 
things  which  cut  his  aggressor,  whoever 
he  might  be,  to  the  bone.  Detractors  who 
have  written  that  he  cringed  to  the  nobil- 
ity —  every  falsehood  was  good  enough  to 
beat  him  with  —  little  know  how  savage 
he  could  be  when  offended.  Suppleness 
and  servility  alone  would  never  have  made 
him  a  leader  of  the  Tories;  he  elbowed 
his  way  to  the  first  rank  by  compelling 
men  to  respect  him.  During  the  debate 
on  the  Irish  Tithes  question  in  1839,  Lord 
Ellenborough,  meeting  him  at  a  party, 
ventured  to  say  in  the  hearing  of  several 
other  persons:  **  We  want  no  rigmarole 
talked  over  this  question,  it's  one  of  facts 
and  figures."  •*  Have  you  been  given  the 
situation  of  prompter  to  our  party?" 
asked  Disraeli,  with  a  flash  in  his  eye. 
Lord  Haddington,  at  about  the  same  time, 
got  a  repartee  which  made  him  wince. 
He  remarked  loftily,  being  a  pompous 
man,  that  there  was  too  much  barking  on 
the  back  opposition  benches  :  ^*  I  have  no 
opinion  of  a  hound  who  doesn't  obey  the 
*  whip,' "  be  added.    "  Your  Lordship  was 


83> 


LORD  B£ACONSFI£LD  S   CHARACTER. 


doubtless  well  whipped  as  a  puppy,"  re- 
torted Disraeli,  in  a  demure  tone,  amid 
general  laughter.  In  connection  with  this 
rejoinder,  one  may  note  Disraeli's  defini- 
tion of  dogmatism,  as  **  puppyism  grown 
old."  It  was  made  in  after  years,  and,  we 
believe,  touched  a  noble  Whig  lord  still 
living. 

At  the  outset  of  his  career  Disraeli  was 
seriously  embarrassed  for  want  of  money. 
Like  his  Pinto  in  **  Lothair  "  he  was  be- 
lieved to  be  easy  in  his  circumstances, 
though  nobody  knew  where  these  circum- 
stances  were.  He  dressed  extravau^antly, 
wore  jewelled  rings  with  a  profusion  of 
chains,  and  he  never  talked  as  if  anything; 
were  loo  dear  for  him ;  but  he  was  really 
very  poor  for  the  style  of  life  which  he 
led,  and  it  was  only  by  a  marvel  of  inge- 
nuity that  he  kept  out  of  debt.  D'Orsay, 
who  was  never  free  from  duns,  and  who 
was  not  above  accepting  a  gratuity  from  a 
tailor  to  launch  a  new  coat,  once  arched 
his  eyebrows  incredulously  when  Disraeli 
told  him  that  he  did  not  owe  a  penny  in 
London.  Disraeli  repeating  the  assertion, 
the  Frenchman  advised  him  with  a  friendly 
seriousness  not  to  let  it  get  circulatecf. 
**  People  would  say  that  you  were  a  Rus* 
sian  spy  —  every  politician  should  own  to 
;£ 5,000  a  year  in  debts  or  income."  It 
may  have  been  owing  to  this  hint,  which 
had  some  worldly  wisdom  in  it,  that  Dis- 
raeli took  no  pains  to  contradict  rumors 
which  described  him  as  deeply  involved 
in  liabilities  of  all  sorts.  **  A  man  in  debt 
is  a  man  who  is  trusted,"  he  once  said,  to 
the  great  delight  of  Lord  George  Ben- 
tinck ;  and  again  he  was  the  author  of  the 

Saradox :  "  Out  of  debt,  out  of  credit." 
\\xt  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  valued  his  in- 
dependence too  much  to  put  himself  at 
the  mercy  of  creditors ;  he  got  his  money's 
worth  in  the  way  of  show  out  of  every 
guinea  he  spent;  but  he  was  a  rigid 
economist  in  private  —  careful  about  his 
clothes,  methodical  in  his  accounts,  and 
always  frugal.  "  How  do  you  manage  to 
keep  so  healthy?"  he  was  asked  by  a 
dyspeptic  fop.  "  By  dining  off  a  sardine," 
was  the  answer,  and  there  was  some  truth 
in  this.  To  the  end  of  his  life  Disraeli 
always  ate  very  sparingly  when  alone,  and 
this  enabled  him  to  keep  a  good  appetite 
for  public  occasions,  thereby  rebutting 
the  presumption,  which  his  pale  face  sug- 
gested, that  he  was  consumptive.  In  this 
connection  some  remarks  of  his  about 
wine  may  be  mentioned.  Hard  drinking 
was  in  fashion  during  his  youth,  and  at 
public  dinners  men  who  let  the  bottle 
pass  were  hardly  regarded  as  gentlemen. 


Disraeli,  who  could  never  stand  much 
wine,  suffered  a  good  deal  from  this  social 
usage,  and  he  set  himself  to  study  the 
demeanor  of  men  who  could  drink  deep 
without  being  any  the  worse  for  it.  Lord 
Melbourne  was  one  of  these,  and  he  gave 
Disraeli  a  wrinkle  by  saying:  **You  can 
drink  if  you  don't  talk;  if  you  talk  much 
you  neean*t  drink,  for  people  will  think 
you're  drunk,  and  let  you  alone."  It  is 
obvious  that  the  excitement  of  conversa- 
tion must  co-operate  powerfully  with  the 
fumes  of  wine  in  making  the  brain  reel. 
Disraeli  having  noted  this  fact,  went 
further  into  the  subject  by  observing  that 
a  man's  convivial  propensities  are  always 
taken  for  granted  if  he  talks  in  praise  of 
wine  and  appears  to  be  very  critical  about 
it.  Some  of  his  remarks  savoring  of  the 
most  refined  epicureanism  may  therefore 
be  ascribed  solely  to  his  temperate  desire 
to  find  excuses  for  not  drinking.  He  was 
not  a  judge  of  wines,  though  he  pretended 
to  be,  and  once  allowed  himself  to  lay 
down  the  law  about  Burgundy  against  the 
late  Lord  Sefton.  A  droll  trait  in  him 
was  that  he  spoke  enthusiastically  about 
certain  choice  wines,  but  he  never  decried 
any  sort  of  liquor,  even  gin.  A  reason  he 
once  gave  for** saying  something  kind" 
about  brandy  in  the  presence  of  a  person 
addicted  to  spirits  would  have  had  a 
Mephistophelean  ring  if  the  subject  of 
the  observation  had  not  been,  humanly 
speaking,  irreclaimable:  "I  could  not 
speak  ill  of  his  only  friend."  "  1  should 
call  brand V  his  enemy,"  interposed  a  lady. 
**Ah,  well,  a  man  hates  his  enemy  the 
worse  for  hearing  him  well  spoken  of," 
was  the  mild  retort.* 

It  has  been  said  that  Disraeli's  means 
were  slender:  his  marriage  in  1839,  two 
years  after  he  had  entered  Parliament, 
lifted  him  for  good  out  of  penury.  The 
devoted  lady  who  became  his  wife  not 
only  brought  him  a  fortune,  but  the  most 
valuable  companionship.    She  made  her- 

*  In  one  of  Mr.  Disraeir*  few  conversations  with  the 
prince  consort,  the  talk  rolled  upon  the  simple  and 
eentle  politeness  of  Highlanders,  a  subject  upon  which 
H.  R.  H.  was  never  tired  of  descanting.  Mr.  Disraeli 
gave  an  illustration  of  this  politeness  from  his  own  ex- 
perience. He  was  staving  in  a  Htehland  house  when  a 
gillie  came  in  to  see  tne  laird,  and  was  offered  a  glass 
of  whiskev.  Having  tossed  off  the  spirit,  he  was  asked 
how  he  liked  it:  **Verra  weel,  laird,"  he  answered, 
**sicher  we  puir  folk  cannae  drink  such  whoskee  as 
thau"  Before  he  went  the  laird  offered  him  another 
glass,  which  the  gillie  drank  with  the  same  encomium 
as  before,  smackmg  his  lips.  But  when  he  was  gone 
it  was  discovered  that  the  case-boitle  contained  water. 
**  Nothing  could  have  been  finer  than  the  man's  tact," 
concluded  Mr.  Disraeli;  but  he  added,  **  Imagination 
is  a  powerfal  stimulant  too  in  its  way:  perhaps,  after 
all,  the  man  set  up  as  a  connoisseur  of  the  ftner  kizHls 
of  whiskey  from  that  day.*' 


LORD  BEACONSFIELD  S   CHARACTER. 


«33 


•seli  the  minister  of  his  ambition  with  an 
extraordinary  singleness  of  purpose  —  re- 
lieving him  of  all  domestic  cares,  attend- 
ing; to  his  smallest  comforts,  warning  him 
against  enemies,  and  striving  to  recruit 
friends  for  him.  Those  who  knew  her, 
remember  how  every  morning,  when  she 
had  settled  her  household  affairs  with  a 
quiet,  domineering  activity,  she  would  sit 
down  to  glance  through  heaps  of  news- 
papers, reviews,  and  even  blue-books,  to 
spare  her  husband  this  fatigue.  At  his 
ten  o'clock  breakfast  he  heard  from  her 
all  the  news  of  the  day,  got  the  pith  of  the 
leaders  from  the  Times^  was  told  of  every- 
thing printed  in  his  favor,  and  often  re- 
ceived a  useful  budget  of  facts,  statistics, 
and  anecdotes  bearing  upon  speeches 
which  he  was  going  to  deliver.  From  the 
time  of  his  marriage  a  great  change  came 
over  Disraeli.  The  fervid  self-asserted- 
jiess  of  his  bachelor  days  was  put  off;  the 
florid  imperfections  of  his  dress  were  cor- 
rected; he  became  less  anxious  to  shine 
than  to  please,  less  careful  to  convince 
than  to  amuse.  His  sure  helpmate  scored 
for  him,  so  to  say ;  marking  down  all  the 
points  he  made,  watching  the  effects  of 
his  conversational  shots,  and  reporting 
ei'erything  faithfully  to  him,  so  that  he 
could  never  feel  depressed  under  a  sense 
of  diminishing  prowess.  Only  a  man's 
wife  can  do  this  for  him.  Mrs.  Disraeli, 
however,  never  succeeded  in  her  own 
ambition  of  creating  a  political  saion  like 
Lady  Palmerston*s  or  Lady  Waldegrave's. 
There  was  nothing  genial  about  her;  she 
was  too  much  absorbed  in  her  husband  to 
be  a  good  hostess.  If  she  gave  a  dinner, 
she  was  more  concerned  to  watch  whether 
her  husband  was  enjoying  himself  than  to 
see  how  his  guests  fared;  her  eyes  if  not 
her  lips  said:  "Hush!"  when  he  spoke; 
and  if  after  dinner  he  showed  the  slight- 
est signs  of  fatigue  or  headache  she  made 
little  ceremony  about  hinting  to  her  visit- 
ors that  they  might  be  gone.  **VVhat 
shall  I  do  ?^' she  asked  almost  piteously 
of  the  late  Lady  Derby ;  "  here  is  an  am- 
bassadress who  has  some  atrocious  scent 
on  her  handkerchief  which  hs  can't  bear. 
If  she  sits  beside  him  at  table,  his  even- 
ing's pleasure  will  be  spoilt.''  Mrs.  Dis- 
raeli's affectionate  zeal  had  perhaps,  in 
some  respects,  a  hampering  effect  upon 
her  husband's  progress  in  society;  she 
might  have  served  him  better  if  she  had 
worshipped  him  less.  By  proclaiming 
him  the  paragon  of  politics  before  the 
world  was  quite  prepared  to  concur  in  her 
opinion,  she  threw  upon  him  sometimes  a 
slight  sprinkling  of  ridicule.    The  Duch- 


ess of  Sutherland  called  him  humorously, 
**d/ff  mari  dam  du  cotonT^ 

Mrs.  Disraeli  was  very  angry  when  on 
the  formation  of  the  Tory  ministry  of 
1841,  her  husband  was  not  offered  one  of 
the  minor  appointments ;  and  Disraeli 
himself  was  much  mortified  at  this.  His 
services  ought,  not  to  have  been  passed 
over,  and  Peel's  neglect  of  him  was  be- 
yond doubt  a  deliberate  slight.  Disraeli, 
however,  possessed  his  soul  in  patience. 
His  friend,  George  Smythe,  said  that  it 
was  better  for  him  that  he 'should  not  let 
an  official  muzzle  be  put  upon  him  too 
soon ;  and  the  event  proved  that  Peel's 
attempt  to  ignore  Disraeli  contributed 
most  to  bring  the  latter  into  the  fore- 
ground. Had  Disraeli  become  a  member 
of  the  Tory  administration  it  is  hardly  to 
be  doubted  that  he  would  have  remained 
faithful  to  Peel  when  this  statesman 
broke  up  his  partv  on  the  Corn  Laws. 
In  common  with  all  members  of  his  race, 
he  was  deeply  grateful  for  kindness;  ^d 
he  showed  it  in  after  years  by  selecting 
as  his  Cabinet  colleagues  two  or  three 
statesmen  whose  only  substantial  claim  to 
high  office  lay  in  their  having  befriended 
him  in  his  struggling  days.  But  how 
would  the  future  of  parties  have  been 
affected  if  Peel  had  sought  to  make  a 
friend  of  his  brilliant  follower }  One 
cannot  well  imagine  the  Peeiite  party  of 
1846-50  with  Disraeli  in  their  midst,  but 
it  has  been  suggested  that  if  Disraeli  had 
not  remained  among  the  Tories,  Mr. 
Gladstone  might  have  taken  the  opportu- 
nity of  stepping  into  the  Tory  leadership 
of  the  House  of  Commons  after  Lord 
George  Bentinck's  death;  however  that 
may  be,  it  is  certain  that  Disraeli  followed 
his  natural  inclination  in  adhering  to  the 
Protectionists,  while  Peel's  cavalier  treat- 
ment of  him  had  freed  him  from  all  per- 
sonal obligation.  He  admired  Peel  with- 
out trusting  him,  and  long  before  the 
great  man  performed  his  second  political 
somersault,  he  had  described  Peel's  mind 
as  a  gregarious  one,  which  liked  going 
with  herds.  It  is  almost  forgotten  now 
that  he  nearly  had  a  serious  quarrel  with 
Mr.  Herries  (one  of  his  future  competi- 
tors for  the  Tory  leadership)  through  hav- 
ing said  something  of  this  sort  at  a  time 
when  Peel  seemed  firmly  wedded  to  the 
agricultural  interest.  "  Treachery  should 
not  be  predicted  of  any  man,"  grumbled 
Herries.  **0h,  it  wouldn't  be  treachery," 
answered  Disraeli.  **  Peel  would  be  quite 
clever  enough  to  prove  that  you  and  I 
were  the  traitors."  He  made  a  similar 
joke  about  Mr.  Gladstone  at  the  time  of 


^34 


LORD  BEACONSFIELD  S  CHARACTEIL 


the  Irish  Church  Disestablishment :  **  We 
all  feel  painfully  wicked  hearing  this  good 
man  recant  the  errors  he  has  taught  us." 
It  is  unnecessary  to  revive  the  question 
as  to  whether  Disraeli  hit  Peel  too  hard 
in  attacking  him  about  his  conversion. 
The  sight  of  the  portly  prime  minister 
writhing  on  the  treasury  bench  and  wip- 
ing perspiration  from  his  brow  while  the 
"  malignant  Jew  '*  poured  wrath  and  irony 
upon  him  in  boiling  torrents,  has  often 
stirred  the  sympathy  of  party  writers  who 
have  seen  only  a  subject  for  merriment 
in  the  spectacle  of  the  same  "Jew"  quiv- 
ering in  his  turn  at  various  times  under 
savage  taunts  and  venomous  insinuations. 
Disraeli  had  a  long  score  to  pay  off  against 
the  haughtily  stiff  leader  who  had  sneered 
at  him  lor  being  a  "gentleman  of  mercu- 
rial temperament,**'  and  he  discharged  it 
with  full  interest.  Bat  one  effect  of  this 
was  to  put  him  in  very  bad  favor  at  court. 
It  is  no  secret  that  when  the  administra- 
tion of  1852  was  formed  Lord  Derby 
received  intimation  that  it  would  be  agree- 
able in  high  quarters  if  iMr.  Disraeli  were 
given  an  appointment  that  would  not 
bring  him  into  personal  attendance  on  the 
sovereign.  It  was  owing  to  this  that  he 
became  chancellor  of  the  exchequer  in- 
stead of  going  to  the  Home  Office,  a  post 
which  he  would  have  much  preferred,  and 
which  he  would  have  filled  ably.  By  this 
time  he  held  undisputed  leadership  of  the 
Conservatives  in  the  Lower  House.  After 
Lord  George  Bentinck^s  death  only  two 
men  among  the  Protectionists  —  Mr. 
Herries  and  the  Marquis  of  Granby  — 
were  even  named  as  having  any  preten- 
sions to  lead ;  but  Disraeli's  superior 
claims  were  acknowledged  of  necessity. 
In  eleven  years  of  Parliamentary  life  he 
had  made  such  a  resounding  name  that 
when  he  succeeded  to  the  position  of 
Canning  and  the  younger  Pitt,  it  seemed 
as  though  the  natural  course  of  things 
would  soon  make  him  ruler  of  the  coun- 
try. And  yet  what  a  time  was  to  elapse 
before  he  was  to  obtain  this  coveted  dis- 
tinction !  His  brief  tenures  of  office  in 
Lord  Derby's  two  Cabinets  and  during 
his  own  first  premiership  were  mere 
wormwood  to  him.  His  favorite  wish 
after  entering  Parliament  was  for  three 
years  of  **  real  power,"  but  he  was  an  old 
man  before  this  came  to  him,  after  he 
had  been  opposition  chief  for  twenty-five 
years,  leading  a  party  often  querulous  and 
sulky,  sometimes  half  mutinous,  and 
showing  himself  in  these  dispiriting  times 
always  serene,  hopefuli  watchful,  and  dill- 
gent. 


Disraeli  is  often  spoken  of  as  a  lucky 
roan :  he  was  in  truth  the  most  unlucky 
statesman  who  ever  governed  a  great  par* 
ty,  for  he  had  no  men  of  first-rate  talent 
around  him.  He  came  to  the  front  in  aa 
era  of  changes,  and  the  spirit  of  the  age 
threw  most  able  young  politicians  into  the 
Liberal  ranks.  Disraeli  towered  over  all 
his  companions  by  a  head  and  shoulders, 
and  Conservatism  became  in  a  manner 
identified  with  his  name  only,  though  he 
was  long  unable,  owing  to  the  difficulties 
which  he  had  to  vanquish  among  his  own 
followers,  to  give  any  popular  definition  of 
Conservatism.  His  popularity  with  the 
nation  grew  slowly  but  steadily  year  by 
year,  vet  the  restiveness  of  his  own  party 
was  snown  by  the  fact  that  his  name  was 
seldom  mentioned  in  electoral  addresses 
of  Parliamentary  candidates.  Tory  squires 
continued  to  have  a  patronizing  way  with 
him.  They  doubted  whether  he  under- 
stood their  interests  as  they  did;  there 
was  often  something  in  their  manner 
which  implied  that  they  regarded  him 
merely  as  a  stop-gap  leader.  He  would 
do  until  some  other  could  be  found,  but 
some  new  man,  an  ideal  young  nobleman, 
would  be  sure  to  start  up  soon  and  then 
thorough  Toryism  (whatever  that  might 
mean)  would  have  a  proper  exponent. 
There  was  no  Tory  so  cantankerous  but 
Disraeli  could  inspire  him  with  enthusi- 
asm and  confidence  after  half  an  hour's 
conversation ;  but  it  was  weary  work  to 
have  to  spend  half-hours  constantly  ia 
educating  men  who  straightway  forgot 
what  they  had  been  taught  when  they 
were  out  of  reach  of  the  teacher's  voice. 
Mr.  Gladstone  could  never  have  stood  for 
a  week  the  kind  of  work  which  Disraeli 
performed  during  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
and  there  is  no  other  example  in  Parlia- 
mentary history  of  a  man  having  to  main« 
tain  his  political  ascendency,  so  long  as 
Disraeli  did,  by  little  bits  of  diplomacy  ia 
lobbies,  clubs,  and  drawing-rooms.  He 
was  once  told  that  Mr.  Gladstone  had 
flown  into  a  passion  with  a  deputation  who 
had  memorialized  him  on  some  question 
of  taxes.  "  Ah  !  "  he  said,  "  it  is  a  great 
luxury  to  fly  into  a  passion  with  stupid 
people,  but  we  can't  all  afford  it."  He 
added :  "  I  only  show  anger  to  sharp  fel* 
lows  who  sham  being  stupid." 

Was  Disraeli  proud  of  the  victories 
which  his  keen  wit  enabled  him  to  win 
hourly  in  conflicts  with  people  who  were 
slow  of  understanding  or  stiff-necked? 
Unquestionably  not,  if  pride  involves 
any  pleasure  in  the  thing  achieved.  He 
dreamed  of  nobler  things  than  potting 


LORD  BEACONSFIELD  S   CHARACTER. 


235 


political  dances  through  their  ABC,  and 
there  were  times  when,  as  Lord  Wharn- 
cliffe  said  of  him,  he  must  have  felt  like  a 
Porson  conducting  a  dame's  school.  He 
knew  that  if  some  happy  turn  in  the  na- 
tional mood  gave  him  suddenly  a  Parlia* 
inentary  majority,  he  would,  speakino^  to 
his  followers  with  the  authority  of  success, 
be  able  to  educate  them  en  masse  with 
few  words  instead  of  many  —  by  acts  in- 
stead of  words.  This  term  **  education  " 
has  often  been  laughed  at  in  its  connec- 
tion with  Disraeli's  work ;  and  it  has  been 
gratuitously  taken  to  mean  a  process  by 
which  Conservatives  could  be  brought  to 
outdo  their  opponents  in  democratizing 
the  constitution.  But  Conservatism,  as 
Disraeli  understood  it,  had  higher  aims 
than  this,  and  embodied  in  its  original 
conception  no  such  hasty  concessions  to 
an  uneducated  democracy  as  were  made 
by  the  Reform  Bill  of  1867.  Conserva- 
tism meant  the  keeping  of  the  empire 
great  in  the  things  wherein  it  was  already 
supreme,  and  bringing  it  to  the  first  rank 
in  contests  where  it  stood  inferior  to  other 
nations.  This  could  not  be  done  by  small 
means ;  and  the  texts  of  Disraeli's  social 
discourses,  when  he  could  talk  among 
friends,  were  all  against  smallness  —  pen- 
ny wisdom,  bigotry,  moral  timidity,  insular 
crabbedness  of  mind.  He  delighted  in 
the  merchant  prince  full  of  enterprise,  in 
the  manufacturer  discarding  old  machinery 
to  do  belter  with  new,  and  in  the  hardy 
emigrant  who  goes  out  to  found  a  new 
settlement  for  himself  when  the  struggle 
for  existence  becomes  too  hard  at  home. 
But  he  had  no  feeling  for  the  spirit  which 
keeps  a  man  plodding  on  in  routine  under 
the  idea  that  be  is  doing  things  *'in  the 
good  old  fashion."  *'  The  only  good  old 
fashion,"  he  used  to  say,  **  is  to  do  the 
best  for  oneself  according  to  the  best 
ways  of  the  time."  There  was  a  stationer 
in  Aylesbury  whom  he  used  to  patronize, 
and  who  long  hesitated  to  put  a  plate- 
glass  front  in  his  shop-window,  **  because," 
as  he  said,  *'  the  old  place  did  very  well 
for  my  father,  and  it  will  do  for  me."  **  At 
that  rate,"  remarked  Disraeli,  "it  ought 
to  do  for  your  son  and  grandson."  It 
must  be  admitted  that  the  stationer  got 
an  advantage  of  the  statesman  then,  for 
he  replied:  "Well,  sir,  if  my  grandson 
keeps  the  place  as  it  is,  customers  will 
probably  be  attracted  to  it  as  a  curios- 
ity." 

One  of  Disraeli's  favorite  ideas  was 
that  London  ought  to  be  made  the  most 
magnificent  city  in  the  world  —  a  real 
Kaisersiadiox  imperial  town,  a  model  to 


all  other  cities  in  the  character  of  its 
public  buildings,  the  sanitarv  perfection 
and  outer  picturesqueness  of  its  private 
houses,  the  width  of  its  streets,  etc. 
When  Napoleon  III.  commenced  the  re- 
edification  of  Paris  he  used  to  say:  'Ms 
it  not  pitiful  that  the  emperOr  should  be 
doing  by  force  what  we  could  do  so  much 
better  of  our  own  free  will,  if  we  had  a 
proper  pride,  to  say  nothing  of  good  sense 
in  the  matter?"  He  found  many  con- 
genial listeners,  and  one  in  particular,  Mr. 
Baillie  Cochrane,  now  Lord  Lamington 
(the  Buckhurst  of  '*  Coningsby  "),  whose 
artistic  tastes  are  well  known.  But  he 
was  generally  met  by  some  such  theories 
as  satisfied  the  Aylesbury  tradesman,  or 
by  talk  about  that  eternal  want  of  pence 
which  vexes  public  men.  Once  when  he 
was  staying  at  Knole,  he  launched  out  into 
a  parody  of  Macaulay's  idea  of  the  New 
Zealander  meditating  over  the  ruins  of 
London  Bridge.  He  imagined  this  per- 
sonage'reconstructing  in  fancy  a  row  of 
villas  at  Brixton:  "What  a  picture  he 
would  make  of  it;  he  would  naturally 
suppose  that  knowing  how  to  build,  and 
having  just  awoken  to  a  knowledge  of 
sanitation,  we  had  built  according  to  the 
best  ideas  in  our  heads."  Then  he  took 
his  New  Zealander  among  the  ruins  of 
the  stately  commercial  palaces  crowded 
in  narrow  lanes  all  round  the  Bank,  and 
the  Exchange :  *'  He  would  conclude  that 
there  must  after  all  have  been  some  ty- 
rannical laws  which  prevented  our  mer- 
chants from  combining  their  resources  to 
make  their  streets  spacious  and  effective, 
-for  it  would  seem  absurd  to  him  that 
intelligent  men  should,  at  a  great  cost, 
have  built  palaces  for  themselves  in  holes 
and  corners  where  nobody  could  admire 
them  properly,  when  by  acting  in  concert, 
they  might  at  much  less  expense  have 
set  much  finer  palaces  in  noble  avenues, 
courts,  and  squares."  Then  Disraeli 
broke  out  into  an  animated  description  of 
his  regenerate  London  with  Wren's  four 
grand  approaches  to  St.  Paul's,  boulevards 
transecting  the  metropolis  in  all  direc- 
tions; and  the  palace  of  Whitehall  rebuilt 
after  Inigo  Jones's  designs  to  make  new 
government  offices.  He  would  have  cov- 
ered the  embankment  pedestals  with  stat- 
ues of  admirals  set  in  colossal  groups 
recalling  great  naval  achievements,  and 
he  thought  Stepney*  ought  to  have  its 
cathedral  of  St.  Peter  —  the  church  of  a 
seafaring  nation,  dedicated  to  the  fisher- 

*  Persons  born  at  Ma  were  formerly  registered  as  bo* 
longing  to  the  Parish  of  Stepney. 


«3^ 


LORD   BEACO^SFIELD  S   CHARACTER. 


man  saint  —  and  containing  memorials  to 
all  the  humble  heroes,  sailors,  or  ftsher- 
men  who  lost  their  lives  performing  acts 
of  courage  on  the  water.  "The  names 
of  such  men  ought  not  to  perish,"  he  used 
to  say.  When  he  had  finished  speaking 
somebody  observed  that  his  plan  would 
cost  ;^ 200,000,000,  and  convert  every  rate- 
payer into  a  porcupine.  *'  We  may  have 
to  pay  ;£ 500,000,000  in  the  end  for  doing 
things  in  the  present  way,*'  he  answered; 
**and  as  to  the  porcupine,  he  is  managea- 
ble enough  if  you  handle  him  in  the  right 
way." 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  Disraeli  had 
not  always  the  courage  of  his  opinions, 
though  he  knew  what  fascination  boldness 
exercises  over  the  million.  He  s[>oke  in 
one  way  to  his  friends  and  in  another  to 
crowds  where  his  enemies  predominated; 
for  instance,  he  was  of  opinion  that  it 
WAS  a  disgrace  to  the  country  there  should 
be  no  national  theatre  subsidized  by  the 
State,  and  yet  if  a  proposal  for  endowing 
a  playhouse  had  been  made  by  a  Liberal 
government  one  can  fancy  the  sarcastic 
manner  in  which  he  would  have  described 
the  embarrassments  of  a  minister  sad- 
dling himself  with  the  responsibilities  of 
theatrical  management.  The  opening  of 
museums  on  Sundays  was  a  measure 
which  he  secretly  favored,  but  he  would 
not  have  quarrelled  with  the  Sabbatarians 
by  saying  so.  It  was  obvious  from  his 
views  about  London,  that  he  would  have 
approved  a  very  wide  measure  of  munici- 
pal reform:  he  was  indeed  not  the  kind 
of  man  to  be  afraid  of  a  monster  munici- 
pality, but  to  hear  him  talk  about  vestry- 
men, when  the  competency  of  these  offi- 
cials was  called  in  question  by  reformers, 
would  have  made  one  think  that  he  was 
satisfied  with  the  present  government  of 
London  as  perfect.  Disraeli  was  some- 
times gently  reproached  for  his  inconsis- 
tencies by  intimates  who  could  speak  to 
him  plainly  without  giving  offence;  he 
used  to  stroke  his  chin  with  a  good-hu- 
mored look  of  profundity,  and  plead  the 
necessities  of  his  position:  **A  man  can- 
not play  high  stakes  every  night :  you 
must  husband  your  best  ideas  until  there 
is  something  to  be  won  with  them."  "  I 
hold  a  brief  for  certain  interests,"  was 
another  of  his  saws.  **If  my  clients 
won't  accept  all  my  advice,  I  must  speak 
as  they  instruct  me."  Then  he  could 
always  take  refuge  in  the  argument  that 
measures  introduced  by  his  opponents 
had  to  be  combated  because  of  the  una- 
vowed  purposes  for  which  they  were 
brought  forward*    He  used  to  relate  with 


great  relish  an  anecdote  about  a  Buckings 
hamshire  clergyman  who  had  gone  down 
to  the  Senate  at  Cambridge  to  vote  for  a 
number  of  University  reforms.  But  as 
the  reforms  were  moved  one  by  one,  the 
clergyman  kept  shouting  with  all  his 
lungs:  ^*  J^on  fi/acet,**  A  friend  expostu- 
lated with  him  on  this  inconsistency: 
**Why,  you  told  me  you  had  come  6a 
purpose  to  support  these  reforms."  '*  Ah, 
yes,"  answered  the  reverend  gentleman, 
**but  see  in  what  queer  company  I  found 
them." 

Disraeli  was  too  much  bent  on  giving 
his  adversaries  no  chance  of  tripping  him 
up  in  public.  He  speaks  in  '*Tancred" 
of  that  "fatal  drollery  —  a  representative 
government,"  and  he  was  really  not  made' 
to  be  a  Parliamentary  minister  though  he 
excelled  so  conspicuously  in  party  tactics. 
He  despised  the  means  he  used,  but  used 
them  on  the  principle,  "  TU  show  you 
that  I  can  play  the  game  as  well  as  you." 
He  could  not  be  called  disingenuous,  be* 
cause  there  was  no  crafty  concealment  of 
his  opinions  from  men  to  whom  he  could 
speak  unreservedly,  knowing  that  no  un- 
fair advantage  would  be  taken  of  his 
utterances;  but  once  he  had  learnt  that 
—  in  Pickwickian  phrase  —  there  is  a 
Parliamentary  sense  to  be  attached  to 
words  in  distinction  from  their  cognate 
meaning,  he  used  his  experience  with 
consummate  circumspection.  He  would 
have  done  better  to  have  set  less  store  by 
tongue-fence,  for  there  was  no  natural 
duplicity  in  his  character,  and  he  was 
heard  at  his  best  when  he  spoke  accord- 
ing to  his  first  impulses.  For  all  this,  it 
must  be  remembered  that  sneers  were 
the  weapons  which  he  had  found  most 
effective  against  the  malice  of  his  ene- 
mies. They  hated  him  for  his  perspi- 
cacity—  it  was  no  Parliamentary  hatred, 
but  an  active  antipathy  born  of  dread  — 
and  he  could  never  give  expression  to  a 
noble  sentiment  without  provoking  spite- 
ful titters  on  the  opposite  benches.  His 
ironical  manner,  his  affected  scorn  of  sen- 
timentalism,  were  assumed  by  way  of 
reprisals ;  but  it  may  be  observed  with 
some  regret  that  the  whole  tone  of  debat- 
ing in  the  House  of  Commons  was  dis- 
tinctly lowered  by  the  animosities  which 
forced  Disraeli  into  the  position  of  a 
sardonic  contemner  of  impassioned  elo- 
quence. Gladstone  under  his  mocking 
eye  learned  the  science  of  elaborate  pe- 
riphrasis and  retractation  ;  even  Palmers- 
ton  dropped  his  airy  John  BuUism,  and 
prosed  in  prudent  sentences  which  would 
have  satisfied  aa  attorney ;  while  Robert 


LORD  BEACONSFIELD  S  CHARACTER. 


m 


Lowe  for  being  bumptious  was  aonihi- 
lated.  It  is  pleasant,  however,  to  remem- 
ber how  good-natured  Disraeli  could  be 
when  he  saw  a  disposition  to  treat  him 
with  courtesy.  Where  would  Mr.  Vernon 
Harcourt  have  been  now  if  he  had  not 
taken  warning  by  the  masterly  casti<;a- 
tions  which  Mr.  Lowe  received,  and  in- 
gratiated himself  with  the  Tory  leader? 

No  Conservative  can  look  back  with 
pleasure  upon  any  part  of  Disraeli*8  ac- 
tion in  passing  the  Reform  Bill  of  1867. 
Whatever  may  be  thought  of  that  meas- 
ure by  men  who  have  no  strong  political 
opinions,  it  was  one  that  could  not  square 
with  any  principles  which  genuine  Con- 
servatives hold.  It  was  plainly  the  bill 
of  a  politician,  whom  long  disappointment 
had  rendered  reckless  —  who  saw  the 
years  of  his  strength  slipping  away,  and 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  out- 
manoeuvring his  opponents,  and  making  a 
snatch  for  power.  He  "dished  the 
Whigs/'  but  his  action  was  tantamount  to 
that  of  a  general  who  should  blow  up  one 
of  his  own  citadels,  not  because  it  was 
weak,  but  because  it  was  troublesome  to 
defend.  It  is  never  a  sign  of  good  states- 
manship to  part  with  a  principle ;  and  as 
a  matter  of  fact  the  inconsiderate  enfran- 
chisement of  a  million  of  uneducated 
men  has  yielded  none  of  the  results  which 
Disraeli  anticipated.  The  Conservative 
reaction  of  1874  ^^^  nothing  to  do  with 
the  extension  of  the  suffrage,  but  was 
caused  by  the  blunders  of  the  first  Glad- 
stone ministry.  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  had 
been  a  first-rate  financier  and  orator, 
showed  what  all  judges  of  his  character 
bad  long  suspected,  that  he  was  not  an 
able  prime  minister;  but  the  demonstra- 
tion of  this  truth  would  have  been  appar- 
ent to  a  more  limited  electorate  than  that 
of  1874,  nor  is  it  likely  that  smaller,  more 
intelligent  constituencies,  having  once 
withdrawn  their  confidence  from  the  er- 
ratic Liberal  leader,  would  have  restored 
it  to  him  lightly.  Again,  looking  merely 
to  his  own  personal  interests,  Disraeli 
played  a  wild  game  of  speculation,  when 
he  drove  men  like  General  Peel  and  Lord 
Salisbury  to  secede  from  him.  After  the 
general  election  of  1868,  he  had  distinctly 
lost  the  confidence  of  the  most  conscien- 
tious men  in  his  party.  He  kept  a  good 
Parliamentary  following,  but  country  gen- 
tlemen, clergymen,  quiet,  unambitious 
Conservatives  who  talked  over  his  policy 
by  their  own  firesides,  could  find  no  satis- 
fying arguments  to  defend  it.  At  this 
time  a  pronounced  hardness  became  no- 
ticeable for  a  time  in  Disraeli's  manner. 


He  grew  curt  of  speech,  defiant ;  a  lady 
said  of  him  that  his  bitterness  and  forced 
serenity  were  often  painful  to  witness. 
This  mood  was  but  transitory,  however. 
It  wore  away  when  the  mistakes  of  the 
Gladstone  ministry  enabled  him  once 
more  to  take  the  field,  recover  his  pres- 
tige, and  rally  his  scattered  forces.  But 
it  was  lucky  for  him  that  the  Liberals  in 
power  did  make  mistakes  passing  the  en- 
durance of  the  most  long-suffering  nation  ; 
and  not  less  so  that  he  had  no  rival  to  fear 
in  Lord  Salisbury,  who  sat  among  the 
peers,  instead  of^  in  the  Lower  House. 
Disraeli  kept  his  leadership  in  1869,  and 
returned  to  the  premiership  five  years 
later,  principally  because  there  was  no 
man  of  sufficient  skill  or  ambition  in  the 
opposition  ranks  to  form  a  Conservative 
cave. 

When  power  came  to  him  at  last,  Dis- 
raeli had  unconsciously  lost  some  of  his 
faculties  for  exercising  it.  His  mind  had 
not  aged,  but  his  character  had  lost  reso- 
lution. He  had  so  long  been  accustomed 
to  lead  minorities,  and  to  adopt  the  tactics 
necessary  to  weak  armies  contending  with 
superior  forces,  that  he  hardly  understood 
how  complete  was  the  personal  ascen- 
dency he  had  gained  by  his  victory  at  the 
polls.  That  he  keenly  enjoyed  his  tri- 
umph is  well  known ;  but  there  was  a 
good-humored  magnanimity  in  his  avoid- 
ance of  all  exulting  utterances  in  public, 
which  might  add  to  the  mortification  of 
his  cruelly  wounded  rival.  When  a  min- 
ister retires  from  office  it  is  customary 
that  he  should  have  a  personal  interview 
with  his  successor  to  explain  to  him  the 
condition  of  affairs  in  his  department. 
Mr.  Gladstone  deemed  it  would  be  too 
humiliating  to  have  such  an  interview 
with  the  Tory  premier;  and  he  left  a  sub- 
ordinate to  give  the  customary  explana- 
tions. Nor  did  he  see  fit  to  offer  any 
apology  for  his  transgression  of  a  courte- 
ous rule.  He  had  become  over-earnest, 
as  Disraeli  had  himself  been  in  his 
younger  days.  He  chose  to  look  upon 
Disraeli's  triumph  as  a  usurpation,  a  per- 
sonal slight  put  upon  himself;  he  washed 
his  hands  of  the  whole  affair,  and  draped 
himself  in  his  self-consciousness  of  recti- 
tude, quivering  all  the  time  with  a  holy 
anger.  It  is  said  that  a  curious  scene 
occurred  on  Mr.  Gladstone's  last  day  in 
Downing  Street,  when  Mr.  Lowe  ven- 
tured to  reproach  him  with  having  dis- 
solved Parliament  prematurely.  The 
beaten  chief  turned  upon  his  lieutenant, 
and  denounced  him  with  all  the  indigna- 
tion of  a  prophet :  "  Did  he  (Lowe)  think, 


340 


CONTEMPORARY   LIFE   AND   THOUGHT   IN   FRANCE. 


ennobled  and  purified  for  posterity  the 
end  of  a  royal  race,  whose  glory  had  been 
tarnished  by  the  criminal  errors  of  a  Louis 
XIV.  and  the  baseness  of  a  Louis  XV. 
The  white  pa^^e  he  has  added  to  their 
history  has  the  purity  of  ermine,  the 
monotonous  and  melancholy  lustre  of 
moonlight  on  tombs.  This  truly  royal 
C:reatness,  and  the  retirement  in  which  he 
lived,  redeemed  what  might  have  been 
a  little  ridiculous  in  the  comedy  of  eti- 
quette which  was  played  in  the  court  at 
Frohsdorf.  He  performed  with  perfect 
seriousness  his  part  as  future  kin?;  he 
carried  on  a  very  active  personal  cor- 
respondence with  his  agents  in  all  the 
departments;  he  kept  abreast  of  all  po- 
litical occurrences ;  he  had  even  elaborat- 
ed a  scheme  of  government,  chimerical 
enough,  no  doubt,  but  not  without  marks 
of  originality  and  ability.  He  had  a  con- 
ception of  his  own  of  a  monarchy  abso- 
lute in  principle,  and  having  the  sole 
initiative  both  in  legislation  and  in  ad- 
ministration, but  controlled  by  a  Parlia- 
ment which  should  have  the  exclusive 
power  of  voting  the  budget.  This  Parlia- 
ment was  to  be  composed  of  a  Lower 
Chamber  elected  on  a  very  democratic 
basis,  and  of  an  Upper  Chamber  nomi- 
nated by  the  king  out  of  certain  pre- 
scribed categories  of  eligibles.  To  Henri 
Cinq  the  monarchv  was  essentially  a 
tutelary  and  paternal  power,  whose  social 
(I  was  almost  going  to  say,  whose  social- 
istic) function  must  largely  consist  in 
succoring  the  poorer  classes,  and  in  trying 
to  bring  about  a  better  distribution  of 
property  and  a  juster  remuneration  of 
labor  by  reorganizing  the  workmen's  cor- 
porations, and  endeavoring  to  recreate 
the  social  hierarchy  destroyed  by  the 
Revolution.  The  Catholic  Church  would 
naturally  have  been  the  cornerstone  of 
the  new  constitution ;  and  yet  the  Count 
of  Chambord  never  dreamed  of  lowering 
his  roval  rights  and  dignity  either  before 
the  clergy  or  before  the  pope.  In  this 
also,  as  in  all  else,  he  was  the  faithful 
heir  of  St.  Louis. 

Yet,  worthy  of  sympathy  as  be  was  in 
himself,  and  interesting  as  are,  in  some 
respects,  his  ideas  of  government,  he  was 
condemned  to  impotence  and  obscurity : 
first,  because  he  represented  above  all 
things  the  negation  of  the  Revolution  — 
the  negation  symbolized  by  the  white 
flag;  and,  secondly,  because  be  had  for 
his  necessary  ally  and  main  support, 
Ultramontane  clericalism.  Rishtly  or 
wrongly,  the  mass  of  the  French  nation 
has  made  itself  a  fetich  of  the  tricolor 


f]ag,  which  it  regards  as  the  emblem  of 
the  principles  of  liberty  and  equality  pro- 
claimed by  the  Revolution  of  1789;  and 
men  of  intelligence,  who  might  have  been 
disposed  to  rally  to  the  monarchical  sys- 
tem, will  never  bring  themselves  to  sub- 
mit to  a  clerical  domination  which  would  ^ 
suppress  all  liberty  of  thought.  Now  the  « 
Count  of  Chambord  remained  inflexible 
to  the  last  on  the  question  of  the  flag; 
he  draped  himself  in  that  white  flag  which 
has  been  but  a  winding-sheet  for  himself 
and  his  dynasty,  and  surrounded  himself 
with  all  the  narrowest  and  most  fanatical 
of  the  Ultramontane  party.  On  his  death- 
bed he  had  recourse  by  turns  to  the  cap- 
sules of  M.  Paul  Bert  and  the  water  of 
Lourdes,  to  M.  Vulpian  and  the  thauma- 
turge Dom  Bosco.  His  wife,  devoted  but 
unintelligent,  and  ever  at  his  side,  repre- 
sented piety  in  its  harshest  form ;  amongst 
his  habitual  advisers  and  attendants  there 
was  not  one  whose  mind  was  capable  of 
comprehending  modern  science  and  the 
modern  State.  And  yet  this  Legitimist 
partv,  composed  of  men  so  mediocre  or 
so  Kinatical,  is  the  only  one  which  can 
serve  as  the  basis  of  a  monarchical  move- 
ment; because  it  alone  believes  in  mon- 
archy as  a  principle  and  not  as  an  expe- 
dient, and  because  it  is  honest,  resolute, 
and  disinterested. 

Now,  by  a  singular  irony,  the  heir  of 
the  Count  of  Chambord  is  the  Count  of 
Paris,  the  grandson  of  Louis  Philippe, 
who   in    1830   dethroned  and   succeeded 
Charles  X.,  the  grandfather  of  the  Count 
of  Chambord.    This  circumstance  should 
bring  a  great  accession  of  strength  to  the 
royalist  party,  because  it  unites  in  a  sin- 
gle camp  two  armies  hitherto  distinct,  if 
not    hostile — the    Legitimists    and    the 
Orleanists.    The  religious  question   can 
hardly  create   any  antagonism    between 
them,  since  the  free-minded  spirit  which 
animated    the  partisans  of   King   Louis 
Philippe  has  given  place  among  the  Or- 
leanists, especially  since  1870,  to  tenden- 
cies which,  if  not  very  religious,  are  at 
least  very  clerical.    The  Count  of  Paris 
has  twice  declared  his  adhesion   to  the 
principle  of  legitimacy,  once  in  1873,  by 
going  to  Frohsdorf  to  hail  in  the  Count 
of  Chambord  "  the  onlv  representative  of 
the  monarchical  idea,    and  again  a  lew 
weeks  ago,  by  journeying  again  to  Frohs- 
dorf to  receive  from  the  Count  of  Cham« 
bord  a  farewell  which  seemed  to  have  the 
character  of  a  final  pardon  and  reconcili- 
ation.    At  the  moment  of  the  funeral,  it  is 
true,  the  implacable  rancor  of  the  Countl- 
ess of  Chambord,  by  refusing  the  place 


CONTEMPORARY   LIFE   AND   THOUGHT  IN   FRANCE. 


24c 


of  chief  mourner  to  the  Count  of  Paris, 
compelled  the  Orleans  princes  to  with- 
draw from  the  ceremony ;  but  all  the 
Legitimists,  even  the  most  ardent  —  in- 
cluding M.  de  Charette,  the  head  of  the 
old  Pontifical  Zouaves,  and  M.  de  Monti, 
the  chief  of  the  Vend^ans  —  have  for- 
mally recognized  the  Count  of  Paris  as 
the  heir  of  Henri  Cinq.  The  Orleanists, 
on  their  part,  have  not  so  far  added  one 
discordant  note  to  the  concert  of  lamenta- 
tions for  the  departed  kin;r  and  acclama- 
tions for  his  successor.  Everything, 
therefore,  appears  for  the  moment  to  tend 
towards  the  union  of  rovalists  of  all 
shades  around  the  Count  01  Paris. 

And  yet  it  will  be  very  difficult  for  this 
union  to  last.  There  are  contradictions 
in  the  position  and  character  of  the  Count 
of  Paris,  which  must  sooner  or  later  bring 
the  different  factions  of  his  party  into 
collision.  His  strength  in  the  country  at 
a  given  moment  must  depend  on  the  fact 
that,  as  the  heir  of  Louis  Philippe,  he 
represents  a  liberal  constitutional  mon- 
archy; but  if  he  vindicates  this  title,  if 
he  remains  faithful  to  the  tricolor,  if  he 
poses  as  Louis  Philippe  IL  and  not  as 
Philippe  VII.,  if  he  does  not  make  him- 
self the  king  of  the  nobles  and  the  king  of 
the  priests,  he  cannot  fail  to  excite  the 
distrust  of  the  true  Legitimists,  and  alien- 
ate them  beyond  recovery.  The  hatred 
of  the  Legitimists  for  the  house  of  Or- 
leans may  be  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  neces- 
sities of  the  present  moment,  but  it  must 
sooner  or  later  regain  its  force.  The 
conduct  of  the  Countess  of  Chambord  and 
of  the  most  intimate  advisers  of  her  hus- 
band at  Goritz  shows  that  it  is  still  alive. 
At  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  the  Legiti- 
mists still  regard  the  Orleans  princes  as 
intriguers,  as  renegades  to  their  family 
and  the  monarchical  principle,  as  men 
willing  to  accommodate  their  conduct  to 
circumstances,  and  always  ready  to  fish 
in  troubled  waters;  they  will  never  forget 
that  the  Count  of  Paris  is  the  son  o?  a 
Protestant  mother  and  of  the  most  liberal 
of  the  sons  of  Louis  Philippe,  that  he 
served  as  an  officer  in  the  Protestant  and 
democratic  Federal  army  in  the  American 
war,  and  that  he  has  been  the  author  of 
books  on  that  war,  and  on  the  condition 
of  the  English  workman,  every  line  of 
which  shows  his  sympathy  for  modern 
ideas  which  the  Legitimists  regard  as 
revolutionary.  Lastly,  a  profound  animos- 
ity separates  the  Legitimist  party  from  the 
Due  d*Aumale ;  and  the  Due  d'Aumale  is 
the  recognized  leader  of  the  Orleans  fam- 
ily.   He  is  marked  out  for  their  leader  by 

UVUiG  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2252 


his  intelligence  as  well  as  by  his  wealth; 
and  his  nephews  have  always  recognized 
his  authority.  To  imagine  that  journals 
like  the  L/nion,  the  Gazette  de  France^  and 
the  Univers^  will  long  keep  step  with  the 
Franqais^  the  Moniteur^  and  the  Soleil^  is 
to  be  very  optimistic  indeed.* 

Hut  if  the  Count  of  Paris  should  change 
his  front,  renounce  his  past,  his  mother, 
his  father,  his  grandfather,  exchange  the 
living  tricolor  for  the  winding-sheet  of  the 
white  flag,  and  muffle  himself  up  in  the 
Count  of  Chambord's  dressing-gown  and 
slippers  and  holy-water  sprinkler,  the  situ- 
ation will  be  still  more  embarrassing  for 
the  royalists.  The  Count  of  Pans  must 
go  abroad  to  play  the  comedy  of  kingship, 
surrounded  by  puppets,  with  whom  he 
has  not  an  idea,  a  memory,  or  a  hope  in 
common,  and  he  will  lose  at  a  stroke  all 
possible  influence  on  the  Orleanists,  who 
are  after  all  numerous  in  the  country. 
For  who,  in  reality,  are  the  Orleanists? 
They  are  the  moderate  men,  at  once  lib- 
eral and  conservative,  who  care  little,  at 
bottom,  about  political  forms,  but  who 
dread  the  republic  because  they  believe 
it  leads  inevitably  to  radicalism,  and  from 
radicalism  to  social  disorder.  This  party 
has  no  very  clearly  defined  limits.  Many 
of  its  members  are  now  adherents  of  the 
republic,  and  should  the  Count  of  Paris 
become  another  Count  of  Chambord,  the 
number  of  those  who  still  call  themselves 
royalists  must  seriously  diminish.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  Count  of  Paris  should 
continue  to  be  the  representative  of  lib- 
eral monarchy,  and  if  the  republic  shows 
itself  at  once  feeble  and  violent,  unable  to 
maintain  prosperity  at  home  and  security 
abroad,  their  number  will  become  legion. 
This  is  the  permanent  danger  of  a  repub- 
lic based  on  universal  suffrage ;  two  or 
three  years  of  discomfort  and  discontent, 
and  a  royalist  Chamber  may  suddenly 
spring  from  the  ballot-box. 

As  far  as  one  can  judge  from  the  char- 
acter for  prudence  and  opportunism  gen- 
erally associated  with  the  Orleans  family, 
the  Count  of  Paris  will  do  all  he  can  to 
avoid  pronouncing  himself  on  difficult 
subjects  —  the  question  of  the  flag,  the 
question  of  the  constitution,  the  religious 
question.  He  will  feel  that  there  might 
be  difficulties  in  playing  the  rdle  of  Henri 
Cinq  without  his  serene  and  majestic 
faith;  he  will  abstain  from  doing  anything 
which  might  oblige  him  to  quit  the  coun- 

*  What  we  have  said  above  has  not  been  long  in 
being  realixed.  The  Union  has  ceased  to  appear,  and 
the  Univers  has  begun  a  violent  war  against  the  parti- 
sans of  the  Count  of  Paris,    (aoth  Sept) 


242 


CONTEMPORARY   LIFE   AND   THOUGHT   IN   FRANCE. 


try.  But  this  very  prudence  will  deprive 
him  of  all  proselytizing  power,  and  leave 
the  door  open  for  all  sorts  of  quarrels  and 
schisms  amongst  the  members  of  the 
royalist  party. 

The  present  ministry,  M.  Ferry  has 
affirmed,  will  yield  to  no  empty  terrors. 
]f  the  Orleans  princes  conduct  them- 
selves as  French  citizens,  they  will  not  be 
disturbed;  if  they  declare  themselves  as 
pretenders,  they  will  be  requested  to  cross 
the  frontier.  The  government  can  afford 
to  be  so  much  the  more  indulgent  with 
them,  because  public  opinion  among  the 
rural  population  is  proving  itself  more  and 
more  strongly  in  favor  of  the  republic. 
The  August  elections  have  increased  the 
number  of  republicans  on  the  Councils- 
General  by  more  than  a  hundred  ;  in  three 
fresh  departments  the  reactionary  major- 
ity has  been  replaced  by  a  republican 
majority ;  and,  moreover,  these  elections 
have  been  for  the  most  part  very  reason- 
able ;  the  partisans  of  the  present  govern- 
ment have  carried  them  almost  all,  and 
the  extreme  parties  have  had  but  little 
success.  It  must  be  admitted  that  it  has 
Qot  been  the  same  with  a  certain  number 
of  by-elections  for  the  Chamber  of  Depu- 
ties, which  have  returned  extreme  radi- 
cals, or  reactionaries.  We  must  not, 
however,  attach  excessive  importance  to 
this  symptom;  for  it  has  often  been  ob- 
served that  the  mass  of  moderate  electors 
take  little  interest  in  by-elections,  and 
leave  the  field  to  the  extreme  parties,  who 
often  carry  their  candidate  by  an  almost 
infinitesimal  number  of  votes.  But  neither 
must  we  lull  ourselves  into  a  false  secu- 
rity. If  we  sleep  and  let  things  take  their 
chance,  the  essentially  uncertain  action  of 
universal  suffrage  is  sure  to  prepare  us 
some  unpleasant  surprises. 

Meanwhile,  from  a  ministerial  and  par- 
liamentary point  of  view,  France  is  pass- 
ing throus):h  one  of  the  most  satisfactory 
periods  she  has  yet  seen.  M.  Jules  Ferry 
has  fully  proved  himself  what  he  promised 
to  be  —  a  real  prime  minister,  assuming 
the  effective  management  of  public  affairs 
at  all  points ;  and  he  has  been  able  to  keep 
a  strong  majority  in  Parliament,  notwith- 
standing the  violent  and  disloyal  attacks  of 
certain  republicans,  both  in  the  Chamber 
and  in  the  press.  He  had  the  wisdom  to 
settle  at  once  two  great  financial  questions 
—  the  conversion  of  the  rente^  and  the 
conventions  with  the  railway  companies. 
Not  only  were  these  two  operations  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  restore  financial  equi- 
librium —  since  the  conversion  diminishes 
by  thirty-five  millions  the  annuities  payable 


by  the  State,  and  the  conventions  engage 
the  companies  to  construct  at  their  own 
expense  the  new  lines  imprudently  under- 
taken by  M.  de  Freycinet  —  but  they  have 
brought  home  to  the  deputies  the  neces- 
sity of  not  disturbing  the  country  for  fear 
of  compromising  its  financial  situation. 
The  discussion  of  these  financial  interests 
has  also  tended  to  promote  public  order, 
and  provide  a  guarantee  of  stability  for 
the  ministry.  They  have  had,  however, 
to  struggle  against  a  good  deal  of  ill-will. 
Deputies  on  the  look-out  for  popularity 
did  not  fail  to  say  that  the  State  was  being 
sacrificed  to  the  great  companies,  and  to 
theibankers;  and  the  Utopists  demanded 
the  buying  up  by  the  Slate  of  all  the  rail- 
way lines,  in  order  to  cheapen  transport. 
M.  Allain  Targ^  urged  the  purchase  of  at 
least  one  line,  that  of  Orleans,  in  order  to 
intimidate  the  others  and  force  them  to 
submit  to  harsher  conditions ;  while  M. 
Wilson,  a  daring  and  unscrupulous  finan- 
cier, strong  in  his  position  as  M.  Gr^vy*s 
son-in-law,  never  ceased  to  oppose  the 
ministerial  projects,  both  openly  and  in 
secret.  These  projects  were  carried,  nev- 
ertheless ;  and  the  fact  that  they  have  in 
no  way  modified  the  movements  of  rail* 
way  stock  on  the  Bourse  proves  that  they 
were  not  inequitable. 

The  advantages  of  the  magistracy  law, 
which  the  ministry  have  succeeded  in 
passing  through  both  Chambers,  are  much 
more  doubtful.  For  many  years  the  Cham- 
ber of  Deputies  and  the  Ministry  of  Jus* 
tice  have  been  preparing  a  reform  of  the 
magistracy.  Some  wished  for  a  radical 
change  in  the  mode  of  nominating  the 
judges,  and  were  prepared  to  go  back  to 
the  system  of  election  established  by  the 
Revolution  ;  others  would  have  contented 
themselves  with  abolishing  the  unneces- 
sary tribunals  and  judges,  increasing  the 
powers  of  the  ju^ei  de  paixy  and  improv- 
ing the  position  of  the  magistracy  gener* 
ally.  Unfortunately  there  was  one  hin- 
drance to  these  reforms  —  the  parochial 
spirit  of  the  deputies.  Nobody  wanted 
any  of  the  tribunals  in  his  own  arrott' 
dissement  to  be  suppressed.  After  many 
fruitless  attempts  to  come  to  an  agree- 
ment, they  concluded  by  voting  a  law  of 
which  the  essential  point  is,  not  a  reform 
of  the  magistracy,  but  the  temporary  sus- 
pension of  the  irremovability  of  the 
judges  —  that  is  to  say,  of  the  principle 
which  is  justly  regarcled  as  one  of  the 
guarantees  of  their  independence.  This 
was  carried  out  by  the  suppression  of  a 
certain  number  of  judgeships,  and  by 
authorizing  the  minister  of  justice  to  pen- 


CONTEMPORARY   LIFE   AND   THOUGHT  IN    FRANCE. 


243 


sion  off,  not  the  suppressed  judges,  but 
the  judges  it  was  desirable  to  get  rid  of 
on  account  of  their  political  opinions.  It 
is,  in  fact,  a  political  weeding  of  the  mag- 
istracy; from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
magistrates  weeded  out,  it  is  a  law  of 
proscription.  It  must  be  allowed  that 
there  is  something  singularly  shocking  in 
the  measure.  That  a  government  should, 
immediately  after  a  revolution,  take  meas- 
ures for  not  leaving  the  bench  to  its 
avowed  enemies,  may  be  a  matter  of  ne- 
cessity; but  after  thirteen  years  of  repub- 
lican government,  when  more  than  a  third 
of  the  magistracy  has  been  changed  al- 
ready, and  fresh  changes  are  every  day 
taking  place,  to  suspend  the  irremovabil- 
ity of  the  judges  simply  looks  like  fur- 
nishing the  deputies  with  a  means  of 
injuring  their  private  enemies  and  finding 
places  for  their  friends.  The  law  has 
brought  down  an  avalanche  of  denuncia- 
tion; and  the  minister  of  justice,  having 
but  three  months  before  him  in  which  to 
complete  his  task,  is  obliged  to  set  about 
it  with  dangerous  precipitation. 

This  said,  we  are  forced  to  admit  that 
some  of  the  magistrates  have  recklesslv 
incurred  dislike  by  parading  their  hostil- 
ity or  contempt  for  existing  institutions, 
and  allowing  themselves  to  be  drawn  into 
a  thousand  imprudences  of  speech  and 
action.  And  we  cannot  but  approve  that 
part  of  the  law  which  provides  for  the 
punishment  of  the  magistrate  who  neg- 
lects the  duties  of  his  office. 

The  authority  of  the  ministry  over  the 
Chamber  was  displayed  again  on  the  oc- 
casion of  several  interpellations,  and  it 
was  shown  still  more  remarkably  in  the 
facility  with  which  it  disposed  of  the  vio- 
lent propositions  made  with  regard  to  the 
budget  of  public  worship.  Some  of  the 
more  arbitrary  spirits,  fanatically  hostile 
to  Catholicism,  wished  at  once  to  keep 
the  Church  in  dependence  on  the  State 
by  means  of  the  Concordat,  and  to  de- 
prive it  of  the  means  of  existence  by 
constantly  reducing  its  endowment.  M. 
Ferry  had  little  difficulty  in  showing  the 
injustice,  meanness,  and  mischievousness 
of  such  a  proceeding,  for  one  of  the  first 
Deeds  of  the  country  at  the  present  mo- 
ment is  religious  peace.  M.  Ferry  has, 
perhaps,  not  always  understood  this  as 
well  as  he  understands  it  now;  but  the 
letter  addressed  by  Leo  XIII.  to  M. 
Grdvy  shows  that  under  the  present  pope 
it  would  be  possible  to  find  a  basis  of 
agreement  which,  without  requiring  great 
concessions  to  the  clergy,  would  remove 
tbem  from  the  ranks  of  the  irreconcilable 


enemies  of  the  republic.  Unfortunately 
many  deputies  breathe  nothing  but  war 
against  the  Church.  At  their  head  is  M. 
'  Paul  Bert,  whose  bill  for  the  application 
of  the  Concordat  is  nothing  less  than 
downright  persecution.  It  shuts  up  the 
clergy  in  the  Concordat  as  in  a  prison, 
and  ends  with  an  absurd  article  forbid- 
ding the  admission  of  the  public  into  pri- 
vate chapels,  so  that  while  I  am  allowed 
to  hold  any  sort  of  anti-clerical  meeting, 
I  am  forbidden  to  open  my  house  to  the 
faithful  as  soon  as  it  is  a  question  of  at- 
tending mass.  The  ministry  will  6nd 
itself  face  to  face  with  great  difficulties 
when  the  time  comes  for  the  discussion 
of  this  burning  subject;  and  still  more 
so  when  they  have  to  deal  with  the  bill 
subjecting  all  Frenchmen  to  military  ser- 
vice for  three  years.  All  the  scientific 
and  educational  bodies  protest  against 
this  Spartan  law,  which  will  be  the  signal 
of  the  intellectual  decadence  of  France, 
M.  Ferry  is  personally  hostile  to  it;  most 
of  the  deputies  think  it  absurd;  but  it 
furnishes  so  fine  a  theme  for  levelling 
declamations  that  it  is  doubtful  whether 
they  will  have  the  courajre  to  refuse  it. 


ey 

Tl 


hese  are  the  cares  of  the  coming  year. 
For  this  year  home  affairs  have  been 
pretty  calm.  The  condemnation  of  Louise 
Michel  to  five  years  of  solitary  confine- 
ment for  having  presided  at  the  pillage  of 
the  bakers'  shops  on  the  9th  of  March 
has  led  —  notwithstanding  the  threats  of 
the  anarchists  —  to  no  outrage  on  the 
jurors  who  condemned  her.  The  violent 
attack  of  M.  Laisant  on  the  venality  of 
his  colleagues,  and  the  revelations  of  M. 
Boland,  a  Belgian  financier,  who  professes 
to  have  given  sixteen  thousand  francs  to 
two  deputies,  caused  but  a  momentary 
sensation,  M.  Jules  Ferry,  in  his  able 
and  eloquent  speech  at  the  inauguration 
of  the  monument  in  commemoration  of 
the  oath  of  the  Jeu  de  Paume,  was  able 
fairly  to  turn  the  tables  on  those  who 
attacked  and  disparaged  him,  and  to  say 
that  public  opinion  was  with  him.  With- 
out any  of  the  gifts  that  dazzle  the  crowd 
and  command  popularity,  M.  Ferry  has 
succeeded,  by  his  courage  and  his  politi- 
cal probity,  in  acquiring  an  authority 
which  no  minister  had  possessed  before 
him. 

It  is  on  the  foreign  horizon  that  the 
dark  spots  are  seen ;  and,  notwithstand- 
ing the  skill  and  firmness  of  M,  Challe- 
mel-Lacour,  they  are  far  from  being  all 
dissipated  as  yet.  The  misunderstand* 
ing  with  England  assumed  at  one  moment 
somewhat  serious  proportions,  whether 


244 


CONTEMPORARY    LIFE   AND  THOUGHT   IN   FRANCE* 


on  account  of  the  accusations  brought  by 
the  English  a;;ainst  M.  de  Lesseps,  or  on 
account  of  the  action  of  Admiral  Pierre 
at  Tamatave.  Public  opinion  was  for  the 
moment  strongly  excited  against  the  En- 
glish, but  this  feeling  soon  gave  way  be- 
fore Mr.  Gladstone's  fair  and  impartial 
manner  of  dealing  with  both  questions, 
and  thanks  also  to  the  conciliatory  spirit 
^hown  by  the  French  ministry.  More- 
over, the  brutal  and  ill-timed  attack  on 
France  in  the  Norddeutsche  Zeitung^  the 
official  organ  of  M.  de  Bismarrk,  soon 
brought  about  a  rapprochement  between 
the  two  countries.  This  episode  makes 
one  think  of  the  wolf  and  the  lamb.  As 
the  wolf  accused  the  lamb  of  spoiling  the 
tvater  he  was  drinking  by  stirring  up  the 
mud  twenty  paces  down  the  stream,  so 
the  Berlin  journal  accuses  the  French 
press  of  disturbing  the  peace  of  Europe 
oy  its  noisy  threats  of  revenge.  The 
accusation  was  received  with  amazement 
in  France,  and  indeed  by  all  Europe.  We 
had  the  good  sense  not  to  get  angry,  but 
to  inquire  into  the  meaning  of  it.  Was 
it  intended  to  influence  public  opinion  in 
Germany,  or  to  make  France  feel  her 
weakness  in  the  presence  of  the  German 
Empire,  and  discourage  her  making  any 
attempt  to  form  alliances  which  might  be 
distasteful,  if  not  hostile,  to  Germany? 
1 1  is  not  easy  to  be  quite  sure.  But  what- 
ever may  have  been  Prince  Bismarck's 
intention,  the  arrow  went  a  little  beyond 
its  mark,  and  his  journal  has  since  Deen 
endeavoring  to  diminish  its  effect  by  arti- 
cles of  a  more  conciliatory  nature. 

Public  opinion  is,  however,  less  occu- 
pied with  the  more  or  less  enigmatical 
attitude  of  Germany  than  with  the  expedi- 
tion to  Tonquin.  Notwithstanding  the 
resistance  and  the  anxiety  of  a  few  poli- 
ticians, who  complain  that  France  is  scat- 
tering her  forces  and  undertaking  more 
than  her  power  of  colonial  expansion  ad- 
mits of,  the  establishment  of  the  French 
protectorate  at  Tonquin  is  generally  de- 
sired by  all  who  are  capable  of  forming 
an  opinion  on  the  subject.  The  coloniza- 
tion of  Cochin  China  has  produced  excel- 
lent results,  and  Tonquin  is  healthier  and 
more  fertile  than  Cochin  China.  The 
Annamites  ask  no  better  than  to  be  rid  of 
the  pirates  who  infest  their  rivers,  and 
the  first  attempts  at  commercial  establish- 
ments have  been  successful.  For  the 
rest,  France  was  settled  in  Tonquin  al- 
ready; it  was  only  by  the  inconceivable 
carelessness  of  the  government  of  the 
24th  of  May,  1873,  that  the  posts  we  had 
established  there  were    abandoned,  the 


death  of  the  heroic  Francis  Gamier  left 
unavenged,  and  the  active  and  intelligent 
merchant  Dupuis  iniquitously  ruined.  A 
very  strong  public  opinion  had  long  beeo 
calling  for  the  restoration  of  an  effective 
French  protectorate  in  Tonquin  —  a  pro- 
tectorate which  had  been  recognized, 
moreover,  by  the  Treaty  of  1874.  Hanoi 
was  accordingly  reoccupied;  but  a  fresh 
disaster  drove  the  government  to  more 
energetic  action.  The  commandant  of 
Hanoi,  Henri  Riviere,  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  of  our  officers  of  marine,  and  at 
the  same  time  known  as  a  novelist,  the 
author  of  two  little  masterpieces,  full  of 
wit  and  fancy,  **  Pierrot "  and  •*  Cain  "  —  a 
man  of  chivalrous  nature,  at  once  ardent 
and  melancholic  —  was  killed  in  an  am- 
buscade. It  was  decided  to  organize  a 
military  occupation  of  Tonquin,  to  sup- 
press piracy  in  its  waters,  and  to  obtaio, 
from  the  sovereign  of  Annam  a  treaty 
similar  to  that  imposed  on  the  bey  of 
Tunis.  The  difficulty  is  not  with  Annam, 
but  with  China,  who  claims  to  exercise 
over  Annam  a  suzerainty  about  which  she 
has  not  troubled  herself  in  the  least  for 
the  last  century.  It  is  not  generally  be- 
lieved in  France  that  China  seriously 
thinks  of  fighting  in  defence  of  posses- 
sions which  she  has  practically  long  ago 
renounced ;  it  is  thought  that  either  she 
hopes  to  obtain  some  advantages  by  her 
menacing  attitude,  or  she  is  acting  under 
the  influence  of  European  powers  who 
wish  to  hinder  the  activity  of  France. 
But  it  is  felt  that  the  government  ought 
to  have  shown  more  energy  in  carrying  on 
the  diplomatic  campaign  with  China,  with 
a  view  to  a  settlement ;  and  the  question 
is  raised  whether  M.  Bourse  was  not 
somewhat  too  hastily  recalled  from  his 
embassy,  when  his  convention  might  have 
been  used  as  a  basis  for  such  an  agree- 
ment. There  is  an  obscurity  about  this 
question  which  the  minister  for  foreign 
affairs  would  do  well  to  dissipate. 

The  death  of  Commandant  Riviere  has 
not  been  the  only  loss  which  France  has 
suffered  during  these  last  three  months. 
We  have  lost  one  of  our  best  writers,  the 
eminent  political  publicist  and  professor, 
M.  Ed.  Laboulaye.  He  first  made  his 
reputation  as  a  jurist  and  a  man  of  learn- 
ing by  his  very  important  works  on  the 
history  of  the  svstem  of  property  and  of 
the  condition  of  women,  which  opened  to 
him  the  doors  of  the  Academy  of  Inscrip- 
tions and  Belles-lettres.  But  during  the 
last  years  of  the  empire  he  became  one  of 
the   most  popular  and  approved  repre- 


CONTEMPORARY   LIFE   AND   THOUGHT  IN   FRANCE. 


245 


sentatives  of  liberal  ideas,  both  io  his 
pamphlets,  such  as  **  Paris  in  America,'* 
and,  more  particularly,  in  his  lectures  on 
comparative  lec^islation,  at  the  Coll^;;e 
de  France,  which  he  made  the  vehicle 
of  an  eloquent  and  forcible  indictment 
against  the  empire.  His  influence  over 
the  youncr  men  of  the  schools  was  im- 
mense; but  he  lost  it  all  in  a  single  day 
by  his  defence  of  the  pUbiscite  of  1870. 
It  was  not,  however,  out  of  any  sympathy 
with  the  empire;  it  was  in  accordance 
with  his  American  democratic  theories. 
The  same  thing  accounts  for  his  power- 
lessness  a  little  later  to  exercise  any  real 
influence  either  in  the  National  Assembly 
or  in  the  Senate,  of  which  he  was  an  irre- 
movable member.  His  mind  was  un- 
practical; he  could  not  adapt  his  theories 
to  circumstances ;  he  wanted  to  bend  the 
facts  to  his  theories.  Yet  he  was  original 
brilliant,  and  invariably  high-toned.  He 
never  stooped  to  seek  popularity  ;  he  was 
unchangeably  faithful  to  the  liberal  ideas 
of  which  he  had  made  himself  the  apostle; 
he  preferred  this  fidelity,  which  con- 
demned him  to  perpetual  isolation,  to  the 
temptations  of  power  and  the  opportunity 
of  playing  a  conspicuous  part  in  public 
affairs.  His  most  durable  reputation  will 
not,  however,  be  that  of  a  politician,  but 
that  of  a  jurist.  He  will  be  remembered 
as  one  of  the  founders  of  the  study  of 
historical  law  in  France. 

Not  long  after  M.  Laboulaye,  died  M. 
Defrtfmery,  another  professor  of  the  Col- 
lege de  France,  an  excellent  Arabic 
scholar,  and  also  an  authority  on  the  lit- 
erature of  the  seventeenth  century,  with 
which  he  had  a  peculiarly  delicate  ac- 
quaintance. And  now  we  have  just  lost 
an  author  who,  though  he  never  wrote  in 
French,  had  made  France  his  adopted 
country,  and  had  been  adopted  by  her  as 
one  of  her  most  illustrious  novelists  — 
Ivan  Tourgtfnief.  From  the  time  when 
the  petty  persecution  of  the  Russian  gov- 
ernment obliged  him  to  leave  his  native 
land,  he  settled  in  France  with  his  friends 
the  Viardots,  paying  only  short  occasional 
visits  to  Russia.  It  was  at  Bougival,  near 
Paris,  that  he  died  on  the  3rd  oi  Septem- 
ber, of  a  painful  disease  from  which  he 
had  been  suffering  for  more  than  two 
years.  His  works  were  often  translated 
into  French  from  the  manuscript  itself, 
and  appeared  simultaneously  in  French 
and  in  Russian ;  and  though  he  depicted 
Russian  types  and  manners  exclusively, 
his  reputation  was  as  great  in  Paris  as  at 
St.  Petersburg,  and  he  passed  with  the 
general  public  for  a  great  French  writer. 


He  has  contributed,  more  than  any  one 
else,  to  make  Russia  understood  in  France, 
and  to  create  a  sympathy  between  the  two 
nations.  Contemporary  Russia  lives  com- 
plete in  his  works.  In  his  **  Memoirs  of 
a  Russian  Nobleman,*'  or  **  Recollections 
of  a  Sportsman,"  he  has  given  expression 
to  the  sufferings,  the  melancholy,  the 
poetry,  of  the  Russian  country-folk,  and 
prepared  the  way  for  the  emancipation  of 
the  peasants;  in  ^^Une  Nichie  de  GentilS' 
hommes^^  he  has  depicted  the  monoto* 
nous  life  of  the  lesser  gentry,  living  on 
their  small  fortunes  in  the  heart  of  Rus- 
sia; in"Dimitri  Roudine,'*  in  "Smoke,** 
and  in  **Z,«  Eaux  PrintanQres^*  we  find 
those  Russian  types  which  are  met  with 
all  over  Europe  —  those  nomads  whose 
incoherent  brains  are  seething  with  all 
sorts  of  ideas,  social,  political,  and  philo- 
sophical; those  spirits  in  search  of  an 
ideal  and  a  career,  whom  the  narrow  and 
suffocating  social  life  of  Russia  has  turned 
into  idlers  and  weaklings ;  those  world- 
lings, with  their  eccentric  or  vulgar  frivol- 
ity ;  those  women,  amongst  whom  we  may 
find  all  that  is  most  cruel  in  coquetry  and 
most  sublime  in  self-devotion.  Last  of  all, 
in  "  Fathers  and  Sons,"  he  has  revealed, 
with  a  prophetic  touch,  the  first  symptoms 
of  that  moral  malady  of  Nihilism  which  is 
eating  at  the  heart  of  modern  Russia,  and 
in  ♦*  Virgin  Soil  **  he  has  given  us  a  faith- 
ful and  impartial  description  of  the  society 
created  by  the  Nihilistic  spirit.  Tourge- 
nief  is  a  realist ;  his  personages  are  real, 
his  pictures  are  drawn  from  the  life,  his 
works  are  full  of  true  facts ;  but  he  is  at 
the  same  time  a  true  artist,  not  only  in 
virtue  of  the  power  with  which  he  repro- 
duces what  he  has  seen,  but  because  he 
has  the  faculty  of  raising  his  personages 
to  the  dignity  of  human  types  of  lasting 
truth  and  universal  significance,  and  be- 
cause he  describes,  not  all  he  sees,  but 
only  what  strikes  the  imagination  and 
moves  the  heart.  He  is  wholesomely  ob- 
jective; he  does  not  describe  his  heroes, 
he  makes  them  act  and  speak;  the  reader 
sees  and  hears  and  knows  them  as  if  they 
were  living  people  —  loves  them  and  is 
sorry  for  them  —  hates  and  despises  them. 
Tourg^nief  is  one  of  those  novelists  who 
have  created  the  greatest  number  of  living 
types*  he  is  one  of  those  in  whom  we  find 
the  largest,  the  most  sensitive,  the  most 
human  heart.  He  has  shown,  like  Dick- 
ens, all  that  warmth  of  heart  can  add  to 
genius. 

In  the  midst  of  so  many  losses  we  still 
retain  amongst  us  the  old  poet,  who,  with 
M.  Migntt,  IS  left  almost  the  sole  repre* 


246 


CONTEMPORARY   LIFE   AND   THOUGHT   IN   FRANCE. 


sentative  of  the  literary  epoch  of  the  Res- 
toration; and  while  the  literary  activity  of 
M.  Mignet  ceased  some  years  ago,  Victor 
Hu^o  continues  to  prociuce  a  new  work 
each  spring.  This  year  he  finishes  the 
series  of  historico-poh'tical  poems  which 
he  calls  ^^  U^ende  des  SihUs^^  (Levy), 
and  which  forms  in  all  five  volumes.  We 
must  not  expect  the  octogenarian  poet  to 
surprise  us  with  a  renewal  of  his  thought 
—  with  some  fresh  work  to  equal  or  sur- 
pass the  "  Contemplations  "  or  the  **  Chdti' 
fftenis.'*  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  if  he 
falls  into  an  old  man*s  reiterations,  and  if 
the  philosophic  poems  in  the  present  vol- 
ume repeat  what  he  said  in  the  **  Contem- 
plations *'  or  in  "  Religion  and  Religions,'* 
and  the  political  poems  what  he  has  said 
everywhere.  The  "Vision  of  Dante"  is 
a  feeble  echo  of  the  **  Chdtiments^^  and 
the  ^* Quatre  Jours  d'Elciis^^  is  a  long 
diatribe  against  kings,  nobles,  soldiers, 
and  priests  which  reproduces  what  he 
has  already  said  in  "  Ratbert "  and  else- 
where. Notwithstanding  these  inevitable 
signs  of  failing  strength,  it  is  astonish- 
ing to  see  how  much  of  his  native  ardor, 
taste,  and  imagination  remains  to  the  old 
poet.  He  says  the  same  things,  but  he 
says  them  in  a  new  form,  with  new  words 
and  new  images.  There  are  some  charm- 
ing pieces  in  this  volume,  as,  for  instance, 
the  "  Chanson  des  Doreurs  de  Proue^^  a 
hvmn  to  Love,  the  passionate  eloquence 
of  which  is  worthy  of  a  poet  of  twenty ; 
and  some  philosophic  verses  which  we 
cannot  refrain  from  quoting.  After  ener- 
getically protesting  against  those  materi- 
alists who  drag  man  down  to  the  level  of 
the  brute  and  refuse  him  his  immortality, 
he  cries :  — 

Mourir  n'est  pas  iinir,  c*est  le  matin  supreme. 
Non,  je  ne  donne  pas  ^  la  mort  ceux  que  j'aimc. 
Je  les  garde,  je  veux  le  firmament  pour  eux, 
!Pour  moi,  pour  tous,  et  I'aube  attend  les  t^ne- 

breux. 
L*amour  en  nous,  passants  qu*un  rayon  loin- 
tain  dore. 
Est  le  commencement  augoste  de  Taurore. 
Mon  coeur,  s'il  n*a  pas  ce  jour  divin,  se  sent 

banni, 
£t,  pour  avoir  le  temps  d^aimer,  veut  Tinflni ; 
Car  la  vie  est  pass^e  avant  qu'on  ait  pu  vivre. 
C*est  Tazur  qui  me  plait,  c'eat  Tazur  qui  m*eni- 

vre, 
L^azur  sans  nuit,  sans  mort,  sans  noirceur,  sans 

defaut ; 
C'est  Tempyr^e  immense  et  profond  qu*il  me 

f  aut, ' 
La  terre  n'offrant  rien  de  ce  que  je  reclame, 
L'heure  humaine  ^tant  courte  et  sombre,  et 

pour  une  &me 
Qui  vous  aime,  parents,  enfants,  toi  ma  beaut^, 
Le  ciel  ayant  ^  peine  assez  d'eternit^. 


This  volume  of  Victor  Hugo's  has  been 
the  only  literary  event  of  the  last  few 
months;  but  several  works  of  erudition 
have  appeared  which  deserve  notice.  The 
most  remarkable  of  these  is  M.  Giry's 
work  on  the  "  Establishments  of  Rouen  '* 
(Vieweg,  2  vols.).  It  is  not  a  study  of  the 
municipal  institutions  of  Rouen  alone,  but 
of  a  vast  collection  of  towns  whose  insti- 
tutions were  more  or  less  copied  from 
those  of  Rouen  —  Poitiers,  Tours,  St, 
Jean  d'Angely,  Niort,  La  Rochelle,  Bay- 
onne,  etc.,  etc.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  chapter  of 
the  history  of  the  communal  movement, 
which  M.  Giry  has  given  in  minute  and 
accurate  detail.  He  lays  down  the  essen- 
tial principles  for  the  study  of  this  history. 
We  must  not  attempt,  with  Augustin 
Thierry,  to  separate  the  communal  and 
municipal  institutions  according  to  geo- 
graphical divisions;  nor  waste  time  in 
trying  to  trace  them  back  to  very  doubtful 
Roman  or  Germanic  sources;  we  must 
determine  the  genealoo^y  of  the  municipal 
charters  themselves,  ascertain  which  are 
the  oldest  and  most  important,  and  find 
out  in  what  ways  they  have  been  trans- 
ported from  town  to  town,  copied,  and 
imitated.  M.  Giry  brings  out  very  clearly 
the  policy  of  the  French  monarchy  with 
respect  to  the  towns,  the  little  liking  it  had 
for  complete  communal  liberty,  and  the 
efforts  it  made  to  subject  all  the  towns  to 
its  own  influence.  Finally,  he  shows  that 
the  communal  movement  was  not  an  in- 
surrection against  the  feudal  system,  but 
the  adaptation  of  town  life  to  a  feudal 
society  —  the  entrance  of  the  towns  into 
the  feudal  system.  The  towns  become,  in 
a  word,  feudal  persons  —  vassals  and 
suzerains.  The  kings  who  wish  to  de- 
stroy feudalism  attack  it  in  the  towns,  as 
well  as  under  its  aristocratic  form. 

It  was  under  Louis  XI.  that  the  conflict 
ended  in  the  triumph  of  the  monarchy. 
The  work  of  M.  Ren^  de  Maulde  on  "  The 
Marriage  of  Jeanne  de  France  "  (Cham- 
pion) throws  new  light  on  the  character  of 
the  craftv  tvrant.  Louis  XL,  who  de- 
stroyed teudalism,  nevertheless  held  to 
the  feudal  rights  of  the  suzerain  over  the 
marriage  of  his  vassals,  and  used  them  to 
make  some  very  queer  marriages.  The 
worst  was  that  of  his  own  daughter 
Jeanne,  a  poor  deformed  girl,  incapable 
of  having  children,  whom,  for  that  very 
reason,  he  forced  on  Louis  of  Orleans, 
whose  power  and  ambition  he  dreaded. 
The  marriage  was  comic  enough,  apart 
from  the  misery  and  humiliation  of  the 
poor  sacrificed  princess.  Her  married 
life  was  a  long  martyrdom,  and  her  di* 


CONTEMPORARY   LIFE  AND   THOUGHT   IN   FRANCE. 


247 


vorce  a  happy  release.  She  spent  the 
rest  of  her  life  in  doing  good  to  the  popu- 
lation of  Berri,  which  had  been  given 
her  as  an  appanage,  and  was  deservedly 
honored  among  them  as  a  i^aint.  The 
story  is  at  once  droll  and  touching,  and 
M.  de  Maulde  tells  it  with  feeling  and 
humor. 

A  story  in  which  tragic  and  comic  ele- 
ments certainly  abound,  but  in  which  the 
element  of  pathos  is  wholly  wanting,  is 
that  of  Cardinal  Carlo  Caraffa,  which  M. 
G.  Duruy  has  just  reproduced  with  great 
literary  skill  (Hachette).  Nephew  and 
minister  of  Pope  Paul  IV.,  Carlo  Caraffa 
was  mixed  up  with  all  the  political  and 
diplomatical  affairs  of  his  uncle's  pontifi- 
cate; greed  and  ambition  were  his  dnly 
motives ;  the  nepotism  to  which  he  owed 
bis  greatness  was  the  cause  also  of  his 
fall,  and  he  perished  under  Pius  IV^  the 
declared  enemy  of  the  Colonnas.  The 
Italy  of  the  sixteenth  century  breathes 
again  on  the  canvas  of  M.  Duruy,  with  its 
magnificence  and  its  vices,  its  political 
astuteness,  its  artistic  splendor,  its  in- 
tense passions,  its  cruel  and  corrupt  man- 
qers. 

True  Italians  of  the  Renaissance  were 
those  Bonapartes  who  burst  into  Europe 
from  Corsica,  at  the  opening  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  and  seized  it  as  their  prey. 
Colonel  Jung,  who  had  already  brought 
out  some  curious  documents  on  the  youth 
of  Napoleon,  has  just  completed  the  pub- 
lication of  the  **  Memoirs  of  Lucien  Bona- 
parte" (Charpentier),  which  add  more 
than  one  interesting  feature  to  what  was 
already  known  of  the  strange  relations  of 
Napoleon  with  his  family.  At  the  same 
time  the  Baron  Du  Casse's  **  Crowned 
Brothers  of  Napoleon  "  (G.  Bailli^re),  lets 
us  into  the  secrets  of  the  disorderly  life  of 
King  Jerome  in  Westphalia,  and  gives  us 
a  faithful  picture  of  the  state  of  that  un- 
happy kingdom,  exhausted  by  the  pres- 
sure of  the  Napoleonic  system. 

The  Revolution  and  the  empire  retained 
much  of  the  immorality  but  little  of  the 
grace  of  the  eighteenth  century.  But  we 
miss  none  of  its  grace  in  the  charming 
volume  on  Mme.  d*£pinay  (Levy),  just 
given  us  by  MM.  Perev  and  Maugras. 
They  are  the  last  years  of  that  fascinating 
and  unhappv  woman,  years  embittered  by 
the  misconduct  of  her  husband  and  son, 
but  consoled  by  the  devoted  friendship  of 
Grimm,  and  by  acquaintance  and  corre- 
spondence with  the  most  gifted  and  illus- 
trious men  of  the  time  —  Voltaire,  Diderot, 
Galiani.  We  find  in  this  new  volume  un- 
published letters  from  all  these  friends; 


and  still  the  most  exquisite  letters  are 
those  of  Mme.  d*£pinay  herself,  in  which 
the  finest  and  most  delicate  feminine  wit 
is  united  with  a  passionate  eloquence 
sprung  from  the  heart. 

We  may  notice,  lastly,  a  book  of  great 
importance  as  bearing  on  the  history  of 
the  institutions  of  ancient  France  —  the 
second  and  third  volumes  of  M.  Vuitry*s 
*^Etu(ies  sur  les  Institutions  Financilres 
de  la  France  "  (Guillaumin).  These  two 
volumes  bring  us  down  from  St.  Louis  to 
Charles  V.  The  author  has  given  his 
work  a  considerable  range,  not  tying  him- 
self down  to  the  study  of  purely  financial 
questions  taken  by  themselves,  but  con- 
necting them,  on  the  one  hand,  with  the 
historical  development  of  the  royal  do- 
main, and  on  the  other  with  judicial  and 
administrative  institutions.  This  exten- 
sion of  the  subject  was  indeed  necessary 
to  make  it  really  understood ;  for  the  old 
French  monarchy,  which  had  become  es- 
sentially a  fiscal  despotism,  had  for  many 
centuries  no  regular  system  of  taxation, 
and  drew  its  revenues  entirely  from  its 
domains  and  its  feudal  rights ;  so  that,  in 
order  to  study  its  finance,  it  is  necessary 
to  study  the  extent  of  its  domain  and  the 
nature  of  its  feudal  relations;  while,  at 
the  same  time,  the  financial  functions  of 
the  royal  administration  were  never  dis- 
tinctly separated  either  from  the  purely 
administrative,  or,  more  especially,  from 
the  judicial.  There  was  such  a  confusion 
of  powers  and  functions  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  study  the  institutions  of  the  time 
with  any  approach  to  thoroughness  with- 
out studying  them  all  together.  What 
lends  a  peculiar  interest  to  M.  Vuitry's 
book  is,  that  it  is  the  work  not  of  a  pro- 
fessed historian,  but  of  a  statesman  who 
was  long  president  of  the  I  mperial  Council 
of  State ;  a  man  thoroughly  experienced 
in  affairs,  and  particularly  in  financial 
a£Eairs.  He  brings  a  really  wonderful 
lucidity  to  the  analysis  of  the  complicated 
machinery  of  administration.  His  book 
is  not  so  much  a  new  contribution  to 
research  as  a  vast  synthesis  of  the  partial 
results  obtained  by  other  workers  on  the 
difficult  subject  of  the  monarchical  institu- 
tions of  the  Middle  Ages. 

The  Academy  of  Inscriptions  and 
Belles-lettres  has  had  this  year  to  award 
the  biennial  prize  of  twenty  thousand 
francs,  founded  by  the  emperor  Napoleon 
I II.,  to  be  bestowed  on  the  author,  artist, 
or  man  of  science  whose  works  have  done 
most  credit  to  France.  Each  of  the  five 
sections  of  the  Institute  awards  the  prize 
in  turn ;  and,  except  the  French  Academy, 


248 


THE   EXPEDIENCY  OF   KILLING   EMINENT   MEN. 


which  has  always  had  the  meanness  to 
give  it*  to  one  of  its  own  members,  the 
sections  have  always  excluded  themselves 
from  the  competition,  in  order  to  bestow 
it  on  men  of  distinguished  merit  who  are 
not  yet  members  of  the  Institute.  M.  P. 
Meyer  has  been  chosen  this  year,  after 
having  been  run  very  close  by  M.  Mas- 
p^ro,  the  director  of  the  museum  at  Bou- 
iak,  and  the  worthy  successor  of  Mariette. 
M.  P.  Meyer  owes  the  distinction  accorded 
to  him  by  the  Academy,  chiefly  to  the  fact 
of  his  having  been  the  author  of  the  mosi 
remarkable  discoveries  of  unpublished 
documents  made  during  this  century. 
We  owe  to  him,  in  particular,  the  work  of 
Primat  on  St.  Louis,  and  the  French 
poem  on  "  Guillaume  It  MardchaV^  (Wil- 
liam Marshall^  which  he  discovered  quite 
recently  among  Sir  Thomas  Phillipps's 
MSS.  Again,  a  few  weeks  ago,  he  discov- 
ered at  Ypres  the  fragments  of  a  poem  on 
Thomas  k  Becket.  M.  P.  Meyer  is  almost 
infallible  as  a  critic  and  philologist,  and 
the  disinterestedness  with  which  he  has 
devoted  his  whole  time  and  energies  to  the 
work  has  won  for  him  universal  esteem. 

Beyond  these  literary  and  scientific 
incidents,  which  after  all  interest  but  a 
narrow  circle,  there  is  but  one  thing  which 
has  moved  the  public  mind  since  the  rising 
of  the  Chambers  —  the  frightful  disaster 
at  Casamicciola.  The  fete  given  in  Paris 
for  the  benefit  of  the  victims  has  brought 
in  three  hundred  thousand  francs  —  an 
enormous  sum  at  this  time  of  the  year, 
when  the  rich  are  all  away  from  home ; 
and  on  all  hands  the  opportunity  has  been 
seized  to  show  the  Italians  that  no  politi- 
cal disagreements  have  been  able  to  break 
the  link  of  historical,  ethnical,  and  politi- 
cal brotherhood  which  unites  France  to 
Italy.  The  two  nations  would  commit  a 
great  mistake  if  they  did  not  make  com- 
mon efforts  and  even  mutual  concessions 
to  come  to  an  entente  cordiale^  so  neces- 
sary to  them  both.  G.  Monod. 


From  The  Saturday  Review. 
THE  EXPEDIENCY  OF  KILLING  EMINENT 

MEN. 

The  rudimentary  form  of  all  religion, 
Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  tells  us,  is  the  pro- 
pitiation of  dead  ancestors.  It  is  well 
known  that  the  worship  of  the  dead  is  the 
principal  religion  of  China,  and  that  the 
other  religious  systems,  having  long 
vainly  struggled  against  it,  have  fin  all  v 
given  in,  and  are  fain  to  serve  as  ad- 


juncts to  the  faith  which  is  followed  by 
all  classes.  At  certain  seasons  the  pro- 
pitiation of  the  dead  forms  the  occasion  of 
a  great  public  festival,  subscriptions  to- 
wards which  are  made  by  every  member 
of  the  community  from  the  richest  to  the 
poorest,  each  according  to  his  capacity. 
Each  family  is  expected  to  look  after  its 
own  dead,  and  there  is  no  slackness  of 
piety  in  this  respect,  for  the  foundation  of 
the  worship  is  terror.  Rich  and  poor,  all 
of  them,  live  in  a  perpetual  fear,  not  only 
of  their  own  ancestors,  but  of  other  peo- 
ple's. A  dead  Chinaman  passes  from  the 
world  of  light  of  the  Middle  Kingdom  to 
the  world  of  darkness  beyond,  where, 
except  for  the  darkness,  everything  is  the 
sanie  as  in  the  world  of  light.  There  is 
an  emperor,  and  there  are  mandarins  with 
the  regulation  buttons,  deep -drinking 
literati^  and  the  prescribed  annual  exami- 
nations, Yamens,  policemen,  and  chuckle- 
headed  soldiers  who  cannot  pass  the 
examinations.  This  would  be  all  very 
well  if  the  jspirits  had  the  counterpart  of 
the  possessions  they  owned  upon  earth. 
This,  however,  they  have  not.  They  are 
entirely  dependent  for  all  their  comforts 
upon  their  descendants  in  the  world  of 
light.  If  the  well-being  of  the  spirits  is 
not  looked  after,  they  come  up  to  the  world 
of  light  to  avenge  themselves.  This 
vengeance  they  naturally  carry  out  upon 
their  own  relatives  first  of  all;  but  they 
are  by  no  means  particular  if  they  come 
across  anybody  else  on  the  way.  There 
are  naturally  a  certain  number  who  are 
neglected  by  impious  descendants,  as 
well  as  others  whose  families  are  extinct. 
These,  together  with  all  who  are  drowned 
at  sea,  or  die  in  battle  or  in  foreign  lands, 
and  whose  bones  cannot  therefore  be  de- 
posited in  the  family  restinor.place,  consti- 
tute a  perpetual  source  of  peril  to  the 
entire  community.  Hence  the  public 
subscription  festivals,  the  chief  of  which, 
Ch*ing-ming,  falls  about  the  beginning  of 
April.  Sacrifices  are  then  made  all  over 
China  for  the  benefit  of  those  whose 
burial-places  are  not  known,  or,  if  known, 
have  nobodv  to  sacrifice  to  them.  The 
hope  is  by  this  means  to  provide  for  and 
appease  the  lost,  whose  irritation  might 
otherwise  endanger  the  peace  of  the 
whole  country.  The  dead  are  of  course 
invisible,  except  to  those  who  by  sustained 
fasting  have  approached  to  tlie  condition 
of  the  more  luckless  among  the  spirits,  or, 
moved  by  evil  consciences,  have  seen  the 
ghosts  which  come  to  warn  them  of  their 
backslidings  and  niggardliness.  To  sup- 
ply invisible  beings  the  offerings  must 


tHE   EXPEDIENCY  OF  KILLING   EMINENT   MEN. 


249 


themselves  be  made  invisible,  otherwise 
they  might  share  the  fate  of  the  sacrifices 
on  the  Buddhist  altars,  which  are  eaten 
by  tlie  crows  and  the  pariah  dogs.  Every- 
thing, therefore,  is  burnt.  When  a  man 
dies,  his  best  suit  of  clothes  is  forthwith 
burnt,  to  ensure  his  making  a  respecta- 
ble appearance  down  below.  Huge  mod* 
els  of  houses,  temples,  and  furniture  are 
consumed  at  the  funerals  of  rich  men. 
Dien  is  the  ordinary  sacriHce  at  the  three 
great  deceased -ancestor  feasts.  This 
dien^  or  money  for  the  dead,  is  a  substi- 
tute for  sycee.  It  is  thin  rice-paper, 
coated  over  with  tinfoil,  and  got  up  in 
the  form  of  sycee.  Richer  people  have 
it  gilt,  and  the  poor  use  instead  coarse 
yellow  paper  cut  into  the  shape  of  cash. 
At  the  festival  of  Ch'ing-ming  and  the 
other  public  charity  solemnizations,  im- 
mense quantities  of  dien  are  burnt  all 
along  the  streets,  the  rivers,  canals,  on  the 
bridges,  at  cross-roads,  jungle-paths,  jet- 
ties, and  in  fact  everywhere  where  it  is 
possible  that  a  destitute  spirit  may  be 
wandering  in  want  of  money  to  support 
him  in  the  world  of  darkness.  This  an- 
cestral worship  has  a  complete  hold  on  the 
Chinese  mind.  If  the  Tauist  religion  has 
not  actually  sprung  from  reverence  for 
the  dead,  it  is  at  least  now  •its  most  fer- 
vent supporter,  and  the  priests  of  that 
faith  make  much  profit  by  mediating  be- 
tween the  living  and  the  dead.  The  Bud- 
dhist bonzes,  in  self-defence,  have  adopted 
the  same  tactics,  and  the  filial  piety 
taught  by  the  followers  of  Confucius  cer- 
tainly does  not  tend  to  weaken  the  practi- 
cal working  of  the  doctrine  of  propitiation 
of  the  dead.  In  China,  therefore,  we 
have  the  most  elaborate  form  of  this  pro- 
pitiation of  the  dead;  but  it  is  not  only 
there  that  it  exists.  Ancestral  worship  is 
the  most  obvious  characteristic  of  the  reli- 
gious notions  of  the  American  Indians. 
It  formed  practically  the  State  worship  of 
Peru.  The  living  incas  worshipped  their 
dead  forefathers.  The  village  communi- 
ties do  reverence  to  the  first  founder,  or 
to  some  famed  warrior  or  dreaded  sor- 
cerer, and  individual  families  seek  for 
peace  of  conscience  in  making  offerings 
to  their  remotest  ancestor,  and  hoard  up 
dried  corpses  for  the  purpose  of  taking 
them  round  to  see  the  crops.  Dead 
corpses,  growing  crops,  and  pious  agri- 
culturists all  derive  much  benefit  and 
peace  of  mind  from  the  proceeding.  The 
method  and  philosophy  of  the  Chinaman 
are  wanting,  but  the  idea  is  the  same. 

It  might  be  supposed  that  with  these 
views  ancestor-worshippers  would  be  as 


chary  of  taking  life  as  the  most  rigorous 
of  Buddhists.  This  is,  however,  very  far 
from  being  the  case.  There  is  no  more 
systematically  bloodthirsty  fighter  thaa 
your  spirit-fearing  Chinaman.  He  scoffs 
at  lily-livered  Western  soldiers  who  rather 
prefer  wounding  a  man  to  killing  him. 
That  is  not  the  Chinese  idea  of  carrying 
on  war  at  all.  When  he  has  a  man  down, 
he  makes  sure  of  him  and  cuts  his  head 
off.  Now  this,  in  view  of  the  worship  of 
the  dead,  is  a  most  risky  proceeding. 
There  is  no  surer  way  of  getting  into 
trouble  in  the  kingdom  of  darkness  than 
appearing  there  without  any  head.  On 
the  face  of  it,  this  suggests  misbehavior 
above  ground,  and  the  rulers  below  make 
such  a  new-comer  a  coolie,  or  a  boatman, 
or  even,  if  he  seems  to  be  a  particularly 
bad  character,  a  policeman.  Thus  vou 
have  so  many  uneasy  spirits  createcl  to 
vex  living  humanity  to  the  fullest  extent 
of  their  sense  of  injury.  Their  remains 
above  ground  are  probably  tossed  about 
anyhow,  and  not  a  stiver  of  dien  comes 
their  way  once  in  a  twelvemonth.  There 
cannot  be,  therefore,  any  doubt  that  such 
victims  of  the  good  old  rule  will  do  their 
utmost  to  revenge  themselves  for  their 
ill-treatment  on  folks  in  the  world  of  light. 
And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  do  make 
them  pay  a  pretty  penny,  which,  however, 
goes  into  the  pockets  of  the  Tauist 
priests,  and  not  to  the  sole  benefit  of  the 
headless  goblin.  If  a  man  gets  a  fit  of 
indigestion,  or  if  a  loose  window-pane 
rattles  at  night,  or  a  beam  creaks,  he 
forthwith  imagines  a  hungry  demon  devis- 
ing mischief,  and  summons  a  priest  next 
day  to  perform  Koong-tuh  —  meritorious 
service  —  to  quiet  the  sprite.  A  feast  is 
laid  out  in  a  vacant  room,  properties  are 
burnt  to  any  extent,  and  occasionally  the 
hierophant,  besides  supplying  these 
things  at  his  own  price,  sets  the  goodmaa 
of  the  house  to  make  a  guy  of  himself,  ex- 
ecuting cuts  and  passes  at  particularly 
malevolent  demons.  Nevertheless,  in 
spite  of  all  this  additional  trouble  caused 
by  beheading  people,  there  is  no  hope 
for  the  Peace-at-any-Price  Society  to 
establish  a  working  branch  in  the  Celes- 
tial Empire.  There  is  no  resisting  the 
temptation  of  cutting  people's  heads  off 
when  one  gets  the  chance.  It  is  expen- 
sive, but  it  is  worth  the  money.  As  a 
means  of  securing  peace  of  mind,  how- 
ever, as  far  as  possible,  another  theory  has 
been  elaborated,  which,  without  conflict- 
ing with  the  main  system,  is  yet  calculated 
to  do  away  with  some  of  its  most  awkward 
consequences. 


as© 


THE   EXPEDIENCY   OF   KILLING  EMINENT  MEN. 


This  antidote  consists,  not,  as  might 
be  imagined,  in  keeping  people  alive,  but 
simply  in  killing  them  judiciously.  De- 
mons of  the  under-world,  we  have  seen, 
have  the  same  sort  of  gradations  among 
them  as  are  to  be  found  in  the  Chinese 
empire  itself.  The  ideas  of  justice  down 
below  are  not  a  whit  better  than  they  are 
in  any  given  terrestrial  prefecture.  There- 
fore, ordinary  common  sprites  stand  in 
suitable  awe  of  potent,  grave,  and  rever- 
end demons,  and  keep  out  of  their  beat. 
Consequently  the  obvious  way  of  secur- 
ing sleep  of  nights  is  to  persuade  some 
eminent  devil  to  regard  a  particular 
earthly  neighborhood  as  his  own.  If  this 
object  is  once  attained,  inferior  hungry 
goblins  keep  out  of  the  way.  Now  it  is 
obvious  that  it  is  by  no  means  a  simple 
matter  to  ensure  the  local  settlement  of  a 
spirit,  at  any  rate  of  a  spirit  of  power  and 
authority.  It  is,  however,  a  well-estab- 
lished fact  that  a  ghost  haunts  the  place 
where  it  last  saw  the  light,  and  the  sim- 
plest way  of  securing  your  guardian  devil 
is  to  kill  a  man  of  note  in  the  place  you 
want  protected,  whether  it  is  your  own 
house,  or  the  whole  village,  or  a  danger- 
ous bit  of  road.  No  doubt  the  personage 
thus  suddenly  and  unwillingly  converted 
into  a  shade  may  not  be  altogether  pleased 
at  the  transformation,  and  his  protigis 
have  to  minister  very  largely  to  his  per- 
sonal comfort ;  but  this  at  least  is  prefer- 
able to  being  burdened  with  a  constant 
succession  of  wandering,  hungry  devils, 
who  go  away  as  soon  as  their  mischief- 
making  has  procured  them  a  handful  of 
dien.  The  established  ghost  vents  on 
these  tatterdemalions  all  the  ill-humor 
which  his  creation  may  have  aroused,  and 
the  householder  finds  he  has  made  a  good 
speculation.  The  great  drawback  to  this 
system  is  that  it  is  not  always  so  easy  to 
get  your  distinguished  man.  A  mandarin 
would  be  a  very  effective  person  to  kill 
for  protective  measures.  He  would  un- 
doubtedly keep  the  place  free  from  devils 
of  the  under-world,  but  the  neighboring 
mandarins  would  very  speedily  send  his 
slayers  to  the  other  world  also.  First 
principles  would  suggest  to  them  that 
such  a  method  of  securing  peace  in  their 
prefectures  would  be  highly  unsatisfactory 
to  them  personally.  Mandarins  are  there- 
fore not  available.  Distinguished  liter- 
ates are  equally  contraband  in  this  sense, 
for  their  relatives  would  see  to  it  that 
their  journey  to  the  world  of  darkness 
was  not  lonesome.  The  most  eligible 
material  for  this  purpose  is  therefore  fur- 
nished by  strangers.    Chinaman  are,  how- 


ever, loth  to  admit  that  strangers  have 
got  any  good  qualities  about  them  at  all, 
which,  on  the  one  hand,  is  lucky  for  the 
traveller,  and,  on  the  other,  accounts  for 
the  remarkably  ghost-ridden  character  of 
the  great  part  oi  the  empire.  But  as  to 
the  protecting  efficacy  of  the  system,  if  it 
can  only  be  Drought  into  train,  there  is 
not  the  shadow  ofa  doubt.  Marco  Polo 
told  us  of  it  long  ago.  The  people  of 
Carajan  (the  modern  YunnanX  he  tells  us, 
made  short  work  of  any  foreign  personage 
coming  among  them,  unless  he  was  obvi- 
ously a  bad  character,  whose  death  would 
dp  no  credit  to  the  neighborhood.  Then 
they  acted  after  the  instructions  of  Dog- 
berry. This  notion  has  a  certain  charac- 
ter of  attractiveness  about  it.  It  is  not 
only  the  English  who  have  an  irrepres- 
sible longing  to  kill  something,  and,  as 
Procopius  says  of  the  people  of  Thule, 
ruv  Upeiuv  a^at  rd  Kd^Xumv  aifdpuyTeoi  kartv 
man  is  the  best  game.  Accordingly,  na- 
tions who  do  not  pretend  to  have  any  of 
the  Chinese  regard  for  the  dead,  whether 
ancestors  of  their  own  or  of  anybody  else, 
have  adopted  this  method  of  protecting 
themselves  against  spirits.  The  Burmese 
are  quite  convinced  that  the  dead  man*s 
ghost  haunts  the  place  where  he  last 
stayed  on  eartli,  and  therefore  they  protect 
their  capitals  and  chief  towns  and  for- 
tresses by  burying  people  alive  at  the 
corners  of  the  city  walls  and  under  the 
posts  of  the  gateway.  The  ghosts  linger 
about  and  make  it  unpleasant  for  hostile 
intruders.  Nevertheless, the  Burman  does 
not  do  homage  to  his  ancestors,  who,  for 
all  he  knows,  may  be  buffaloes  in  the 
next  township.  The  victims  selected  need 
not  necessarily  be  eminent  in  birth,  or  of 
fine  person,  or  even  specially  intelligent, 
but  they  must  be  representative.  Further 
to  the  westward  we  find  that  the  Hazdras 
were  wont  to  kill  and  bury  any  stranger 
who  was  so  injudicious  as  to  perform  a 
miracle,  or  to  display  any  remarkable 
sanctity  among  them.  Such  doings  im- 
mediately pointed  him  out  as  a  man  to  be 
secured  as  a  ghost  for  the  neighborhood. 
There  is  an  old  Sindhi  tradition  that 
when  the  famous  Multdn  saint  Bahd-ul- 
hakk  came  to  visit  his  disciples  at  Tatta, 
they  formed  a  plot  to  strangle  him,  so  that 
the  place  might  enjoy  the  benefit  of  his 
perpetual  presence.  The  pious  old  man 
was,  however,  too  clever  for  them  and  got 
away.  This  display  of  shrewdness  nat- 
urally greatly  increased  the  chagrin  of  the 
people  of  Tatta  at  the  lost  opportunity. 
Two  other  Multin  saints,  however,  paid 
the  penalty  of  their  eminence  with  their 


CAUSE   or  THE  WEAKNESS   OF  FRENCH    NEGOTIATIONS.       251: 


lives.  The  North  American  Indians  had 
notions  of  the  same  kind,  but  they  do  not 
seem  to  have  followed  them  out  to  their 
logical  conclusion.  When  they  saw  any 
man  who  was  distinguished  for  valor  or 
strength,  or  excellency  of  any  kind,  they 
said  he  was  Manitou,  a  god.  It  does  not 
seem  to  have  occurred  to  them  to  secure 
the  Manitou  to  keep  the  spirits  away. 
They  called  the  English  Manitous,  and 
had  no  scruples  whatever  in  killing  them ; 
but  this  was  not  so  much  with  the  view  of 
Protection  against  devils  as  because  they 
looked  upon  the  pale  faces  as  devils  in 
person.  The  notion  has  even  penetrated 
to  Europe.  The  Bulgarians  of  the  Volga 
used  to  have  pleasant  theories  and  prac- 
tices of  the  same  kind.  When  there  was 
any  man  of  special  intelligence  among 
them,  they  said,  "  This  man  should  serve 
our  Lord  God,"  and  they  forthwith  laid 
hands  on  him,  ran  a  noose  round  his  neck, 
and  hanged  him  up  to  the  nearest  tree, 
where  the  body  was  allowed  to  remain 
till  it  fell  to  pieces.  The  virtues  of 
the  deceased  protected  the  neighborhood. 
This  penalty  on  out-of-the*way  excellence 
among  the  Bulgarians  no  doubt  accounts 
for  their  crass  stupidity  down  to  the  pres- 
ent day.  The  theory  is  even  found  in  our 
literature  in  Southey's  la^  of  "St.  Ro- 
rauald."  The  villagers  did  not  want  to 
have  the  saint  buried  among  strangers :  — 

Therefore,  we  thought  it  prudent  to  secure 
His  relics  while  we  might, 
And  so  we  meant  to  strangle  him  one  night 

The  efficacy  of  the  relics  was,  of  course, 
precisely  the  Chinese  theory.  It  is  obvi- 
ous that  the  idea  is  not  by  any  means  an 
isolated  instance  of  animistic  theology. 
It  can  be  quite  easily  connected  with  can- 
nibalism, scalping,  and  other  fetichistic 
observances.  The  system  might  not  be 
very  satisfactory  to  distinguished  men  if 
it  were  to  be  generally  adopted ;  but  at 
any  rate  it  is  more  complimentary  to  them 
than  the  grudging  motive  of  the  old  story 
of  Aristides  the  Just. 


From  The  Economist. 

THE    CAUSE    OF    THE    WEAKNESS    OF 
FRENCH  NEGOTIATIONS. 

It  is  useless  at  present  to  discuss  far- 
ther the  relations  of  France  with  China. 
The  French  government  has  never  ex- 
plained where  the  hitch  in  the  way  of 
compromise  is,  and  therefore  the  only 
certainty  is,  that  a  compromise  has  not 


been  arrived  at.  This  is  a  dangerous  sit- 
uation,  more  especially  as  it  is  attracting 
the  attention  of  the  Chinese  populace; 
but  still  in  Asia  dangerous  situations 
occasionally  last  long,  and  there  are  rea* 
sons,  hitherto  little  discussed,  which,  in 
the  absence  of  accident,  render  sudden 
or  rash  action  in  this  quarrel  somewhat 
improbable.  Such  action  could  only  come 
from  France,  for  the  Chinese  govern- 
ment is  certain  not  to  declare  war  while  it 
can  help  itself,  and  it  retains  in  the  last 
resort  the  means  of  restraining  the  popu- 
lace of  Pekin.  The  stru;^gle  between  the 
peace  and  war  parties  seldom  grows  acute, 
and  is  rather  a  struggle  between  Conser- 
vatives and  Radicals  than  between  men 
who  advocate  opposite  policies  to  be 
adopted  now  and  here.  The  Chinese 
government  will  wait,  with  its  heavy  calm, 
if  need  be,  for  twenty  years  yet  before  it 
will,  without  urgent  necessity,  engage  in 
open  war.  It  can,  by  gently  urs^ing  its 
soldiers,  as  "deserters'*  into  Tonquin, 
prevent  any  coup  de  main;  it  hears  ex- 
actly and  immediately  all  that  is  passing 
in  Europe,  and  as  it  showed  in  its  decided 
action  at  Canton,  it  dreads  above  all  things 
precipitation.  It  is  France  which  must 
fix  the  hour  of  war  if  it  is  to  be  fixed,  and 
France  has  strong  reasons  for  not  fixing 
it,  two  of  which  we  will  give. 

One  is  the  tone  of  the  army.  It  is 
more  than  doubtful  if  the  army  desires 
war  in  the  far  East.  The  moment  war 
with  China  is  declared  the  regular  army 
will  be  called  upon  nominally  for  twenty- 
five  thousand  men,  and  really  for  twice 
that  number,  for  the  French  generals  al- 
ways dislike  to  be  undermanned.  The 
colonial  force  is  already  overstrained  in 
feeding  garrisons  in  Tunis,  Madagascar, 
and  Tonquin,  and  cannot  speedily  be  in- 
creased, or  increased  at  all  without  a  vote 
of  the  Chambers,  and  the  regular  army 
by  no  means  wishes  for  the  war.  So 
exclusively  is  the  army  organized  to  meet 
contingencies  in  Europe,  that  a  demand 
for  a  corps  d'^armie  to  be  sent  abroad 
shatters  the  whole  organization.  The 
private  soldiers  detest  leaving  France; 
they  know  and  care  nothing  about  Ton- 
quin or  China,  and  they  are  afraid,  with 
too  good  reason,  of  life  or  death  in  tropi- 
cal hospitals.  They  know  how  rapidly 
they  die,  and  dislike  a  climate  which  for 
them  takes  away  all  the  amenities  of  life, 
and  postpones  the  longed-for  hour  of  en- 
trance into  the  reserve.  Nor  are  their 
officers  much  happier  in  the  prospect. 
They  are  torn  away  from  all  their  pleas- 
ures, they  do  not  receive  high  allowances 


as© 


THE   EXPEDIENCY  OF   KILLING  EMINENT  MEN. 


This  antidote  consists,  not,  as  might 
be  imagined,  in  keeping  people  alive,  but 
simply  in  killing  them  judiciously.  De- 
mons of  the  under-world,  we  have  seen, 
have  the  same  sort  of  gradations  among 
them  as  are  to  be  found  in  the  Chinese 
empire  itself.  The  ideas  of  justice  down 
below  are  not  a  whit  better  than  they  are 
in  any  given  terrestrial  prefecture.  There- 
fore, ordinary  common  sprites  stand  in 
suitable  awe  of  potent,  grave,  and  rever- 
end demons,  and  keep  out  of  their  beat. 
Consequently  the  obvious  way  of  secur- 
ing sleep  of  nights  is  to  persuade  some 
eminent  devil  to  regard  a  particular 
earthly  neighborhood  as  his  own.  If  this 
object  is  once  attained,  inferior  hungry 
goblins  keep  out  of  the  way.  Now  it  is 
obvious  that  it  is  by  no  means  a  simple 
matter  to  ensure  the  local  settlement  of  a 
spirit,  at  any  rate  of  a  spirit  of  power  and 
authority.  It  is,  however,  a  well-estab- 
lished fact  that  a  ghost  haunts  the  place 
where  it  last  saw  the  light,  and  the  sim- 
plest way  of  securing  your  guardian  devil 
is  to  kill  a  man  of  note  in  the  place  you 
want  protected,  whether  it  is  your  own 
house,  or  the  whole  village,  or  a  danger- 
ous bit  of  road.  No  doubt  the  personage 
thus  suddenly  and  unwillingly  converted 
into  a  shade  may  not  be  altogether  pleased 
at  the  transformation,  and  his  protigis 
have  to  minister  very  largely  to  his  per- 
sonal comfort ;  but  this  at  least  is  prefer- 
able to  being  burdened  with  a  constant 
succession  of  wandering,  hungry  devils, 
who  go  away  as  soon  as  their  mischief- 
making  has  procured  them  a  handful  of 
dien»  The  established  ghost  vents  on 
these  tatterdemalions  all  the  ill-humor 
which  his  creation  may  have  aroused,  and 
the  householder  finds  he  has  made  a  good 
speculation.  The  great  drawback  to  this 
system  is  that  it  is  not  always  so  easy  to 
get  your  distinguished  man.  A  mandarin 
would  be  a  very  effective  person  to  kill 
for  protective  measures.  He  would  un- 
doubtedly keep  the  place  free  from  devils 
of  the  under-world,  but  the  neighboring 
mandarins  would  very  speedily  send  his 
slayers  to  the  other  world  also.  First 
principles  would  suggest  to  them  that 
such  a  method  of  securing  peace  in  their 
prefectures  would  be  highly  unsatisfactory 
to  them  personally.  Mandarins  are  there- 
fore not  available.  Distinguished  liter- 
ates are  equally  contraband  in  this  sense, 
for  their  relatives  would  see  to  it  that 
their  journey  to  the  world  of  darkness 
was  not  lonesome.  The  most  eligible 
material  for  this  purpose  is  therefore  fur- 
nished by  strangers.    Chinaman  are,  how- 


ever, loth  to  admit  that  strangers  have 
got  any  good  qualities  about  them  at  all, 
which,  on  the  one  hand,  is  lucky  for  the 
traveller,  and,  on  the  other,  accounts  for 
the  remarkably  ghost-ridden  character  of 
the  great  part  of  the  empire.  But  as  to 
the  protecting  efficacy  of  the  system,  if  it 
can  only  be  Drought  into  train,  there  is 
not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  Marco  Polo 
told  us  of  it  long  ago.  The  people  of 
Carajan  (the  modern  Yunnan),  he  tells  us, 
made  short  work  of  any  foreign  personage 
coming  among  them,  unless  he  was  obvi- 
ously a  bad  character,  whose  death  would 
dp  no  credit  to  the  neighborhood.  Then 
they  acted  after  the  instructions  of  Dog- 
berry. This  notion  has  a  certain  charac- 
ter of  attractiveness  about  it.  It  is  not 
only  the  English  who  have  an  irrepres* 
sible  longing  to  kill  something,  and,  as 
Procopius  says  of  the  people  of  Thule, 
ruv  Upeiuv  a^dai  rd  Kd^Xumv  avOpijimi  iariv 
man  is  the  best  game.  Accordingly,  na* 
tions  who  do  not  pretend  to  have  any  of 
the  Chinese  regard  for  the  dead,  whether 
ancestors  of  their  own  or  of  anybody  else, 
have  adopted  this  method  of  protecting 
themselves  against  spirits.  The  Burmese 
are  quite  convinced  that  the  dead  man's 
ghost  haunts  the  place  where  he  last 
stayed  on  eartli,  and  therefore  tliey  protect 
their  capitals  and  chief  towns  and  for- 
tresses by  burying  people  alive  at  the 
corners  of  the  city  walls  and  under  the 
posts  of  the  gateway.  The  ghosts  linger 
about  and  make  it  unpleasant  for  hostile 
intruders.  Nevertheless,  the  Burman  does 
not  do  homage  to  his  ancestors,  who,  for 
all  he  knows,  may  be  buffaloes  in  the 
next  township.  The  victims  selected  need 
not  necessarily  be  eminent  in  birth,  or  of 
fine  person,  or  even  specially  intelligent, 
but  they  must  be  representative.  Further 
to  the  w^estward  we  find  that  the  Hazdras 
were  wont  to  kill  and  bury  any  stranger 
who  was  so  injudicious  as  to  perform  a 
miracle,  or  to  display  any  remarkable 
sanctity  among  them.  Such  doings  im- 
mediately pointed  him  out  as  a  man  to  be 
secured  as  a  ghost  for  the  neighborhood. 
There  is  an  old  Sindhi  tradition  that 
when  the  famous  Multdn  saint  Bahd-ul- 
hakk  came  to  visit  his  disciples  at  Tatta, 
they  formed  a  plot  to  strangle  him,  so  that 
the  place  might  enjoy  the  benefit  of  his 
perpetual  presence.  The  pious  old  man 
was,  however,  too  clever  for  them  and  got 
away.  This  display  of  shrewdness  nat- 
urally greatly  increased  the  chagrin  of  the 
people  of  Tatta  at  the  lost  opportunity. 
Two  other  Multin  saints,  however,  paid 
the  penalty  of  their  eminence  with  their 


CAUSE  or  THE  WEAKNESS   OF  FRENCH    NEGOTIATIONS.       251: 


lives.  The  North  American  Indians  had 
notions  of  the  same  kind,  but  they  do  not 
seem  to  have  followed  them  out  to  their 
logical  conclusion.  When  they  saw  any 
man  who  was  distinguished  for  valor  or 
strength,  or  excellency  of  any  kind,  they 
said  he  was  Manitou,  a  god.  It  does  not 
seem  to  have  occurred  to  them  to  secure 
the  Manitou  to  keep  the  spirits  away. 
They  called  the  English  Manitous,  and 
had  no  scruples  whatever  in  killing  them ; 
but  this  was  not  so  much  with  the  view  of 
protection  against  devils  as  because  they 
looked  upon  the  pale  faces  as  devils  in 
person.  The  notion  has  even  penetrated 
to  Europe.  The  Bulgarians  of  the  Volga 
used  to  have  pleasant  theories  and  prac- 
tices of  the  same  kind.  When  there  was 
any  man  of  special  intelligence  among 
them,  they  said,  "  This  man  should  serve 
our  Lord  God,"  and  they  forthwith  laid 
hands  on  him,  ran  a  noose  round  his  neck, 
and  hanged  him  up  to  the  nearest  tree, 
where  the  body  was  allowed  to  remain 
till  it  fell  to  pieces.  The  virtues  of 
the  deceased  protected  the  neighborhood. 
This  penalty  on  out-of-the-way  excellence 
among  the  Bulgarians  no  doubt  accounts 
for  their  crass  stupidity  down  to  the  pres- 
ent day.  The  theory  is  even  found  in  our 
literature  in  Southey's  lay  of  "  St.  Ro- 
rouald."  The  villagers  did  not  want  to 
have  the  saint  buried  among  strangers :  — 

Therefore,  we  thought  it  prudent  to  secure 
His  relics  while  we  might, 
And  so  we  meant  to  strangle  him  one  night 

The  efficacy  of  the  relics  was,  of  course, 
precisely  the  Chinese  theory.  It  is  obvi- 
ous that  the  idea  is  not  by  any  means  an 
isolated  instance  of  animistic  theology. 
It  can  be  quite  easily  connected  with  can- 
nibalism, scalping,  and  other  fetichistic 
observances.  The  system  might  not  be 
very  satisfactory  to  distinguished  men  if 
it  were  to  be  generally  adopted ;  but  at 
any  rate  it  is  more  complimentary  to  them 
than  the  grudu:ing  motive  of  the  old  story 
of  Aristides  the  Just. 


From  The  EconomisL 

THE    CAUSE    OF    THE    WEAKNESS    OF 
FRENCH  NEGOTIATIONS. 

It  is  useless  at  present  to  discuss  far- 
ther the  relations  of  France  with  China. 
The  French  government  has  never  ex- 
plained where  the  hitch  in  the  way  of 
compromise  is,  and  therefore  the  only 
certainty  is,  that  a  compromise  has  not  j 


been  arrived  at.  This  is  a  dangerous  sit- 
uation,  more  especially  as  it  is  attracting 
the  attention  of  the  Chinese  populace; 
but  still  in  Asia  dangerous  situations 
occasionally  last  long,  and  there  are  rea- 
sons, hitherto  little  discussed,  which,  in 
the  absence  of  accident,  render  sudden 
or  rash  action  in  this  quarrel  somewhat 
improbable.  Such  action  could  only  come 
from  France,  for  the  Chinese  govern- 
ment is  certain  not  to  declare  war  while  it 
can  help  itself,  and  it  retains  in  the  last 
resort  the  means  of  restraining  the  popu- 
lace of  Pekin.  The  stru;<gle  between  the 
peace  and  war  parties  seldom  grows  acute, 
and  is  rather  a  struggle  between  Conser- 
vatives and  Radicals  than  between  men 
who  advocate  opposite  policies  to  be 
adopted  now  and  here.  The  Chinese 
government  will  wait,  with  its  heavy  calm, 
if  need  be,  for  twenty  years  yet  before  it 
will,  without  urgent  necessity,  engage  in 
open  war.  It  can,  by  gently  urging  its 
soldiers,  as  "deserters"  into  Tonquin, 
prevent  any  coup  de  main;  it  hears  ex- 
actly and  immecTiately  all  that  is  passing 
in  Europe,  and  as  it  showed  in  its  decided 
action  at  Canton,  it  dreads  above  all  things 
precipitation.  It  is  France  which  must 
fix  the  hour  of  war  if  it  is  to  be  fixed,  and 
France  has  strong  reasons  for  not  fixing 
it,  two  of  which  we  will  give. 

One  is  the  tone  of  the  army.  It  is 
more  than  doubtful  if  the  army  desires 
war  in  the  far  East.  The  moment  war 
with  China  is  declared  the  regular  army 
will  be  called  upon  nominally  for  twenty- 
five  thousand  men,  and  really  for  twice 
that  number,  for  the  French  generals  al- 
ways dislike  to  be  undermanned.  The 
colonial  force  is  already  overstrained  in 
feeding  garrisons  in  Tunis,  Madagascar, 
and  Tonquin,  and  cannot  speedily  be  in- 
creased, or  increased  at  all  without  a  vote 
of  the  Chambers,  and  the  regular  army 
by  no  means  wishes  for  the  war.  So 
exclusively  is  the  army  organized  to  meet 
contingencies  in  Europe,  that  a  demand 
for  a  corps  d^armie  to  be  sent  abroad 
shatters  the  whole  organization.  The 
private  .soldiers  detest  leaving  France; 
they  know  and  care  nothing  about  Ton- 
quin or  China,  and  they  are  afraid,  with 
too  good  reason,  of  life  or  death  in  tropi- 
cal hospitals.  They  know  how  rapidly 
they  die,  and  dislike  a  climate  which  for 
them  takes  away  all  the  amenities  of  life, 
and  postpones  the  longed-for  hour  of  en- 
trance into  the  reserve.  Nor  are  their 
officers  much  happier  in  the  prospect. 
They  are  torn  away  from  all  their  pleas- 
ures, they  do  not  receive  high  allowances 


*s» 


EXTINCT  MISERIES   OF   HUMAN   LIFE. 


like  English  officers  in  India,  and  they 
believe,  with  much  reason,  that  while 
their  work  in  Asia  will  be  hard  and  their 
risks  great,  their  services  at  such  a  dis- 
tance will  be  but  little  noticed  by  their 
countrymen.  They  are,  moreover,  in- 
tensely interested  in  European  affairs, 
and  most  loth  to  leave  France  at  a  time 
when,  as  they  believe,  war  is  always  upon 
the  cards,  and  when  thev  might  take  their 
share  in  a  great,  possibly  even  a  glorious, 
campaign.  They  regard  the  war,  there- 
fore, as  English  officers  would  regard  an 
expedition  to  Coomassie,  ordered  while 
England  was  being  threatened  in  Europe, 
that  is,  as  an  irksome  duty,  to  be  per- 
formed, no  doubt,  if  needful,  but  still  if 
possible  to  be  evaded.  This  feeling, 
which  is  universal  except  among  a  few 
generals  who  hope  for  high  commands,  is 
not  kept  secret,  and  is  undoubtedly  one 
reason  why  General  Thibaudin,  with  all 
his  reputation  as  organizer  to  make,  is 
still  opposed  to  the  war. 

The  main  check  upon  French  hasti- 
ness is,  however,  this.  The  new  position 
of  the  Chamber  in  France,  its  right  of 
sovereignty  over  all  departments,  is  not 
merely  real,  but  is  acknowledged,  and  is 
attended  with  .some  singular  inconven- 
ience. The  Chamber  is  virtually  the  king, 
and  is  obeyed  as  such,  ministers  being 
quite  as  willing  to  take  their  orders  from 
it  as  German  statesmen  are  to  take  their 
orders  from  the  emperor.  If  they  dislike 
the  orders  too  much  they  resign,  but  if 
not,  they  carry  them  out  as  rigidly  as  if 
thev  came  from  an  individual  whom  their 
oath  of  allegiance  bound  them  to  obev. 
M.  Jules  Ferry  in  particular  notorious! v 
takes  this  view  of  his  position,  and  woulcl, 
without  hesitation,  send  forty  thousand 
men  to  Tonquin  or  recede  from  Tonquin 
at  once,  if  the  Chamber  came  in  a  fashion 
not  personally  insulting  to  himself  to 
either  decision.  He  would  yield  to  his 
sovereign,  but,  unfortunately,  the  sover- 
eign is  away.  He  is  absent  taking  holi- 
day, and  cannot  be  communicated  with 
even  bv  telegraph.  His  opinions  are  not 
formed  till  the  session  begins,  if  then, 
and  he  is  to  ail  intents  and  purposes  in  a 
trance,  from  which,  nevertheless,  he  is 
sure  to  wake,  and  when  he  wakes  he  is 
not  only  an  absolute,  but  a  Jealous  mon- 
arch. It  is  no  wonder,  uncler  such  cir- 
cumstances, that  M.  Ferrv  seems  weak, 
that  he  protracts  affairs,  that  he  watches 
events,  and  that  he  would' not  be  sorrv  if 
events  decided  for  him.  He  is  not  free 
to  act,  but  is  bound  to  serve  a  master 
who,  nevertheless,  neither  does  nor  can 


make  known  what  his  will  is.  If  it  is  for 
war,  that  war  can  be  waged  with  much 
more  energy  after  the  will  has  been  pro- 
nounced ;  and  if  it  is  against  war,  it  is 
useless,  as  well  as  illegal,  to  declare  it, 
for  the  war  will  not  be  carried  on.  The 
Chamber,  with  all  the  power  of  a  sover- 
eign, is  not  an  individual,  and  is  much 
less  governed  by  the  laws  of  honor;  it 
would  not  hesitate  for  a  moment  if  the 
war  was  unpopular  to  terminate  it,  and 
resume  negotiations  on  the  basis  which 
its  ministers  had  rejected  with  scorn.  If 
the  business  of  the  ministry  were,  as  in 
England,  to  decide,  and  then  await  cen* 
sure  or  approval,  they  might  still  be 
strong,  for  they  could  act,  and  then  accept 
dismissal ;  but  this  is  not  the  position  of 
French  ministers  in  their  own  eyes. 
They  think  the  Chamber,  which  is  by  the 
Constitution  invested  with  the  power  of 
making  war  and  peace,  has  moral  rights, 
and  are  as  uneasy  while  its  will  is  not 
known  as  a  king*s  servants  would  be.  It 
is  nearly  impossible  to  be  strong  in  such 
circumstances,  and  M.  Ferry  is  certainly 
not  strong  enough  to  render  a  great  war 
inevitable  by  a  decided  act.  He  could 
not  ship  an  army  or  spend  a  million  with- 
out a  vote,  and  consequently  limits  his 
view  to  securing  all  he  can  without  re- 
course to  the  supreme  arbitrament.  When- 
ever the  Chambers  have  met  he  will  be 
decisive  enough  on  one  side  or  the  other, 
but  until  then  he  cannot  practically  send 
in  an  ultimatum  without  feeling  that  he  is 
not  sure  that  he  is  able  to  convert  his 
threats  into  action.  His  situation,  as  it 
happens,  is  a  guarantee  of  peace,  but  it  is 
difficult  to  see  how  with  such  arrange- 
ments negotiations  are  to  be  made  effec- 
tive, how  diplomatists  are  to  act  without 
fear  of  disavowal,  or  how,  should  w^ar 
seem  imminent,  the  government  is  either 
to  face  it  or  to  make  the  necessary  con- 
cessions. If  the  Chamber  is  to  be  sov- 
ereign it  ought  to  remain  always  sitting, 
or  at  least  to  take  its  holidays  with  an 
understanding  that  it  could  be  summoned 
back  without  notice  by  telegraphic  roes- 
sage  from  its  acknowledged  agents. 


From  The  Saturday  Review. 
EXTINCT  MISERIES  OF  HUMAN   LIFE. 

It  was  somewhere  about  the  beginning 
of  this  century  that  it  occurred  to  an  in- 
genious scholar  of  Oxford,  one  Mr.  James 
Beresford,  fellow  of  Merton,  to  set  down 
for  the  consolation  of  his  fellow-creatures 


EXTINCT   MISERIES   OF   HUMAN   LIFE. 


i^SS 


(the  expression  of  one*s  woes  being  itself 
a  sensible  relief)  some  of  the  minor  mis- 
eries of  life.  He  adopted  for  this  purpose 
the  form  and  machinery  of  groans  in  dia- 
logue, the  speakers  being  two,  assisted 
by  a  young  gentleman  fresh  from  Eton, 
whose  function  it  is  to  cap  each  misery 
with  a  Latin  verse.  We  may  neglect  the 
dialogue  and  verses  and  concern  ourselves 
with  nothing  but  the  groans,  if  only  to 
discover  in  what  respects  Mr.  Beresford 
and  his  contemporaries  had  the  advantage 
over  ourselves  in  solid  stuff,  material,  and 
good  cause  for  groaning.  A  great  many 
groans,  as  may  be  imagined,  are  due  to 
those  changes  and  chances  of  mortal  life 
which  are  common  in  every  generation. 
Thus,  in  all  ages,  one  forgets  at  the  critical 
moment  a  story,  a  song,  a  name;  thinks 
too  late  of  the  only  effective  repartee : 
loses  in  the  middle  the  thread  of  an  ars^u- 
ment;  stammers  over  a  speech  which 
should  have  been  fluent  and  eloquent ; 
finds  one's  watch  run  down  and  so  an 
appointment  lost;  is  expected  to  be  in- 
terested in  a  baby;  drops  and  breaks 
valuable  glasses;  goes  a  sailing  and  is 
sea-sick ;  has  nightmares ;  gets  splashed 
by  a  passing  carriage ;  puts  on  tight  boots ; 
knocks  off  the  edge  of  one's  knuckles  in 
cold  weather ;  overfills  the  inkpot ;  upsets 
plates ;  bites  out  a  piece  of  one's  cheek ; 
sets  the  teeth  upon  a  stone  in  the  bread ; 
loses  one's  hair ;  grows  too  fat  to  cross 
the  legs  ;  finds  a  human  hair  in  the  mouth 
which  lengthens  indefinitely  the  more  you 
pull  it  out ;  gets  sticky  fingers  without  any 
chance  either  of  washing  them  or  chop- 
ping them  off,  —  all  these  evils  are,  so  to 
speak,  common  to  humanity.  To  these 
may  be  added  the  inevitable  shower  when 
one  has  a  new  hat ;  the  absence  of  small 
change  when  it  is  imperatively  needed ; 
getting  up  early  in  the  morning  to  find  the 
rooms  being  swept  and  fire  laid;  with  a 
great  many  other  inconveniences,  mis- 
eries, troubles,  annoyances,  disappoint- 
ments, and  embarrassments  to  which  man 
is  born  as  the  sparks  fiy  upwards.  No 
doubt  Mr.  Beresford  was  happy  in  escap- 
ing many  evils  from  which  his  grandsons 
suffer;  he  knew  nothing  of  a  shrieking 
railway;  he  had  no  telegrams  to  receive 
and  was  not  troubled  in  his  mind  about  a 
telephone ;  he  was  not  expected  to  under- 
stand the  address  of  the  president  of  the 
British  Association ;  there  were  no  piano- 
forte organs  (to  be  sure  he  already  enjoyed 
the  common  barrel);  he  was  not  bullied 
and  sat  upon  by  advanced  ladies  —  but 
let  us  not  anticipate  the  groans  which 
doubtless  some  modern  James  Beresford 
is  already  engaged  upon. 


Let  us,  however,  by  Mr.  Beresford's 
help,  follow  a  gentleman  of  the  period 
through  the  day,  and  catch,  as  each  es- 
capes him,  the  groan  of  the  moment.  We 
begin  with  the  first  action  of  the  day, 
when  he  gets  out  of  bed  and  discovers 
that,  through  his  having  tied  the  strings 
too  tightly,  or  through  some  nocturnal 
slipping  of  the  gear,  his  nightcap  has  cut 
a  red  furrow  in  his  forehead  which  will 
remain  visible  the  whole  day.  It  seems 
hard  to  believe  that  everybody  in  those 
days  wore  nightcaps,  and  tied  them  under 
the  chin;  but  the  evidence  is  quite  con- 
clusive; they  were  made  of  cotton,  linen, 
silk,  flannel,  and  were  sometimes  knitted 
for  greater  warmth.  After  shaving  —  the 
groans  over  this  operation  are  heartrend- 
ing—  naturally  follows  washing.  There 
are  no  allusions  to  the  morning  bath  (a 
modern  would  groan  over  its  absence); 
but  we  learn  that  a  fearful  danger  awaited 
the  unwary  in  the  use  of  the  tooth-powder, 
which  sometimes  contained  too  much  vit- 
riol. Do  any  people  still  clean  their  teeth 
with  vitriol  ?  The  head  had  to  be  plas- 
tered over  with  pomatum  (there  is  a  heart- 
felt groan  for  those  housewives  who  make 
their  ownX  and  afterwards  whitened  and 
stiffened  with  powder.  Complaints  are 
made  that  the  powder-puff  was  too  often 
"bald,  wet,  and  clotted,"  which  caused 
the  powder  to  lie  in  patches.  After  the 
use  of  the  pu£E  the  head  had  to  be  trimmed 
or  smoothed  with  a  blunt  knife,  which 
ought  not  to  be  (and  therefore  generally 
was)  so  broad  as  to  scrape  the  nasty  mess 
into  the  skin.  As  regards  the  rest  of  the 
toilette,  there  are  groans  over  the  fob; 
for,  first,  it  was  not  easy  to  distinguish 
between  the  fob  and  the  waistband,  so 
that  there  was  danger  of  dropping  the 
watch  behind  the  latter,  when  it  fell  down 
to  the  knees,  and  a  great  deal  of  unstrap- 
ping and  readjustment  of  knee-buckle  was 
necessary  before  it  could  be  got  out  again, 
and,  then  again,  the  fob  was  often  so  small 
that  it  was  next  to  impossible  to  lug  out 
the  watch,  and  one  was  reduced,  like  the 
fat  man  in  "Pickwick,"  to  depend  upon 
the  bakers'  shops.  The  waistcoat,  over 
the  upper  part  of  which  the  coat  was  close 
buttoned,  had  to  be  tied  behind  tightly  to 
show  the  figure.  If  the  strings  gave  way, 
which  was  not  uncommon,  the  thing  stuck 
out  in  front  like  a  tent.  As  for  the  coat  it 
was,  as  represented  in  the  frontispiece, 
something  like  the  modern  dress-coat,  but 
short-waisted,  with  a  high  collar,  and  tight, 
short  arms.  A  little  white  linen  or  lace 
showed  at  the  wrists,  but  there  was  noth- 
ing like  the  modern  cuff.  The  first  duty 
before  putting  the  coat  on  was  to  get  rid 


^54 


EXTINCT   MISERIES   OF   HUMAN    LIFE. 


of  yesterday's  powder  lying  on  the  neck 
ana  shoulders.  This  done  —  every  man 
seems  to  have  brushed  his  own  clothes  — 
and  the  coat  pulled  slowly  but  safely  on, 
great  caution  had  to  be  observed  in  any 
sudden  or  violent  movement.  Thus  cases 
are  recorded  in  which  some  unfortunate, 
by  merely  hanf^ing  up  his  hat  on  arrival 
at  a  party,  split  his  coat  from  arm  to 
pocket,  and  so  had  to  go  home  again  in 
discomfiture.  Being  pomatumed,  pow- 
dered, and  dressed,  our  friend  naturally 
felt  for  his  snuff-box.  It  was  in  his 
waistcoat-pocket,  but  the  lid  had  come 
open,  and  the  contents  were  lying  loose. 
This,  however,  was  a  trifling  accident,  not 
worthy  of  a  philosopher's  groan.  A  far 
more  serious  thing  was  to  nnd  when  you 
eot  down-stairs  that  the  points  of  your 
knee-buckle  curved  the  wrong  way  — 
namely,  outwards,  so  that  they  tore  the 
stockings  and  "raked"  the  leg.  The 
shoes  were  brought  up  blacked  within  as 
well  as  without,  to  the  ruin  and  destruc- 
tion of  one's  beautiful  white  stockings. 
At  breakfast  much  the  same  kind  of  acci- 
dents occurred  which  still  do  hinder  and 
prevent  ourselves  in  the  daily  triumphal 
march  of  temper.  Our  groaner,  however, 
suffered  a  peculiar  misery  in  being  or- 
dered by  the  doctor  to  a  course  of  what, 
we  learn,  were  called  "English  teas;"  in 
other  words,  the  unhappy  man  was  com- 
pelled to  drink  an  infusion  of  balm,  sage, 
rosemary,  or  thyme.  After  breakfast,  it 
would  seem  that  it  was  the  custom  for 
the  master  of  the  house  to  perform  those 
household  duties  which  are  now  entrusted 
to  professional  persons;  thus  he  had  to 
mend,  patch,  and  cobble  (of  course  the 
tools  were  always  mislaid)  any  broken  bit 
of  furniture;  he  had  also,  which  seems 
too  monstrous,  to  bottle  his  own  wine, 
and  he  explains  dolefully  how  he  curses 
the  "  stooping,  cork  haggling,  finger  freez- 
ing, rim  hammering,,  bottle  breaking, 
stocking  slopping,  and  nose  poisoning" 
which  the  operation  caused  him.  Some- 
times he  had  also  to  bottle  what  were 
called  "  made  '*  wines  ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
atrocious  beverages  which  used  to  be 
compounded  of  raisins,  cowslips,  ginger, 
and  all  kinds  of  fruits.  If,  when  he  had 
worried  through  the  domestic  work,  he 
wanted  to  write  a  letter,  the  quills  were 
sure  to  be  in  want  of  new  nibs  —  there  is 
a  picture  representing  a  row  of  quills  in- 
conceivably shabby  and  disgraceful  —  and 
there  was  no  penknife  ;  when  one  page  of 
the  letter  was  written,  there  was  either  no 
sand  in  the  glass  or  he  emptied  the  ink 
over  the  page  in  mistake  for  the  sand. 
When  the   letter  was  finally  written,  it 


might  be  consigned  to  any  friendly  hand, 
to  save  postage;  but  it  must  go  open,  in 
which  case  one  had  the  satisfaction  of 
feeling  that  all  one's  secrets  might  be 
read  on  the  way.  If  it  was  posted,  it  must 
be  sealed  —  everybody  knows  the  agonies 
which  may  be  caused  by  a  drop  of  hot 
sealing-wax  —  or  wafered,  when  the  un- 
sightly thing  was  too  often  smeared  over 
the  whole  front  of  the  letter.  Ail  these 
little  jobs  despatched,  our  friend  might  tie 
the  strings  of  his  pumps  and  sally  forth 
to  encounter  the  mud,  the  gutter,  and 
the  possible  shower.  Troubles  with  the 
strings  of  his  shoes  were  certain  to  assail 
him;  first  one  string  came  untied,  and 
then  the  other;  he  trod  upon  the  loose 
strings,  and  they  dra;;ged  in  the  mud  and 
defiled  the  stockings;  in  the  efforts  to  tie 
them  so  tightly  that  they  should  not  come 
untied  again  some  unfortunate  wretches 
broke  them  altogether.  Then  there  were 
many  pleasant  accidents  happening  daily 
in  the  streets;  chairmen  ran  their  poles 
into  passengers' backs ;  maddened  cattle 
charged  down  the  road ;  while  walking 
with  a  friend,  a  cart  laden  with  a  thousand 
iron  bars  would  ]o^  along  beside  you  ;  the 
streets  were  full  of  cries,  shouts,  li^^hting, 
swearing,  cracking  of  whips,  and  uproar. 

Bombalio,  clangor,  stridor,  taratantara,  mur- 
mur. 

If  you  turned  a  corner  without  precaution, 
it  was  quite  possible  that  you  would  re- 
ceive full  in  your  face  the  "filthy  flirt- 
ings "  of  a  well-twirled  mop  —  one  cannot 
but  heave  a  sigh  at  the  reflection  that 
there  is  scarce  such  a  thing  left  as  a  mop, 
or  a  maid  who  knows  how  to  Iwirl  one  ia 
the  old  deft  fashion  up  the  bare,  red,  left 
arm  and  down  again.  It  is  a  lost  art  like 
the  tossing  of  pancakes,  or  the  making  of 
tansy  pudding.  Mops  have  gone  out  with 
pattens. 

At  dinner-time,  whenever  that  may  be, 
our  friend  takes  his  simple  meal  at  a 
chop-house.  It  is  perhaps  the  "Cock," 
which  we  are  accustomed  to  consider  as 
then  at  its  prime  of  luxury.  The  knives 
and  forks,  we  learn,  were  wiped,  after 
being  used,  in  the  "general  knife-cloth  ;  " 
the  tablecloths  were  scant,  grimy,  and 
coarse ;  the  castors  and  salt-cellars  were 
broken,  bottomless,  and  ill  supplied;  the 
men  who  had  already  dined  sat  on  at  the 
tables  watching  new  comers  and  drinking 
"another  half  gill  of  wine,"  or  "another 
quarter  of  a  pint  of  table-beer."  The 
chop,  which  came  after  three-quarters  of 
an  hour's  waiting,  was  half  raw,  half 
burned.  The  potatoes  were  waxy;  the 
cheese  was  a  rind.    As  for  the  cost  of 


EXTINCT  MISERIES   OF   HUMAN   LIFE. 


^SS 


this  delicious  meal,  the  chop  was  eight- 
pence,  bread  and  potatoes  a  penny  each, 
a  pint  of  porter  a  penny  farthing,  and 
cheese  a  farthing.  After  dinner  it  seems 
to  have  been  customary  to  go  to  a  coffee- 
house and  read  the  paper,  while  other  un- 
mannerly guests  talked  across  you. 

Dinner  and  the  coffeehouse  over,  our 
friend  went  home  to  pass  the  evening  in 
profound  misery,  wrestling  with  the  fire, 
the  candle,  the  snuffers,  the  fender,  and 
the  bell-rope.  The  last  was  made  of  some 
elastic  material  which  yielded  when  you 
pulled  it  and  made  semblance  of  doing  its 
duty  and  ringing  the  bell,  but  the  bell  was 
not  rung;  then  you  pulled  harder  and 
succeeded  in  not  only  ringing  the  bell  but 
also  in  dragging  down  the  bell-rope.  As 
for  the  fire,  one  still  expects  trouble  with 
that,  and  is  never  disappointed  of  one\s 
expectation.  Then,  as  now,  it  went  out 
sulky  when  you  wanted  it  bright,  and 
blazed  up  furiously  when  you  wanted  it 
out.  One  advantage  in  grumbling  our 
friend  could  boast  over  us,  when  coals 
gave  out  in  frosty  weather,  very  often  he 
could  buy  no  more  because  the  ships  were 
frozen  up  in  the  river.  The  fender,  one 
of  those  high,  thin,  brass  things,  which 
have  come  into  fashion  again,  was  also  a 
source  of  danger,  for  people  put  their  feet 
upon  it,  counting  on  its  stability,  and  fell 
asleep,  upon  which  it  gave  way  and  pitched 
them  head  first  into  the  grate.  As  for  the 
snuffers,  words  cannot  tell  the  misery  they 
produced  by  being  dropped  or  upset ;  this 
generally  happened  at  the  card-table  when 
the  "black  mischief  "got  into  the  cards, 
and  so  upon  the  fingers  of  the  players;  it 
is  difficult  to  conceive  of  anything  more 
truly  wretched.  But  even  the  snuffers 
were  incapable  of  creating  a  tenth  part  of 
the  misery  which  was  in  the  power  of  the 
candles.  For,  first,  those  in  ordinary  do- 
mestic use  were  tallow,  not  wax,  or  mould, 
or  composite,  or  paraffin ;  but  plain,  un- 
compromising tallow;  only  rich  people 
burned  wax  habitually;  they  wanted  con- 
stant snuffing ;  they  developed  "  thieves,*' 
"winding-sheets,"  and  " shrouds ; "  if  you 
were  reading  by  the  light  of  one  you  found 
that  a  fresh  "thief"  had  to  he  dislodged 
every  five  minutes ;  if  you  went  to  sleep, 
you  awoke  to  discover  that  the  candle  had 
oeen  guttering,  and  a  stream  of  tallow  was 
flowing  upon  the  table-cloth,  and  from  the 
cloth  to  the  carpet ;  then,  nothing  so  easy 
to  knock  off  the  table  as  a  candlestick, 
and  when  picked  up  the  broken  candle 
drooped  and  hung  its  head,  and  poured 
tallow  upon  the  cloth;  there  was  tallow 
everywhere ;  the  cook  held  a  tallow  candle 
over  the  veal  cutlets  when  she  fried  them, 


and  dropped  lumps  upon  the  brown  bread- 
crumbs ;  the  housemaid  carried  a  drip- 
ping candle  over  the  bread ;  you  could  not 
light  a  candle  without  the  tallow  dropping 
on  the  carpet;  the  last  thing  you  were 
conscious  of  at  night  after  you  got  between 
the  sheets  was  a  slowly  expiring  wick. 
This  brings  us  to  bed-time.  It  is  sad  to 
think  of  the  miseries  which  awaited  our 
grandfathers  even  in  bed.  For  the  mat- 
tresses were  of  feathers,  and  though  the 
feather  is  held  to  be  the  softest  of  things, 
it  has  tiny  quills,  which  used  to  stick 
themselves  through  the  ticking  and  sheets, 
and  convert  the  soft  bed  into  a  kind  of 
prickly  martyrdom;  then  the  windows 
were  badly  fitted,  and  shook  and  banged 
all  night  long,  and  the  furniture  cracked 
(this  disease  has  proved  hereditary);  when 
the  watchman  came  round  and  called  the 
hour,  you  could  not  make  out  what  he 
said,  and  lay  wondering  how  far  the  night 
was  advanced ;  when  he  came  round  again 
you  were  just  dropping  off,  and  he  woke 
you  up.  At  Christmas-time  came  men,  as 
still  they  come,  under  the  windows  and 
bawled  hymns  at  dead  of  night;  or  you 
remembered  that  you  had  left  a  blazing 
fire  down-stairs  and  got  up  out  of  a  warm 
bed  in  an  Arctic  night  to  see  that  all  was 
safe ;  or  the  strings  of  your  nightcap  tied 
themselves  into  a  knot;  or  the  warming- 
pan  had  been  forgotten  ;  or  there  were 
not  enough  clothes ;  or  it  was  in  the  dog- 
days,  and  you  were  smothered  in  the 
feathers. 

All  these  things  are  simple  miseries  of 
domestic  life.  Before  we  follow  the  poor 
man  into  society,  let  us  just  note  a  few  of 
his  minor  woes.  One  is,  at  "a  fireside 
circle "  (are  there  any  fireside  circles 
now?)  to  sit  with  your  ear  close  to  a 
cranny  with  the  certainty  of  earache.  The 
old-fashioned  wainscot,  therefore,  had 
crannies,  and  the  crannies  were  draughty. 
Another  undoubted  misery  —  since  abol- 
ished by  the  use  of  ether  —  was  "  the 
interval  between  the  dentist's  discovery 
that  the  tooth  would  be  an  obstinate  one 
to  draw  and  the  actual  operation."  It 
was  a  cruel  thing,  too,  to  find  yourself 
getting  bald,  because  in  those  days  of 
powder  baldness  was  not  provided  for, 
and  the  bald  man  was  fain  to  put  on  a 
wig,  and  then  "how  different  was  the  re- 
ception which  he  got  from  young  ladies  !  " 
Venus  has  never  been  kind  to  the  bald 
head,  although  mention  is  made  of  a 
statue  of  Venus  Calva.  On  the  other 
hand,  for  great  occasions  you  were  obliged 
to  have  your  hair  curled  —  as  well  as  pow- 
dered ? —  and  the  barber  generally  con- 
trived to  burn  the  scalp  with  everv  turn  of 


EXTINCT   MISERIES   OF   HUMAN   LIFE. 


256 

his  curling-irons.  At  the  seaside,  bathing 
being  a  newly  invented  thing,  it  was  con- 
sidered indispensable  to  have  a  bather  to 
dip  one ;  this  of  course  greatly  added  to 
the  enjoyment  of  a  bath,  because  it  al- 
lowed one  to  stand  shivering  on  the  steps 
of  the  machine  for  half  an  hour  or  so 
before  the  man  came  round  — do  we  here 
discover  the  origin  of  the  functionary  who 
bobs  ladies  up  and  down  in  ten  inches  of 
water  on  the  coast  of  Normandy  ?  Again, 
we  may  all  sympathize  with  the  sufferer 
who  is  compelled  by  a  deaf  person  to  re- 
peat aloud  three  or  four  times  some  very 
weak  remark ;  but  there  are  no  nights  to 
be  spent  in  a  full  stage-coach,  nor  does 
one  travel  by  post  and  drop  linchpins 
some  twenty  miles  from  anywhere.  The 
Sunday  tea-<lrinking,  at  which  all  used  to 
sit  round  a  table  mute  and  gloomy,  exists 
not  in  these  days  —  except,  perhaps,  at 
Tunbridge  Wells.  And  we  moderns  are 
DO  longer  liable,  when  we  go  a-courting  in 
the  parlor,  to  be  interrupted  every  five 
minutes  by  a  maid  because  there  is  a  cup- 
board in  the  room.  There  are  no  longer 
any  parlors  or  any  cupboards ;  and  it  is 
already  almost  forgotten  that  in  the  olden 
time  the  family  cupboard  (kept  in  the  par- 
lor, which  was  the  common  sitting-room) 
contained  everything  that  was  wanted  for 
daily  use  —  the  silver  spoons  and  forks, 
the  jam,  the  family  medicines,  the  work 
and  work-baskets,  the  cheese,  the  spice- 
box,  the  tea,  salt,  pepper,  and  sugar,  the 
table-cloths,  the  napkins,  the  decanters 
with  the  spirits,  the  port,  the  sherry,  and 
the  cowslip,  the  tumblers,  the  rummers, 
the  punch-bowl,  the  Pope  Joan  board,  and 
the  lemons. 

Let  us  follow  our  unhappy  ancester  into 
society.  Of  course  when  he  dresses  for 
dinner  he  finds  his  last  shoestring  broken, 
one  knee-buckle  lost,  the  wrong  coat 
brushed,  and  a  hole  in  his  stocking.  If 
he  dresses  in  a  coffeehouse  —  do  we  fully 
realize  that  people  used  to  go  to  a  coffee- 
house in  order  to  dress  for  dinner?  —  he 
is  certain  to  leave  his  watch,  his  purse, 
and  his  pocket  book  on  the  table ;  if  he 
rides  to  dinner,  something  happens  to  his 
horse,  who  either  will  not  go  at  all  or 
shakes  him  all  to  pieces;  i?  he  takes  a 
coach,  he  is  cheated  and  abused  by  the 
driver;  if  he  walks  he  arrives  overheated, 
and,  while  all  the  other  guests  are  cool 
and  fresh,  he  wipes  his  forehead,  and 
feels  the  powder  and  pomatum  slipping 
off  his  head  and  "besilvering"  his  black 
coat.  If  there  were  stupid  people  at  the 
table,  he  was  sure  to  be  stuck  among 
them;  or,  if  there  were  fox  hunters,  naval 


captains,  or  lawyers,  he  was  certain  to  be 
placed  in  the  middle  of  them,  so  as  to 
hear  nothing  but  professional  talk.  Af- 
ter dinner,  if  the  handle  came  off  a  tear 
cup  (teacups  were  only  just  then  begin* 
ning  to  have  handles),  it  was  sure  to  be 
his  misfortune;  when  he  entered  a  room 
full  of  ladies,  he  generally  forgot  that  his 
pumps  were  new  and  the  floor  slippery, 
and  even  if  he  preserved  his  equilibrium, 
it  was  only  perhaps  to  discover  with 
shame  that  the  seam  of  his  stocking  was 
a  spiral  instead  of  a  perpendicular.  When 
he  shook  the  muffineer,  the  top  came  off; 
if  he  supped  on  oysters,  he  mangled  his 
hand  horribly  in  trying  to  open  them ;  and, 
if  it  was  a  supper  of  roasted  oysters,  the 
** snatching,  burning,  hissing,  grinning, 
and  cluttering  "  left  him  no  comfort  but 
to  think  of  the  time  when  it  would  be 
over.  Nobody  nowadays,  alas !  has 
roasted  oysters  except  in  America,  while 
one  vainly  tries  to  picture  the  dismay  of 
guests  invited  to  open  their  own  natives. 
And  if  these  miseries  were  found  in  Lon- 
don, things  were  far  worse  in  the  coun- 
try. For  instance,  our  friend  spends  a 
week  at  Bath ;  he  has  lodgings  in  a  board- 
ing-house which  is  full  of  Irish  captains, 
English  gamesters,  French  prisoners,  and 
Scotch  physicians.  At  the  assembly 
rooms,  the  country  dances  are  performed 
in  the  midstK>f  a  frightful  crush  between 
ropes;  the  whist  tables  are  arranged  so 
that  those  who  play  the  modest  shilling 
rubber  have  to  sit  in  the  draught,  and  the 
comfortable  places  are  reserved  for  those 
who  play  high;  at  the  concert,  the  can* 
dies  in  the  chandeliers  drop  tallow  on  the 
heads  and  shoulders  of  the  audience; 
after  the  play  there  is  a  struggle  for  chairs, 
and  our  unfortunate,  gracefully  yielding 
half-a-dozen  times  to  ladies,  is  forced  to 
give  up  the  last  chair  to  a  man  who  is 
bigger  and  stronger  than  himself.  But 
he  took  the  conceit  cut  of  this  person  the 
next  morning  at  daybreak  with  a  pair  of 
pistols.  Doubtless  the  prospect  of  the 
morning's  entertainment  enabled  him  to 
pass  a  most  delightful  and  tranquil  night. 
There  is  one  misery  of  the  time  which 
must  not  be  omitted,  and  with  it  we  con- 
clude. Let  us  give  it  in  the  author's  own 
words:  "On  entering  the  room  to  join  an 
evening  party  composed  of  remarkably- 
grave,  strict,  and  precise  persons,  sucf- 
denly  finding  out  that  you  are  drunk 
(though  you  thought  you  were,  and  fully 
intended  to  be,  rigidly  sober);  and,  what 
is  worse  still,  that  the  company  has  shared 
with  you  in  the  discoifery,"  After  all  we 
have  much  for  which  we  may  be  thankful. 


UTTELL'S  LIVING  AGE. 


v^^.  }  No.  2054. -November  8,  1881        {^.J^^;^' 


CONTENTS. 

L  Thk  I^iss  and  Fall  of  Amsterdam,        •    CanUmporary  Review,  •       .       .259 

IL   Thb  Wizard*s  Son.    Part  XVL, ...        •    MaaniiUuCs  Magaaitu^        .        .     270 

IIL  Some  Recent  Biographies,.       .       .       •    Fortnightly  Revuw,     •       •       .275 

rv.  Cherry  Roper's  Penance,  ....    Argosy, 286 

V.  Earth  Movements  in  Java,       .       .       .    Contemporary  Review^        .       .    296 

VL  Some    Reminiscences    of    Jane  Welsh 

Carlyle, TempU  Bar,        .       .       .        .302 

VII.  A  Chinese  Martyr  of  Our  Own  Times,     Month, 306 

VIIL  Inez  de  Castro, Belgravia,    .       .       .  •     .       .312 

IX.   Le  Mascaret, Saturday  RetfieWf         .        .        .    316 

X.  The  Distance  of  the  Sun,        •       .       •    Tbnet, 319 

.  POETRY. 

October  Song»     .  '  .       •       .       •    258 1  Gueneverb, 258 

The  Two-Leaved  Clover,  .       .       .    258 '  Harvest  Thanksgiving»     •       •       .258 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON, 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  Dollars,  remitted  direetly  to  the  PtMishers,  the  Livino  Agb  will  be  pnnctaaDT  f  crmled 
for  ernas,/r*4  o/^9lage, 

Kemittances  shoaldbe  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  posNoffice  money-order,  if  poaaible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  mooeyshouldbe  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  AH  postmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.  Drafts,  checks  and  moneyKwders  should  be  made  payable  to  the  order  ol 
LrrTBLL&  Co. 

Sn«bNumbcnofTiuLnaiioAoB^  iSoentSi 


2SS 


OCTOBER   SONG,   ETC. 


OCTOBER  SONG. 


When  the  fields  are  ripe  and  yellow, 

When  the  leaves  are  shrunk  and  sere. 
If  thy  thoughts  are  mild  and  mellow, 

Sing,  and  praise  the  fading  year. 
If  thy  heart  is  full  of  groaning, 

If  thine  eyes  are  near  to  weep, 
Vex  not  Nature  with  thy  moaning, 

When  she  folds  her  robe  to  sleep. 

All  things  have  their  times  and  seasons, 

Nought  that  lives  from  change  is  free ; 
God  is  wise :  and  for  good  reasons 

Birth  and  growth  and  death  must  be. 
All  things  find  their  fitting  places. 

High  and  low,  and  great  and  small, 
Kings  and  peoples,  creeds  and  races, 

In  the  wonder  of  the  All. 

Breezy  hills  and  blastful  mountains. 

Chirp  of  birds,  and  thunder's  roll. 
Tinkling  ril^s  and  gushing  fountains, 

Powers  that  spurn  weak  man's  control* 
Cradle  song  and  chariots*  rattle. 

Mighty  thoughts  that  stir  the  soul. 
Throng  of  business,  roar  of  battle, 

All  make  music  in  the  whole. 

Art  thou  young,  —  be  bold  and  daring, 

Flap  thy  wing,  and  spur  thy  pace, 
Fruitful  labor  never  sparing, 

Where  a  spade  may  find  a  place. 
Art  thou  old,  —  in  quiet  corner 

Live  from  fretful  labor  free, 
Wi^e  with  faithful  hand  to  earner 

Life's  rich  fruitage  stored  for  thee. 

And  when  Death  comes,  ugly  spectre, 

Spare  thy  hand  the  fruitless  blow; 
Bow  thy  head  :  the  great  Director 

Wisely  willing  willed  it  so. 
Death  must  be :  and  in  the  keeping 

Of  harsh  frost  all  life  must  lie. 
Till  God  shall  please  to  rouse  from  sleeping 

All  from  God  that  may  not  die ! 
Blackwood's  Macazioe.  J.  S.  B. 


THE  TWO-LEAVED  CLOVER. 

This  quaint  superstition  is  common  among  the  pe 
antry  of  the  south-eastern  counties  of  Enxland. 

A  FASHION  holds  the  country  over. 
When  a  lassie  finds  a  two-leaved  clover, 

She  puts  it  in  her  shoe ; 
And  the  first  lad  she  chance  to  meet, 
In  cottage,  meadow,  lane,  or  street. 

Will  surely  come  to  woo 

her. 

A  fashion  holds  the  country  over, 
When  a  laddie  finds  a  two-leaved  clover, 

He  puts  it  in  his  boot ; 
And  the  first  maid  he  chance  to  meet, 
In  cottage,  meadow,  lane,  or  street, 

Will  be  the  maid  to  suit 

him. 


Young  Tack,  he  found  a  two-leaved  clover— 
Hid  in  his  boot ;  sweet  Jean,  moreover, 

Found  one  to  line  her  shoe. 
This  lad  and  lass  first  chanced  to  meet, 
Just  at  the  corner  of  the  street — 

He  was  the  one  to  woo 

her. 

Sweet  Jeannie*s  cheek  flushed  crimson  over, 
A-thinicing  of  the  two-leaved  clover. 
Her  eyes  shone  like  the  sun  ; 
Said  she,  •*  A  clover's  in  my  shoe  "  — 
Quoth  he,  "  One  in  my  boot  lies  too  "  — 
And  then  he  wooed  and  won 

her! 
The  Month.  FRANCES  KeESHAW. 


) 


GUENEVERE. 

Her  amber  tresses  bound  with  miniver 
Glowed  like  the  cloud-gold  deep  of  dying  day 
Seen  on  a  twilight  trance  of  silvery  grey 
When   silence    soothes   the   insects'   infinite 

stir,  — 
Her  still  eyes  dreamed  the  ideal  world  to  her 
From  realms  of  purple  fancy  far  away, 
And  her  ripe  lips  alive  with  passion's  play 
Breathed  perfume  faint  of  frankincense  and 

myrrh. 

Such  sight  my  soul's  dark  winter  turned  to 

spring, 
And  when  the  girdle  that  her  slender  waist. 
With  gold  embossed  and  clinking  links  em- 
braced. 
Its  tinkling  trinkets  jingled  silver-chased. 
The  world's  sad  thicket  with  a  jocund  ring 
Of  voiceful  birds  seemed  gladly  jargoning. 

Blackwood's  Macasine. 


HARVEST  THANKSGIVIKa 

Ere  the  last  streaks  of  sunset  die 

And  song  of  thrush  and  blackbird  cease. 

And  whilst  from  valley  streams  arise 

White  mists  and  shadows  in  fresh  wreath ; 

Oh,  husbandman,  review  again 

Thy  corn-stacks  built  up  in  the  sun. 

That,  as  fresh  plumage  to  the  bird. 

Are  warmth  and  beauty  to  thine  home ;   ' 

Then,  think  who  gave  the  shower  and  breeze. 

The  evening  dews  and  ripening  heat. 

The  cheerful  reaper  a  full  time 

To  bend  the  sickle  through  the  fields 

And  lead  their  treasure  to  the  fold : 

Oh,  husbandman,  review  again 

Thy  corn-stacks  built  up  in  the  sun ; 

Sine  unto  God  an  evening  hymn 

And  thankful  say,  "This  he  hath  done." 

E.  G.  Charlesworth. 

I     Sunday  Magaxine. 


; 


THE   RISE   AND   FALL  OF   AMSTERDAM. 


259 


From  The  Contemporary  Review. 
THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  AMSTERDAM. 

In  a  ground  plan  of  Amsterdam,  as  it 
appeared  in  the  beginning  of  the  thir- 
teenth centurv,  the  hook  of  land  in  front 
of  the  town  facing  the  Y  is  called  Groote 
Gods  Huisland. 

As  the  flag  of  some  European  power, 
floating  from  a  rude  fort,  proclaimed  to 
the  bold  navigator  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury that  the  land  he  coveted  already  had 
an  owner,  so  this  title  appears  to  claim 
Amsterdam  from  the  first  moment  it  is 
discovered  in  history  as  a  city  belonging 
to  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 

How  it  failed  to  fulfil  its  calling  I  pro- 
pose to  tell. 

I. 

From  one  of  those  vast  forests  where 
the  ancient  Germans  dimly  sought  the 
All-Father,  a  tribe  emerged  into  the  marsh 
land  at  the  mouth  of  the  Rhine.  Glad- 
dened by  the  sight  of  its  rich  pastures, 
they  called  it  Bet-auw,  good  meadow. 
Converted  to  the  Christian  faith  by  mis- 
sionaries of  their  own  race  from  England 
and  France,  the  precious  seed  was  kept 
alive,  and  in  the  thirteenth  century  still 
more  freely  sown  by  the  institutions  of 
the  Beguines  and  Beghards,  by  the  Lol- 
lards and  the  Franciscans,  and  by  the 
Brothers  of  the  Common  Lot.  These  so- 
cieties, mystical  and  communistic,  sprang 
from  the  people,  sympathized  with  the 
poor,  prayed  with  them,  preached  to  them, 
nursed  them  when  sick,  and  taught  their 
children. 

Certain  "  humble  and  holy  men  of 
heart"  exercised  considerable  influence 
over  this  popular  faith,  purifying  and  ele- 
vating it.  Such  an  one  was  John  Ruys- 
broek,  prior  of  Griinthal,  who  numbered 
among  his  disciples  Tauler  and  Gerard 
Groot.  The  latter,  animated  by  the  sight 
of  the  brotherhood  at  Griinthal,  instituted 
at  Zwolle  the  society  known  as  the  Broth- 
ers of  the  Common  Lot. 

This  fraternal  union  was  as  like  as  cir- 
cumstances would  permit  to  the  apostolic 
pattern.  The  brothers  obtained  a  simple 
livelihood,  partly  by  manual  labor,  partly 
by  friendly  gifts,  but  they  never  begged. 
What  they  thus  obtained  or  possessed 


was  held  in  common.  Their  brother- 
houses  and  schools  were  soon  found  in 
most  of  the  chief  cities  of  the  Nether- 
lands. In  that  of  Zwolle  lived  the  ven- 
erated author  of  ''The  Imitation,"  whose 
long  life  was  spent  in  quiet  work  as  a 
Brother  of  the  Common  Lot. 

Besides  teaching  their  children  the 
brothers  labored  incessantly  to  enlighten 
the  people  by  short  sermons.  Each  city 
had  its  preacher.  Giesebert  Dou  of 
Amsterdam  is  mentioned  by  Thomas  k 
Kempis  in  connection  with  Gerhard  and 
Florenlius,  the  founders  of  the  society, 
and  he  doubtless  preached  on  the  same 
theme  as  his  companions.  What  that 
theme  was  we  can  have  no  doubt  when 
we  learn  that  the  ignorant  of  those  days 
spoke  of  •*  Jesus  "  as  "  the  God  of  the 
Beguines.'*  Ruysbroek  is  described  as 
"mystical  but  practical,"  such  were  his 
disciples  in  the  Netherlands. 

In  the  life  of  John  Wessel,  a  disciple 
of  Thomas  It  Kempis,  we  see  how  the 
Brothers  of  the  Common  Lot  prepared 
the  way  for  the  Reformation ;  but  what 
manifests  that  fact  still  more  is  that  no- 
where, not  even  in  Germany  itself,  did 
that  movement  receive  a  better  welcome 
than  among  the  people  whose  minds  these 
brothers  had  formed.  The  Reformation 
made  its  way  at  once  throughout  the 
Netherlands,  and  it  was  the  Dutch  who 
most  frequently  recruited  its  advanced 
guards  and  forlorn  hopes. 

II. 

Before  the  twelfth  century,  Amsterdam 
has  no  history.  But  during  that  period, 
as  well  as  in  the  previous  century,  a  series 
of  irruptions  of  the  North  Sea  turned 
Lake  Flevo  into  the  Zuydcr  Zee.  The 
treasures  of  the  ocean  were  thus  opened 
up  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  of 
Amstelredam.  It  is  an  old  saying  that 
"  Amsterdam  was  built  on  the  backbone 
of  a  herring." 

Nature  and  man — blind,  cruel,  greedy 
—  these  were  the  twin  foes  with  which  the 
Netherlanders  had  to  fight.     As  the  an-  ) 
cient  people  they  so  much  resemble,  they 
were  "  burnt  with  fire,  but  not  consumed." 

From  the  obscure  background  of  medi- 
aeval history  we  behold  emerge,  like  the 


26o 


THE   RISE  AND   FALL  OF  AMSTERDAM. 


phantasms  of  half-finished  dreams,  scenes 
in  which  a  portion  is  photographed  more 
vividly  than  anything  we  see  when  awake, 
but  of  which  we  know  not  the  beginning, 
and  which  ends  as  abruptly  as  it  began. 

Thus,  in  1258,  the  Amsterdammers  ap- 
pear, making  common  cause  with  the 
people  of  Kemmerland,  Friesland,  and 
Waterland,  who  had  risen  against  their 
nobles,  declaring  that  they  would  expel 
them  from  the  country  and  raze  their 
castles.  The  Lord  of  Amstel  consents  to 
lead  his  people  against  Utrecht,  where 
the  revolution  is  accomplished.  But  they 
are  defeated  in  besieging  Haarlem,  and 
the  insurrection  seems  to  collapse. 

Next  comes  a  story  of  turbulence  and 
bloodshed.  The  murder  of  Count  Floris 
V.  is  a  favorite  subject  of  the  Dutch 
drama.  In  this  disloyal  deed,  Gysbrecht, 
lord  of  the  Amstel,  plays  a  leading  part, 
and  as  a  result  loses  fiis  rights  over  Am- 
sterdam, which  reverted  to  the  counts  of 
Holland. 

This  family,  *'  hard-fighting,  hard-drink- 
ing, crusading,  freebooting,''  were  very 
popular,  and  under  their  segis  Amsterdam 
developed  its  municipal  liberties,  and  grew 
slowly  in  wealth  and  importance.  But  the 
male  line  dying  out,  there  came  a  time  of 
civil  commotion,  the  contending  parties 
taking  the  quaint  titles  of  Kabbeljaws  and 
Hoeks.  The  Kabbeljaws^  or  cod-fish,  were 
the  people  ;  the  Hoeks^  or  hooks,  the  no- 
bles, who  caught  the  people  and  used 
them  to  their  own  advantage.  Amster- 
dam appears  to  have  sided  with  the  Kab- 
beljaws. 

This  struggle  went  on  for  a  hundred 
years,  and  we  may  measure  the  sadness 
of  heart  it  produced  by  the  fact  that  it  was 
during  the  latter  part  of  its  continuance 
—  the  first  half  of  the  fifteenth  century  — 
that  most  of  the  cloistral  establishments 
of  Amsterdam  were  founded.  But  in  the 
midst  of  the  misery  brought  about  by  this 
civil  strife  the  Brothers  of  the  Common 
Lot,  in  harmony  with  all  the  traditions  of 
Netherland  religion,  were  teaching  the 
people,  and  setting  before  them  the  exam- 
ple of  a  life  founded  on  the  doctrine  of 
Jesus  Christ 

No  one,  not  even  those  who  suffer 
most,  ever  rightly  estimates  the  discontent 


which  exists  in  any  society  founded  upon 
injustice.  Luther  himself,  though  by 
birth  a  man  of  the  people,  had  no  concept 
tion  of  its  extent  in  his  own  Germany. 
Thus  notwithstanding  the  rout  of  the 
peasantry  at  Frankenhausen,  the  Anabap- 
tist movement  went  on  in  Germany,  Swe- 
den, Switzerland,  and  above  all  in  the 
Netherlands.  Jan  Trypmacker,  its  leader 
in  the  Netherlands,  in  1530,  had  a  great 
following  in  Amsterdam,  and  was  there 
arrested,  sent  to  the  Hague,  and  beheaded. 
After  him  arose  Jan  Mathysen,  who  ap- 
pointed twelve  missionaries,  all  of  whom 
appear  from  their  names  to  have  beeo 
Dutchmen. 

The  social  war  broke  out  in  Amsterdam 
the  same  year  that  it  did  in  Munster. 
Finding  public  opinion  in  its  favor,  its 
leader,  Van  Geelen,  determined  to  seize 
the  city.  All  was  kept  quiet  until  the 
very  evening  designed  for  the  attempt, 
when  the  attention  of  the  magistrates  was 
called  to  three  small  pieces  of  artillery 
placed  so  as  to  command  the  windows  of 
the  Guildhall.  While  hesitating  what  to 
do,  the  Anabaptists  appeared,  forty  strong, 
and  the  magistrates  only  saved  themselves 
by  rapid  flight.  The  signal  for  the  gen- 
eral uprising  was  to  be  the  toiling  of  the 
Guildhall  bell,  but  the  insurgents  being 
unable  to  find  the  rope,  this  hitch  in  the 
programme  ensured  the  ruin  of  the  re- 
volt. A  drunken  Scbout*s  ofiicer  had 
unwittingly  hidden  it  among  the  stools. 
Thus  the  night  passed  away  without  any 
movement  on  the  part  of  the  people,  giv- 
ing the  magistrates  time  to  arrange  their 
plans.  Notwithstanding  this,  the  insur- 
gents at  first  carried  everything  before 
them,  but  they  were  at  last  surrounded, 
and  driven  o£f  the  dam  into  the  Guild- 
hall. Here  they  fought  desperately,  but 
their  leaders  being  killed,  they  were  finally 
overpowered.  The  prisoners  were  put  to 
death  with  revolting  barbarity;  while  yet 
living  their  hearts  were  cut  out  and 
thrown  in  their  faces,  their  bodies  quar- 
tered and  hung  on  the  town  gates,  and 
their  heads  placed  on  stakes. 

This  episode  shows  clearly  that  there 
was  a  widespread  discontent  throughout 
the  city.  Amsterdam  was  governed  by  a 
senate  of  thirty-six  burghers.    Each  se::* 


THE   RISE   AND   FALL  OF   AMSTERDAM. 


261 


ator  enjoyed  his  position  for  life,  origi- 
nally by  election  of  the  freemen  of  the 
city;  bat  from  the  sixteenth  century  the 
vacancies  were  filled  up  by  the  Senate 
itself  or  by  some  authority  for  the  time 
being  more  powerful.  Thus  the  govern- 
ment of  Amsterdam  was  a  close  oligarchy. 
Had  it  continued  as  it  was  up  to  the  end 
of  the  war  of  independence  —  Catholic 
-^it  would  in  all  probability  have  rivalled 
that  of  Venice,  in  a  rule  of  mystery  and 
terror.  One  of  the  most  picturesque  ob- 
jects in  Amsterdam  was  the  Herring-pack- 
ers' Tower.  Here  persons  suspected  of 
heresy  were  confined,  and  given  short 
shrift,  being  thrown  out  at  night,  tied 
bands  and  feet,  into  the  Y. 

It  was  owing  to  the  orthodox  character 
of  the  magistracy  that  Amsterdam  es- 
caped almost  scot-free  during  the  War  of 
Independence,  being  permitted  to  pur- 
chase immunity  from  a  Spanish  garrison 
by  payment  of  two  hundred  thousand 
guilders.  Every  eflFort  to  induce  the  city 
to  join  the  patriots  failed,  and  when  at 
last  the  magistrates  began  to  treat,  they 
offered  terms  such  as  would  have  enabled 
them  as  St.  Aldegonde  puts  it,  **to  gov- 
ern the  governor."  In  the  end  the 
patriots  were  obliged  to  agree  to  an  ar- 
rangement by  which  the  exercise  of  the 
Catholic  religion  was  alone  permitted 
within  the  city. 

No  sooner,  however,  was  the  govern- 
ment of  Amsterdam  cut  off  from  its  own 
party  than  a  popular  rising  took  place, 
and  a  revolution  was  apparently  accom- 
plished by  one  resolute  man  and  four 
confederates.  So  in  accord,  however, 
were  the  conspirators  with  the  public  sen- 
timent that  at  the  signal  of  the  raising  of 
a  hat,  the  dam  was  filled  with  people  fol- 
lowing a  sailor  with  a  flag,  who  cried, 
"All  ye  who  love  the  Prince  of  Orange, 
take  heart  and  follow  me."  After  this 
the  Catholic  religion  was  itself  proscribed, 
and  Amsterdam  became  not  only  Protes- 
tant, but  Protestant  of  an  ultra  type. 
These  facts  make  it  evident  that  the  Am- 
sterdam of  the  sixteenth  century  contained 
a  population  mostly  Protestant,  and  largely 
Anabaptist,  with  a  ruling  class  thoroughly 
Catholic. 

Before  the  great  War  of  Independence 


commenced,  we  hear  much  of  Anabap- 
tism.  I  believe  it  to  be  the  secret  source 
of  the  pertinacity  with  which  the  north 
Hollanders  struggled,  and  certain  it  is 
that  even  at  the  close  of  the  war  it  was 
strong  enough  to  frighten  a  man  like  St. 
Aldegonde  into  trying  to  prevent  all  who 
professed  its  tenets  from  exercising  their 
rights  as  citizens.  But  it  is  evident  that 
during  the  war  its  place  in  popular  affec- 
tion had  given  way  to  Calvinism. 

No  war  since  the  Christian  era  ever 
stirred  up  the  devil  latent  in  human  na- 
ture as  this  did.  The  cruelty  practised 
by  Philip  II.  and  his  myrmidons  is  so 
horrible,  that  the  mind  refuses  to  reflect 
upon  it.  Fairly  to  judge  the  epoch,  one 
should  look  at  the  old  engravings  exe- 
cuted while  these  hellish  deeds  were 
fresh  in  men's  minds.  This  dark  back- 
ground of  horror  is  the  real  parent  of 
Calvinism.  It  was  in  the  lurid  glare  of 
the  flames  in  the  Place  Maubert  that  Cal- 
vinism arose,  condemning  a  world  that 
thus  treated  its  saints  to  an  eternal  tor- 
ment of  which  their  fiery  tortures  were 
but  a  faint  image. 

III. 

A  legend  of  Amsterdam  tells  of  a  mer- 
chant who  came  to  the  city,  but  do  what 
he  would  he  could  not  make  himself 
liked.  One  evening,  as  he  sat  moodily 
alone,  a  stranger  .claimed  his  hospitality, 
a  gentleman  of  Spanish  complexion,  with 
a  very  fascinating  eye.  He  seemed  to 
know  all  the  merchant's  secrets,  and  prom- 
ised him  that  if  he  would  agree  to  his 
terms,  human  sympathy  with  all  the  joys 
of  life  should  be  his.  He  then  retired, 
leaving  in  the  merchant's  hands  a  paper 
which  he  was  to  sign,  and  forward  to  a 
certain  place  the  next  morning.  The 
merchant  soon  found  that  his  visitor  was 
no  other  than  Satan  himself.  However, 
he  took  the  night  to  consider,  and  by 
morning  had  determined  to  accept  the 
offer.  But  a  very  short  while  elapsed, 
and  the  merchant  was  happily  married  to 
the  lady  he  had  previously  sought  in  vain ; 
in  a  few  years  his  table  was  surrounded 
by  a  beautiful  family,  wealth  and  honor 
poured  in  upon  him,  and  he  was  welcomed 
wherever  he  went. 


262 


THE   RISE   AND   FALL   OF   AMSTERDAM. 


The  temptation  which  this  legend  sets 
forth  as  occurring  to  a  merchant  at  Am- 
sterdam, was  really  that  to  which  the  city 
itself  succumbed.  Coldly  looked  upon 
as  one  who  was  a  comparative  stranger 
in  the  new  republic,  but  who  yet  sought  a 
chief  share  in  its  gains,  Amsterdam  would 
have  probably  been  more  isolated  still 
had  she  followed  the  highest  aspirations 
of  her  people,  and  been  true  to  her  call- 
ing as  the  Groote  Gods  Huisland,  In- 
stead of  that,  she  listened  to  the  great 
seducer,  and  received  a  full  but  tempo- 
rary reward. 

She  at  once  took  the  lead  in  the  use  the 
ruling  classes  of  the  United  Provinces 
proposed  to  make  of  the  great  position 
which  the  faith,  the  courage,  and  the 
awful  sacrifice  of  the  people  had  obtained 
for  them.  They  had  no  higher  ambition 
than  to  become  the  successors  in  the 
abominable  traffic  of  their  ancient  mas- 
ters, and  to  get  possession  of  its  profits. 
All  combined  to  feed  this  low  ambition, 
and  to  render  it  successful. 

Portugal  lost  its  independence,  and 
shared  the  gloomy  fate  of  Spain  to  which 
it  was  annexed.  One  of  the  first  results 
was  the  arrival  in  Amsterdam  of  a  colony 
of  Portuguese  Jews  (1593),  rich  in  com- 
mercial traditions,  wealth,  and  energy. 
Next,  the  continual  persecution  of  the 
Huguenots  drove  numbers  of  the  most 
intelligent  and  most  wealthy  among  the 
middle  classes  of  France  to  take  shelter 
under  the  aegis  of  a  republic  professing 
their  faith,  and  welcoming  foreigners  with 
open  arms.  It  was  the  same  with  the 
many  Covenanters  and  Puritans  who  un- 
der the  Stuarts  made  Amsterdam  their 
city  of  refuge.  Another  circumstance 
that  added  vastly  to  its  wealth  and  impor- 
tance was  the  final  defeat  and  ruin  of  the 
patriotic  cause  in  Antwerp.  In  the  dis- 
asters that  attended  the  defence  of  that 
city,  the  rulers  of  Amsterdam  were  strong- 
ly suspected  of  preventing  the  Dutch  fleet 
from  properly  seconding  the  efforts  of 
the  governor,  Marnix  of  St.  Aldegonde. 
When  the  end  came,  many  of  its  traders, 
and  even  its  literary  men,  fled  to  Am- 
sterdam. 

The  population,  in  fact,  increased  so 
fast  that  strangers  arriving  were  obliged 
to  take  up  their  abode  in  the  environs  in 
huts  and  other  temporary  erections,  while 
new  streets  were  laid  out  and  houses  built. 
Land  in  the  city  rose  to  a  preposterous 
value :  as  much  as  a  man's  foot  would 
cover  was  said  to  be  worth  a  ducat  of  gold. 
In  16 1 8  the  population  was  estimated  at 
three  hundred  thousand. 


Each  city  in  the  United  Provinces  had 
its  particular  branch  of  trade.  The  great 
fisheries  of  the  German  Ocean  were,  of 
course,  common  to  all  the  maritime  towns 
and  villages,  but  Amsterdam  had  the  ]ion*s 
share.  The  Dutch  herring  fishery  at  its 
zenith  employed  about  six  thousand  four 
hundred  vessels  and  one  hundred  and 
twelve  thousand  seamen  :  eight  hundred 
of  these  vessels  belonged  to  Amsterdam, 
where  an  immense  trade  was  done  in  salt- 
ing and  packing  herrings. 

A  thousand  vessels  were  employed  in 
the  Baltic  trade  in  timber  and  grain,  and 
Amsterdam  in  a  short  time  became  the 
granary  of  the  world.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
in  his  **  Observations  touching  Trade  and 
Commerce  with  the  Hollander,'*  says : 
"Amsterdam  is  never  without  seven  hun- 
dred thousand  quarters  of  corn,  none  of  it 
the  growth  of  Holland ;  a  dearth  of  only 
one  year  in  any  other  part  of  Europe  en- 
riches Holland  for  seven  years." 

In  1602  the  Dutch  East  India  Company 
was  formed.  Ambo^'naand  the  Moluccas 
were  wrested  from  the  Spaniards,  and  in 
a  short  time  the  Dutch  had  factories  and 
fortifications  from  the  Tigris  in  the  Per- 
sian Gulf  along  the  coasts  and  islands  of 
India,  as  far  as  Japan.  Alliances  were 
formed  with  several  Indian  princes  on  the 
coast  of  Ceylon,  and  they  were  themselves 
masters  in  various  districts  of  Malabar 
and  Coromandel,  and  of  great  part  of  the 
island  of  Java.  The  West  India  Com- 
pany was  established  in  162 1.  In  fifteen 
years  the  Dutch  had  conquered  the  greater 
part  of  Brazil  and  had  fitted  out  eight 
hundred  trading  and  war  ships  at  the  ex- 
pense of  ninety  millions  of  florins,  which 
immense  outlay  they  had  recouped  by  the 
capture  of  five  hundred  and  forty -five 
Spanish  and  Portuguese  ships. 

These  trades  were  the  peculiar  monop- 
oly of  Amsterdam,  but  she  was  also  greatly 
advantaged  by  the  general  prosperity  of 
the  whole  province  of  Holland.  On  its 
pastures  grazed  innumerable  herds  of  fine 
cattle ;  a  Dutch  ox  would  often  weigh 
more  than  two  thousand  pounds,  and 
Dutch  cows  were  known  to  produce  two 
or  three  calves  at  a  time,  Dutch  sheep 
four  or  five  lambs.  Butter,  cheese,  and 
salted  provisions  were  exported  to  an  in- 
credible amount. 

The  manufactures  were  equally  famous. 
Dutch  linen  was  so  highly  esteemed  that 
Holland  gave  its  name  to  the  fabric. 

Supported  further  by  the  finest  navy  in 
the  world — for  it  is  estimated  that  in 
the  seventeenlh  century  half  the  shipping 
of  Europe  belonged  to  the  Dutch  —  Am- 


THE   RISE  AND  FALL  OF  AMSTERDAM* 


sterdam,  with  its  correspondents  every- 
where, quickly  obtained  the  carrying  tVade 
of  the  world. 

To  render  the  working  of  this  great 
commerce  more  facile,  the  Bank  of  Am- 
sterdam was  founded  in  1609.  In  a  short 
time  the  whole  world  went  to  Amsterdam 
to  borrow. 

Speculative  trade,  it  has  been  said,  al- 
most seems  to  have  been  born  at  Amster- 
dam. Let  the  scarcitv  of  grain  be  what 
it  might  in  any  of  the  four  quarters  of  the 
globe,  men  could  always  find  plenty  in 
Amsterdam;  whatever  their  wants,  they 
could  always  supply  them  in  Amsterdam. 
Its  streets  were  like  a  perpetual  fair. 

An  Italian  describes  the  city  in  1618  as 
the  very  image  of  Venice  in  its  prime.  It 
spread  out  fan-shaped,  its  base  line  on  the 
Y  being  a  long  series  of  quays  and  docks, 
backed  by  tail  warehouses  of  which  little 
could  be  seen  but  an  occasional  gable- 
roof,  so  hidden  were  they  by  groves  of 
masts  (which  towards  the  centre  thick- 
ened into  a  forest),  by  large  sails  and  a 
complete  jungle  of  huge  cranes  and  draw- 
bridges. High. above  the  city  rose  numer- 
ous quaint  steeples  and  yet  more  ancient 
towers,  and  Amsterdam's  Italian  proto- 
type could  never  have  presented  a  more 
bewitching  picture  than  when  on  one  of 
those  marvellous  nights,  not  infrequent  in 
Holland,  the  moon  lit  up  the  scene  with  a 
light  whiter,  purer  than  that  of  electricity, 
and  of  a  living  beauty  the  very  reverse 
of  electricity's  ghastly  glare.  The  black 
hulls,  masts,  rigging,  and  cordage  stood 
out  vividly  as  in  a  photograph;  the  bea- 
cons cast  their  ruddy  glare  into  the  waters, 
and  at  midnight  the  carillon  floated  over 
the  city,  followed  by  the  striking  of  in- 
numerable clocks. 

Morning  broke,  and  with  the  dawn  be- 
gan another  day's  whirl  and  fret  of  busi- 
ness. Men,  women,  children  —  of  all 
lands,  nations,  and  tongues  —  were  in  full 
activity.  The  shipwrights'  hammers,  the 
creaking  of  the  cranes,  the  seamen's  oaths, 
the  squabbles  of  the  market-place,  the 
gabbling  in  the  schools,  the  clatter  of  the 
sleighs,  the  chaffering,  badgering,  bully- 
ing, the  slave-driving  going  on  without  a 
moment's  cessation  upon  all  the  quays,  in 
tvtry  warehouse  and  from  every  street, 
proclaimed  Amsterdam  the  mart  of  the 
world,  the  centre  of  its  business. 

The  head  of  the  Damrak,  a  short  road- 
stead formed  by  the  mouth  of  the  Amstel, 
was  crossed  by  a  bridge  which  recalled 
the  Rialto.  Here  a  crowd  of  men,  the 
most  varied  in  nationality  and  tradition, 
were  all  one  in  their  worship  of  the  pre- 


363 

siding  genius  of  the  city.  The  bridge 
stood  in  front  of  its  temple.  The  Ex- 
change was  the  true  centre  of  the  religion 
of  Amsterdam.  Hard  by  were  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  two  subsidiary  forces  in 
the  life  of  the  city  —  politics  and  Cal- 
vinistic  Christianity. 

The  Stadthuis,  an  enormous  structure, 
of  which  the  forest  of  piles  necessary  for 
its  foundation  had  cost  j£  100,000  sterling, 
possessed  an  interior  almost  encased  in 
marble  —  floors,  walls,  pillars,  and  ceil« 
ings.  Versailles  cost  ;^8oo,ooo,  the  £s- 
curial  j£  1,000,000,  St.  Paul's  j£  1,500,000; 
but  the  burgher  government  of  Amster- 
dam spent  j£3,ooo,ooo  on  the  shrine  of 
their  politics,  making  it  the  fit  emblem  of 
their  policy — hard,  superficial,  and  stu- 
pidly wasteful.  In  its  vaults  were  the 
treasures  of  their  famous  bank,  to  all  ap- 
pearance an  infinite  hoard  of  wealth -« 
gold  and  silver  in  bars,  plate  and  bags  of 
specie  innumerable. 

The  treasure-house  of  Europe,  it  was 
the  reservoir  into  which  fell  the  many 
golden  streams  which  came  pouring  in 
from  every  quarter  of  the  globe. 

This  wealth  gave  an  enormous  impetus 
to  such  arts  as  the  traditions  and  peculiar 
temperament  of  the  Hollanders  most  en- 
couraged. Profoundly  religious,  the  soul 
of  the  Netherlands  people  had  from  very 
early  times  found  expression  in  poetry 
and  painting.  Amsterdam  was  the  centre 
of  literary  life  before  the  war,  its  inhab- 
itants cultivating  their  poetic  gifts  in  their 
famous  Guild  of  the  Eglantine.  After  the 
fall  of  Antwerp,  its  Guilds  of  the  Sweet- 
brier  and  the  Fig-tree  emigrated  to  the 
northern  city. 

From  the  fostering  care  of  these  guilds 
came  a  succession  of  poets  and  dramatists, 
touched  with  the  humor  and  sweetness  of 
our  Elizabethan  school.  Visscher  and  his 
two  daughters,  Hooft,  Drederoo,  Vondel 
and  Huygens,  are  among  the  chief  names 
of  the  great  Amsterdam  school  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  The  Kalverstraat 
was  the  Paternoster  Row  of  old  Amster- 
dam, and  the  especial  haunt  of  its  engrav- 
ers. Cats,  who  better  perhaps  than  any 
other  Dutch  writer  represents  the  homely 
wit  and  proverbial  philosophy  character- 
istic of  the  Dutch  middle  class,  did  not 
belong  to  Amsterdam.  But  in  the  quaint 
designs  on  the  house-fronts,  often  pun- 
ning representations  of  the  owner's  name 
or  trade,  in  the  moral  sayings  and  wise 
saws  written  on  the  entablatures,  might 
be  seen  the  genius  of  Cats,  and  of  a  reli- 
gion which  had  fallen  from  the  enthu- 
siastic faith  of  David's  Psalms  to  the 


264 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF  AMSTERDAM. 


didactic  philosophy  of  the  Proverbs  of 
Solomon. 

The  free  multiform  life  of  Amsterdam, 
full  of  color  and  poetry,  had  many  attrac- 
tions for  painters.  Hither  Rembrandt 
came,  in  1630,  and  fixed  himself  near  the 
Jews'  quarter.  Here  were  heaped  treas- 
ures which  had  adorned  the  Cleopatras 
and  the  Messalinas  of  the  ancient  world, 
the  spoils  which  Crusaders  had  carried 
home  from  Syria,  and  the  Venetians  from 
Constantinople,  together  with  all  kinds  of 
strange  and  curious  thinc^s  which  the  bold 
seamen  of  Holland  had  brought  from  the 
four  quarters  of  the  globe.  Here  too 
were  men  who  had  carefully  hoarded  the 
intellectual  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  a  dead 
past :  reverend  rabbis  —  wrinkled,  fur- 
rowed, ghastly  —  in  whom  the  hereditary 
acquisitiveness  had  taken  the  most  inter- 
estmg  of  all  its  forms. 

It  was  in  these  palmy  days  that  a  family 
of  Portuguese  Jews  gave  the  world  a  child 
who  was  to  be  the  leader  in  a  revolution 
more  radical  than  either  that  of  Luther  or 
even  Munzer.  Spinoza  was  born  in  Am- 
sterdam in  1632. 

Nowhere  has  the  Jew  found  such  con- 
sideration as  in  Amsterdam.  H  spiritual 
affinities  could  prove  consanguinity,  the 
people  of  Amsterdam  might  claim  to  be 
one  of  the  lost  tribes.  Nowhere  was  the 
letter  of  the  Decalogue  more  generally 
obeyed ;  nowhere  was  the  higher  teaching 
of  the  Mosaic  law  better  carried  out :  care 
for  the  orphan  and  the  widow,  provision 
for  the  poor  and  the  stranger.  There 
were  twelve  ^eat  hospitals  or  benevolent 
institutions  in  Amsterdam.  There  were 
orphanages  for  boys  and  for  girls,  retreats 
for  old  men  and  old  women,  hospitals  for 
the  sick,  for  lunatics,  for  lepers,  and  one 
where  poor  travellers  could  be  lodged  and 
entertained  for  three  nights.  For  the  un- 
ruly of  either  sex,  there  were  two  separate 
prisons  conducted  in  a  severe  but  parental 
manner. 

But  amidst  all  this  prosperity,  all  this 
culture,  all  this  drilling  in  the  rules  of 
frugality,  the  most  striking  fact  in  this 
great  commercial  society  is  its  ever-in- 
creasing pauperism. 

Strongly  endowed  with  the  parental  in- 
stinct, the  Amsterdam  bura;hers  thought 
not  of  such  cruelty  as  the  breaking-up  of 
a  family  because  its  bead  had  fallen  into 
poverty;  so  they  created,  in  1619,  an  in- 
stitution which  they  called  'Mhe  House 
of  the  Poor  Families."  To  enter  it  a 
family  must  have  resided  six  years  in 
Amsterdam ;  and  to  prevent  fraud  it  was 
required  to  produce  several  witnesses  to 


the  fact.  Notwithstanding  all  these  diffi- 
culties, the  old  side  of  this  establishment 
contained  nine  hundred  families,  and  the 
new,  sixteen  hundred;  altogether  they 
numbered  no  less  than  ten  thousand  ptr* 
sons.  All  round  the  garden  was  a  f^allery 
where  a  weekly  distribution  of  victuals 
was  made  to  the  poor. 

In  addition  to  this  great  poorbouse 
were  two  others  —  houses  for  the  rabble 
-r  built  respectively  in  1639  and  1649. 
Here  were  distributed  every  week  during 
winter.  Irrespective  of  race  or  faith,  bread, 
butter,  and  cheese.  Altogether  the  sum 
spent  in  these  three  articles  amounted  to 
six  hundred  thousand  guilders  per  annum. 

The  old  writer  (1675)  who  gives  this 
account  of  the  house  for  poor  families, 
says  "  the  numbers  in  it  at  present  cannot 
be  told,  seeing  the  city  is  increased  nearly 
one-half;'*  but  if  the  numbers  he  states 
as  there  in  1616  are  compared  with  the 
population  of  Amsterdam  in  1618,  we  find 
that  one  in  every  thirty  persons  in  Am- 
sterdam was  a  pauper  of  selected  respec- 
tability. But  outside  this  class  was  an<* 
other  which  could  not  satisfy  inquiry  —  a 
class  dear  to  Rembrandt,  who  was  one  of 
the  very  few  persons,  perhaps  the  only 
one,  who  saw  this  Amsterdam  society 
through  and  through,  and  found  it  phari* 
saical  and  thoroughly  opposed  to  the  spirit 
of  Jesus  Christ.  This  ragged,  wretched, 
miserable  class,  to  whom  Rembrandt  de- 
voted more  of  his  work  than  to  any  other, 
cannot  be  deemed  to  have  been  less  than 
four  or  five  times  as  numerous  as  the 
respectable  poor. 

If  this  be  a  fair  computation,  then  it 
would  follow  that,  at  the  very  time  Am- 
sterdam was  making  its  most  rapid  strides 
in  prosperity,  at  least  one-sixth  of  its 
inhabitants  were  In  a  state  of  pauperism, 
and  this  we  know  means  also  a  still  wider 
circle  of  families  on  the  brink  of  poverty 
and  living  in  daily  dread  of  being  swal- 
lowed into  Its  vortex. 

Another  proof  of  the  poverty  of  the 
masses  in  Amsterdam,  was  the  existence 
of  a  great  civic  pawnshop  —  De  LomberU 
Here  the  poor  could  obtain  loans,  not 
only  on  their  garments,  but  upon  plate 
anci  other  household  goods,  and  even  on 
merchandise. 

In  the  marvellously  finished  interiors 
of  Gerard  Dou  we  see  the  ease,  the  com- 
fort, the  wealth  in  which  the  few  lived 
who  drew  the  prizes  in  this  great  com- 
mercial lottery.  In  the  best  sense  their 
homes  were  respectable.  Luxury  is  there, 
but  it  is  restrained,  reasonable,  unosten- 
tatious.   They  have  all  that  heart  could 


THE    RISE   AND  FALL  OF  AMSTERDAM. 


wish,  and  if  there  is  any  desire,  the  means 
are  there  to  obtain  its  gratification.  And 
nothing  proves  how  sweet  this  life  was  to 
those  who  enjoved  it  as  the  fact  that  so 
many  masters  found  it  to  their  profit  to 
follow  in  the  wake  of  Dou.  On  the  other 
band,  Rembrandt  —  who  painted  the  poor 
as  they  really  were,  sad-eyed  and  dirty, 
sufiEerers  even  when  truculent-looking  and 
sullen  —  had  no  followers.  The  rich  did 
not  care  about  these  reminders  of  an  ugly 
fact.  If  they  had  pictures  of  poverty, 
then  tavern  interiors,  such  as  Ostade, 
Teniers,  and  Jan  Steen  painted,  were  the 
ones  most  in  request  —  pictures  that  rep- 
resented men  as  bringing  it  on  themselves 
by  vicious  and  disgusting  bestiality. 

The  Amsterdammers  of'  the  seven- 
teenth century  were  benevolent,  cultured, 
religious,  but  their  consciences  were  not 
wounded  by  this  singular  distribution  of 
wealth.  How  should  they  be  when  the 
religion  which  they  professed  had  for. its 
distinctive  tenet  the  doctrine  that  God 
had  chosen  an  elect  few  to  eternal  felicity, 
while  the  great  majority  of  mankind  were 
under  sentence  of  eternal  reprobation? 
This  doctrine,  which  they  heard  pro- 
claimed from  richly  carved  pulpits  as  they 
sat  in  due  order  in  their  double-galleried 
synagogues,  was  entirely  in  harmony  with 
the  material  condition  of  Amsterdam :  the 
one  explained  and  justified  the  other. 

IV. 

If  the  Hollander  had  one  tradition 
more  powerful  than  another,  it  was  patri- 
otism. Yet  even  this  great  duty  the 
merchant  of  Amsterdam  was  ready  to 
sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  commerce.  On 
one  occasion  the  stadtholder  discovered 
that  the  Amsterdam  traders  were  sending 
arms  and  ammunition  to  Antwerp,  at  the 
very  time  it  was  being  besieged  by  the 
combined  forces  of  Holland  and  France. 
He  demanded  an  inquiry,  and  one  Bey- 
land  was  charged  before  the  magistrates 
of  Amsterdam  with  freighting  four  boats 
full  of  powder,  muskets,  and  pikes.  The 
accused  not  only  freely  admitted  the 
charge  but  declared  that  the  merchant  of 
Amsterdam  had  a  right  to  trade  wherever 
he  pleased ;  adding  that  if  anything  was 
to  be  gained  by  trading  to  hell,  he  would 
risk  burning  his  sails.  And  the  magis- 
trates acquitted  him  on  the  ground  that 
be  had  done  his  duty  to  his  employers. 

Never  is  this  freedom  from  all  scruples 
so  manifest  as  when  the  ruling  classes  of 
Amsterdam  had  the  grandest  opportuni- 
ties, and  a  sphere  Alexander  himself 
might  have  envied.    They  grasped  at  the 


265 

world,  but  not  for  the  noble  ambition  of 
conquering  it  for  that  kingdom  of  which 
they  professed  themselves  members,  but 
simply  that  they  might  suck  its  treasures 
for  their  own  advantage. 

Everything  was  managed  in  Amster* 
dam  by  corporations.  The  idea  of  the 
sacredness  of  corporate  rights  and  privi- 
leges was  firmly  planted  in  the  Dutch 
mind.  These  numerous  bodies  were  vir- 
tually self-elected.  An  oligarchy  ruled  in 
each  department.  The  character  of  their 
government  is  seen  in  the  way  the  East  1  n- 
dia  Company  managed  their  possessions 
in  the  Eastern  Archipelago.  To  secure 
the  monopoly  of  the  spice  trade,  thev 
caused  all  the  clove-trees  to  be  extirpatecf, 
except  in  Amboyna,  the  seat  of  their 
power,  bribing  the  surrounding  princes 
to  enter  into  league  with  them  to  destroy 
their  subjects'  property.  At  one  time 
they  gained  the  exclusive  command  of 
the  pepper  trade.  Pepper  was  immedi- 
ately raised  to  eight  shillings  a  pound, 
one  hundred  per  cent,  higher  than  the 
Portuguese  prices.  It  is  supposed  that 
they  made  a  profit  of  thirty-eight  hundred 
per  cent,  on  this  article  alone.  English 
settlers  did  not  scruple  to  declare  that  in 
1622  the  Dutch  authorities  at  Amboyna, 
in  their  terror  lest  foreign  intrigue  should 
oust  them  out  of  the  nest  they  were  rob- 
bing, practised  tortures  worthy  of  Philip 
II.  and  Alva. 

To  prevent  any  criticism  from  the  jeal- 
ousy of  the  other  Dutch  ports,  the  East 
India  Company  distributed  their  stock 
among  the  prindpal  towns  of  the  United 
Provinces,  in  each  of  which  was  a  hand- 
somely paid  board  of  directors,  possessing 
the  share  of  the  patronage  proportioned  to 
the  stock  they  held.  Amsterdam  kept  the 
supreme  direction,  for  out  of  these  sub- 
ordinate chambers  a  board  of  seventeen 
directors  was  chosen;  who  met  for  six 
vears  at  Amsterdam  and  two  at  Middle- 
burgh.  Thus  all  the  leading  capitalists  in 
Holland  were  directly  concerned  in  the 
company's  affairs. 

Instead  of  enriching  their  own  country 
and  the  Asiatic  world  by  opening  up  a 
great  Oriental  trade,  the  Dutch  East 
India  Company  thought  only  of  getting 
the  highest  possible  prices  by  the  exclu- 
sion of  all  competition.  Their  immense 
warehouses  at  Amsterdam,  their  imposing 
name,  and  the. mystery  ever  attached  to 
the  East,  led  to  an  exaggerated  idea  of 
their  importance.  They  worked  a  trade 
that  could  easily  have  employed  several 
millions  with  a  capital  of  j£542,ooo.  In 
their  most  prosperous  days,  from   1614- 


266 


THE   RISE  AND   FALL  OF  AMSTERDAM. 


1730,  the  number  of  their  ships  arriviD^ 
from  India  in  the  course  of  the  year  did 
not  average  more  than  fourteen. 

This  stvie  of  doing  trade  explains  the 
excessively  heavy  dues  that  the  Amster- 
dam authorities  imposed  on  every  article 
of  traffic.  It  is  asserted  that  many  things 
paid  duty  three  or  four  tiroes  over.  Bread 
was  taxed  when  the  corn  came  from  the 
mill,  and  again  when  the  loaves  came 
from  the  oven.  There  were  taxes  on  but- 
ter, fish,  and  fruit,  while  the  duties  levied 
on  meat,  salt,  beer,  wine,  and  spirits  were 
as  high  as  one  hundred  per  cent.  Rents 
paid  a  tax  of  twenty-five  per  cent. ;  in  fact, 
there  was  scarcely  anything  that  escaped 
taxation  except  that  which  depleted  the 
country  of  its  capital  — the  speculations 
of  its  merchants  in  the  public  funds  of 
other  nations. 

For,  owing  to  the  accumulation  of  capi- 
tal and  the  way  taxation  ate  up  profits,  the 
Amsterdam  merchants  put  the  greater 
part  of  their  surplus  capital  into  foreign 
stocks.  In  fact,  the  difficulty  of  finding 
an  advantageous  return  for  money  in  Hol- 
land was  so  great,  that  its  capitalists 
preferred  to  lend  vast  sums  of  money  to 
individuals  in  foreign  countries,  both 
regularly  as  loans  at  interest  and  in  the 
shape  o!  goods  advanced  at  long  credit. 

The  result  of  such  an  order  of  things 
became  more  and  more  manifest:  the 
commerce  which  enriched  the  few,  ruined 
the  many.  The  cause  of  the  heavy  taxa- 
tion was  the  necessity  of  maintaining  a 
great  navy  to  protect  the  monopolies  of 
the  Dutch  capitalists,  and  to  pay  the  in- 
terest of  the  ever-increasing  debt,  brought 
about  by  the  disastrous  wars  into  which 
the  United  Provinces  were  forced  by  the 
jealousy  and  cupidity  they  provoked  in 
their  neighbors. 

At  the  end  of  the  War  of  Indepen- 
dence, Motley  tells  us  that  the  debt  of  the 
United  Provmces  was  funded  at  six  per 
cent.,  its  interest  amounting  to  two  hun- 
dred thousand  florins.  The  whole  debt 
may  be  calculated  at  a  round  three  and  a 
quarter  millions  of  florins.  Now  in  1877 
it  had  reached  to  about  nine  hundred  mil- 
lions of  florins.  Thus,  while  the  popula- 
tion had  remained  stationary,  the  national 
debt  had  in  two  centuries  and  three-quar- 
ters increased  to  nearly  three  hundred 
times  its  original  size. 

England  and  France  began  as  early  as 
the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  to 
try  and  get  possession  of  the  Dutch  trade. 
In  165 1  the  English  Parliament  passed  a 
Navigation  Act,  the  object  of  which  was 
to  exclude  the  Dutch  from  the  carrying 


trade  of  this  country;  and  in  1664  the 
French  government  promulgatecf  the  tariff 
arranged  by  Colbert,  a  main  purpose  be- 
ing to  promote  French  commerce  by  har- 
assing that  of  the  United  Provinces. 

Not  content  with  doing  it  this  harm, 
Louis  XIV.  in  1672  invaded  Holland.  A 
great  drought  favored  his  enterprise,  so 
that  the  French  armies  easily  forded  the 
rivers,  and  the  Dutch  cities  capitulated 
without  a  blow.  As  Sir  William  Temple 
says,  in  his  curious  little  book,  "  Obser- 
vations on  the  United  Provinces,  16^3,*' 
"In  all  sieges  the  hearts  of  men  defend 
the  walls,  and  not  the  walls  the  men." 

That  the  Dutch  people  had  not  lost 
their  ancient  patriotism  was  soon  manifest, 
for  when  Louis  XIV.,  misled  by  the  ease 
of  his  triumph,  demanded  outrageous 
terms,  the  people  rose,  took  the  power  out 
of  the  hands  of  oligarchical  factions  who 
ruled  in  the  States-General,  and  virtu* 
ally  made  the  Prince  of  Orange  dictator. 
Under  this  influence  Amsterdam  dis- 
played an  unwonted  heroism,  and  her 
people  declared  that  rather  than  submit 
to  the  conqueror  they  would  cut  the  dykes 
and  lay  all  the  land  round  the  city  under 
water. 

Ere  long,  however,  the  representatives 
of  wealth  again  obtain  power,  and  the  old 
hostility  betwen  the  house  of  Orange  and 
the  government  of  Amsterdam  recom- 
mences. It  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty 
that  the  stadtholder,  afterwards  William 
III.  of  England,  induced  it  to  consent  to 
his  projected  effort  on  behalf  of  English 
liberty;  and  when  be  was  obliged  to  re- 
side in  this  country,  it  took  advantage  of 
his  absence  to  usurp  his  prerogatives. 

This  perpetual  struggle  between  the 
stadtholders  and  the  Amsterdam  oligar- 
chy is  one  of  the  pivots  of  Dutch  historv ; 
and  a  key  to  that  of  Amsterdam  may  be 
found  in  the  fact  that,  up  to  the  period  of 
the  French  Revolution,  the  common  peo- 
ple of  Amsterdam  always  sided  with  the 
house  of  Orange. 

A  curious  example  of  the  jealousy  with 
which  the  people  regarded  the  acts  of  the 
magistracy,  and  the  way  they  fretted 
against  its  authority,  is  shown  in  the 
commotion  occasioned  in  1696  by  the 
passing  of  a  sumptuary  law  restraining 
the  magnificence  of  funerals.  The  host  of 
lugubrious  and  pompous  personages,  the 
"  inviters,"  the  bearers,  the  torch-bearers, 
who  got  their  living  out  of  elaborate 
funeral  rites,  stirred  up  the  population, 
spreading  the  report  that  the  government 
intended  to  oblige  every  one  to  be  buried 
in  a  plain  deal  coffin  without  a  breast- 


THE   RISE  AND   FALL  OF  AMSTERDAM. 


plate,  and  with  the  city  arms  sewed  upon 
the  winding-sheet.  The  thought  of  being 
thus  put  nameless  into  the  grave,  and 
stamped  as  the  property  of  the  city  of 
Amsterdam,  aroused  the  populace  to  a 
state  of  violent  indignation.  Menacing 
processions  were  formed,  but  the  soldiers 
brought  out  to  disperse  them  bad  to  take 
flight,  and  encouraged  by  their  victory  the 
people  sacked  the  houses  of  those  who 
were  believed  to  have  suggested  the  new 
law.  The  rioters  were  overcome,  and 
their  ringleaders  hanged  in  front  of  the 
Weighhouse.  This  curious  episode  is 
further  characteristic,  since  it  was  alleged 
that  the  tumult  was  secretly  instigated  by 
the  partisans  of  the  stadtholder. 

The  French  invasion  of  1672  was  to 
the  commerce  of  Amsterdam  as  the  writ- 
ing on  the  wall  of  the  palace  of  Belshaz- 
zar,  but  the  power  that  chiefly  efiEected  its 
destruction  was  England. 

As  when  a  fainting  firm  is  falling  all 
things  seem  to  combine  to  accelerate  its 
ruin,  so  it  was  with  the  commerce  of  Am- 
sterdam during  the  third  quarter  of  the 
eighteenth  century:  1763  and  1773  were 
marked  by  monetary  panics,  brought  on 
by  unlimited  stockjobbing,  and  were  fol- 
lowed by  many  private  bankruptcies; 
i77(>-7ti  by  terrific  floods  and  cattle  dis- 
ease. 

The  Dutch  had  sacrificed  much  on  the 
altar  of  commerce;  but  they  still  pre- 
served a  certain  disinterested  admiration 
of  the  great  deeds  of  their  forefathers, 
and  could  not  help  feeling  that  their  elory 
lay  in  the  War  of  Independence  and  the 
policy  it  established.  When,  therefore, 
the  American  War  of  Independence  broke 
out,  it  was  very  hard  to  be  told  that  their 
national  honor  was  pledged  to  take  sides 
with  the  English  government  in  reducing 
the  American  colonies  to  obedience.  And 
yet  the  treaties  of  1716-17  t>ound  them  to 
afford  subsidies  and  troops  to  England  in 
case  of  need.  The  stadtholder  called  for 
the  observance  of  the  treaty;  the  States- 
General  refused.  The  English  replied  by 
a  denial  of  the  right  of  the  Dutch  to  con- 
vey timber  and  ships'  stores  to  France, 
also  in  sympathy  with  the  colonists.  The 
claim  of  search  was  rigorously  exercised. 
Dutch  merchantmen  were  captured,  their 
cargo  plundered,  and  their  crews  mal- 
treated and  forced  into  the  English  navy. 
These  proceedings  struck  more  heavily  at 
the  trade  of  Amsterdam  than  any  other 
city  in  the  United  Provinces,  and  in  the 
States-General  the  struggle  lay  between 
the  party  she  influenced  and  that  affected 
by  the  machinations  of  the  English  aro- 


267 

bassador.  In  1778  the  latter  triumphed, 
the  States-General  agreeing  that  in  future 
no  convoy  should  be  granted  to  ships 
laden  with  shipbuilding  materials.  Thus 
Amsterdam  saw  her  timber  trade  de- 
stroyed simply  to  gratify  the  spite  of 
England,  for  it  was  carried  on  just  the 
same  from  other  ports  of  the  Baltic. 

In  1 780 England  issued  a  declaration  of 
war  against  the  United  Provinces,  and 
after  naming  a  number  of  causes  of  of- 
fence, the  document  concluded  with  a  last 
and  chief  article  against  the  burghers  of 
Amsterdam.  Instead  of  taking  active 
measures,  the  Dutch  squandered  their 
time  in  internal  disputes.  Supineness 
and  inactivity  pervaded  every  department. 
A  bounty  of  seventy  guilders  a  head  was 
offered  for  men,  but  men  were  not  forth- 
coming. The  powers  supposed  to  be 
friendly  made  no  effort  to  save  the  Dutch. 
Russia  turned  against  them,  and  the 
Swedes  and  the  Danes  looked  with  satis- 
faction on  the  profit  that  would  accrue  to 
themselves  from  the  ruin  of  Dutch  com- 
merce. 

It  was  already  half-dead.  The  Weigh- 
inghouse  on  the  Dam,  formerly  thronged 
with  business,  had  only  one  of  its  doors 
occasionally  open.  No  loan  could  be 
raised  under  six  per  cent.,  and  the  Dutch 
bondholders  trembled  for  a  sum  of  no  less 
than  four  hundred  and  fifty  millions  of 
guilders  in  the  English  funds. 

The  British  fleet  swooped  down  on  the 
Dutch  colonies.  At  St.  Eustatius,  an 
island  in  the  West  Indies,  Admiral  Rod- 
ney acted  with  unexampled  rigor,  strip- 
ping the  inhabitants  of  everything  they 
had,  even  to  their  very  provisions,  seizing 
their  account-books  and  business  papers, 
and  turning  them  out  of  their  dwellings 
in  a  state  of  destitution.  Burke's  denun- 
ciations of  the  British  commander  are  still 
full  of  indignant  fire. 

Demerara,  Essequibo,  Berbice,  were  all 
ceded  to  the  English  by  the  Dutch  trad- 
ers, who,  in  spite  of  the  losses  of  their 
country,  were  able  to  lend  five  millions  of 
guilders  to  the  American  States.  The 
Yankees  at  once  proved  a  worse  rival  than 
even  England,  for  in  1786  they  wrested 
from  the  United  Provinces  a  large  portion 
of  the  trade  with  China,  and,  by  an  illicit 
traffic  carried  on  between  the  Dutch  West 
Indian  colonies  and  New  York,  did  the 
trade  of  the  Hollanders  much  harm. 

In  1782  the  Whigs  came  into  power, 
but  although  it  had  ever  been  a  maxim 
of  their  policy  to  cultivate  the  Dutch 
alliance,  they  could  not  refrain  from  press- 
ing to  the  utmost  the  prostrate  represen- 


268 


THE   RISE   AND   FALL  OF   AMSTERDAM. 


tatives  of  a  rival  commercei  refusing  to 
restore  the  places  taken  from  the  Dutch 
during  the  war,  or  to  grant  any  compen- 
sation for  their  losses.  And  their  ally, 
France,  signed  the  preliminaries  of  peace 
without  the  sanction  or  knowledge  of  the 
United  Provinces,  On  being  remon- 
strated with,  the  French  ambassador  re- 
plied :  *'  Each  power  mu^t  study  its  own 
interests,  and  those  of  France  require 
peace." 

The  eagles  now  arrived  to  share  the 
prey.  Austria  beean  to  harass  the  United 
Provinces  with  alisorts  of  demands,  even 
to  the  extent  of  opening  the  Scheldt. 
The  States  had  no  sooner  bought  peace 
at  the  price  of  nine  million  and  a  half 
guilders,  than,  in  1787,  Prussia  invaded 
the  country.  Amsterdam  was  the  last 
city  to  hold  out,  but  she  was  compelled  to 
capitulate  and  accept  the  Prussian  terms. 

This  miserable  condition  of  a  great 
commercial  city  was  pleasing  in  the  siorht 
of  her  rivals,  and  there  was  not  one  dis- 
sentient voice  in  the  British  House  of 
Commons  to  the  address  expressing  ad- 
miring approbation  at  the  rapid  success 
of  the  Prussian  arms. 

In  Amsterdam,  decay  and  dissolution 
was  apparent  in  all  directions.  Each  year 
saw  the  East  India  Company  fall  deeper 
and  deeper  into  debt;  the  West  India 
Company  was  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy, 
and  was  dissolved  at  the  expiration  of  its 
charter.  The  ships  employed  in  the 
Greenland  whale  fishery  had  diminished 
from  one  hundred  and  twenty  in  1770  to 
sixty-nine  in  1781.  The  money  of  the 
Bank  of  Amsterdam  sufiEered  so  great  a 
depreciation  that  from  a  premium  of  three 
to  five  per  cent,  it  sank  to  one-half  below 
par,  and  there  was  such  a  demand  for 
specie  as  seriously  to  shake  its  credit 

Yet  such  was  the  individual  wealth  still 
possessed  by  Dutch  capitalists,  that  in 
the  midst  of  all  these  disasters  they  were 
able  to  lend  the  king  of  Prussia  five  mil- 
lions of  guilders,  and  to  buy  two  millions 
of  acres  of  land  of  the  American  Con- 
gress for  three  million  seven  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  guilders. 

V. 

Governments  built  on  the  predomi- 
nance of  a  class  are  only  safe  as  long  as 
they  are  successful.  The  people  of  the 
northern  Netherlands  were  as  ready  in 
the  eighteenth  century  to  accept  the  doc- 
trines of  the  French  Revolution  as  their 
ancestors  had  been  to  receive  those  of 
the  Anabaptists.  The  committees  formed 
to  organize  a  national  insurrection  found 


a  popular  response  beyond  their  expecta- 
tion. Amsterdam  was  the  focus  of  the 
revolution.  Arrangements  were  made 
with  General  Pichegru  for  the  concurrent 
help  of  French  troops,  and  the  Jews  were 
bribed  to  embarrass  the  monetary  trans- 
actions of  the  stadtholder,  who  was  now 
numbered  with  the  incubus  from  which 
the  country  desired  to  be  free. 

The  elements  combined,  as  they  have 
so  often  done  in  the  Netherlands,  to  favor 
the  revolution.  The  winter  of  1794  is 
known  as  the  French  winter,  for  the  ice, 
daily  increasing,  enabled  their  armies  to 
march  into  the  heart  of  the  country. 
Utrecht  was  taken,  and  the  stadtholder 
embarked  at  Scheveningen. 

The  magistrates  of  Amsterdam  lingered 
on,  and  onlv  resigrned  when  the  alterna- 
tive was  ofifered  of  safety  of  person  and 
property  on  the  one  hand,  or  certain  mas- 
sacre on  the  other,  and  the  Revolution 
was  at  once  proclaimed  from  the  Weigh- 
house,  in  front  of  which  a  pole  bearing  a 
rude  resemblance  to  a  tall  palm-tree  and 
surmounted  by  a  cap  of  Liberty,  was 
erected,  around  which  the  children  of  the 
poor  danced.  The  Dam,  the  ancient  fo- 
rum of  Amsterdam,  was  filled  with  aa 
excited  populace  almost  delirious  with 
joy.  The  roofs  and  balconies  of  the 
houses  and  of  the  Niewe  Kerk  and  the 
windows  of  the  Stadthuis  were  lined  with 
spectators,  who  bad  gathered  to  watch 
the  Revolutionary  army  defile  through 
the  city. 

The  Revolution  flew  through  the  Unit- 
ed Provinces,  and  that  famous  name  was 
soon  merged  in  that  of  the  Datavian  Re- 
public. The  millenarian  day-dream  faded 
almost  as  soon  as  it  was  born,  for  the 
French  in  Holland  acted  in  accordance 
with  their  historical  character  as  deliver- 
ers. Their  conduct  outside  the  cities  is 
described  as  atrocious;  in  Amsterdam 
they  were  quartered  on  the  people,  and 
terrorized  the  trembling  households  com- 
pelled to  receive  them  as  guests. 

Amsterdam  was  now  a  mere  sateflite  of 
Paris,  and  followed  its  destinies.  When 
Bonaparte  made  himself  emperor,  the 
Batavian  Republic  was  changed  into  the 
kingdom  of  Holland,  and  the  ruler  of 
France  appointed  bis  brother  Louis  to  be 
its  king.  A  very  near  relative  of  the 
writer  was  held  up  as  a  child  of  six  or 
seven  years  of  age  to  see  the  master  of 
the  king  of  Holland  pass,  surrounded  by 
his  guards,  across  the  Dam.  The  picture 
of  the  emperor  crouching  at  the  bottom 
of  his  carriage,  his  great  head  dropped 
between    his   shoulders,   with    lowering 


THE   RISE  AND  FALL  OF  AMSTERDAM. 


brow,  pallid  face,  and  watchful  eyes,  pass- 
ing rapidly  through  a  sullen  and  silent 
crowd,  is  that  of  the  foreign  tyrant,  who, 
in  spite  of  all  his  armies  and  all  his  fame, 
is  made  to  feel  the  hatred  of  a  people  he 
has  tied  like  a  captive  horde  to  his  con- 
quering car.  That  moment  marked  the 
lowest  point  in  the  fall  of  Amsterdam. 
The  veriest  dolt  on  the  Dam  must  have 
felt  that  Amsterdam  was  in  chains. 

And  now  the  iron  entered  her  soul ; 
regiments  from  all  the  armies  in  Europe 
marched  through  her  streets,  and  were 
quartered  on  her  people,  who  for  some 
vears  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  constant 
tear  and  anxiet3%  Now  it  was  the  French 
who  were  masters,  now  the  Orange  party, 
now  the  Allies.  If  the  French,  then  there 
were  spies  during  the  day  and  sudden 
arrests  in  the  dead  of  the  night;  if  the 
national  party,  no  one  dared  appear  with- 
out an  Orange  rosette  ;  if  the  Allies,  then 
possibly  a  red -eyed  Cossack  sat  in  the 
house  and  called  loudly  for  **snaps,*^ 
Every  morning  there  was  the  clatter  of 
cavalry  exercising  their  horses  up  and 
down  the  streets,  or  the  noise  of  the  infan- 
try going  through  their  drill.  Every  even- 
ing the  tambour  was  beaten  in  all  the 
quarters  of  the  town.  And  the  worst  was 
that  all  these  soldiers  were  foreign,  and 
represented  the  fact  that  the  liberties  of 
Amsterdam  were  no  longer  their  own,  but 
depended  upon  whosoever  came  forth  vic- 
torious in  the  struggle. 

As  to  their  natural  defenders,  they  were 
lost  in  the  armies  that  followed  the  rival 
commanders,  and  possessed  no  more  lib- 
erty than  the  pin  or  screw  of  some  infernal 
machine.  Some  lay  stifiE  and  stark  on  the 
icy  plains  of  Russia,  some  were  driven 
into  German  rivers  by  Austrian  and 
Prussian  bayonets,  many  lay  pierced  by 
French  bullets  on  the  field  of  Waterloo. 

Every  great  change  in  Europe  vibrated 
through  the  homes  of  Amsterdam.  When 
the  empire  began  to  fall  the  French  in- 
habitants left  the  city  in  droves,  the  houses 
of  those  who  sympathized  with  them 
were  sacked,  and  the  prisons  forced 
open.  Several  pitiable  objects  were 
brought  forth  from  the  prisons  under  the 
Amstel-sluis. 

The  1 8th  of  June,  1815,  was  a  day  of 
great  excitement  in  Amsterdam.  The 
news  of  the  various  changes  at  Waterloo 
were  signalled  across  the  Netherlands 
from  steeple  to  steeple.  The  signal  in 
Amsterdam  was  continually  changing  ac- 
cording to  the  fortunes  of  the  day,  and 
when  at  last  the  Dutch  flag  remained 
flying,  the    people   wrung  each    other's 


269 

hands,  crying  with  delight,  Oranje  haven  / 
Oranje  boven  / 

The  historical  family,  the  only  symbol 
Holland  possesses  of  national  unity,  re- 
turned ;  and  Amsterdam  entered  on  its 
third  and  present  phase,  that  of  being 
simply  the  largest  city  in  the  kingdom  of 
Holland.  In  this  character  its  history  has 
been  quite  uneventful.  It  is  in  the  high- 
est degree  improbable  it  will  regain  the 
place  it  once  held  in  Europe ;  there  are 
signs  that  as  a  wealth-making  community 
Amsterdam  is  slowly  but  steadily  sinking. 
While  Bremerhafen  and  Antwerp  are 
rapidly  gaining  ground  commercially, 
Amsterdam  lags  behind.  The  slow  rate 
at  which  the  Dutch  network  of  railways  is 
being  completed  and  the  water-ways  im- 
proved, is  said  to  be  the  cause.  The 
construction  of  a  canal  to  the  Helder  in 
i8i9»  and  another  to  Ymuiden  in  1858, 
have  done  something  to  help  Amsterdam 
to  keep  its  own ;  but  unless  steps  are 
taken  to  place  it  in  easy  communication 
with  the  Rhine,  it  will  some  day  be  as 
Venice. 

VI. 

Thus  the  city  claimed  as  Groote  Gods 
Huisland  has  failed  to  win  its  crown. 
Instead  of  taking  that  moral  position  in 
Europe  to  which  she  was  called,  and 
which  would  certainly  have  been  hers  had 
she  not  listened  to  the  tempter's  voice, 
Amsterdam  chose  material  wealth,  and 
sought  to  be  the  commercial  metropolis  of 
the  earth,  rather  than  a  city  from  whence 
the  laws  of  justice  and  truth  should  go 
forth  to  the  nations.  I  shall  be  told  that 
it  is  idle  to  speculate  on  what  might  have 
been ;  but  if  the  moral  position  of  the 
United  Provinces  at  the  close  of  the  War 
of  Independence  and  the  stirrings  of  the 
European  conscience  during  the  last  three 
centuries  be  considered,  no  one  can 
doubt  that  there  was  a  rdle  for  a  State 
which  made  moral  ends  its  primary  ob- 
ject, and  that  the  United  Provinces  for 
every  reason  was  called  to  occupy  it. 
Had  its  people  been  left  to  follow  un- 
biassed the  national  conscience,  there  is 
reason  to  believe  that  the  United  Prov- 
inces would  have  become  the  holy  land 
of  Europe,  and  their  chief  city  an  ideal 
Jerusalem. 

But  such  a  glorious  destiny  was  not  to 
be  that  of  Amsterdam ;  on  the  contrary, 
she  has  existed  only  to  be  a  beacon  and  a 
warning  to  those  who  now  occupy  her 
position,  and  may  perhaps  be  said  to  have 
her  opportunity.  But  when  will  the 
Church  learn  the  doctrine  of  Christ,  and 


270 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


the  discipline  to  which  all  who  profess 
themselves  his  followers  must  submit?  It 
was  a  true  word  which  the  Padre  Curci  is 
said  to  have  uttered  to  Pius  IX.  The 
pope  complained  that  the  Padre  never 
came  to  the  Vatican.  "Your  Holiness," 
he  replied,  **  has  too  much  money ;  when 
you  have  none  I  \ull  come  every  day.'* 

Nowhere  on  earth  has  religious  liberty 
longer  prevailed,  nor  the  pulpit  received 
more  honor  than  in  Amsterdam ;  but  we 
may  look  in  vain  for  a  man  touched  with 
the  spirit  of  the  prophets  of  the  Italian 
republics,  men  of  the  mould  of  Francis 
and  Savonarola.  So  little,  indeed,  have 
the  churches  of  Amsterdam  done  in 
stemming  the  tide  of  her  worldliness, 
that  in  gathering  the  materials  for  this 
sketch  we  have  hardly  found  anything  that 
made  it  necessary  to  notice  their  exis- 
tence. In  1749,  in  the  full  tide  of  the 
Methodist  revival  in  England,  a  similar 
movement,  attended  by  the  same  phenom- 
ena, broke  out  in  the  Dutch  Church ;  but 
the  spirit  of  respectability  and  ecclesiasti- 
cal order  soon  extinguished  the  flame. 
Thus  the  history  of  Amsterdam  religion 
is  that  of  the  city:  the  two  are  inextrica- 
bly bound  together  and  share  the  same 
fate. 

If  we  were  disposed  to  make  merry 
over  that  fate  we  might  well  do  so.  For 
a  caustic  glance  at  the  present  religious^ 
life  of  Amsterdam,  we  commend  our  read- 
ers to  a  humorous  description  of  a  mod- 
ern Sunday  evening  service  in  one  of  its 
churches,  a  comfortable  building,  where  a 
few  scattered  groups  of  respectable  per- 
sons were  found  reclining  on  well-padded 
seats  covered  with  velvet,  and  enlightened 
by  two  gas-burners  apiece,  while  tney  lis- 
tened to  an  admirable  discourse  from  the 
text,  "Godliness  is  profitable  for  the  life 
that  now  is." 

The  legend  to  which  we  referred  in  an 
earlier  part  of  this  paper,  had  a  happier 
termination  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected. When  the  Amsterdam  merchant 
was  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  domestic 
bliss  and  social  prosperity,  the  archangel 
Gabriel  took  pity  on  him,  counting  him 
the  most  miserable  man  on  earth.  •*  Who 
will  go,**  he  asked,  **and  deliver  this 
wretched  mortal  ?  "  A  young  angel  vol- 
unteered, and,  descending  to  earth,  made 
his  way  through  the  streets  of  Amsterdam 
to  the  merchant's  house.  For  the  first 
time  since  his  marriage  its  owner  was 
alone,  his  wife  and  children  being  in  the 
country.  With  his  usual  hospitality  he 
welcomed  the  visitor,  and  entered  into 
coQversatioQ  with  him.    The  angel  soon 


pierced  the  outer  husk  of  the  merchant's 
happiness,  and  compelled  him  to  realize 
the  woe  to  which  he  was  hastening.  The 
night  was  passed  in  anguish,  and  as  sooo 
as  it  was  light  the  merchant  sought  a 
priest  to  whom  he  might  confess  his  sin, 
and  learn  if  it  was  past  forgiveness.  The 
angel  followed  him  to  the  church,  and 
took  the  place  of  the  confessor.  **  My 
son,"  he  asked,  "has  the  tempter  kept  his 
part  of  the  bargain  ?"  The  merchant  ad- 
mitted that  he  had.  "Then,"  said  the 
angel,  "  I  know  of  noway  of  escape  unless 
you  are  willing  to  give  up  all  you  have 
received  through  his  means."  The  sacri- 
fice  was  made,  and  the  angel  priest  pro- 
nounced the  absolution. 

The  merchant  returned  to  his  home,  to 
learn  that  his  wife  and  children  were 
smitten  by  the  plague.  He  hastened  to 
the  spot,  though  well  aware  his  presence 
would  be  of  no  avail.  All  his  family  were 
swept  away  but  an  only  boy.  Over  this 
child  he  pondered  and  wept,  but  in  a  year 
he  too  bad  fled  to  paradise.  Business, 
always  so  prosperous,  began  to  decay  from 
the  moment  the  angel  left  him.  All  the 
elements,  all  the  chances,  seemed  to  com- 
bine to  bring  about  its  ruin.  Quickly  his 
friends  forsook  him,  and  a  childless,  bank- 
rupt man,  he  left  his  comfortable  home 
for  a  cloister.  But  his  soul  was  at  liberty, 
and  had  he  possessed  that  power  of  re- 
newing his  earthly  life  which  a  society 
has,  he  might  on  earth  have  emulated  his 
angel-friend. 

Is  it  too  much  to  expect  that  in  that 
city,  so  long  devoted  to  the  worship  of 
Mammon,  and  which  has  been  so  heavily 
punished,  some  heaven-sent  messenger 
may  yet  come  to  awake  its  slumbering 
conscience,  calling  on  Amsterdam  to  fulfil 
the  highest  aims  of  her  ancient  people, 
and  to  be  the  leader  in  a  new  Christian 
society  which  shall  make  the  principles 
of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  its  guide, 
rather  than  those  of  the  market  and  the 
exchange  ? 

Richard  Heath. 


From  Macmillan's  MagazixM. 
THE  WIZARD'S  SON. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Julia  Herbert  had  failed  altogether 
in  her  object  during  that  end  of  the  sea- 
son which  her  relations  had  afiEorded  her. 
Walter  had  not  even  come  to  call.  He 
had  sent  a  hurried  note  excusing  himself, 
and  explaining  that  he  was  "  obliged  to 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


27t 


leave  town,'*  an  excuse  by  which  nobody 
was  deceived.  It  is  not  by  any  easy 
process  that  a  girl,  who  begins  with  all  a 
girl^s  natural  pride  and  pretensions,  is 
brought  down  to  recognize  the  fact  that  a 
man  is  avoiding  and  fleeing  from  her,  and 
yet  to  follow  and  seek  him.  Hard  pov- 
erty, and  the  memories  of  a  life  spent  in 
the  tiny  cottage  with  her  mother,  without 
any  enlargement  or  wider  atmosphere, 
and  with  but  one  way  of  escape  in  which 
there  was  hope  or  even-  possibility,  had 
brought  Julia  to  this  pass.  She  haa  noth- 
ing in  her  life  that  was  worth  doing  except 
to  scheme  how  she  could  dress  and  pre- 
sent the  best  appearance,  and  how  she 
could  get  hold  of  and  secure  that  only 
stepping-stone  by  which  she  could  mount 
out  of  it  —  a  man  who  would  marry  her 
and  open  to  her  the  doors  of  something 
better.  In  every  other  way  it  is  worth 
the  best  exertions  of  either  man  or  woman 
to  get  these  doors  opened,  and  to  come  to 
the  possibility  of  better  things;  and  a 
poor  girl  who  has  been  trained  to  nothing 
more  exalted,  who  sees  no  other  way,  not- 
withstanding that  this  poor  way  o£  hers 
revolts  every  finer  spirit,  is  there  not 
something  pitiful  and  tragic  in  her  strug- 
gles, her  sad  and  degrading  attempt  after 
a  new  beginning?  How  much  human 
force  is  wasted  upon  it,  what  heart-sick- 
ness, what  self-contempt  is  undergone, 
what  a  debasement  of  all  that  is  best  and 
finest  in  her  1  She  has  no  pity,  no  sympa- 
thy in  her  pursuit,  but  ridicule,  contempt, 
the  derision  of  one  half  of  humanity,  the 
indignation  of  the  other.  And  yet  her 
object  after  all  may  not  be  entirely  de- 
spicable. She  may  feel  with  despair  that 
there  is  no  other  way.  She  may  intend  to 
be  all  that  is  good  and  noble  were  but 
this  one  step  made,  this  barrier  crossed, 
the  means  of  a  larger  life  attained.  It 
would  be  better  for  her  no  doubt  to  be  a 
governess,  or  even  a  seamstress,  or  to  put 
up  with  the  chill  meannesses  of  a  poverty- 
stricken  existence,  and  starve,  modestly 
keeping  up  appearances  with  her  last 
breath.  But  ail  women  are  not  born  self- 
denying.  When  they  are  young,  the 
blood  runs  as  warmly  in  their  veins  as  in 
that  of  men;  they  too  want  life,  move- 
ment, sunshine,  and  happiness.  The  mere 
daylight,  the  air,  a  new  frock,  however 
hardly  obtained,  a  dance,  a  little  admira- 
tion, suffice  for  them  when  they  are  very 
young ;  but  when  the  next  chapter  comes, 
and  the  girl  learns  to  calculate  that,  saving 
some  great  matrimonial  chance,  there  is 
DO  prospect  for  her  but  the  narrowest  and 
most  meagre  and  monotonous  existence 


under  heaven,  the  life  of  a  poor,  very  poor 
single  woman  who  cannot  dig  and  to  beg 
is  ashamed ;  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  if  she 
makes  a  desperate  struggle  anyhow  (and 
alas  I  there  is  but  one  how)  to  escape. 
Perhaps  she  likes  too,  poor  creature,  the 
little  excitement  of  flirtation,  the  only 
thing  which  replaces  to  her  the  manifold 
excitements  which  men  of  her  kind  in- 
dulge in — the  tumultuous  joys  of  the 
tur^  the  charms  of  play,  the  delights  of 
the  club,  the  moors,  and  sport  in  general, 
not  to  speak  of  all  those  developments  of 
pleasure  so-called,  which  are  impossible 
to  a  woman.  She  cannot  dabble  a  little 
in  vice  as  a  man  can  do,  and  yet  return 
again,  and  be  no  worse  thought  of  than 
before.  Both  for  amusement  and  profit 
she  has  this  one  way,  which,  to  be  sure, 
answers  the  purpose  of  all  the  others  in 
being  destructive  of  the  best  part  in  her, 
spoiling  her  character,  and  injuring  her 
reputation  —  but  for  how  much  less  a 
cause,  and  with  how  little  recompense  in 
the  way  of  enjovment !  The  husband- 
hunting  girl  is  fair  game  to  whosoever 
has, a  stone  to  throw,  and  very  few  are  so 
charitable  as  to  say,  poor  soul !  Julia 
Herbert  had  been  as  bright  a  creature  at 
eighteen  as  one  could  wish  to  see.  At 
twenty-four  she  was  bright  still,  full  of 
animation,  full  of  good  humor,  clever  in 
her  way,  very  pretty,  high-spirited,  amus- 
ing—  and  still  so  young!  But  how  pro- 
foundly had  it  been  impressed  upon  her 
that  she  must  not  lose  her  time !  and  how 
well  she  knew  all  the  opprobrious  epi- 
thets that  are  directed  against  a  young 
woman  as  she  draws  towards  thirty  —  the 
very  flower  and  prime  of  her  life.  Was 
she  to  blame  if  she  was  influenced  by  all 
that  was  said  to  this  effect,  and  determined 
to  fight  with  a  sort  of  mad  persistence,  for 
the  hope  which  seemed  so  well  within  her 
reach  ?  Were  she  but  once  established 
as  Lady  Erradeen,  there  was  not  one  of 
her  youthful  sins  that  would  be  remem- 
bered against  her.  A  veil  of  li^ht  would 
fall  over  her  and  all  her  peccadilloes  as 
soon  as  she  had  put  on  her  bridal  veil. 
Her  friends,  instead  of  feeling  her  a 
burden  and  perplexity,  would  be  proud  of 
Julia;  they  would  put  forth  their  cousin- 
hood  eagerly,  and  claim  her  —  even  those 
who  were  most  anxious  now  to  demon- 
strate the  extreme  distance  of  the  connec- 
tion—  as  near  and  dear.  And  she  liked 
Walter,  and  thought  she  would  have  no 
dificulty  in  loving  him,  had  she  ever  a 
right  to  do  so.  He  was  not  too  good  for 
her;  she  would  have  something  to  forgive 
in  him,  if  he  too  in  her  might  have  some* 


2J2 


THE   WIZARDS  SON. 


thing  to  forgive.  She  would  make  him  a 
good  wife,  a  wife  of  whom  he  should  have 
DO  occasion  to  be  ashamed.  All  these 
considerations  made  it  excusable  —  more 
than  excusable,  almost  laudable  —  to 
strain  a  point  for  so  great  an  end. 

And  in  her  cousin's  wife  she  had,  so 
far  as  this  went,  a  real  friend.  Lady 
Herbert  not  only  felt  that  to  get  Julia  set- 
tled was  most  desirable,  and  that,  as  Ladv 
Erradeen,  she  would  become  a  most  cred- 
itable cousin,  and  one  who  might  return 
the  favors  showed  to  her,  but  also,  which 
is  less  general,  felt  within  herself  a  strong 
inclination  to  help  and  further  Julia's 
object.  She  thought  favorably  of  Lord 
Erradeen.  She  thought  he  would  not  be 
difficult  to  manage  (which  was  a  mistake, 
as  the  reader  knows).  She  thought  he 
was  not  so  strong  as  Julia,  but  once  fully 
within  the  power  of  her  fascinations,  would 
fall  an  easy  prey.  She  did  not  think  less 
of  him  for  running  away.  It  was  a  sign 
of  weakness,  if  also  of  wisdom;  and  if  he 
could  be  met  in  a  place  from  which  he 
could  not  run  away,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  victory  would  be  easy.  And  Sir 
Thomas  must  have  a  moor  somewhere  to 
refresh  him  after  the  vast  labors  of  a  ses« 
sion  in  which  he  had  recorded  so  many 
silent  votes.  By  dint  of  having  followed 
him  to  many  a  moor,  Lady  Herbert  had  a 
tolerable  geographical  knowledge  of  the 
Highlands,  and  it  was  not  very  difficult 
for  her  to  find  out  that  Mr.  Campbell  of 
EUermore,  with  his  large  family,  would  be 
obliged  this  year  to  let  his  shootings. 
Everything  was  settled  and  prepared  ac- 
cordingly to  further  Julia's  views,  v/ithout 
any  warning  on  the  point  having  reached 
Walter.  She  bad  arrived  indeed  at  the 
Lodge,  which  was  some  miles  down  the 
loch,  beyond  Birkenbraes,  a  few  days 
after  Walter's  arrival,  and  thus  once 
more,  though  he  was  so  far  from  thinking 
of  it,  his  old  sins,  or  rather  his  old  follies, 
were  about  to  find  him  out. 

Lady  Herbert  had  already  become 
known  to  various  people  on  the  loch-side. 
She  had  been  at  the  Lodge  since  early  in 
September,  and  had  been  called  upon  by 
friendly  folk  on  all  sides.  There  had 
been  a  thousand  chances  that  Walter 
would  have  found  her  at  luncheon  with  all 
the  others  on  his  first  appearance  at  Birk- 
enbraes, and  Julia  had  already  been  in- 
troduced to  that  hospitable  house.  Katie 
did  not  recognize  Lady  Herbert  either  by 
name  or  countenance.  But  she  recog- 
nized Julia  as  soon  as  she  saw  her. 

"I  think  you  know  Lord  Erradeen  ?  *' 
was  almost  her  first  greeting,  for  Katie 


was  a  young  person  of  very  straightfor- 
ward methods. 

**Oh,  yes,"  Julia  had  answered  with 
animation,  **I  have  known  him  all  my 
life." 

*'I  suppose  you  know  that  be  lives 
here  ?  " 

Upon  this  Julia  turned  to  her  chaperon, 
her  relation  in  whose  hands  all  these  ex- 
ternal Questions  were. 

**Dia  you  know,  dear  Lady  Herbert, 
that  Lord  Erradeen  lived  here?" 

"Oh  yes,  he  has  a  place  close  by. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  ?  A  pretty  house,  with 
that  old  castle  near  it,  which  I  pointed  out 
to  you  on  the  loch,"  Lady  Herbert  said. 

"  How  small  the  world  is  1 "  cried  Julia ; 
*'  wherever  you  go  you  are  always  knock- 
ing up  against  somebody.  Fancy  Walter 
Methven  living  here  1 " 

Katie  was  not  taken  in  by  this  little 
play.  She  was  not  even  irritated  as  she 
haa  been  at  Burlington  House.  If  it 
might  so  happen  that  some  youthful  bond 
existed  between  Lord  Erradeen  and  this 
girl,  Katie  was  not  the  woman  to  use  any 
unfair  means  against  it. 

"You  will  be  sure  to  meet  him,"  she 
said  calmly.  **  We  hope  he  is  not  going 
to  shut  himself  up  as  he  did  last  year." 

"Oh  tell  mel"  Julia  cried,  with  over- 
flowing interest,  "  is  there  not  some  won- 
derful ghost  story?  something  about  his 
house  being  haunted;  and  he  has  to  go 
and  present  himself  and  have  an  interview 
with  the  ghost?  Captain  Underwood,  I 
remember,  told  us——" 

"  Did  you  know  Captain  Underwood?" 
said  Katie,  in  that  tone  which  says  so 
much. 

And  then  she  turned  to  her  other  guests : 
for  naturally  the  house  was  full  of  people, 
and  as  was  habitual  in  Birkenbraes  a  large 
party  from  outside  had  come  to  lunch. 
The  Williamsons  were  discussed  with 
much  freedom  among  the  visitors  from 
the  Lodge  when  they  went  away.  Sir 
Thomas  declared  that  the  old  man  was  a 
monstrous  fine  old  fellow,  and  his  claret 
well  worth  coming  from  Devonshire  to 
drink. 

"  No  expense  spared  in  that  establish- 
ment,*' he  cried;  "and  there*s  a  little  girl, 
1  should  say,  that  would  be  worth  a  young 
fellow's  while." 

He  despised  Julia  to  the  bottom  of  bis 
heart,  but  he  thought  of  his  young  friends 
on  the  other  side  without  any  such  ele- 
vated sentiment,  and  decided  it  might  not 
be  a  bad  thing  to  have  Algy  Newton  down, 
to  whom  it  was  indispensable  that  he 
should  marry  money.    Sir  Thomas,  bow- 


THE    WIZARD'S   SON. 


273 


ever,  bad  not  the  energy  to  carry  his  in- 
tention out. 

Next  day  it  so  happened  that  Lady 
Herbert  had  to  return  the  visit  of  Mrs. 
Forrester,  who,  though  she  always  ex 
plained  her  regret  at  not  being  able  to 
entertain  her  friends,  was  punctilious  in 
making  the  proper  calls.  The  English 
ladies  were  "charmed"  with  the  isle. 
They  said  there  had  never  been  anything 
so  original,  so  delightful,  so  unconven- 
tional; ignoring  altogether,  with  a  polite- 
ness which  Mrs.  Forrester  thought  was 
"pretty,"  any  idea  that  necessity  might 
be  the  motive  of  the  mother  and  daughter 
in  settling  there. 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say 
so ;  but  it  is  not  just  a  matter  of  choice, 
you  know.  It  is  just  an  old  house  that 
came  to  me  from  the  Macnabs  —  my 
mother's  side.  And  it  proved  very  con- 
venient when  all  the  boys  were  away  and 
nothing  but  Oona  and  me.  Women  want 
but  little  in  comparison  with  gentlemen; 
and  though  it  is  a  little  out  of  the  way 
and  inconvenient  in  the  winter  season,  it 
is  wonderful  how  few  days  there  are  that 
we  can't  get  out.  I  am  very  well  content 
just  with  the  walk  when  there  is  a  glint  of 
sunshine ;  but  Oona,  she  just  never 
minds  the  weather.  Oh,  you  will  not  be 
going  just  yet!  Tell  Mysie,  Oona,  to 
bring  ben  the  tea.  If  it  is  a  little  early 
what  does  that  matter?  It  always  helps 
to  keep  you  warm  on  the  loch,  and  my  old 
cook  is  rather  noted  for  her  scones.  She 
just  begins  as  soon  as  she  hears  there's  a 
boat,  and  she  will  be  much  disappointed 
if  ye  don't  taste  them.  Our  friends  are 
all  very  kind ;  we  have  somebody  or  other 
every  day." 

**  It  is  you  who  are  kind,  I  think,"  Lady 
Herbert  said. 

'*  No,  no ;  two  ladies  —  it  is  nothing  we 
have  it  in  our  power  to  do :  but  a  cup  of 
tea,  it  is  just  a  charity  to  accept  it;  and 
as  you  go  down  to  your  boat  I  will  let  you 
aec  the  view." 

Julia,  for  her  part,  felt,  or  professed,  a 
great  interest  in  the  girl  living  the  life  of 
a  recluse  on  this  little  island. 

"It  must  be  delightful,"  she  said  with 
enthusiasm;  "but  don't  you  sometimes 
feel  a  little  dull  ?  It  is  the  sweetest  place 
I  ever  saw.  But  shouldn't  you  like  to  walk 
on  to  the  land  without  always  requiring  a 
boat.?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  considered  the 
subject,"  Oona  said ;  "  it  is  our  home,  and 
we  do  not  think  whether  or  not  we  should 
like  it  to  be  different." 

"  Oh,  what  a  delightful  state  of  mind ! 

UVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2254 


I  don't  think  I  could  be  so  contented  any- 
where—so happy  in  myself.  I  think," 
said  Julia  with  an  ingratiating:  look,  "  that 
you  must  be  very  happy  in  yourself." 

Oona  laughed.  "  As  much  and  as  little 
as  other  people,"  she  said. 

"  Oh  not  as  little  !  I  shonld  picture  to 
myself  a  hundred  t!<'ngs  I  wanted  as 
soon  as  I  found  myselc  shut  up  here.  I 
should  want  to  be  in  town.  I  should 
want  to  go  shopping.  I  should  wish  for 
—  everything  I  had  not  got.  Don't  you 
immediately  think  of  dozens  of  things  you 
want  as  soon  as  you  know  you  can't  get 
them  ?     But  you  are  so  good  !  " 

"  If  that  is  being  good  1  No,  I  think  I 
rather  refrain  from  wishing  for  what  I 
should  like  when  I  see  I  am  not  likely  to 


get  It. 


I  call  that  goodness  itself  —  but  per- 
haps it  is  Scotch.  I  have  the  greatest 
respect  for  the  Scotch,"  said  Julia-  "  They 
are  so  sensible."  Then  she  laughed,  as 
at  some  private  joke  of  her  own,  and  .said 
under  her  breath, "  Not  all,  however,'*  and 
looked  towards  Kinloch-houran. 

They  were  seated  on  the  bench,  upon 
the  little  platform,  at  the  top  of  the  as- 
cent which  looked  down  upon  the  castle. 
The  sound  of  Mrs.  Forrester's  voice  was 
quite  audible  behind  in  the  house,  pouring 
forth  a  gentle  stream.  The  sun  was  set- 
ting in  a  sky  full  of  gorgeous  purple  and 
golden  clouds;  the  keen  air  of  the  hills 
blowing  about  them.  But  Julia  was 
warmly  dressed,  and  only  shivered  a  little 
out  of  a  sense  of  what  was  becoming; 
and  Oona  was  wrapped  in  the  famous  fur 
cloak. 

"  1 1  is  so  strange  to  come  upon  a  place 
one  has  heard  so  much  of,"  she  said.  "No 
doubt  you  know  Lord  Erradeen  ?" 

The  name  startled  Oona  in  spite  of 
herself.  She  was  not  prepared  for  any 
allusion  to  him.  She  colored  involunta- 
ril)',  and  gave  her  companion  a  look  o£ 
surprise. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Oh,  so  well!  I  have  known  him  al- 
most all    my   life  —  people  said   indeed 

"  said  Julia,  breaking  off  suddenly 

with  a  laugh.  "  But  that  was  nonsense. 
You  know  how  people  talk.  Oh,  yes,  we 
have  been  like  brother  and  sister — or  if 

not  quite  that  —  at  least Oh  yes,  I 

know  Walter,  and  his  mother,  and  every- 
thing about  him.  He  has  been  a  little 
strange  since  he  came  here ;  though  in- 
deed I  have  no  reason  to  say  so,  for  he  is 
always  very  nice  to  me.  When  he  came 
home  last  year  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  him  ; 
but  I  don*t  think  he  was  very  communU 


274 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


cative  about  —  what  do  vou  call  it?  — 
Kinlock '• 

**  He  was  not  here  long,"  Oona  said. 

"  No  ?  He  did  not  give  himself  time  to 
find  out  how  many  nice  people  there  are. 
He  did  not  seem  very  happy  about  it 
when  he  came  back.  You  see  all  his  hab- 
its were  formed  —  it  was  something  so 
new  for  him.  And  though  the  people 
are  extremely  nice,  and  so  hospitable  and 
kind,  they  were  different  —  from  those  he 
had  been  used  to.*' 

Oona  smiled  a  little.  She  did  not  see 
her  new  acquaintance  from  the  best  side, 
and  there  came  into  her  mind  a  slightlv 
bitter  and  astonished  reflection  that  Wal- 
ter, perhaps,  preferred  people  like  ikis  to 
—  other  people.  It  was  an  altogether  in- 
coherent thou«:ht. 

**  Does  he  know  that  you  are  here  ?  " 
she  said. 

**0h,  I  don*t  think  he  does  — but  he 
will  soon  find  roe  out,"  said  Julia,  with  an 
answering  smile.  **  He  always  tells  me 
everything.  We  are  such  old  friends, 
and  perhaps  something  —  more.  To  be 
sure  that  is  not  a  thing  to  talk  of :  but 
there  is  something  in  your  face  which'  is 
so  sweet,  which  invites  confidence.  With 
a  little  encouragement  I  believe  I  should 
tell  you  everything  1  ever  did.*' 

She  leaned  over  Oona  as  if  she  would 
have  kissed  her :  but  compliments  so 
broad  and  easy  disconcerted  the  Highland 
girl.  She  withdrew  a  little  from  this  close 
contact. 

**The  wind  is  getting  cold,'*  she  said. 
••  Perhaps  we  ought  to  go  in.  My  moth- 
er always  blames  me  for  keeping  stran- 
gers, who  are  not  used  to  it,  in  this  chilly 
air." 

•*  Ah,  you  do  not  encourage  me,"  Julia 
said.  And  then  after  a  pause  added,  with 
the  look  of  one  preoccupied  with  a  sub- 
ject —  "  Is  he  there  now ?  " 

**  I  think  Lord  Erradeen  is  still  at  Kin- 
loch-houran,  if  that  is  what  you  mean. 
That  is  another  house  of  his  among  the 
trees." 

**  How  curious  I  two  houses  so  close 
together.  If  you  see  him,"  said  Julia, 
rising  to  join  her  cousin  who  had  come 
out  to  the  door  of  the  cottage  with  Mrs. 
Forrester,  **if  you  see  him,  don't,  please 
don't,  tell  him  you  have  met  me.  I  prefer 
that  he  shoula  find  it  out.  He  is  quite 
sure,  oh,  sooner  than  I  want  him,  to  find 
me  out." 

And  then  the  ladies  were  attended  to 
the  boat  in  the  usual  hospitable  way. 

**  You  will  ^et  back  before  it  is  dark," 
said  Mrs.  Forrester.    **  I  am  always  glad 


of  that,  for  the  wind  is  cold  from  the  hills, 
especially  to  strangers  that  are  not  used 
to  our  Highland  climate.  I '  take  your 
visit  very  kind,  Lady  Herbert.  In  these 
days  I  can  do  so  little  for  my  friends  — 
unless  Sir  Thomas  would  take  his  lunch 
with  me  some  day,  and  that  is  no  compli- 
ment to  a  gentleman  that  is  out  on  the 
hills  all  his  time,  I  have  just  no  opportu- 
nity of  showing  attention.  But  if  ye  are 
going  further  north,  my  son,  the  present 
Air.  Forrester  of  Eaglescairn,  would  be 
delighted  to  be  of  any  service.  He  knows 
how  little  his  mother  can  do  for  her 
friends,  perched  up  here  in  the  middle  of 
the  water  and  without  a  gentleman  in  the 
house.  Hamish,  have  ye  got  the  cush- 
ions in,  and  are  ye  all  ready?  You'll  be 
sure  to  take  her  ladyship  to  where  the 
carriage  is  waiting,  and  see  that  she  has 
not  a  long  way  to  walk." 

Thus  talking,  the  kind  lady  saw  her 
visitors  off,  and  stood  on  the  beach,  wav- 
ing her  hand  to  them.  The  fur  cloak  had 
been  transferred  to  her  shoulders.  It 
was  the  one  wrap  in  which  everybody 
believed.  Oona,  who  moved  so  much 
more  quickly,  and  had  no  need  to  pause  to 
take  breath,  did  not  now  require  such 
careful  wrapping.  She  too  stood  and 
waved  her  hand  as  the  boat  turned  the 
corner  of  the  isle.  But  her  farewells  were 
not  so  cordial  as  her  mother's.  Julia's 
talk  had  been  very  strange  to  Oona;  it 
filled  her  with  a  vague  fear.  Something 
very  different  from  the  sensation  with 
which  she  had  heard  Katie's  confessions 
on  the  subject  of  Lord  Erradeen  moved 
her  now.  An  impression  of  unworthiness 
had  stolen  into  her  mind,  she  could  not 
tell  how.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
been  sensible  of  any  thought  of  the  kind. 
Walter  had  not  been  revealed  to  her  in 
any  of  the  circumstances  of  his  past  life. 
She  had  known  him  only  during  his  visit 
at  Kinloch-houran,  and  when  he  was  in 
profound  difficulty  and  agitation,  in  which 
ner  presence  and  succor  had  helped  him 
she  could  not  tell  how,  and  when  his  ap- 
peal to  her,  his  dependence  on  her,  had 
seized  hold  of  her  mind  and  imagination 
with  a  force  which  it  had  taken  her  all 
this  time  to  throw  off,  and  which,  alas! 
his  first  appearance  and  renewed  appeal 
to  her  to  stand  by  him  had  broujQrht  back 
again  in  spite  of  her  resistance  and  against 
her  will.  She  had  been  angry  with  her- 
self and  indignant  at  this  involuntary 
subjugation  —  which  he  had  not  desired 
so  far  as  she  knew,  nor  dreamt  of,  until 
she  had  fallen  under  it  —  and  had  recog- 
nized,  with  a  sort  of  despair  and  angry 


SOME   RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


27s 


sense  of  impotence,  the  renewal  of  this 
influence,  which  she  seemed  incapable  of 
resisting.  But  Julia*s  words  roused  in 
her  a  different  sentiment.  Julia's  laugh, 
the  light  insinuations  of  her  tone,  her 
claim  of  intimacy  and  previous  knowledge, 
brought  a  revulsion  of  feeling  so  strong 
and  powerful  that  she  felt  for  the  moment 
as  if  she  had  been  delivered  from  her 
bonds.  Delivered  —  but  not  with  any 
pleasure  in  being  free:  for  the  deliver- 
ance meant  the  lowering  of  the  image  of 
him  in  whom  she  had  suddenly  found  that 
union  of  something  above  her  with  some- 
thing  below,  which  is  the  man's  chief 
charm  to  the  woman,  as  probably  it  is  the 
woman's  chief  charm  to  the  man.  He 
had  been  below  her,  he  had  needed  her 
help,  she  had  brought  to  him  some  princi- 
ple of  completeness,  some  moral  support 
which  was  indispensable,  without  which 
he  could  not  have  stood  fast.  But  now 
another  kind  of  inferiority  was  suggested 
to  her,  which  was  not  that  in  which  a  vis- 
ionary and  absolute  youthful  mind  could 
find  any  charm,  which  it  was  difficult  even 
to  tolerate,  which  was  an  offence  to  her 
and  to  the  pure  and  overmastering  senti- 
ment which  had  drawn  her  to  him.  If  he 
was  so  near  to  Miss  Herbert,  so  entirely 
on  her  level,  making  her  his  confidant,  he 
could  be  nothing  to  Dona.  She  seemed 
to  herself  to  burst  her  bonds  and  stand 
free  —  but  not  happily.  Her  heart  was 
not  the  lighter  for  it.  She  would  have 
liked  to  escape,  yet  to  be  able  to  bear  him 
the  same  stainless  regard,  the  same  sym- 
pathy as  ever;  to  help  him  still,  to  honor 
him  in  his  resistance  to  all  that  was  evil. 
All  this  happened  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  which  Walter  had  begun  with  a  de- 
spairing conviction  that  Dona's  help  must 
fail  him  when  she  knew.  She  had  begun 
to  know  without  any  agency  of  his :  and 
if  it  moved  her  so  to  become  aware  of  a 
frivolous  and  foolish  connection  in  which 
there  was  levity  and  vanity,  and  a  ficti- 
tious counterfeit  of  higher  sentiments  but 
no  harm,  what  would  her  feelings  be  when 
all  the  truth  was  unfolded  to  her?  But 
neither  did  she  know  of  the  darker  depths 
that  lay  below,  nor  was  he  aware  of  the 
revelation  which  had  begun.  Gona  re- 
turned to  the  house  with  her  mother's 
soft-voiced  monologue  in  her  ears,  hearing 
vaguely  a  great  manv  particulars  of  Lady 
Herbert's  family  ancf  connections  and  of 
her  being  **  really  an  acquisition,  and  Sir 
Thomas  just  an  honest  English  sort  of 
man,  and  Miss  Herbert  very  pretty,  and 
a  nice  companion  for  you.  Dona,"  without 
reply,  or  with  much  consciousness  of  what 


it  was.  "It  is  time  you  were  indoors, 
mamma,  for  the  wind  is  very  cold,"  she 
said. 

"  Oh  yes,  Oona,  it  is  very  well  for  you 
to  speak  about  me:  but  you  must  take 
your  own  advice  and  come  in  too.  For 
you  have  nothing  about  your  shoulders, 
and  I  have  got  the  fur  cloak." 

•*  I  am  coming,  mother,"  Oona  said,  and 
with  these  words  turned  from  the  door 
and  going  to  the  rocky  parapet  that  bor- 
dered the  little  platform,  cast  an  indignant 
glance  towards  the  ruined  walls  so  far 
beneath  her  on  the  water's  edge,  dark  and 
cold,  out  of  the  reach  of  all  those  autumn 
glories  that  were  fading  in  the  sky.  There 
was  no  light  or  sign  of  life  about  Kinloch- 
houran.  She  had  looked  out  angrily,  as 
one  defrauded  of  much  honest  feeling 
had,  she  felt,  a  right  to  do ;  but  something 
softened  her  as  she  looked  and  gazed  — 
the  darkness  of  it,  the  pathos  of  the  ruin, 
the  incompleteness,  and  voiceless  yet  ap- 
pealing need.  Was  it  possible  that  there 
was  no  need  at  all  or  vacancy  there  but 
what  Miss  Herbert,  with  her  smiles  and 
dimples,  her  laughing  insinuations,  her 
claim  upon  him  from  the  past,  and  the 
first  preference  of  youth,  could  supply? 
Oona  felt  a  great  sadness  take  the  place 
of  her  indignation  as  she  turned  away. 
If  that  was  so,  how  poor  and  small  it  all 
was  —  how  different  from  what  she  had 
thought! 


From  The  Fortnightly  Review. 
SOME  RECENT  BIOGRAPHIES. 

Op  all  books  biographies  are  those 
which  are  the  most  capable  of  exhibiting 
the  extremes  of  the  liveliest  height  of 
interest  or  the  lowest  depth  of  profound 
dulness.  The  readable  value  of  a  biog- 
raphy depends,  indeed,  less  upon  the  sub- 
ject than  on  the  manner  in  which  it  is 
treated.  The  materials  for  the  life  of  the 
greatest  man,  whose  personal  qualities 
alone  would  suffice  to  attract  interest, 
and  who  has  also  taken  the  foremost 
part  in  the  history  and  politics  of  his 
time,  may  be  placed  in  the  biographer's 
crucible  in  two  such  different  ways  as, 
in  one  case,  to  produce  a  lump  of  lead, 
and  in  the  other  an  ingot  of  gold.  Com- 
pare, for  instance,  the  life  of  Pitt  as 
elaborated  by  Tomline,  and  the  same 
subject  as  it  appeared  when  taken  up  by 
the  late  Earl  Stanhope.  The  first  book, 
with  all  the  advantages  of  personal  ac- 
quaintance enjoyed    by  the   writer,  and 


276 

contemporary  knowledge  of  ibe  events  in 
which  his  hero  took  so  striking  a  part,  is 
utterly  unreadable,  and  is  of  little  use  as 
a  mere  repertory  of  facts.  The  second, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  a  book  to  be  placed 
in  such  a  choice  collection  of  volumes  as 
George  the  Third  used  to  take  with  him 
to  Weymouth  —  a  veritable  livre  (U  che- 
vety  such  as  every  one  would  like  to  have 
at  his  bed-head,  and,  withal,  giving  an 
admirable  account  of  all  that  Pitt  did, 
and  all  thai  he  could  not  do.  The  some- 
what musty  proverb  which  indicates  who 
it  is  that  sends  meat  and  who  it  is  that 
sends  cooks,  finds  ample  illustration  in 
the  larders  and  kitchens  of  bios^raphy. 
Many  a  tasteless  and  indigestible  dish 
makes  its  appearance  upon  our  reading- 
tables,  the  raw  materials  of  which  ought 
to  have  furnished  an  agreeable  and  solid 
meal ;  and  sometimes  a  little  morsel  is 
dished  up  so  daintily  and  with  such  a 
well-flavored  and  appropriate  sauce,  that 
we  scarcely  care  to  inquire  whether  it 
was  originally  fish,  flesh,  or  fowl.  The 
offenders  in  this  sort  are  guilty  of  a 
double  crime  —  they  do  injustice  to  their 
hero,  and  they  deprive  their  contempora- 
ries and  posterity  of  a  pleasure  and  sat- 
isfaction which  they  have  the  right  to 
expect,  in  the  case  of  a  distin^^uished 
person  who  has  deserved  well  of  his  coun- 
try, in  any  department  of  life.  Where 
would  have  been  the  memory  of  Samuel 
Johnson  if  it  had  been  left  to  the  care  of 
a  Sir  John  Hawkins,  and  had  not  been 
providentially  kept  alive  by  a  Boswell  ? 
How  can  be  estimated  the  loss  that  would 
have  happened  to  successive  generations 
of  readers,  if  the  young  Scotch  advocate 
and  future  Laird  of  Auchinleck  had  not 
taken  his  place  in  the  reporter's  box  of 
private  life  at  the  right  moment,  and  had 
not  possessed  that  singular  mixture  of 
self-conceit  and  veneration  which  so  com- 
pletely fitted  him  for  his  task?  All  that 
fund  of  philosophy,  of  learning,  of  humor, 
and  knowledge  of  human  life,  and  that 
example  of  patience  under  suffering  and 
true  humanity,  would  have  been  lost. 
Madame  d'Arblay's  delightful  *'  Reminis- 
cences *'  —  itself  a  book  belonging  to  the 
same  class  —  and  other  fragmentary  no- 
tices, would  have  done  a  little,  perhaps, 
to  keep  up  the  knowledge  of  what  the 
author  of  the  dictionary  and  "  Rasselas," 
and  the  "Lives  of  the  Poets,'*  and  so 
forth,  really  was  like;  but  we  should  then 
have  possessed  only  a  few  feeble  photo- 
graphs instead  of  BoswelTs  splendid  gal- 
lery of  finished  pictures.  Boswell,  too, 
set  the  example,  in  England  at  least,  of 


SOME   RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


what  a  good  biography  ought  to  be.  There 
is  another  proverb,  so  often  quoted  and 
so  frequently  misapplied,  that  one  is  some- 
times tempted  to  wish  that  there  had 
never  been  a  hero  or  a  valet  de  chambre. 
But  Boswell  certainty  broke  the  neck  of 
the  older  conventional  notion  about  the 
dignity  of  biography,  which  was  previ- 
ously almost  as  much  encumbered  and 
really  disguised  in  the  solemn  robes  of 
life  in  public  as  its  close  relative,  history, 
also  used  to  be.  If  Walpole's  and  George 
Selwyn's  letters  could  have  been  pub- 
lished somewhat  closer  to  the  time  at 
which  they  were  written,  another  blow 
would  have  been  delivered  in  the  same 
direction,  and  perhaps  the  longer  enjoy- 
ment of  a  wholesome  freedom  might  have 
prevented  it  from  degenerating  into  the 
license  which,  in  later  times,  has  some- 
times been  allowed  occasionally  to  take 
its  place. 

The  recent  year's  biographies  have  not 
always  been  too  guarded  or  unduly  reti- 
cent; but  on  the  whole,  as  in  so  many 
other  things,  the  present  generation  may 
be  congratulated  on  an  improvement  in 
its  published  lives.  There  is  greater  ease 
in  their  style,  the  contributions  of  friends 
are  more'  freely  sought  and  given,  the 
repositories  of  letters  are  more  readily 
opened  and  their  contents  communicatea. 
We  can  see  men  more  in  their  habits  as 
they  lived,  and  are  admitted  to  more  real 
intimacy  with  them.  In  a  word  we  have 
more  writers  of  lives  like  Earl  Stanhope, 
and  fewer  like  Bishop  Tomline. 

The  last  few  months  have  been,  per- 
haps, more  prolific  than  usual  in  the  pro- 
duction of  the  class  of  book  which  has 
the  best  chance  of  contending  with  the 
popularity  of  the  novel,  with  the  ruling 
gods  of  the  circulating  libraries,  with  the 
reading  public,  and  with  publishers.  No 
doubt  all  of  these  are  sufficiently  indul- 
gent to  mediocrity,  so  long  as  it  fairly 
satisfies  the  cravings  and  serves  to  fill 
the  lists  of  subscribers  to  Mudie  or  the 
Grosvenor  Gallery,  and  contrives  at  least 
to  **  bring  home  "  the  modern  representa- 
tives of  the  Roman  bibliopoles.  It  is  a 
good  sign  of  widening  interest  in  all  sorts 
of  things  which  are  worth  knowing  about, 
and  in  those  who  have  successfully  dis- 
tinguished themselves  in  different  fields 
of  activity,  to  find  how  various  have  been 
the  pursuits  of  those  whose  lives  are  now 
published  and  read  with  avidity.  History 
is  no  longer  confined  to  the  accounx  of 
battles  and  the  intrigues  of  courts,  but 
embraces  other  matters  of  certainly  equal 
importance  and  interest.     Life  is  restored 


SOME   RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


277 


to  the  contents  of  the  Pubh'c  Record  Of- 
fice, of  the  private  niuni(nent>room,  and 
of  the  statutes  at  large  —  themselves  a 
still  unexhausted  source  of  illustration  to 
public  events  and  private  habits  and 
manners.  It  is  no  longer  the  case  that 
the  lives  of  sovereigns,  of  great  warriors 
and  of  statesnnen,  excite  the  largest  share 
of  attention.  In  a  list  before  us  of  works 
recently  printed,  which  by  no  means  pur- 
ports to  be  a  complete  one,  may  be  found 
the  biographies  of  the  lowly-born  youn$; 
Scotsman  who  became  the  successful 
founder  of  a  great  publishing  firm  —  of  a 
philosopher,  the  greatest  since  Newton, 
who  lived  out  the  full  term  and  more  of 
human  life — of  another  too  early  taken 
from  his  work — of  a  gentle  authoress  — 
of  the  late  chairman  of  the  ^ndon  School 
Board,  and  other  public  workers  —  of  the 
great  Oriental  scholar — the  Frenchman 
who  broke  from  his  early  ecclesiastical 
training  to  become  the  apostle  of  eman- 
cipated thought  —  of  well-born  writers, 
some  still  among  us,  who  have  kept  dia 
ries,  which  are  now  communicated  with 
all  their  special  and  varied  experiences 
to  the  world  —  together  with  others  to 
which  reference  may  hereafter  be  made. 
In  all  varieties  of  life  and  pursuits,  the 
same  lesson  is  to  be  learnt  —  that  genius 
avails  little  without  patient  work  and  en- 
durance. 

At  the  same  time  it  may  be  remarked 
that  what  Sterne  says  on  the  choice  of 
routes  from  Calais  to  Paris  may  be  ap- 
plied to  the  writing  of  some  biographies. 
He  names  the  towns  through  which  most 
travellers,  for  the  reasons  assigned,  prefer 
to  go ;  and  then  mentions  Beauvais  as  a 
way  by  which  you  may  go  if  you  will. 
"For  which  reason,"  he  adds,  **a  great 
many  choose  to  go  by  Beauvais."  A  sim- 
ilar exercise  of  pure  volition  is,  perhaps, 
the  best  way  of  accounting  for  the  publi- 
cation of  some  of  the  lives  which  annu- 
ally appear. 

The  compiler  of  the  notice  of  the 
life  of  Daniel  Macmillan*is  not  wrong 
in  saying  that  his  story  is  one  of  sterling 
interest.  He  died  early  but  had  done 
good  work.  He  rose  from  the  humble 
position  of  a  small  bookseller's  appren- 
tice in  an  obscure  provincial  town  to  be  a 
leading  publisher  in  London  and  Cam- 
bridge, under  the  adverse  circumstances 
of  a  struggle  with  ill  health  and  mental 
doubts,  which  threatened  to  interfere  seri- 
ously with  his  success  in  business  and 

*  Memoir  of  Daniel  Macrnillan.  By  Thomas  Hughes, 
Q.C    Macmiilau  &  Co.,  1883. 


with  his  sincere  but  liberal  religious  con- 
victions. Brought  up  in  the  narrowest 
form  of  creed,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  be- 
come the  publisher  of  the  works  of  Mau- 
rice and  Kingsley ;  and  he  was  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  wares  in  which  he 
dealt  —  a  rare  excellence  in  the  trade  to 
which  he  belonged.  While  still  only  a 
seller  of  books,  the  extent  of  his  own 
reading,  and  his  own  widely  extended 
sympathies,  led  him  to  denounce  publish- 
ers as  a  set  of  wretched  men  and  fools ; 
and  when  he  became  one  of  them  himself, 
he  worked  manfully  to  improve  his  spe- 
cies, and  to  show  that  a  publisher's  duty 
was  to  be  something  more  than  that  of  a 
mere  middleman  between  authors,  print- 
ers, paper-makers,  binders,  and  the  read- 
ing public.  He  held  that  it  was  his 
vocation  not  only  to  drudge  for  bread,  but 
to  assist  in  the  production  of  the  best 
kinds  of  literature  and  to  help  to  cultivate 
good  taste  and  the  love  of  the  beautiful 
and  the  true.  His  admiration  of  "  Guesses 
at  Truth  "  procured  for  him  the  friendship 
of  the  Hares,  to  whom  he  was  indebted 
for  pecuniary  assistance  and  introductions 
on  establishing  himself  at  Cambridge. 
Daniel  Macmillan's  account  of  his  first 
visit  at  Hurstmonceaux  is  a  capital  de- 
scription of  the  first  impressions  of  such 
a  society  and  such  conversation  as  he 
there  encountered  upon  a  man  of  humble 
origin  but  of  a  truly  refined  and  generous 
temper.  He  is  content  to  enjoy  and  ad- 
mire without  any  bitter  reflections  upon 
his  own  less  advantageous  lot  in  life,  or 
depreciation  of  his  new  associates,  and 
the  scion  of  a  peasant  race,  in  this  in- 
stance, mixes  no  gall  with  the  cup  of 
satisfaction  and  delight  The  bulk  of 
the  matter  placed  at  the  disposal  of  Mr. 
Hughes  is  autobiographical,  and  he  raises 
the  question  whether  such  records  can  be 
relied  upon  as  trustworthy  materials  for  a 
man's  life.  He  mentions  Franklin,  Rous- 
seau, and  Goethe,  but  without  solving  the 
doubt.  Each  case  must  indeed  be  judged 
and  decided  by  itself,  and  according  to  the 
nature  of  the  man  and  the  object  for 
which  a  diary  was  kept,  whether  for  the 
journalist's  private  use,  or  for  the  future 
reading  of  others  —  and  each  has  his  own 
peculiarities.  Franklin  wrote  with  the 
sturdy  pride  of  a  self-made  man,  but  prob- 
ably chiefly  to  give  to  the  world  the  benefit 
of  his  own  example.  No  one  ever  exposed 
his  own  rags  and  nakedness  with  so  little 
shame  as  Rousseau;  Goethe  gave  a  tran- 
quil reflection  in  still  water  of  a  career 
undisturbed  by  the  great  events  which 
were  in  violent  action  around  him  in  his 


278 

youth  and  manhood.  To  take  another  in- 
stance, Macready  kept  his  selMormeniing 
diary  to  record  his  faults,  and  to  fix  events 
and  feelings  which  concerned  him  in  his 
memory,  in  order  that  he  might  compare 
the  self  of  the  present  with  the  self  of 
former  years.  Accordingly  he  took  little 
or  no  notice  of  what  did  not  immediately 
affect  himself,  and  those  persons  had  no 
reason  for  indignation  and  disappointment 
who  expected  to  see  themselves  mentioned 
and  perchance  praised,  and  who  did  not 
find  what  they  may  have  looked  for. 

The  introduction  of  the  name  of  Mau- 
rice suggests  the  inquiry  when  the  long- 
looked-for  life  of  him,  promised  by  one  of 
his  sons,  is  likely  to  see  the  light.  Other 
important  avocations  no  doubt  afford  an 
excuse  for  the  delay  which  has  been  al- 
lowed to  take  place  —  but  the  hope  must 
be  expressed  that  its  appearance  will  not 
be  indefinitely  postponed.  When  also 
may  we  expect  to  see  published  the  biog- 
raphy of  another  Cambridge  professor  in 
a  dinerent  line -of  distinction,  and  how 
long  is  the  vindication  of  Sedgwick's  sci- 
entific fame  to  be  deferred  ?  Continuing, 
however,  to  deal  with  Cambridge  names 
and  associations,  let  us  pass  on  to  one  of 
the  most  eminent  that  has  adorned  that 
university  since  the  time  at  least  of  New- 
ton—  yet  Darwin*  had  little  connection 
with  it,  beyond  the  fact  that  his  grand- 
father, Erasmus  Darwin,  had  belonged  to 
it,  and  that  he  himself  was  a  pupil  of 
Henslow,  the  botanical  professor  —  a  cir- 
cumstance, however,  which  was  an  impor- 
tant factor  in  the  training  for  his  future 
pursuits.  Nor  is  it  inappropriate  to  notice 
that  the  university  distinctions,  not  in  his 
own  time  available  for  himself,  have  since 
been  acquired  by  his  sons.  The  notices 
now  reprinted  from  Nature  can  only  be 
accepted  as  an  initial  instalment  of  a  full 
biography.  They  relate  only  to  scientific 
achievements,  but  proceeding  as  they  do 
from  the  pen  of  Huxley  and  others  equally 
qualified  to  speak  of  his  work,  they  are  of 
striking  value.  Still  there  is  space  for 
one  who  knew  him  best  to  dwell  on  the 
enormous  labor  and  patience  given  to  his 
investigations  —  on  the  modesty  and  love 
of  truth  for  its  own  sake  which  chastened 
all  his  speculations  —  on  the  constant  in- 
vitation of  correction  and  criticism  —  on 
the  charming  personal  Qualities,  and  on 
the  grand  and  cheerful  simplicity  of  char- 
acter which  crowned  all.  Unlike  Mac- 
millan  the  great  natural  philosopher  was 

*  Charles    Darwin.      Memorial    Notices,  reprinted 
from  Naturg.    Macmillan  &  Co.,  1883. 


SOME   RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


born  of  an  established  family,  and  in  stich 
easy  circumstances  that,  like  Sir  Joseph 
Banks,  he  was  able  to  enjoy  his  scientific 
work,  in  freedom  from  the  cares  of  any 
profession  or  business.  Like  the  former, 
however,  he  suffered  from  a  constant  want 
of  health  —  which  indeed  perhaps  brought 
with  it  the  one  advantage  of  protecting 
him  from  the  snares  and  waste  of  time 
involved  in  going  into  general  society  — 
a  dangerous  temptation  which  Sir  Hum- 
phry Davy  and  so  many  others,  to  their 
own  great  loss,  have  been  unable  to  re- 
sist. The  famous  voyage  of  the  **  Beagle," 
in  which  Darwin  took  part,  confirmed  the 
teachings  of  Henslow.  It  was  then  that 
his  observations  on  coral  reefs  led  him  to 
write  bis  first  geological  work  —  and  to 
show  under  what  circumstances  organisms 
individually  insignificant  have  had  so  large 
a  share  in  building  up  the  fabric  of  the 
globe;  while  his  study  of  the  habits  of 
the  humble  earth-worm,  carried  on  after- 
wards for  years  in  the  quiet  of  his  own 
country-seat,  formed  the  subject  of  his 
last  contribution  to  geological  science,  and 
demonstrated  the  considerable  effect  pro- 
duced on  land  by  that  low  and  neo[1ected 
portion  of  the  animal  kingdom.  He  was 
one  of  the  first,  too,  to  recognize  and  prove 
the  enormous  extent  of  ancient  glacial 
action  — and  he  had  to  combat  not  only 
popular  errors  but  those  of  the  scientific 
world.  But  it  is  to  the  principles  chiefiy 
developed  in  the  "  Origin  of  Species  "  that 
general  attention  has  with  reason  been 
mostly  drawn.  He  has  shown  how  the 
earth  was  peopled  by  its  living  inhabitants, 
and  their  relations  to  each  other  in  ances- 
try and  mutual  service  —  almost,  one  may 
say,  completely  solving  the  problem  which 
Lamarck  had  attempted — and  carrying 
back  the  history  of  organic  life  and  its 
distribution  on  the  surface  of  our  planet 
to  its  earliest  source.  Lamarck's  specu- 
lations indeed  in  this  direction  —  great  as 
he  was  in  other  things  —  were  too  wild 
and  had  too  little  basis  of  truth  and  obser- 
vation to  give  him  any  right  to  claim  to 
have  played  the  part  of  Kepler  to  Dar- 
win's Newton.  The  full  meaning  of  Dar- 
win's work,  however,  cannot  and  will  not 
be  appreciated  for  many  generations  to 
come,  and  he  may  then  be  generally  rec- 
ognized as  the  greatest  observer  and  dis- 
coverer in  the  history  of  life  whom  the 
world  has  seen. 

The  name  of  a  distinguished  German 
laborer  in  the  same  field,  although  work- 
ing in  another  part  of  it,  may  fittingly 
follow  that  of  the  English  philosopher. 
It  was  Lorenz  Oken  who  disputed  with 


SOME   RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


279 


Goethe  the  honor  of  being  the  discoverer 
of  the  homologies  of  the  vertebrate  skele- 
ton—  a  discovery  so  imaginative  and 
beautiful  as  to  be  worthy  of  the  great 
poet,  who  was  not  equally  successful 
when  he  turned  his  attention  to  other 
branches  of  science.  A  biographical 
sketch,*  translated  by  Alfred  Tulk  from 
the  German  of  Alexander  Ecker,  proves 
to  be  only  a  memorial  paper  read  on  the 
centenary  of  Oken's  birth  before  a  meet- 
ing of  the  German  Association  for  the 
Advancement  of  Science,  held  at  Baden- 
Baden  in  1879.  ^^  might  have  been  made 
more  interesting.  Those  who  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  Professor  Owen  tell 
the  picturesque  anecdote  of  how  Oken*s 
foot,  in  a  walk  through  the  Harz  Moun- 
tains, accidentally  struck  the  bleached 
skull  of  a  deer,  the  dry  bones  of  which 
thereupon  fell  apart,  and  symmetrically 
arranged  themselves  so  as  to  reveal  to 
him  the  truth  of  his  theory,  that  they  are 
in  fact  modified  vertebras  —  will  be  disap- 
pointed at  the  present  version  of  the  story. 
Oken's  work  in  morphology  and  general 
biology  is  to  some  extent  illustrated  in 
the  appended  correspondence;  but  in  his 
earlier  days,  unlike  that  of  Darwin,  it  was 
much  interfered  with  by  the  political 
troubles  in  which  he  allowed  himself  to 
become  involved. 

Returning  from  Gdttingen  and  Munich 
to  Cambridge,  the  recollections  are  en- 
countered of  a  man  intimately  connected 
with  that  university,  and  whose  loss  in 
the  prime  of  life  and  in  the  midst  of  his 
labors  is  so  deeply  to  be  deplored.  James 
Clerk  Maxwell  t  brought  up  to  college 
with  him  an  astonishing  amount  of  knowl- 
edge. He  learnt  and  taught  much  in 
Cambridge ;  he  did  a  great  deal  of  his 
most  valuable  work  there ;  and  he  left  an 
impress  upon  its  modes  of  teaching  of 
which  future  generations  will  reap  the 
advantage.  The  two  friends  to  whose 
loving  care  the  task  of  doing  justice  to 
his  memory  has  been  committed  have  had 
ample  materials,  both  of  a  public  and  pri- 
vate nature,  to  deal  with,  and  the  result  is 
a  book  of  rare  value,  whether  as  a  record 
of  scientific  distinction  or  of  a  singularly 
interesting  character  in  its  domestic  and 
social  relations.  In  this  case,  again,  may 
be  noted  the  advantages  of  an  ascertained 
position  —  of  an  ancestry  conspicuous  for 
good  blood  abd  ability,  and  of  a  congenial 

*  Lorenz  Oken.  A  Biographical  Sketch  by  Alex- 
ander Ecker,  frnm  the  German  by  Alfred  fulk.  Kegan 
Paul,  Trench,  &  Co  ,  1883. 

t  Life  of  J.  C.  Maxwell.  Hy  Lewis  Campbell  and 
William  GametL     Macmillan  &  Co.,  i38a. 


home,  admirably  suited  for  the  encourage- 
ment and  development  of  the  tastes  and 
tendencies  of  the  future  professor  of  ex- 
perimental physics.  There  was  a  remark- 
able boyhood  and  youth,  during  which  the 
amusements  of  the  child  and  the  boy 
prefigured  the  important  experiments  and 
discoveries  of  later  days.  At  fifteen, 
Clerk  Maxwell  communicated  a  paper  on 
oval  curves  to  the  Royal  Society  of  Edin- 
burgh, in  which  he  made  what  was  for 
him  an  original  investigation  of  that  which 
had  long  before  been  done  by  Descartes 
—  a  fact  which  appears  to  have  escaped 
the  attention  of  that  learned  body.  While 
still  an  undergraduate  he  was  engaged  in 
important  experimental  work,  and  just 
before  going  up  he  had  astonished  a  sec- 
tion of  the  British  Association  at  Glasgow 
by  rising  to  dispute  a  point  in  the  theory 
of  colors  with  the  veteran  Brewster.  His 
contempt  for  the  mere  knack  of  solving 
problems  —  which  still  held  so  prominent 
a  place  in  the  Cambridge  examinations  of 
his  day  —  may  have  led  to  his  not  win- 
ning the  highest  place  in  the  mathematical 
tripos,  but  he  took  the  second  place,  and 
was  equal  with  the  senior  wrangler  in 
contending  for  the  Smith's  prize.  He 
loved  the  use  of  geometrical  methods 
when  applicable,  and  this  probably  led 
him  the  better  to  see  and  grasp  things  in 
their  mutual  relations  in  space,  and  helped 
to  win  for  him  the  saying  of  Hopkins,  the 
well-known  private  tutor,  that  it  was  not 
possible  for  Clerk  Maxwell  to  think  incor- 
rectly on  physical  subjects.  His  range  of 
work  was  wide ;  he  combined  the  highest 
mathematical  with  the  most  dexterous 
and  inventive  experimental  powers,  and 
his  views  were  at  once  large  and  accurate. 
His  great  treatise  on  electricity  and  mag- 
netism was  published  after  his  return  to 
Cambridge  to  settle  there  as  teacher  in 
the  Cavendish  Laboratory,  which  the  uni- 
versity owes,  together  with  a  great  part  of 
its  fittings,  to  the  munificence  of  its  chan- 
cellor, the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  and  of 
which  Clerk  Maxwell  directed  the  build- 
ing and  arrangements.  His  influence  now 
was  exercised  in  turning  the  mathematical 
studies  of  the  place  into  more  fruitful 
channels,  and  in  promoting  the  study  of 
the  sciences  of  heat  and  electricity,  which 
were  especially  placed  under  his  charge, 
and  the  latter  of  which  had  been  so  much 
advanced  by  himself. 

In  private  he  was  apt  to  be  reserved, 
and  his  manners  were  original  and  simple, 
after  the  manner  of  so  many  of  his  coun- 
trymen, but  he  was  in  truth  one  of  the 
most  genial  an<l  amusing  of  men,  and  fond 


278 

youth  and  manhood.  To  take  another  in- 
stance, Macready  kept  his  self-tormenting 
diary  to  record  his  faults,  and  to  fix  events 
and  feelings  which  concerned  him  in  his 
memory,  in  order  that  he  might  compare 
the  self  of  the  present  with  the  self  of 
former  years.  Accordingly  he  took  little 
or  no  notice  of  what  did  not  immediately 
affect  himself,  and  those  persons  had  no 
reason  for  indignation  and  disappointment 
who  expected  to  see  themselves  mentioned 
and  perchance  praised,  and  who  did  not 
find  what  they  may  have  looked  for. 

The  introduction  of  the  name  of  Mau- 
rice suggests  the  inquiry  when  the  long- 
looked-for  life  of  him,  promised  by  one  of 
his  sons,  is  likely  to  see  the  light.  Other 
important  avocations  no  doubt  afford  an 
excuse  for  the  delay  which  has  been  al- 
lowed to  take  place  —  but  the  hope  must 
be  expressed  that  its  appearance  will  not 
be  indefinitely  postponed.  When  also 
may  we  expect  to  see  published  the  biog- 
raphy of  another  Cambridge  professor  in 
a  dinerent  line- of  distinction,  and  how 
long  is  the  vindication  of  Sedgwick's  sci- 
entific fame  to  be  deferred  ?  Continuing, 
however,  to  deal  with  Cambridge  names 
and  associations,  let  us  pass  on  to  one  of 
the  most  eminent  that  has  adorned  that 
university  since  the  time  at  least  of  New- 
ton—  yet  Darwin*  had  little  connection 
with  it,  beyond  the  fact  that  his  grand- 
father, Erasmus  Darwin,  had  belonged  to 
it,  and  that  he  himself  w^as  a  pupil  of 
Henslow,  the  botanical  professor  —  a  cir- 
cumstance, however,  which  was  an  impor- 
tant factor  in  the  training  for  his  future 
pursuits.  Nor  is  it  inappropriate  to  notice 
that  the  university  distinctions,  not  in  his 
own  time  available  for  himself,  have  since 
been  acquired  by  his  sons.  The  notices 
now  reprinted  from  Nature  can  only  be 
accepted  as  an  initial  instalment  of  a  full 
biogrraphy.  They  relate  only  to  scientific 
achievements,  but  proceeding  as  they  do 
from  the  pen  of  Huxley  and  others  equally 
qualified  to  speak  of  his  work,  they  are  of 
striking  value.  Still  there  is  space  for 
one  who  knew  him  best  to  dwell  on  the 
enormous  labor  and  patience  given  to  his 
investigations  —  on  the  modesty  and  love 
of  truth  for  its  own  sake  which  chastened 
all  his  speculations  —  on  the  constant  in- 
vitation of  correction  and  criticism  —  on 
the  charming  personal  Qualities,  and  on 
the  grand  and  cheerful  simplicity  of  char- 
acter which  crowned  all.  Unlike  Mac- 
millan  the  great  natural  philosopher  was 

*  Char]«s    Darwin.      Memorial    Notices,  reprinted 
from  Nature.    Macmillan  &  Co.,  1883. 


SOME   RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


born  of  an  established  family,  and  in  such 
easy  circumstances  that,  like  Sir  Joseph 
Banks,  he  was  able  to  enjoy  his  scienti6c 
work,  in  freedom  from  the  cares  of  any 
profession  or  business.  Like  the  former, 
however,  he  suffered  from  a  constant  want 
of  health  — which  indeed  perhaps  brought 
with  it  the  one  advantage  of  protecting 
him  from  the  snares  and  waste  of  time 
involved  in  going  into  general  society  — 
a  dangerous  temptation  which  Sir  Hum- 
phry Davy  and  so  many  others,  to  their 
own  great  loss,  have  been  unable  to  re- 
sist. The  famous  voyage  of  the  **  Beagle," 
in  which  Darwin  took  part,  confirmed  the 
teachings  of  Henslow.  It  was  then  that 
his  observations  on  coral  reefs  led  him  to 
write  his  first  geological  work  —  and  to 
show  under  what  circumstances  organisms 
individually  insignificant  have  had  so  large 
a  share  in  building  up  the  fabric  of  the 
globe;  while  his  study  of  the  habits  of 
the  humble  earth-worm,  carried  on  after- 
wards for  years  in  the  quiet  of  his  own 
country-seat,  formed  the  subject  of  his 
last  contribution  to  geological  science,  and 
demonstrated  the  considerable  effect  pro- 
duced on  land  by  that  low  and  neglected 
portion  of  the  animal  kingdom.  He  was 
one  of  the  first,  too,  to  recognize  and  prove 
the  enormous  extent  of  ancient  glacial 
action  — and  he  had  to  combat  not  only 
popular  errors  but  those  of  the  scientific 
world.  But  it  is  to  the  principles  chiefiy 
developed  in  the  "  Origin  of  Species  "  that 
general  attention  has  with  reason  been 
mostly  drawn.  He  has  shown  how  the 
earth  was  peopled  by  its  living  inhabitants, 
and  their  relations  to  each  other  in  ances- 
try and  mutual  service  —  almost,  one  may 
say,  completely  solving  the  problem  which 
Lamarck  had  attempted  —  and  carrying 
back  the  history  of  organic  life  and  its 
distribution  on  the  surface  of  our  planet 
to  its  earliest  source.  Lamarck's  specu- 
lations indeed  in  this  direction  — great  as 
he  was  in  other  things  —  were  too  wild 
and  had  too  little  basis  of  truth  and  obser- 
vation to  give  him  any  right  to  claim  to 
have  played  the  part  of  ICepler  to  Dar- 
win's Newton.  The  full  meaning  of  Dar- 
win's w*ork,  however,  cannot  and  will  not 
be  appreciated  for  many  generations  to 
come,  and  he  may  then  be  generally  rec- 
ognized as  the  greatest  observer  and  dis- 
coverer in  the  history  of  life  whom  the 
world  has  seen. 

The  name  of  a  distinguished  German 
laborer  in  the  same  field,  although  work- 
ing in  another  part  of  it,  may  fittingly 
follow  that  of  the  English  philosopher. 
It  was  Lorenz  Oken  who  disputed  with 


SOME    RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


279 


Goethe  the  honor  of  being  the  discoverer 
of  the  homologies  of  the  vertebrate  skele- 
ton—  a  discovery  so  imaginative  and 
beautiful  as  to  be  worthy  of  the  great 
poet,  who  was  not  equally  successful 
when  he  turned  his  attention  to  other 
branches  of  science.  A  biographical 
sketch,*  translated  by  Alfred  Tulk  from 
the  German  of  Alexander  Ecker,  proves 
to  be  only  a  memorial  paper  read  on  the 
centenary  of  Oken's  birth  before  a  meet- 
ing of  the  German  Association  for  the 
Advancement  of  Science,  held  at  Baden- 
Baden  in  1879.  I^  might  have  been  made 
more  interesting.  Those  who  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  Professor  Owen  tell 
the  picturesque  anecdote  of  how  Oken^s 
foot,  in  a  walk  through  the  Harz  Moun- 
tains, accidentally  struck  the  bleached 
skull  of  a  deer,  the  dry  bones  of  which 
thereupon  fell  apart,  and  symmetrically 
arranged  themselves  so  as  to  reveal  to 
him  the  truth  of  his  theory,  that  they  are 
in  fact  modified  vertebrs  —  will  be  disap- 
pointed at  the  present  version  of  the  story. 
Oken's  work  in  morphology  and  general 
biology  is  to  some  extent  illustrated  in 
the  appended  correspondence;  but  in  his 
earlier  days,  unlike  that  of  Darwin,  it  was 
much  interfered  with  by  the  political 
troubles  in  which  he  allowed  himself  to 
become  involved. 

Returning  from  Gdttingen  and  Munich 
to  Cambridge,  the  recollections  are  en- 
countered of  a  man  intimately  connected 
with  that  university,  and  whose  loss  in 
the  prime  of  life  and  in  the  midst  of  his 
labors  is  so  deeply  to  be  deplored.  James 
Clerk  Maxwell  t  brought  up  to  college 
with  him  an  astonishing  amount  of  knowl- 
edge. He  learnt  and  taught  much  in 
Cambridge ;  he  did  a  great  deal  of  his 
most  valuable  work  there ;  and  he  left  an 
impress  upon  its  modes  of  teaching  of 
which  future  generations  will  reap  the 
advantage.  The  two  friends  to  whose 
loving  care  the  task  of  doing  justice  to 
his  memory  has  been  committed  have  had 
ample  materials,  both  of  a  public  and  pri- 
vate nature,  to  deal  with,  and  the  result  is 
a  book  of  rare  value,  whether  as  a  record 
of  scientific  distinction  or  of  a  singularly 
interesting  character  in  its  domestic  and 
social  relations.  In  this  case,  again,  may 
be  noted  the  advantages  of  an  ascertained 
position  —  of  an  ancestry  conspicuous  for 
good  blood  and  ability,  and  of  a  congenial 

*  Lorenz  Oken.  A  Biographical  Sketch  by  Alex- 
ander Ecker,  from  the  German  by  Alfred  Tulk.  Kegan 
Paul,  Trench,  &  Co  ,  1883. 

t  Life  of  J.  C.  Maxwell.  By  Lewis  Campbell  and 
William  GaroetL    Macmillan  &  Co.,  1882. 


home,  admirably  suited  for  the  encourage- 
ment and  development  of  the  tastes  and 
tendencies  of  the  future  professor  of  ex- 
perimental physics.  There  was  a  remark* 
able  boyhood  and  youth,  during  which  the 
amusements  of  the  child  and  the  boy 
prefigured  the  important  experiments  and 
discoveries  of  later  days.  At  fifteen. 
Clerk  Maxwell  communicated  a  paper  on 
oval  curves  to  the  Royal  Society  of  Edin- 
burgh, in  which  he  made  what  was  for 
him  an  original  investigation  of  that  which 
had  long  before  been  done  by  Descartes 
—  a  fact  which  appears  to  have  escaped 
the  attention  of  that  learned  body.  While 
still  an  undergraduate  he  was  engaged  in 
important  experimental  work,  and  just 
before  going  up  he  had  astonished  a  sec- 
tion of  the  British  Association  at  Glasgow 
by  rising  to  dispute  a  point  in  the  theory 
of  colors  with  the  veteran  Brewster.  His 
contempt  for  the  mere  knack  of  solving 
problems  —  which  still  held  so  prominent 
a  place  in  the  Cambridge  examinations  of 
his  day  —  may  have  led  to  his  not  win- 
ning the  highest  place  in  the  mathematical 
tripos,  but  he  took  the  second  place,  and 
was  equal  with  the  senior  wrangler  in 
contending  for  the  Smith's  prize.  He 
loved  the  use  of  geometrical  methods 
when  applicable,  and  this  probably  led 
him  the  better  to  see  and  grasp  things  in 
their  mutual  relations  in  space,  and  helped 
to  win  for  him  the  saying  of  Hopkins,  the 
well-known  private  tutor,  that  it  was  not 
possible  for  Clerk  Maxwell  to  think  incor- 
rectly on  physical  subjects.  His  range  of 
work  was  wide;  he  combined  the  highest 
mathematical  with  the  most  dexterous 
and  inventive  experimental  powers,  and 
his  views  were  at  once  large  and  accurate. 
His  great  treatise  on  electricity  and  mag- 
netism was  published  after  his  return  to 
Cambridge  to  settle  there  as  teacher  in 
the  Cavendish  Laboratory,  which  the  uni- 
versity owes,  together  with  a  great  part  of 
its  fittings,  to  the  munificence  of  its  chan- 
cellor, the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  and  of 
which  Clerk  Maxwell  directed  the  build- 
ing and  arrangements.  His  influence  now 
was  exercised  in  turning  the  mathematical 
studies  of  the  place  into  more  fruitful 
channels,  and  in  promoting  the  study  of 
the  sciences  of  heat  and  electricity,  which 
were  especially  placed  under  his  charge, 
and  the  latter  of  which  had  been  so  much 
advanced  by  himself. 

In  private  he  was  apt  to  be  reserved, 
and  his  manners  were  original  and  simple, 
after  the  manner  of  so  many  of  his  coun- 
trymen, but  he  was  in  truth  one  of  the 
most  genial  and  amusing  of  men,  and  fond 


sSo 


SOME   RECENT   BICGRAPHIES* 


of  all  that  was  qoaiot  and  ongioaL  His 
read  ids:  and  ioformatioo  aod  interests  in 
all  directions  were  enormous,  and  he  knew 
the  Bible  by  heart.  At  Cambridge  no  iess 
than  at  the  paternal  home  in  Galloway 
which  he  inherited,  his  loss  was  indeed  a 
IST^ve  one,  and  in  neither  place  will  his 
memory  soon  or  easily  pass  away.  He 
had  done  much,  but  there  remains  much 
to  t\o,  and  he  must  he  mourned  for  like 
Spottiswoode,  and  Clifford,  and  Balfour 
and  Palmer,  and  all  who  have  lieen  taken 
away  bt;tore  their  work  was  completed. 

Anotiier  Scotsman,*  an  eccentric  en- 
thusiast in  a  humble  station,  has  received 
an  amount  of  attention  to  his  tastes  and 
peculiarities  which  seems  disproportionate 
to  his  merits,  and  to  any  value  which  the 
example  of  his  odd  but  hard- working  life 
may  have  possessed.  Yet  the  book  de- 
voted to  recording  them  must  have  found 
readers  and  admirers,  or  it  would  not 
have  reached  a  second  edition.  John 
Duncan  lived  tA'enty  years  beyond  the 
usual  term  of  human  life,  and  in  compar- 
ing this  with  the  duration  of  other  lives, 
one  can  only  take  refuge  in  the  trite  re- 
mark which  dwells  on  the  unequal  way  in 
which  years,  according  to  their  deserts, 
are  meted  out  to  men,  and  remember  that 
what  Horace  said  centuries  ago  on  this 
subject,  is  yet  true,  and  will  always  be 
true.  The  survival  of  the  fittest  may 
have  been  best  for  the  species,  but  it  is 
not  so  for  the  individual.  Still,  there  is  a 
moral  to  be  found  in  the  simple  annals  of 
that  protracted  life,  and  in  the  patient 
gathering  of  scraps  of  scientific  knowl- 
edge to  cheer  the  dulness  and  want  of  an 
obscure  lot,  no  less  than  from  making 
acquaintance  with  the  old-world  ways  of 
Scots  peasants  and  artisans  in  Aberdeen- 
shire, the  memory  of  which,  if  worth  pre- 
serving at  all,  has  been  well  preserved  by 
Mr.  Jolly. 

Again  a  singularly  quiet  and  uneventful 
life,  but  passed  under  totally  different 
conditions,  was  that  of  the  gracious  and 
accomplished  authoress,  Annie  Kearyyf 
which  must  be  looked  up>on  as  worthy  of 
notice  rather  as  a  study  of  the  growth  of 
a  gentle  and  beautiful  character  than  as 
affording  much  other  ground  for  interest. 
The  interior  of  her  child-life,  with  all  its 

Elayful  fancies,  is  so  well  described  as  to 
ring  it  into  vivid  reality,  and  make  one 
think  what  wonderful  things  children  are, 


•  John  DuTicin,  Weaver  and  Rotaniit.  Bv  W.  Jolly, 
F.R.S.b:.,  F.G.S.  Second  Edition.  Kegan  Paul  & 
Co.,  1SS3. 

t  Memoir  of  Annie  Keary.  By  her  sister.  Second 
Ediiion.    Macmiilao  &  Co.,  iSS}. 


and  what  a  pity  it  is  that  tbey  have  to 
^row  up  into  ordioary  men  and  wonca. 
With  Miss  Keary,  however,  there  was  aa 
after-life  of  family  affection  and  devotion  ; 
and  she  may  well  claim  to  take  her  place 
among  the  women  who  have  soccess- 
fully  used  their  gifts  and  opportunities  in 
producing  works  of  prose  fiction.  The 
dreams  of  a  very  imaginative  childhood 
took  substantial  form  in  later  life,  and  her 
books  are  full  of  vouthful  feeling  and  ten- 
derness,  as  well  as  of  delicate  touches  of 
observation.  She  was  not  a  Bomey,  an 
Austen,  nor  an  Edgeworth,  but  did  good 
and  gave  pleasure  in  her  day.  Her  choice 
of  a  name  for  herself  in  the  next  world, 
when  near  her  end,  seems  best  to  express 
her  objects  and  affections  in  life  — it  was 
"  Sister-Aunt." 

Champions  of  a  righteous  and  success- 
ful cause  will  always  command  sympathy 
and  respect,  and  to  Isaac  Lyon  Goldsmid 
and  his  son  Francis  *  the  English  nation 
are  largely  indebted  for  the  complete  in^ 
corporation  into  all  its  rights  and  priv- 
ileges of  the  members  of  the  race  and 
creed  to  which  they  belonged.  Both  were 
leaders  in  the  foundation  of  University 
College,  as  a  place  where  the  highest 
forms  of  education  might  be  obtained 
without  restriction  or  reference  to  reli- 
gious distinctions.  Both  were  active  in 
subsequently  promoting  the  political  free- 
dom of  the  Jews  in  this  country,  and  in 
procuring  for  them  relief  trom  every  civil 
disability  and  disqualification.  The  father 
was  the  first  Jew  elected  a  member  of  the 
Royal  Society,  and  the  first  of  his  faith 
who  was  created  a  baronet,  while  the  son 
was  the  first  Jew  ever  called  to  the  En- 
glish bar.  Other  Jews  were  admitted  to 
high  municipal  office ;  but  prejudice  ex- 
isting even  among  distinguished  members 
of  the  Liberal  party,  which  the  future 
historian  may  find  it  difficult  to  explain  or 
justify,  delayed  the  final  triumph  of  ad- 
mission to  Parliament,  which  was  not 
achieved  until  after  twenty-nine  years  of 
agitation.  But  perfection  in  human  affairs 
has  always  been  a  plant  of  slow  growth, 
and  seems  to  proceed  under  some  such 
necessary  law  of  gradual  development  aa 
that  which  regulates  the  progress  of  or- 
ganic life.  Thire  must  be  embryonic  and 
immature  stages  to  go  through  before 
adult  completeness  is  attained,  and  there 
need  be  no  more  wonder  at  the  slow  ad- 
vancement of  improvement  in  communi- 
ties, than  there  is  over  the  fact  that  every 

*  Memoir  of  Sir  Francit  Henry  Goldsmid,  Bart., 
I  Q  C;..  M  F.  Second  Edition.  Kegan  Paul,  Trench, 
I  &  Co.,  1882. 


SOME    RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


281 


man  was  at  one  time  a  child.  For  his 
generous  example  in  extensive  well-doing, 
and  for  his  constant  exertions  on  behalf 
of  his  race,  both  in  England  and  abroad, 
the  name  of  Sir  Francis  Goldsmid  is  one 
well  worthy  of  recollection  and  record. 

The  son  of  a  well-known  Dissenting 
minister  and  the  grandson  of  a  watch- 
maker in  the  Strand,  the  late  chairman  of 
the  London  School  Board  *  was  a  typical 
example  of  the  way  in  which  Englishmen 
of  ability  and  public  spirit  rise  to  emi- 
nence. His  interest  in  educational  mat- 
ters gave  him  a  right  to  occupy  the  post 
be  filled;  and  he  well  deserved  his  seat  in 
Parliament.  That  a  man  of  such  habits, 
and  of  such  strong  practical  tendencies, 
should  have  been  an  antiquarian  and  a 
collector  of  curiosities  and  autographs, 
only  furnishes  another  example  of  a 
many-sided  character,  and  of  the  pleasure 
and  advantage  to  be  gained  from  the  cul- 
tivation of  some  little  plot  of  intellectual 
flower  garden  in  a  quiet  corner  of  a  man's 
great  business  estate. 

Like  Goldsmid  and  Reed,  Samuel 
Sharpef  was  a  strong  Liberal  in  politics, 
and  along  with  them  was  a  staunch  pro- 
moter of  education  other  than  under  the 
wing  of  the  Established  Church.  These 
facts  are  naturally  much  dwelt  upon  by 
bis  biographer,  and  indeed  in  a  spirit 
somewhat  too  exclusive  and  sectarian, 
and  as  if  the  record  were  intended  chiefly 
for  the  delectation  of  the  members  of  the 
religious  denomination  to  which  his  hero 
belonged.  In  Sharpe's  instance  the  pur- 
suits of  his  leisure  were  of  far  greater 
importance  than  the  employment  of  his 
professional  life.  As  an  Egyptologist,  as 
an  Hebrew  and  Greek  scholar,  and  as  the 
author  of  a  new  translation  of  the  Old  and 
New  Testaments,  he  has  left  his  mark. 
As  nephew  to  Samuel  Rogers,  the  Unita- 
rian banker,  he  saw  something  of  the 
literary  society  of  his  time  to  which  he 
might  not  otherwise  have  obtained  ac- 
cess. The  association  in  kinsmanship 
and  in  business  of  the  two  men  was  in- 
deed incongruous.  The  company  which 
frequented  the  poet^s  breakfasts  in  St. 
James's  Place  had  little  in  common  with 
the  people  to  whom  their  host  originally 
belonged.  His  family  could  show  a  re- 
markable middle-class  pedigree,  and  a 
history  of  widely  ramified  connections, 
exhibiting  much  success  and  usefulness  in 
life.    Among  them  it  seems  to  have  been 

*  Memoir  of  SirCliarles  Reed  By  his  Son,  Charles 
£.  B.  Reed,  M.  A.     Macmillan  &  Co..  1S83. 

t  Samuel  Sharpe,  Egvptologi»t  and  Translator  of  the 
Bible.    By  P.  W.  Claydcn.    Kegan  Paul  &  Co.,  1883. 


held  that  descent  from  a  Puritan  ancestor 
insured  the  possession  of  every  kind  of 
physical  and  moral  excellence.  It  may 
be  hoped  that  this  is  true,  since  (apart 
from  any  exact  statistics)  it  is  clear  that 
many  more  Englishmen  and  Americans 
are  descended  from  a  Puritan  stock  than 
from  the  families  of  the  Cavaliers. 

The  "  Recollections  "  of  Ernest  Renan  ♦ 
form  a  contribution  to  the  best  kind  of 
autobiography.  Renan  has  not,  however, 
intended  to  lay  before  the  world  of  read- 
ers a  full  and  detailed  history  of  his  own 
life.  Feelings  of  affectionate  reserve  and 
delicacy  for  others  have  prevented  him 
from  doing  this,  and  his  recollections  in- 
clude some  charming  memories  which 
have  little  personal  relation  to  himself. 
Further,  his  conceptions  of  what  an  auto- 
biography should  be  may  be  accepted  as 
true,  and  are  best  explained  by  himself  in 
referring  to  the  title  chosen  by  Goethe  for 
his  own  memoirs,  "Truth  and  Poetry," 
meaning  that  a  man's  account  of  himself 
must  be  a  compound  of  the  real  and  of  the 
imaginative.  No  man  can  thoroughly 
understand  himself,  or  exhibit  himself  to 
others  in  his  true  colors  and  proportions. 
It  is  fortunate  when  the  writer,  like 
Goethe  and  Renan,  is  a  poet,  and  can 
produce  such  recollections  as  they  have 
done,  and,  in  the  case  of  the  latter,  is  one 
who  can  so  well,  in  this  shape,  give  opin- 
ions for  the  publication  of  which  his 
former  works  have  not  afforded  just  occa- 
sion. The  intellectual  and  moral  devel- 
opment of  the  sometime  pupil  at  Tr^guier 
and  St.  Sulpice,  and  the  future  author  of 
the"F/>  de  Jisus^^  2LXi^  the  more  impor- 
tant volumes  which  followed  it,  was  in* 
deed  to  a  certain  extent  capable  of  being 
understood  from  the  works.  But  it  is 
seldom  that  such  phenomena  can  be  stud- 
ied in  the  compass  of  the  lifetime  of  a 
single  individual.  They  are  such  as  usu- 
ally have  to  be  considered  as  belonging 
to  the  history  of  nations,  or  of  schools  of 
thought  which  have  existed  for  many  gen- 
erations. What  has  to  be  studied  is 
something  of  a  far  more  complex  and 
gradual  nature  than  the  more  sudden 
changes  which  produced  a  Mahomet  or  a 
Luther.  Nor  is  the  antagonism  to  so 
much  of  generally  received  opinion  of  a 
sort  to  be  promoted  by  any  appeals  to 
temporal  or  spiritual  force,  or  likely  to 
be  entirely  stamped  out,  as  the  Refor- 
mation actually  was  in  Spain,  and  nar- 
rowly escaped  sharing  the  same  fate  in 

*  Recollections  of  My  Youth.  By  Ernest  Renan. 
Translated  from  the  French  by  C.  B.  Pitman,  and  ro- 
vised  by  Madame  Renan.    Chapman  &  Uall,  x883« 


283 


SOME   RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


France.  It  is  individual  progress,  how- 
ever, in  which  Renan  is  content  to  take 
bis  place  as  an  unit  in  the  period  to  which 
he  belongs.  For  that  is  the  heir  of  all 
former  ages,  and  should  be  proud  of  its 
heritage,  but  still  more  so  in  looking  for- 
ward to  the  time  which  shall  inherit  from 
itself  the  legacy  of  the  past,  further  en- 
riched by  the  wealth  of  its  own  acquisi- 
tion. Renan  says,  "J'aime  le  pass^, 
mais  je  porte  en  vie  h  Tavenir,"  and  re- 
marks on  the  delight  with  which  the  great- 
est philosophers  of  former  times  would 
read  any  popular  treatise  on  modern  sci- 
ence, and  he  indulges  himself  in  the  im- 
possible wish  of  seeing  what  will  be  the 
common  school-books  of  a  century  hence. 
The  danger  to  which  human  society  may 
be  exposed  by  a  general  advance  along 
the  lines  of  intellectual  progress  and  po- 
litical liberty,  as  tending  to  the  destruc- 
tion of  individuality  and  towards  a  possi- 
ble universal  vulgarization  of  everything, 
seems  hardly  to  be  a  serious  one.  The 
example,  if  indeed  they  really  offer  one, 
of  the  United  States  at  the  present  time, 
can  hardly  be  accepted.  A  national  ex- 
istence of  a  century's  standing  only,  and 
at  an  epoch  of  such  rapid  and  momentous 
changes  in  the  aspects  of  science  and  gov- 
ernment, cannot  be  relied  upon  as  an  as- 
certained type  of  the  permanent  condition 
likely  to  be  attained  under  the  given  cir- 
cumstances. It  is  as  rash  to  attempt  to 
do  so,  as  it  would  be  to  try  to  infer  the 
adult  future  of  an  animal  or  plant  from  an 
adolescent  specimen  submitted  for  the 
first  time  to  the  observation  of  a  natural- 
ist. Wise  and  far-si;;hted  Americans  will 
not  agree  in  the  opinion  that  the  features 
which  at  present  are  the  least  admirable 
in  the  community  to  which  they  belong, 
are  necessarily  incapable  of  improve- 
ment. Even  if  a  high  table-land  of  gen- 
erally diffused  knowledge  and  universal 
equality  were  ever  to  be  created  by  the 
elevation  of  the  lower  strata  of  the  human 
formation,  to  the  level  of  the  existing 
highest  —  there  can  be  nothing  to  prevent 
a  fresh  start  from  it  and  the  raising  of 
still  more  eminent  peaks. 

When  M.  Renan  gives  his  opinions  on 
the  political  bearing  of  events  within  his 
own  experience  and  in  his  own  country, 
they  are  of  the  utmost  interest  and  value; 
but  he  confines  himself  to  the  various 
effects  exercised  by  different  governments 
upon  the  intelligence  of  the  nation,  with- 
out reference  to  its  material  prosperity, 
and  he  cannot  expect  to  receive  general 
assent  to  the  proposition  that  the  one 
object  in  life  is  the  development  of  the 


mind,  although  no  one  will  be  found  to 
dispute  that  liberty  of  thought  is  an  abso- 
lute requisite  for  giving  scope  to  mental 
advancement.  After  all,  the  question 
may  be  asked  whether  liberty  of  thought 
will  always  lead  to  liberty,  and  whether 
liberty  is  always  possible  and  to  be  at- 
tainea.  We  live  in  a  world  of  surround- 
ings, physical  and  psychical,  in  which  no 
free,  unconditional  standpoint  can  be 
found  as  a  basis  for  investigation.  It  is 
a  world  of  contrasts  and  mutualities,  or, 
at  least,  we  can  only  see  it  as  such.  Is 
it  possible  to  define  separately  good  and 
evil,  light  and  darkness,  pleasure  and 
pain,  positive  and  negative,  past  and  pres- 
ent, acid  and  alkali,  or  the  constituents  of 
a  hundred  other  similar  couples?  All  we 
can  do  is  to  measure  an  arbitrary  base- 
line, and  correct  it  afterwards  from  the 
observations  which  are  themselves  made 
on  the  provisional  hypothesis  that  it  is 
correct.  We  have  to  try  to  arrive  at 
some  conception  of  the  infinite  and  un- 
known, by  a  process  of  isolation.  We 
begin,  in  physics,  by  minute  and  limited 
experiments  in  the  test  tube,  with  the 
microscope,  or  the  prism,  and  are  thus 
ever  enlarging  the  bounds  of  the  ascer- 
tained ;  we  t>egin  and  we  end  in  physics 
with  definition  and  dogmatism.  Even  in 
the  oldest  and  most  precise  of  all  the 
exact  sciences,  Euclid  extorts  from  the 
youngest  learner  of  geometry  a  confes- 
sion of  belief  in  a  certain  property  of 
parallel  lines,  which  makes  as  large  a  de- 
mand upon  his  confiding  and  unquestion- 
ing faith,  as  ever  was  made  by  the  least 
reasonable  of  theological  dogmas.  Nor 
have  modern  geometricians,  in  their  en- 
deavors to  improve  upon  Euclid,  succeed- 
ed in  getting  on  without  some  very  simi- 
lar axiom.  While  endeavoring  to  remove 
one  set  of  fetters  on  the  mind,  they  sub- 
stitute another.  And  so  it  has  been  with 
other  reformers  and  in  a  larger  field  of 
action.  There  is  an  amount  of  ceremo- 
nial and  articulated  belief  still  insisted 
upon  by  ail  denominations  of  Protestants, 
and  often  the  most  by  those  who  have 
raised  the  loudest  outcries  against  them, 
and  whose  leaders  have  made  the  most 
careful  provision  against  a  relapse  under 
thraldom :  and  the  latest  sect  of  philo- 
sophical religionists  have  provided  them- 
selves with  a  brand-new  set  of  manacles, 
and  take  pride  in  the  possession  of  their 
self-imposed  and  pedantic  rearrangement 
of  ancient  usages,  with  a  new  calendar 
and  a  novel  hagiology  of  their  own. 

In  the  earlier  days  of  Tr^guier,  Renan 
lived  in  a  surrounding  more  resembling 


SOME   RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


what  might  have  existed  at  the  end  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  than  what  was  to  be  found 
in  the  rest  of  France  and  Europe  at  the 
time  of  the  Revolution  of  1830.  His 
destination  was  to  be  an  ecclesiastic ;  he 
conceived  no  other  career  possible,  and 
be  never  questioned  anything  he  was  told 
by  the  clergy  until  he  went  to  Paris  at 
the  age  of  sixteen.  The  position  and 
training  of  the  priest,  for  good  as  for  evil, 
is  finely  shown  in  the  beautiful  tale  of 
the  ^^  Broyeur  de  Lin^'*  and  Kenan's  tem- 
perament, romantic  and  reverential,  came 
from  his  Breton  descent  and  early  ac- 
quaintance with  the  half-pagan  beliefs  and 
ideal  legends  which  still  flourished  in  his 
boyhood.  To  Paris,  however,  and  to  the 
preliminary  seminary  of  St.  Nicholas  du 
Chardonnet,  the  scholastic  merits  of  the 
young  Breton,  without  choice  of  his  own, 
compelled  him  to  go.  He  was  sent  for 
by  superior  authority  as  one  likely  to  be 
a  creditable  pupil.  Dupanloup,  the  court- 
ly church  man. who  attended  Talleyrand's 
edifying  death-bed,  of  which  Renan  gives 
a  most  charming  description,  was  at  the 
head  of  the  seminary,  and  his  educational 
abilities  thoroughly  well  suited  him  to  his 
post.  But  the  contrast  between  the  grave 
reality  of  his  old  teachers  and  the  less 
serious  and  more  mundane  ways  of  the 
Paris  preceptors,  soon  shook  the  new 
student's  faith,  and  the  process  of  disin- 
tegration was  carried  on  by  the  perusal  of 
Michelet's  "  History  of  France,"  which 
opened  up  a  whole  new  world.  After  the 
classical  course  under  Dupanloup  came 
the  philosophical  teaching  at  the  branch 
of  St.  Sulpice  at  Issy,  and  it  was  St. 
Sulpice  which  completed  what  had  begun 
at  St.  Nicholas;  but  Renan  claims  for 
St.  Sulpice  that  it  represents  all  that  is 
most  upright  in  religion,  and  that  it  is  an 
admirable  school  of  virtue,  politeness, 
modesty,  and  self-sacrifice,  and  has  the 
merit  of  according  to  its  pupils  a  large 
amount  of  liberty.  Here  Renan  spent 
two  years  of  solitude,  not  once  even  com- 
ing into  Paris,  engrossed  in  study  from 
which,  however,  all  modern  literature  was 
excluded,  and  joining  in  no  games.  But 
it  was  not  the  philosophical  and  scholastic 
reading  at  Issy  that  destroyed  his  faith: 
this  was  accomplished  by  his  subsequerht 
acquaintance  with  historical  criticism. 
Another  two  years  were  spent  at  St.  Sul- 
pice, but  when  the  usual  time  arrived  for 
ordination  as  a  sub-deacon  the  step  was 
refused,  and  the  young  man  who  had  been 
looked  on  as  a  future  teacher  in  the 
Church,  now  declined  to  participate  in  its 
sacraments,  and,  still  receiving  the  utmost 


283 

kindness  from  his  late  instructors,  he  be- 
gan the  life  of  a.  lavman  as  an  assistant 
master  in  a  school.  How  the  humble 
usher  became  the  celebrated  Oriental  pro- 
fessor and  great  writer  need  not  be  traced. 
The  time  may  come  when  this  too  will  be 
told  in  his  own  lucid  and  fascinating  style 
—  a  style  which  it  is  difficult  to  reproduce 
in  another  language,  although  the  revis- 
ion of  his  translated  recollections  by  so 
accomplished  a  mistress  of  the  English 
language  as  Madame  Renan,  secures  all 
that  is  possible  to  be  done  in  this  respect. 

It  cannot  be  expected  that  much  of 
novelty  could  be  found  to  enlarge  the  old 
materials  for  a  life  of  the  great  Dean  of 
St.  Patrick's ;  •  yet  some  fresh  matter  re- 
mained for  his  latest  biographer,  partly 
gathered  from  what  was  in  Forster's  pos- 
session, but  unused  in  his  incompleted 
work,  and  partly  from  other  sources. 
The  fragment  ot  autobiography  is  re- 
printed with  some  alterations  of  apparent 
authority.  It  is  now  conclusively  proved 
that  Swift  was  the  author  of  the  **  History 
of  the  Last  Four  Years  of  Queen  Anne.'* 
The  abstract  of  a  manuscript  copy,  found 
by  Mr.  Elwin  among  the  "  Birch  Papers  " 
in  the  British  Museum,  leaves  no  room 
for  doubt  on  this  long-disputed  question* 
The  journal  of  1727,  left  by  Forster  to  the 
South  Kensington  Museum,  is  curious, 
and  describes  the  miseries  of  imprison- 
ment at  Holyhead  while  waiting  for  the 
packet-boat  to  sail  across  the  Irish  Chan- 
nel. If  there  ever  was  any  reasonable 
ground  for  believing  that  no  ceremony  of 
marriage  between  Swift  and  Stella  took 
place,  it  must  now  be  taken  as  dispelled 
by  the  clear  result  of  the  latest  examina- 
tion of  the  evidence.  The  gloom  of  tem- 
per and  fits  of  giddiness  which  afflicted 
Swift  ever  since  a  certain  youthful  surfeit 
of  fruit  at  Moor  Park,  together  with  the 
lamentable  years  at  the  end  of  his  life, 
can  no  longer  be  referred  to  madness  — 
incipient  or  confirmed ;  nor  can  any  apol- 
ogy for  eccentricity  or  errors  in  conduct 
be  sustained  on  this  hypothesis.  High 
medical  authorities  agree  that  Swift's 
disease  was  not  insanity  but  a  specific 
malady,  which  long  tortured  him  but  with- 
out affecting  his  reason.  If  a  name  is 
wanted  for  it,  it  was  epileptic  vertiji^o; 
and  the  deafness,  to  which  he  was  also 
sometimes  subject,  was  due  to  an  affec- 
tion of  the  ear  to  be  called  labyrinthine 
vertigo. 

In  another  matter  about  which  there 


*  The  Life  of  Jonathan  Swift.     By  Henry  Craik, 
M.A.    John  Murray,  i8Sa. 


284 


SOME   RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


has  been  some  controversy,  it  must  now 
be  accepted  with  certainty  that  the  issue 
of  Wood's  halfpence  was  a  scandalous 
job,  effected  bv  the  grossest  bribery  and 
corruption,  and  that  Swift's  attack  on  the 
government  in  the  famous  '*Drapier  Let- 
ters *'  was  made  in  a  righteous  cause. 

That  a  friend  should  undertake  to  write 
an  account  of  the  political  career  of  a 
public  man  in  his  litetime  is  proof  suffi- 
cient that  the  life  has  been  an  honorable 
one,  and  without  stain  or  reproach.  In- 
deed, Mr.  Charles  Villiers  himself,*  and 
all  who  admire  public  spirit,  perseverance, 
and  abne^^ation  of  self,  have  ample  reason 
for  re<;arding  it  with  satisfaction  and  as 
an  example  to  be  studied.  Those  only 
who  cannot  claim  the  right  altogether  to 
share  in  these  feelings  must  be  the  sur- 
vivors or  political  descendants  of  those 
who,  while  professing  Liberal  opinions, 
either  wanted  the  sagacity  or  the  coura<;e 
to  support  the  earliest  leaders  in  the  cause 
of  free  trade,  and  who  only  flocked  to  the 
standard  when  the  battle  was  nearly  won. 
Other  good  public  work  there  has  also 
been  done  by  the  man  who  took  so  fore- 
most a  part  in  repealing  the  Corn  Laws, 
during  his  comparatively  short  tenure  of 
congenial  office.  During  his  fifty  years* 
representation  of  the  same  constituency 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  he  has  seen 
his  own  early  programme  realized,  to- 
gether with  the  introduction  of  a  vast 
variety  of  other  changes  for  which  he  has 
consistently  contended.  Others  have  re- 
ceived greater  rewards,  but  none  have 
established  a  character  so  entirely  pure 
and  disinterested. 

Every  one  must  be  much  obliged  to 
Viscountess  Enfield  for  not  having  de- 
layed longer  the  publication  of  the  charm- 
ing memoirs  of  her  uncle,  Henry  Gre- 
ville.f  Belonging,  as  he  did,  to  the  best 
society  in  England  and  France,  having 
been  at  one  time  in  the  diplomatic  service, 
and  with  a  place  at  court,  he  has  left  be- 
hind him  very  pleasant  traces  of  himself. 
His  diary  sparkles  with  anecdotes,  which 
occur  like  the  natural  crystals  in  a  rock, 
and  do  not  seem  to  be  put  in  like  the 
plums  in  a  pudding  by  the  hands  of  the 
cook.  The  starting-point  could  not  be  a 
better  one  than  at  Lady  Jersey's,  in  the 
London  season  of  1833,  when  the  loss  of 
Talleyrand  was  the  subject  of  conversa- 

•  The  Free-Trade  Speeebes  of  the  Riisht  Hon. 
Charles  Pelham  Villiers,  M.  P.,  with  a  Political  Me- 
moir. Edited  by  a  Member  of  the  Cobden  Club. 
Kegan  Paul  &  Co.,  1883. 

t  Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  Henry  Greville.  Edited 
by  the  Viscountess  Entield.  Smitti,  Elder  and  Co., 
1&83. 


tion.  Of  him  there  is  luckily  much  to  be 
told  afterwards.  Then  there  was  Taglioni 
dancing  —  in  the  days  of  the  old  glories 
of  the  ballet;  Pasta  singing,  and  Mars 
acting;  and  passing  from  gay  to  grave, 
there  was  a  famous  London  beauty  dving 
of  cholera;  and  Antwerp  bombarded,  in 
the  process  of  creating  the  kingdom  of 
Belgium.  A  party  staying  at  Chatsworth 
were  all  delighted  with  the  little  princess, 
who  was,  some  years  later,  to  assume  the 
cares  of  royalty.  In  those  days  it  some- 
times took  twelve  hours  to  cross  the 
Channel  to  Calais,  and  it  was  thought 
wonderful  for  a  courier  to  get  to  Brussels 
from  London  in  twenty  five  hours.  We 
hear  who  gets  the  vacant  blue  ribbon  and 
who  refused  it,  and  why;  and  all  is  told 
in  so  easy  a  style,  that  one  may  almost 
fancy  some  of  the  diary  to  belong  to  the 
last  century,  and  to  have  been  written  in 
Arlington  Street  or  from  Strawberry  Hill. 
There  is  the  journey  of  the  **  hurried 
Hudson  "to  fetch  Sir  Robert  Peel  from 
Rome,  and  the  many  attempts  on  Louis 
Philippe's  life,  and  all  the  French  politics 
of  the  time  when  the  writer  was  in  the 
embassy  at  Paris.  Henry  Greville  was  a 
connoisseur  in  music,  and  was  intimate 
with  Bellini  and  Mario,  and  always  shows 
his  interest  in  the  opera  and  the  theatre, 
and  those  who  belonged  to  them.  It  is 
natural,  however,  that  as  a  man  becomes 
more  seriously  engaged  in  the  a£Fairs  of 
life  his  recollections  should  undergo  some 
change,  and  become  more  and  more  a 
rhumdoi  passing  public  events.  Indeed, 
Henry  Greville  complains  of  the  difficulty 
of  keeping  a  journal  in  London.  Great 
events  are  so  great,  and  the  little  ones  are 
so  trivial,  that  it  is  not  easy  to  decide 
what  is  worth  recording.  After  a  conver- 
sation on  the  subject  with  his  brother 
Charles,  some  thirty  years  before  the  pub- 
lication of  the  latter*s  diary,  he  puts  down 
the  somewhat  prophetic  remark  that  what 
will  afterwards  prove  the  most  amusing 
is  that  which  had  better  not  be  recorded. 
It  is  better,  however,  to  leave  a  good  deal 
to  the  responsibility  of  a  discreet  editor, 
than  to  sacrifice  the  opportunity  of  being 
amusing  to  the  certainty  of  decorous  dul- 
ness,  and  Viscountess  Enfield  seems  to 
have  thoroughly  understood  what  was  due 
to  her  brother's  memory  and  to  his  friends. 
It  would  be  strange  if  the  son  of  a  duke, 
familiar  with  the  interior  of  palatial  houses, 
and  in  the  enjoyment  of  every  advantage 
of  social  position,  could  not  produce  a 
readable  book  of  **  Reminiscences,"  *  even 

*  My  Reminiscences.     By    Lord    Ronald    Goirer, 
F.S.A.    Kegan  Paul  &  Co.,  1883. 


SOME   RECENT   BIOGRAPHIES. 


though  published  at  a  time  of  life  when 
men  do  not  usually  begin  to  think  of  look- 
ing backwards.  Accordingly,  Lord  Ro- 
nald Gower  has  written  a  very  readable 
book,  and  some  of  the  personages  who 
figure  in  Henry  Greville's  memoirs  are 
again  encountered.  There  are  early  days, 
and  family  history,  and  Cambridge  days, 
and  the  House  of  Commons,  and  Conti- 
nental travel,  and  anecdotes  of  distin- 
guished men  and  public  characters,  and 
accounts  of  his  own  work  in  art,  and  of 
the  modern  grand  tour  to  Australia  and 
America,  and  a  concluding  chapter,  in 
which  are  bracketed  together  Taine,  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  and  the  Earl  of  Beaconstield. 
It  is  certainly  remarkable  that  no  full 
and  separate  account  of  the  life  of  so  dis- 
tinguished a  naval  officer  as  Lord  Keith 
should  have  until  recently  appeared.  It 
is  now  supplied  from  original  documents,* 
chiefly  preserved  in  the  charter-room  at 
Tulliallan  Castle.  In  his  youth  it  was, 
unfortunately,  not  considered  a  decent 
thing  for  young  men  of  good  family  to  go 
into  the  wine  or  tea  trades,  or  to  become 
bankers  or  membefs  of  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, and  so  the  future  admiral  was  put 
into  the  navy.  His  life  thenceforward  is 
identified  with  his  public  services  and 
with  the  history  of  the  country.  He  was 
engaged  in  the  American  war  and  at  the 
capture  of  Charlestown;  he  was  in  the 
expedition  to  Toulon ;  he  was  at  the  tak- 
ing of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  com- 
pelled the  surrender  of  the  Dutch  fleet. 
Keith's  firmness  and  moderation  were  of 
signal  service  at  the  terrible  crisis  of  the 
mutinies  at  the  Nore  and  at  Plymouth. 
He  was  in  command  in  the  Mediterranean 
when  Genoa  was  blockaded  and  capitu- 
lated, with  unfortunately  so  little  result 
upon  the  future  fortunes  of  the  war.  He 
acted  with  Sir  Ralph  Abercromby  in  the 
expedition  to  Egypt;  and  was  in  com- 
mand of  the  Channel  Fleet  at  Plymouth 
when  Buonaparte  arrived  there  in  1815. 
His  last  public  service  was  the  difficult 
and  delicate  one  of  seeing  him  off  to  St. 
Helena.  Little  or  nothing  has  been  told 
of  bis  private  life,  but  it  may  be  noted 
that  he  married  one  of  Thrale's  daughters 
—  the  "Queenie"  of  Dr.  Johnson;  and 
that  his  daughter  became  the  well-known 
Countess  Flahault.  In  a  couple  of  vol- 
umes, full  of  light  gossip  and  amusing 
anecdotes,  Colonel   Ramsay  f  has  given 

*  Memoir  of  the  Honorable  Georse  Keith  Elphin- 
stone,  K.B  ,  Viscount  Keith,  Admiral  of  the  Red.  By 
Alexander  Allardyce.     W.  Blackwood  &  Sons,  i88a. 

t  Rough  Recollections  of  Military  Service  and  So- 
ciety, bv  Lieut.-Col.  lialcarres  D.  Wardlaw  Ramsay. 
W.  Blackwood  and  Sons,  1S82. 


2SS 

his  experiences  of  army  life,  both  with  his 
regiment  and  in  important  staff  employ- 
ment, together  with  passing  recollections 
of  his  social  hours,  and  of  Continental 
residence  and  travel.  General  de  Ainslie  * 
seems  to  have  found  life  pleasant  enough, 
both  in  service  and  out  of  it,  and  has 
made  a  similar  contribution  to  current 
literature.  An  old  Bohemian,t  who  pre- 
serves an  incognito,  but  whom  it  is  not 
very  difficult  to  recognize,  has  given  to 
the  world  his  reminiscences  of  several 
lands  and  varieties  of  men,  and  of  many 
different  experiences  of  life. 

In  the  case  of  Handel  ^  there  is  a  de« 
parture  from  the  law  of  heredity,  of  which 
so  many  instances  have  been  previously 
noted.  Neither  before  nor  since  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  great  George  Frederick 
has  any  other  member  of  the  family  to 
which  he  belonged  emerged  from  the  or- 
dinary crowd.  No  early  surroundings  in 
any  wav  tended  to  provoke  or  encourage 
musical  taste,  as  they  did  with  Mozart 
and  Beethoven.  He  shone  out  suddenly 
like  a  bright  star  in  the  heavens,  to  disap- 
pear again,  and  cannot  be  referred  to  any 
stellar  system.  It  is  the  pride  of  England 
to  be  able  to  claim  Handel  as  her  own. 
Our  royal  family,  under  the  Hanoverian 
succession,  has  ever  been  distinguished 
for  its  love  of  music,  and  it  was  through 
George  I,  that  the  great  German-born 
composer  came  among  us.  The  greatest 
collection  of  his  manuscript  scores*  is  in 
the  queen^s  library  at  Buckingham  Pal- 
ace. English  audiences  had  the  merit  of 
first  appreciating  HandeFs  compositions, 
which  now  form  part  of  our  national  pos- 
sessions; and  England  was  and  is  the 
only  country  in  which  they  did  and  do 
still  enjoy  adequate  honor  and  popularity. 
Handel  lived  and  died  among  <us,  and  was 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  It  is  fit- 
ting, therefore,  that  in  England  should 
appear  his  latest  biography,  executed,  as 
it  is,  on  the  word  of  so  competent  a  critic 
as  Sir  George  Grove,  in  a  manner  alto- 
gether worthy  of  its  subject,  and  rendered 
interesting  both  to  the  scientific  and  the 
general  reader.  Mr.  Rockstro*s  minute 
examination  of  the  autograph  and  other 
early  scores  of  the  "  Messiah  "  leads  to 
the  conclusion  that  no  living  man  has 
ever  heard  it  as  Handel  wrote  it,  and  the 
suggestion  made  that  the  second  cente* 

*  Life  as  I  have  Found  It.  By  General  de  Ainslie. 
W.  Blackwood  and  Sons,  1883. 

t  Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Bohemian.  A  New  Edi- 
tion.   Tinsley  Brothers,  1SS3. 

X  Life  of  Handel.  By  W.  S.  Rockstro,  with  Intro- 
ductory Notice  by  George  Groye,  D.C.L.  Macmillaa 
&  Co.,  1883. 


286 


CHERRY  ROPERS  PENANCE. 


nary  of  his  birth,  which  will  soon  arrive, 
should  be  made  the  occasion  for  so  per- 
forming it,  is  one  deserving  of  sympathy 
and  encouragement.  The  discussion  of 
the  legend  of  the  origin  of  the  **  Harmo* 
nious  Blacksmith  *'  is  curious,  and  on  the 
whole  it  seems  that  the  popular  story  is 
likely  enough  to  be  true.  The  very  tra- 
ditional anvil  from  Edgevvare,  on  which 
Handel  is  said  to  have  heard  the  tune 
beaten  out,  is  alive  to  this  day,  and  when 
struck  gives  out  a  true  musical  note. 

Coming  upon  the  collection  of  Mac- 
]ise*s  portraits,*  originally  published  some 
fifty  years  since  in  Fraset^s  Managing, 
and  now  reproduced  with  the  addition  of 
memoirs,  in  a  cheap  and  reduced  form,  is 
like  opening  a  cabinet  of  miniatures  after 
having  passed  through  a  gallery  of  full- 
length  pictures.  We  may  here  gaze  at 
leisure  on  the  celebrities  in  literature  and 
a  few  others  of  the  first  thirty  years  of 
the  present  century,  and  look  on  the  fea- 
tures of  one  or  two  who,  like  Thackeray, 
hardly  belong  to  the  period  which  pur- 
ports to  be  illustrated.  The  list  of  En- 
glish names  is  indeed  a  wonderful  one, 
and  could  not  be  matched,  or  anything 
like  it,  by  any  other  country  attempting 
to  claim  the  production  of  as  many  men 
of  distinction  in  letters  during  an  equal 
number  of  years ;  nor  indeed  by  England 
itself  during  the  last  thirty  or  forty  years. 
Certainly  not  in  poetry  or  fiction.  It  is 
remarkable  also  to  note  how  many  of  the 
novelists,  from  Scott  downwards,  were 
distinguished  in  other  ways  and  in  other 
branches  of  literature,  such  as  Bulwer, 
Morier,  Martineau,  Godwin,  and  D' Is- 
raeli. Out  of  the  eighty-four  persons  rep- 
resented, only  two  were  men  of  science 
—  Faraday,  and  at  an  immeasurable  dis- 
tance, Lardner.  This  would  not  now  be 
the  case,  when  we  have  Tyndall,  Huxley, 
and  so  many  good  men  of  science,  who 
are  also  popular  authors.  Of  pure  writers 
of  history  Hallam  is  the  only  one;  and 
here  again  a  more  recent  list  of  eminent 
authors  would  be  much  fuller  and  of  far 
more  importance.  In  poetry  the  numbers 
are. altogether  in  favor  of  the  earlier  pe- 
riod. W.  F.  Pollock. 

•  Maclise's  Portrait  Gallery.     Chatto  &  Wiodus, 
1883. 


From  The  Arf;oey. 
CHERRY  ROPER'S  PENANCE. 

I. 

On2  cold  Saturday  in  January,  Charity 
Roper  broke  in  upon  me.  I  did  not  Iock 
my  door  against  her,  even  mentally ;  but 
there  was  something  about  the  girl  which 
alwavs  made  me  use  sudden  words  in 
speaking  of  her.  She  was  not  noisy,  or 
bustling;  but  she  always  seemed  to  take 
you  by  surprise,  never  doing  or  saying 
what  you  would  expect,  and  alwavs  ap- 
pearing where  you  did  not  look  for  her. 

**  Why,  Cherry,  my  dear,"  I  exclaimed : 
**  I  thought  you  were  in  London." 

"  So  I  was,  yesterday,"  she  returned ; 
"but  that  doesn't  hinder  my  being  here 
to-day,  does  it  ?  Do  you  usually  take 
more  than  twenty  four  hours  on  the  jour- 
ney?" 

**  No,  you  absurd  child;  but  I  thought 
you  were  to  stay  a  month  with  your 
cousins." 

**  They  thought  so,  I  dare  say,  and  I  let 
them  think;  it  was  no  business  of  mine 
what  they  thought.  But  I  was  bored 
there ;  so  yesterday  afternoon,  when  they 
were  all  gone  to  a  lecture,  or  something 
stupid,  I  just  packed  up  my  traps,  and 
came  away." 

*•  Without  letting  them  know,  or  saying 
good-bye?" 

"  Why  not  ?  It  saved  a  lot  of  trouble. 
I  hate  good-byes,  and  they  would  have 
bothered  me  to  know  why  I  wouldn^t 
stay." 

*•  They  will  never  ask  you  there  again." 

"Oh,  3es,  they  will.  They  want  me  to 
make  their  parties  go  off.  Besides,  they 
know  my  way.  I  wrote  them  a  sweet  lit- 
tle note  last  night  when  I  got  home,  and 
told  them  a  lot  of  stories.  Par  erempU^ 
I  told  them  that  I  had  fancied  from  the 
mother's  letters  lately  that  she  was  not 
very  bright,  and  that  when  I  began  think- 
ing about  her  yesterday  afternoon,  I 
couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  and  had  to 
see  for  myself  how  she  was.  So  you  see, 
instead  ot  thinking  me  a  wretch,  they  are 
now  admiring  my  filial  devotion.  Rather 
good,  isn't  it?" 

"  It  is  rather  good  that  you  have  come 
home,  I  think,  though  it  need  not  have 
been  quite  so  abruptly ;  for  I  have  not 
been  quite  happy  about  your  mother  my- 
self." 

"  Why  I  she  hasn't  had  one  of  her  up- 
sets, and  kept  it  from  me,  has  she  ?  " 
asked  Cherry  quickly.  "  It  struck  me 
she  was  looking  white." 

"Oh,  no;  it  is  only  that  this  damp 


CHERRY    ROPERS    PENANCE. 


weather  has  not  seemed  to  agree  with  her, 
and  I  thought  she  was  just  in  the  state  in 
which  a  little  overdoing,  or  a  chili,  would 
bring  one  on.  Now  you  are  at  home  she 
will  be  all  right." 

•*  ril  see  to  her.  1*11  keep  her  in  cotton, 
until  the  clouds  dry  up,  and  the  river  goes 
down.  But  I  rather  think  it  will  be  gun- 
cotton  ;  for  the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Singleton, 
that  of  all  the  quarrels  mamma  and  I  were 
ever  engaged  upon,  the  present  is  the 
finest  specimen." 

Cherry  threw  off  her,  fur  cape,  and  set- 
tled her  muddy  boots  on  the  fender-stool, 
with  an  air  of  enjoying  the  situation. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  I  said.  "  But 
]  don't  think  it  is  any  business  of  mine." 

"  No  business  of  yours,  perhaps,"  re- 
turned Cherry.  **  But  I  have  come  Qut 
to-day  in  the  wind  on  purpose  to  tell  you, 
and  you  must  listen  to  me.  I  want  sup- 
port and  sympathy  in  this  matter." 

I  resigned  myself  to  listen. 

•*  It's  about  Mr.  Goldthorpe,"  resumed 
Cherry.     •*  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

**  Is  it  any  relation  of  the  old  gentle- 
man who  was  staying  with  the  Mintons  in 
the  autumn?" 

"  That  gentleman's  father  was  my  Mr. 
Goldthorpe's  mother's  husband,  and  I 
have  always  understood  that  she  was  only 
married  once,  and  had  but  one  son." 

^'Vour  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  Cherry  ?  " 

**  I'm  coming  to  that.  In  the  nrst  place, 
I  wish  to  observe  that  he  is  not  oid^  but 
only  elderly;  to  be  exact,  he  was  fifty- 
seven  last  birthday." 

**  He  looks  more,"  I  remarked. 

"What  do  looks  matter?"  she  de- 
manded scornfully.  "Well,  I  met  him 
two  or  three  times  when  he  was  with  the 
Mintons,  as  you  say,  and  he  seemed  to 
take  a  fancy  to  your  humble  servant;  but 
I  never  thought  of  its  coming  to  anything. 
Then  he  turned  up  again  when  I  was  in 
London  this  time,  and  was  always  coming 
to  Portman  Square.  He  sent  me  bou- 
quets, and  tickets  for  the  opera,  and  one 
evening  he  all  but  declared  himself,  but  I 
escaped,  and  the  next  day  he  sent  me  a 
bracelet.  I  thought  then  it  was  time  to 
run  away,  and  here  I  am.  Now  you  have 
the  true  inner  history  of  my  Hegira." 

"And  a  very  tangled  history  it  is,  now 
I  have  got  it.  I  don't  understand  what 
you  mean  to  do,  or  what  you  have  been 
doing,  or  why  you  have  done  it.  I  won- 
der if  you  know  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  do  know,  quite  well.  I  mean  to 
marry  Mr.  Goldthorpe.  I  did  not  let  him 
propose  to  me  at  once,  because  I  hadn't 
quite  made  up  my  mind ;  and  then  I  didn't 


287 

like  the  affair  going  on  in  somebody  else's 
house,  and  the  mater  knowing  nothing 
about  it.  So  I  came  back  to  her,  think- 
ing she  would  be  as  pleased  as  Punch  ; 
and  a  nice  return  I  got  for  my  dutiful- 
ness." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  Asked  me  if  I  loved  him !  And  when 
I  couldn't  produce  feelings  exactly  up  to 
boilingpoint,  cooled  down  what  feelings 
I  had  with  floods  of  sentiment.  This 
morning  we  had  another  talk,  of  a  less 
affecting  nature ;  and  she  told  me  right 
out  that  I  was  going  to  sell  myself,  and 
that  she  would  never  give  her  consent. 
In  fact,  if  I  had  wanted  to  marry  an  en- 
sign living  on  his  pay  —  instead  of  a 
financier  with  10,000/.  a  year,  she  couldn't 
have  been  more  cruelly,  sternly  unrelent- 
ing. 

Probably  she  would  have  been  less 


>i 


so. 

"  I  dare  say.  It's  rather  queer  to  have 
all  the  sentimentality  on  the  mother's  side, 
and  all  the  common  sense  on  the  daugh- 
ter's ;  but  such  is  the  progress  of  the  age 
we  live  in.  Now,  you  see,  we  are  at  the 
dead  lock." 

"  I  see.  But,  Cherry,  why  are  you  so 
bent  on  this  marriage?  You  are  young 
and  pretty  —  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do; 
much  happier  chances  may  come  to  you." 

"  They  may,  and  also  they  mayn't. 
This  one  has,  and  it  may  never  come 
again.  Besides,  I  wouldn't  make  a  ro- 
mantic marriage  for  anything;  it's  sure 
to  be  unlucky,  by  way  ot  carrying  out  its 
character." 

"  But  need  you  make  such  a  very  un- 
romantic  one  as  this  ?  I  won't  say  any- 
thing about  love;  but  is  Mr.  Goldthorpe 
a  man  whom  you  can  heartily  like  and 
respect  ?  " 

"  I  like  him  —  as  well  as  most  women 
like  their  husbands.  I  feel  that  I  soon 
could  get  used  to  him,  which  is  a  fair 
average  of  matrimonial  felicity.  And  Mr. 
Goldthorpe  is  an  honorable  man,  respected 
by  all  who  know  him.  I  shall  be  re- 
spected as  his  wife." 

"  And  that  satisfies  you  ?  " 

"One  can't  have  everything.  Look 
here,  Mrs.  Singleton.  I  am  just  sick  of 
being  poor,  sick  of  it.  I  hate  having  to 
save  and  scrape,  and  travel  third  class, 
and  dye  my  old  dresses.  I  hate  seeing 
mamma  pale  and  drooping,  when  a  month 
at  the  seaside  would  put  her  to  rights. 
Poverty  is  miserable,  and  wretched,  and 
degrading;  I've  had  to  stand  it  all  my 
life,  but  now  I  have  a  chance  of  escape,  I 
should  be  simply  a  fool  if  I  let  it  slip." 


288 


CHERRY   ROPERS    PENANCE. 


Cherry  spoke  in  desperate  earnest, 
starin<^  into  the  fire,  while  the  angry  spots 
burnt  larger  and  larger  in  her  cheeks. 
After  a  pause,  I  said,  — 

**  I  had  hoped  something  quite  differ- 
ent for  you.  I  thought  la^t  summer  that 
3*ou  and  Hugh  Carfield  understood  each 
other." 

"  Dr.  Carfield  has  no  right  and  no  rea- 
son to  complain  of  anything  that  I  may 
do,"  Cherry  replied  stiffly.  "There  was 
never  the  shadow. of  an  engagement  be- 
tween us." 

**  No,  but  I  am  sure  that  he  thought  he 
had  more  than  the  shadow  of  a  hope." 

«  That  was  his  follv,  then.  But  I  didn't 
come  here  to  talk  about  Dr.  Carfield.  I 
came  because  the  Indian  box  from  Mrs. 
M'Clure  arrived  this  morning.  She  has 
sent  a  lot  of  lovely  things  for  the  Mission 
Bazaar,  mixed  up  with  presents  for  us,  and 
things  for  her  children ;  and  we've  been 
unpacking  them  half  the  day.  And  mam- 
ma wants  you  to  come  in  to  tea  on  Mon- 
day, and  look  at  them  :  for  she  will  have 
to  pack  up  all  the  bazaar  things  on  Tues- 
day, and  send  them  in  to  London." 

•*  Very  well ;  tell  her,  with  my  love,  that 
I  should  like  to  come  very  much,  and  I 
will  be  in  about  four." 

*•  That's  right :  you'll  oblige  me  also  by 
so  doing.  I  got  a  note  from  Mr.  Gold- 
thorpe  by  the  afternoon  post  (prompt, 
wasn't  it?)  asking  my  leave  to  come  down 
and  call  on  Monday  afternoon.  Of  course 
there  is  no  doubt  what  that  means.  Now 
you'll  keep  mamma  quiet,  and  so  I  can 
give  iiim  his  opportunity  nicely,  and  get 
things  settled.  I  am  sure  you  will  always 
be  on  the  side  of  distressed  lovers,"  she 
concluded,  with  a  whimsical  glance  at 
me. 

**  I  don't  see  any  lovers  in  this  case,"  I 
said  gravely,  **  nor  any  distress ;  and  I 
don't  feel  called  upon  to  cooperate.  You 
must  excuse  me  to  your  motlier.  Cherry ; 
I  shall  not  go;  it  will  be  much  better  for 
her  to  see  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  and  for  you 
all  to  settle  your  affairs  in  my  absence." 

"  Ah,  but  I  shan't  excuse  you,"  cried 
Cherry,  jumping  up  from  her  chair,  and 
making  a  pirouette  on  one  toe.  "You 
aren't  engaged,  and  you  aren't  unwell, 
and  you  said  you  would  come,  and  you 
must.  I'll  take  no  other  message  than 
the  one  you  gave  me.  Good-bye,  until 
Monday." 

And  the  door  was  shut  behind  her,  be- 
fore I  could  repeat  my  refusal. 

I  don't  think  I  have  much  to  add  to 
what  she  said  about  herself  in  order  to 
make  the  situation  clear.     Her  mother 


was  a  widow,  with  a  small  income,  of 
which  she  seldom  spoke,  and  never  com- 
plained. Mrs.  Roper  had  lived  her  life, 
and  accepted  the  limitations  of  her  fate; 
poverty  and  self-denial  were  entirely  tol- 
erable to  her,  but  the  slightest  deviation 
from  her  fastidious  standard  of  honorable- 
ness  was  not.  And  it  was  to  such  a 
mother  that  this  wilful  girl  declared  her 
intention  of  perjuring  herself  at  the  altar, 
and  swearing  to  love,  honor,  and  obey  a 
a  man  to  whom  she  meant  to  do  neither, 
in  consideration  of  the  luxuries  that 
money  can  buy!  I  knew  how  deeply 
wounded  she  must  be,  in  every  fibre  of 
her  proud  and  sensitive  spirit,  and  I 
grieved  for  her. 

Then,  too,  I  was  hurt  about  this  busi- 
ness of  Hugh  Carfield.  He  was  Dr. 
Bramston's  partner,  and  a  quiet  young 
man,  but  very  clever  in  his  profession, 
and  nice  in  every  way.  Dr.  Bramston 
had  for  many  vears  enjoyed  a  vested  right 
in  killing  ana  curing  the  inhabitants  of 
Tamston,  disputed  only  by  a  stray  homoeo* 
path,  whom  nobody  patronized,  except  the 
Dissenters.  However,  Dr.  Bramston's 
cob  had  for  some  time  seemed  to  be  going 
slower  and- slower,  and  there  were  those 
among  us  who  had  misgivings  as  to 
whether  his  master  were  not  falling 
equally  behind  the  times.  So  we  were 
not  sorry  when  he  anticipated  competition 
by  bringing  down  a  youthful  partner,  fresh 
from  Paris* and  Berlin,  with  the  latest 
medical  science  at  his  fingers'  ends.  I 
was  particularly  pleased,  for  Hugh  Car- 
field  came  with  a  special  introduction  to 
me  from  his  mother,  who  was  one  of  my 
oldest  and  dearest  friends,  though  we  bad 
not  met  for  years.  I  was  anxious  to 
know  and  like  her  son,  but  he  was  rather 
shy,  and  much  absorbed  in  his  work ;  and 
it  was  only  during  the  illnesses  of  little 
Tim  and  Lena  Graham  that  I  really  came 
to  know  him.  Since  then  we  had  become 
intimate.  When  I  have  said  that  he  only 
needed  experience  to  make  him  a  perfect 
doctor,  I  have  said  all  that  is  possible; 
for  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the 
union  of  tenderness,  firmness,  patience, 
and  skill,  which  forms  the  ideal  (often 
realized)  of  his  profession,  represents  all 
but  the  highest  type  of  human  nature. 

But  my  favorite  had  given  his  whole 
heart's  love  to  Cherry  Roper,  and  she  had 
smiled  on  him  for  a  summer,  and  now  was 
ready  to  throw  him  over  for  a  stockbroker 
old  enough  to  be  her  father !  I  was  angry 
and  disgusted  with  the  girl,  though  I  could 
never  resist  her  witcheries  when  she  was 
present.    I  would  not  go,  and  be  made 


CHERRY   ROPERS   PENANCE. 


289 


her  tool,  and  engage  her  mother's  atten- 
tions, while  she  hooked  her  elderly  lover 
—  not  1  ! 

Nevertheless,  when  Monday  came,  I 
went. 

II. 

It  was  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour*s 
walk  from  my  house  to  Mrs.  Roper's, 
which  stood  near  the  river«  a  little  way 
outside  Tamston.  The  nearest  way  from 
the  highroad  was  a  path  leading  to  a 
footbridge  over  a  stream,  which  ran  past 
the  lawn.  The  stream  was  now  flooded, 
and  I  found  the  water  just  up  to  the  level 
of  the  bridge,  and  could  barely  cross  with- 
out wetting  my  feet.  The  river  had  risen 
over  the  intervening  meadows,  and  lines 
of  hedges  alone  enabled  one  to  recognize 
localities,  like  meridians  over  the  oceans 
in  a  map.  The  house  stood  on  a  little 
piece  of  rising  ground,  and  the  garden 
sloped  down  from  it ;  the  lower  half  was 
now  covered  with  muddy  water. 

The  creepers  on  the  house  were  bare 
brown  stems,  the  flower-beds  were  empty ; 
and  I  thought  to  myself  that  Mr.  Gold- 
thorpe*s  first  impressions  would  certainly 
not  be  cheering. 

The  second  impressions  would  be  reas- 
suring, though,  if  he  felt,  as  I  did,  the 
pleasantness  of  the  tiny  drawing-room 
into  which  I  stepped,  almost  from  the 
hall-door.  Carpets,  curtains,  and  chair- 
covers  might  be  shabby;  but  the  green- 
house  door  was  filled  up  with  a  blaze  of 
primulas,  cyclamen  and  crocuses,  the  fruit 
of  Mrs.  Roper's  clever  and  untiring  gar- 
dening; a  bright  fire  sparkled  upon  the 
array  of  fanciful  Indian  ornaments  and 
drapery  displayed  on  a  side-table,  and  va- 
rious pretty  foreign  **  objects,'*  and  a  few 
good  water-color  sketches,  decorated  the 
walls  as  permanent  inhabitants.  Mrs. 
Roper  herself,  unmistakably  a  lady,  in  her 
quiet  black  dress  and  soft  white  cap  and 
shawl,  presented  no  alarming  spectacle  to 
a  man  in  search  of  a  mother-in-law.  I 
thought  Cherry  looked  less  pretty  than 
usual,  rather  too  smartly  dressed,  and 
rattling  a  lot  of  bangles  whenever  she 
moved,  which  was  every  minute,  as  she 
seemed  unable  to  sit  still. 

I  duly  inspected  the  Indian  articles, 
poor  Mrs.  Roper  displaying  them  in  peace- 
ful unconsciousness  of  any  fresh  disturb- 
ance impending;  but  I  own  that  I  could 
only  give  them  half  my  attention,  while  I 
listened  for  a  step  outside.  Presently, 
there  came  a  heavy  crunch  on  the  gravel, 
and  a  loud  knock  which  seemed  almost  in 
the  room.    There  was  a  startled  pause 

UVING  AGE.  YOU  XUV.  2255 


among  us  three  ladies;  Cherry  turned 
scarlet;  her  mother  glanced  at  her,  and 
understood  it  all.  The  flush  was  reflected 
more  faintly  on  her  delicate  cheeks,  and 
she  seated  herself  to  await  the  event. 
We  heard  the  little  maidservant  open  the 
door,  and  a  rather  loud  man's  voice,  en- 
quire for  Miss  Roper;  then  followed  a 
shuffling  and  stumping  with  overcoat  and 
umbrella;  the  little  maid  announced  some 
name  hitherto  unknown  to  history,  and 
retired  behind  the  door  to  let  the  visitor 
enter. 

I  really  cannot  describe  Mr.  Goldthorpe, 
because  there  is  nothing  to  describe  about 
him.  Walk  down  Old  Broad  Street  early 
in  any  week-day  afternoon,  and  you  will 
be  sure  to  meet  half-a-dozen  prosperous 
elderly  gentlemen,  any  one  of  whom  will 
do  to  represent  Cherry  Roper's  latest 
lover.  He  had  "  City  **  stamped  on  every 
line  of  his  face  and  every  fold  of  his 
clothing;  and  I  felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Roper 
(whose  connections  were  all  with  the 
Church  and  the  army)  was  inwardly  turn- 
ing up  the  nose  of  gentility.  With  this 
phase  of  her  feelings  I  did  not  so  deeply 
sympathize. 

'•How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Goldthorpe?" 
she  said,  rising  to  greet  him.  "  I  did  not 
expect  to  see  you  in  Tamston  at  this  time 
of  year;  visitors  are  apt  to  be  frightened 
by  our  floods." 

"Didn't  you,  ma'am?  Ah!— I  — I 
thought  you  might  have." 

Mrs.  Roper  glanced  at  Cherry  again, 
but  the  girl  sat  mute  and  uncomfortable. 

"No;  I  did  not  know  that  you  were 
likely  to  be  in  the  neighborhood ;  but  you 
must  not  put  an  inhospitable  construction 
on  my  surprise.  Let  me  give  you  a  cup 
of  tea.  I  hope  you  did  not  get  your  feet 
wet  in  coming." 

"Thank  you;  no  sugar,  please.  The 
roads  are  abominably  muddy ;  I  ought  to 
apolos^ize  for  the  state  of  my  boots ;  but 
there's  nothing  to  wet  one.  Not  that  I 
care. about  wet  feet;  I  never  coddle.  I 
suppose  that  in  summer  this  is  quite  a 
pleasant  situation  ?  "  he  added,  turning  the 
subject. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Cherry.  "  We  have  a 
dear  little  lawn.  It  is  at  the  bottom  of 
the  stream  now,  but  in  summer  the  stream 
is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  and  we  keep  a  boat 
there,  and  can  go  on  the  river  whenever 
we  like." 

"Ah,  quite  so.  Just  the  place  to  do 
the  rural  in  then,  but  not  the  thing  for 
winter.  You  should  come  into  town, 
ma'am;  there's  always  something  going 
on  in  London,  even  at  the  deadest  season. 


290 


CHERRY  ROPERS  PENANCE. 


And  Miss  Roper  is  quite  wasted  down 
here." 

"This  is  my  home,"  answered  Mrs. 
Roper  coldly.  "  I  have  neither  the  wish 
Dor  the  power  to  leave  it,  and  I  should  be 
sorry  if  my  daughter  could  not  be  con- 
tented without  gaiety.*^ 

"  Oh,  I  get  occasional  runs  to  London," 
put  in  Cherry.  "And  even  in  winter  you 
see  we  manage  to  have  some  summer  in- 
doors," directing  his  attention  to  the  flow- 
ers. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  taking 
the  suggestion  with  greater  quickness 
than  I  should  have  expected  from  him. 
"  You  have  a  fine  show,  indeed.  May  I 
look  at  them  a  little  closer?  I  do  a  little 
in  primulas  myself,  or  rather  my  head 
gardener  does.  He  took  first  prize  at  the 
last  show,  but  there  was  nothing  there  to 
match  that  plant  in  the  middle." 

After  this,  talk  languished,  and  I  had 
to  do  my  best  to  help.  Mr.  Goldthorpe 
could  neither  find  an  excuse  for  staying, 
nor  for  going  away.  He  picked  up  his 
hat  from  the  carpet,  changed  it  about 
from  one  hand  to  the  other,  and  put  it 
down  again,  more  than  once,  while  Cherry 
counted  her  bangles  over  and  over  again. 
At  last,  he  pulled  out  his  watch,  and  took 
a  tremendous  resolution. 

"  YouMl  excuse  me,  ma'am,  but  impor- 
tant business  obliges  me  to  leave  by  the 
6.30  train.     It  won't  do  for  me  to  miss  it." 

"On  no  account,"  Mrs.  Roper  assent- 
ed cordially.  "The  lime  of  you  gentle- 
men in  business  is  so  valuable  that  we 
could  not  attempt  to  detain  you." 

"  But  before  I  go,  I  should  wish  to 
speak  a  word  to  you  in  private,  if  you 
please,  if  Miss  Roper  and  this  lady  will 
excuse  me,"  with  a  comprehensive  bow. 

"  I  will  trouble  you  to  come  into  the 
dining-room,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Roper,  ris- 
ing. "  I  know  I  need  not  apologize  to 
Mrs.  Singleton." 

"No,  indeed,"  I  said;  "but  you  must 
allow  me  to  say  good-bye  first.  It  is  high 
time  for  me  to  be  going  home."  And 
home  I  went;  but,  as  I  afterwards  heard 
the.  history  of  the  conversation  from  Mrs. 
Roper,  I  am  in  a  position  to  continue  the 
narrative,  notwithstandino^. 

Mr.  Goldthorpe  planted  himself  at  one 
side  of  the  little  square  table,  and  depos- 
ited his  hat  upon  the  red  cloth,  with  an 
air  of  coming  to  business.  Mrs.  Roper 
sat  facing  him  on  the  other  side,  ready 
for  battle. 

"I  suppose,  ma'am,"  he  began,  "that 
Miss  Roper  has  informed  you  why  I  am 
here  to-day." 


''I  think  I  told  you,  when  yoa  first 
came,  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  that  your  arrival 
was  unexpected  by  me." 

"  Ah  !  she  left  the  explanations  to  me. 
Well,  I  am  here  to  explain." 

"  Pray  do  not  suppose  that  a  friendly 
visit  needs  any  explanation.  I  look  upon 
yours  to-day  in  that  light:  I  beg  that  you 
will  not  ask  me  to  regard  it  in  any  other." 

"  But  I  do  ask  you,  ma'am.  I  came  for 
a  purpose ;  and  when  I  have  a  purpose,  I 
always  carry  it  out  —  and,  what's  more,  I 
succeed  in  it." 

"It  will  be  wiser,  then,  for  vou  not  to 
pursue  one  in  which  you  have  no  prospect 
of  success." 

"  Let  there  be  no  misunderstanding  be- 
tween us,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Goldthorpe 
hurriedly.  "  I  have  the  highest  possible 
esteem  and  respect  for  yourself,  but  it  is 
your  daughter  that  I  want  to  marry." 

Mrs.  Roper  nearly  sprang  from  her 
chair  in  indignation,  but  insulted  dignity 
gave  her  additional  self-possession^  and 
she  replied,  — 

"  Although  such  a  misapprehension 
might  have  naturally  arisen,  considering 
the  respective  ages  of  all  concerned,  yet  I 
assure  vou,  sir,  that  it  never  for  a  moment 
crossecf  my  mind.  My  daughter  told  me 
that  you  had  paid  her  considerable  atten- 
tion while  in  London ;  and  I  conceived 
that  the  reason  of  your  presence  here  was 
to  ask  my  consent  to  your  suit." 

"  So  it  is,  ma'am ;  so  it  is,"  said  Mr. 
Goldthorpe,  reassured;  "and  I  hope  I 
have  it." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  en- 
deavoring, indirectly,  to  make  you  under- 
stand that  it  is  useless  to  ask  for  it." 

"Useless!"  he  cried.  "You  don't 
know  what  you're  saying  —  you  doo*t  know 
who  you're  talking  to." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  know  quite  well." 

"  I  dare  say  you  think,  because  I'm  a 
stockbroker,  that  I'm  a  speculator;  and 
that  my  wife  and  children  may  be  million- 
aires one  day,  and  beggars  the  next.  But 
I've  seen  too  much  of  that  sort  of  game. 
It's  no  business  of  any  one's  what  I  do 
with  the  money  I  keep  loose  at  my  bank- 
er's ;  but  there's  60,000/.  invested  in  gov- 
ernment stocks  and  United  States  bonds 
and  some  good  railways,  that  I  haven't 
touched  for  ten  years,  and  don't  mean  to. 
And  when  I  marry,  I'll  settle  every  peony 
of  that  on  my  wife  and  her  children ;  so 
that,  if  I  went  through  the  courts  next 
month,  she  should  keep  her  carriage  all 
the  same." 

"  I  will  not  attempt  to  discuss  the 
honorableness  of  that  arrangement,"  an* 


CHERRY   ROPERS   PENANCE. 


291 


Bwered  Mrs.  Roper  icily.  '*  I  am  aware 
that  commercial  honor  is  a  dififerent  thing 
from  what  /  have  known  by  the  name. 
My  objection  is  of  a  di£Eerent  kind  alto- 
gether,'* 

"Is  it  my  age?"  broke  in  Mr.  Gold- 
thorpe.  '*  I  was  only  tifty>seven  last  birth- 
day, and  I'm  stronger  than  most  of  the 
voung  fellows  I  know.  Besides,  I'll  make 
her  a  better  husband  than  a  boy,  that 
hasn't  half  sown  his  wild  oats,  and  will  be 
wanting  his  own  way,  instead  of  giving 
her  hers." 

"  1  must  own  that  I  think  such  a  serious 
disparity  of  age  a  great  objection,"  Mrs. 
Roper  replied;  *'but  that  is  not  the  only 
ground.  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  has  my  daugh- 
ter ever  led  you  to  believe  that  she  loved 
you  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  certainly  thought  the  young 
lady  did  not  seem  unfavorably  disposed 
towards  me.  But,  without  having  had  it 
from  her  own  lips,  I  should  not  like  to  use 
such  a  strong  expression." 

**  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so ;  I  did 
not  believe  she  would  have  deceived  you. 
Am  I  to  understand  that  you  love  her  ?  " 

"  Well,  really,  the  fact  that  I  slm  ready 
to  ask  her  to  be  my  wife  is  proof  enough 
that  I  feel  towards  her  as  I  ought.  I'm 
not  a  sentimental  man  —  never  professed 
to  be ;  and  I  don't  know  that  I  can  get  up 
a  grand  passion.  But  I  like  Miss  Roper 
better  than  any  young  lady  I  ever  met. 
She  will  make  me  a  good  wife;  I'll  make 
her  a  good  husband  ;  and,  without  boast* 
ing,  I  may  say  that  when  she  is  Mrs. 
Goldthorpe,  there'll  be  a  good  many  wom- 
en who  would  give  something  to  stand  in 
her  shoes." 

"She  will  never  be  Mrs.  Goldthorpe 
with  my  consent,"  said  Mrs.  Roper,  rising. 

••  Not.?"  said  Mr.  Goldthorpe  blankly. 

"  Certainly  not.  If  she  wished  to  marry 
to  poverty,  should  I  not  have  a  right  to 
forbid  her?  And  have  I  not  a  right  to 
forbid  her  to  marry  to  poverty  of  the  heart, 
which  is  ten  thousand  times  as  miserable? 
If  you  had  not  money  enough  between 
you  to  live  upon,  you  would  recognize 
my  right  to  say  no.  You  have  not  love 
enough  between  you  to  live  upon,  and  I 
say  it  far  more  emphatically." 

"  Miss  Roper  is  of  age,  I  understand  ?" 

"She  is,  Mr.  Goldthorpe.  I  am  per- 
fectly aware  that  I  have  no  legal  right  to 
hinder  her  from  acting  as  she  chooses ; 
but  any  moral  right  that  1  have  —  I  shall 
exercise  to  the  full." 

"  Well,  I  shall  fi^ive  the  young  lady  the 
opportunity  of  deciding  for  herself.  I 
suppose  I  cannot  see  her  here." 


"  I  shall  not  make  my  house  a  prison 
for  my  daughter.  She  is  at  liberty  to 
receive  you  if,  after  consideration,  she 
wishes  to  do  so.  I  refuse  nothing  but  my 
personal  consent  to  a  marriage' without 
affection,  which  must  result  in  misery  to 
one  or  both." 

"You  have  no  right,  Mrs.  Roper,  to 
doubt  my  affection  for  your  daughter,  be- 
cause I  can't  make  speeches  about  it." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  its  reality,  Mr.  Gold- 
thorpe, but  I  doubt  its  adequacy ;  and  I 
doubt  hers  for  vou  still  more.  I3e  per- 
suaded ;  think  the  matter  over,  and  seek 
a  more  suitable  partner.  In  any  case, 
believe  that  I  intend  no  discourtesy  to 
yourself." 

"  Do  you  think  it  over,  too,  ma'am,  and 
you'll  see  things  more  reasonably,  i  have 
to  go  to  Paris  to-morrow,  but  when  I  come 
back  ril  run  down  again.  Give  my  best 
compliments  to  Miss  Roper;  I  brought  a 
ring  that  I  hoped  to  give  her,  but  that  will 
be  for  next  time.    Good-evening,  ma'am.'* 

And  he  bowed  himself  out,  leaving  poor* 
Mrs.  Roper  to  face  Cherry.     I  fancy  she 
had  small  pleaa^ure  out  of  the  fact  that 
she  was  left  the  undoubted  victor  in  that 
afternoon's  campaign. 

III. 

Op  course  I  did  not  like  to  visit  Mead 
Cottage  again  in  a  hurry,  as  if  I  were  anx- 
ious to  hear  what  had  happened  in  my  ab- 
sence; but  I  had  not  very  long  to  wait. 
Mrs.  Roper  was  one  of  those  unfortunate 
persons  whose  mind  and  body  act  and  re- 
act upon  each  other  so  closely,  that  it  is 
always  open  to  kind  friends  to  call  their 
mental  sufferings  indigestion,  and  their 
bodily  ailments  "nerves."  She  was  at 
church  on  Sunday,  but  on  Monday  she 
was  prostrate,  and  was  very  unwell  for 
two  or  three  days.  Cherry  ostentatiously 
blamed  the  damp,  and  I  privately  blamed 
Cherry,  She  would  not  send  for  me  while 
her  mother  was  actually  ill,  and  there  cer- 
tainly was  no  occasion,  as  she  was  herself 
the  cleverest  and  tenderest  of  nurses ;  but 
on  Thursday  I  had  a  note  from  her,  ask- 
ing me  to  spend  the  whole  of  the  next 
day  with  them,  and  mentioning  that  I 
should  have  to  go  round  by  the  road,  as 
the  little  foot-bridge  was  now  quite  under 
water. 

"  One  more  such  victory,  and  you  are 
undone,  my  poor  friend,"  I  remarked  that 
Friday  afternoon,  after  I  had  enjoyed 
Mrs.  Roper's  narrative  of  her  encounter 
with  Mr.  Goldthorpe.  "  It  has  taken  too 
much  out  of  you." 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  "  she  said. 


agi 


CHERRY  ROPERS  PENANCE. 


<*  It  has  given  Cherry  time  to  think  again  ; 
and  she  only  needs  time  for  thought.  My 
child  could  not  do  such  a  thing  deliber* 
ately.  This  little  illness  of  mine  has  been 
a  fortunate  thing.  It  has  given  us  both 
occupation,  and  allowed  us  to  hold  our 
tongues.  We  should  have  vexed  each 
other  if  we  had  been  shut  up  together 
these  wet  days,  and  obliged  to  talk." 

We  were  sitting  in  the  drawing-room, 
Mrs.  Roper  reclining,  invalid  fashion,  in 
an  easy-chair  well  lined  with  pillows,  and 
wrapped  in  a  large  white  shawl.  Suddenly 
a  loud  knock  came  to  the  door.  She 
started,  and  flushed  painfuHy. 

**  It  is  that  man  again,**  she  said.  '*  Oh  ! 
I  did  not  think  it  would  have  been  so 
soon.'* 

"  Let  me  tell  him  that  you  are  too  unwell 
to  see  him,"  I  said,  making  a  move  to- 
wards the  door ;  but  she  stopped  me. 

"He  does  not  want  to  see  me;  it  is 
Cherry;  and  1  promised  that  he  should 
see  her,  if  she  chose.    He  must  come 


It 


•in. 

As  we  were  speaking,  the  door  was 
opened.  It  was  Mr.  Goldthorpe  who  had 
knocked,  and  he  did  ask  only  for  Cherry ; 
but  it  never  occurred  to  stupid  little  Jane 
to  do  anything  but  show  him  into  the 
drawing-room,  while  she  went  in  great  ex- 
citement to  tell  her.  Of  course  he  fell 
into  a  confusion  of  ajx>logies  and  explana- 
tions when  he  saw  the  state  of  afiEairs,but 
he  did  not  offer  the  best  of  all  possible 
apologies  by  taking  himself  away.  On 
the  contrary,  he  discoursed  about  his 
journey  to  Paris  until  Cherry  appeared. 
She  looked  flushed  and  serious,  and 
greeted  him  quietly. 

After  about  ten  minutes  of  company 
talk,  she  said,  — 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure,  Mr. 
Goldthorpe ;  but  now  that  mamma  is  so 
unwell,  she  is  my  first  object  —  and  when 
you  arrived,  I  was  doing  a  little  cooking 
for  her  which  I  cannot  leave  to  the  ser- 
vant.   I  must  go  back  and  see  to  it.** 

"  Certainlv,*'  answered  Mr.  Goldthorpe ; 
"don't  mincf  me,  I  beg.  I  shall  feel  grati- 
fied by  your  not  standing  upon  ceremony 
with  me,  and  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Roper  must 
feel  an  appetite  for  food  cooked  by  your 
hands.** 

"Then  I  will  say  good-bye,** said  Cher- 
ry, holding  out  her  hand. 

"  But  aren't  you  coming  back  ?  I  don*t 
mind  waiting.  I  only  came  from  Paris 
this  morning,  and  I  have  come  down  here 
at  once  to  see  you.**  His  voice  grew  quite 
piteous. 

"Oh,  yeSy  I  am    coming  back,**  said 


Cherry,  glancing  at  her  mother  rather  an- 
certainiy.  "  But  you  see  we  are  a  little  put 
out  just  at  present.*' 

Mrs.  Roper's  hospitable  instincts  now 
came  uppermost. 

"Suppose,  dear,  you  combine  that 
cookery  for  me  with  tea  for  everybody; 
Mr.  Goldthorpe  needs  some  refreshment, 
I  am  sure,  after  his  tiring  day ;  and  Mrs. 
Singleton  likes  to  go  home  early.** 

There  was  general  acquiescence;  Cher- 
ry departed  to  her  household  cares,  and 
Mr.  Goldthorpe  and  I  talked  Paris  with 
redoubled  vigor.  In  about  half  an  hobr,  a 
pleasant  and  substantial  meal  appeared, 
over  which  Cherry  presided.  Her  lover 
expanded  in  the  presence  of  his  goddess  ; 
he  was  radiant  with  good  humor,  paid 
compliments  all  round,  especially  to  her, 
and  actually  told  some  anecdotes,  at 
which  he  laughed  very  loudly  himself. 
Cherry  smiled  amiably,  and  I  thought  of 
the  days  when  she  would  know  them  all 
by  heart,  and  have  to  laugh  as  dutifully 
the  seventh  time  of  hearing  as  the  first. 

After  tea  she  sang  us  a  couple  of  pretty 
songs,  and  Mr.  Goldthorpe  sat  by  the 
piano,  and  beat  time.  If  there  is  any 
practice  calculated  to  drive  a  singer  dis- 
tracted, it  is  that;  and  Cherry's  forehead 
wrinkled,  and  she  left  out  a  verse  of  her 
second  song. 

"  That's  the  sort  of  singing  I  like  in  a 
lady,*'  he  remarked  when  she  had  finished. 
"  No  fuss  about  it,  no  screaming  or  run- 
ning all  about  the  place;  but  just  a  pretty 
little  song  that  you  can  enjoy  after  din- 
ner. When  I  want  professionals,  I  can 
pay  for  them.** 

This  dubious  compliment  perhaps  ac- 
counted for  the  slight  bang  with  which 
Cherry  shut  the  piano ;  and  I  rose  to  say 
good*night,  knowing  *that  Mrs.  Roper 
must  be  tired,  and  hoping  that  Mr.  Gold- 
thorpe would  follow  my  example,  and 
postpone  his  proposal  to  a  more  favorable 
opportunity. 

"  I  shall  see  you  safe  on  the  highroad,*' 
said  Cherry  decisively.  "  Our  lane  is 
not  in  a  state  for  you  to  travel  by  yourself 
in  the  dark.     1*11  get  the  lantern.'^ 

She  speedily  reappeared,  cloaked,  and 
bearing  the  lantern ;  and  of  course  Mr. 
Goldthorpe  could  do  nothing  else  but  offer 
to  carry  it.  We  started  off,  but  did  not 
go  far.  We  had  barely  gone  round  the 
corner  of  the  house  when  a  lapping  sound 
close  by  startled  us.  Mr.  Goldthorpe 
held  the  lantern  lower,  and  it  gleamed 
upon  water  lying  on  the  ground  walk.  He 
held  it  higher,  and  it  gleamed  upon  water 
covering  the  whole  path,  and  we  could 


CHERRY   ROPERS    PENANCE. 


•293 


hear  the  stream  gurgling  through  the  gate 
at  the  end. 

**The  flood  roust  have  risen  tremen- 
dously fast,"  said  Cherry.  *•  Why,  you 
came  through  this  way  three  hours  ago, 
Mr.  Goldthorpe?" 

"Upon  my  word,  I  couldn't  have  be- 
lieved it,'*  he  said,  much  perturbed.  "  I 
never  guessed  anything  of  this  sort  was 
likely  to  happen." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  wade  it,"  I  specu- 
lated. 

*•  Impossible,"  said  Cherry  decisively. 
'*The  ground  rather  falls  than  rises  be- 
yond the  garden  gate,  as  far  as  the  first 
turn  of  the  lane.  You  would  find  the 
water  deeper  the  farther  you  went." 

**  And  we  could  not  manage  the  boat  in 
the  dark  ?  " 

'*  We  could  not  get  to  it.  It  is  laid  up 
—  as  we  thought,  high  and  dry  —  on  the 
mound  near  the  shrubbery ;  but  there  is 
a  stream  between  us  and  it  now." 

"  Then  what  is  to  be  done  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Goldthorpe. 

*•  There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done," 
Cherry  answered  gaily.  **  You  must  re- 
sign yourselves  to  circumstances,  and  be 
our  prisoners  for  to-night.  We'll  put  you 
up  somehow  —  you  must  not  be  too  par- 
ticular, and  in  the  morning,  if  you  can't 
make  your  escape  in  our  own  boat,  we 
shall  easily  be  able  to  signal  some  one  to 
bring  us  a  punt." 

**  I,  for  one,  shall  be  contented  to  be  a 
prisoner  to  so  fair  a  gaoler,"  said  Mr. 
Goldthorpe  gallantly. 

I  reappeared  in  the  house,  feeling  some- 
what discomfited ;  but  Cherry  and  her 
lover  were  in  high  spirits.  Explanations 
wer^  ;nade  to  Mrs.  Roper,  whom  Cherry 
insisted  on  taking  off  to  bed ;  and  after 
she  had  disposed  of  her  for  the  night, 
arrangements  for  the  accommodation  of 
her  unexpected  guests  kept  her  busy 
away  from  us.  Mr.  Goldthorpe,  sitting 
alone  in  the  drawing-room  with  me,  began 
to  look  on  the  shady  side  of  his  imprison- 
ment. 

**  I  suppose  we  are  sure  to  be  able  to 
get  a  boat  in  the  morning?"  he  ques- 
tioned anxiously. 

**  It  depends  upon  whether  any  come 
this  way  or  not,  I  should  say,"  I  replied. 
**  I  must  say  that  I  cannot  think  what  is 
to  bring  them." 

"  But  if  1  don't  get  a  boat,  I  can't  get 
back  to  town ;  and  I  must  be  at  my  office 
at  twelve  to-morrow.  I  have  a  most  im- 
portant engagement." 

^  Then  I  hope  you  will  get  a  boat." 

*^At  any  rate,  this  sort  of  thing  can't 


last.  The  river  will  go  down  as  fast  as 
it  came  up,  I  dare  say." 

**  Floods  have  been  known  to  last  three 
weeks  without  abating,"  I  told  him  for 
his  encouragement.  1  was  willing  that 
Cherry  should  see  how  cross  he  could  be. 
In  spite  of  his  fine  speeches,  he  was  rap- 
idly falling  into  that  state  of  mind ;  and 
when  Cherry  announced  that  our  rooms 
were  ready,  he  made  no  attempt  to  detain 
her  for  the  ieie^-tite  which  now  at  leng^th 
was  possible,  but  took  his  candle,  and 
marched  away  gloomily  to  his  chamber. 
Cherry  gave  me  her  room,  and  went  to 
her  mother's;  but  I  did  not  sleep  very 
well  in  her  little  white  bed,  for  the  river 
whirled  confusedly  through  my  dreams. 

With  the  first  gleam  of  daylight  I  was 
at  the  window,  and  looked  out  upon  a  sea 
of  brown  waters.  I  afterwards  learned 
that  a  weir  had  burst,  which  accounted 
for  the  rapid  rise.  The  water  was  up  to 
the  very  walls  of  the  house,  and  flowing 
past  it  in  a  strong  stream.  Evidently, 
there  was  no  possibility  of  escape  from 
within.  Was  there  any  of  rescue  from 
without? 

I  did  not  feel  very  cheerful  as  I  went 
down  to  breakfast,  nor  did  Mr.  Goldthorpe 
look  so.  He  was  standing  at  the  dining- 
room  window,  watching  for  boats. 

**This  is  a  bad  business,  ma'am,"  he 
said,  as  I  came  in. 

**  I  hope  there  is  nothing  worse  before 
us  than  a  few  hours  in  comfortable  quar- 
ters and  pleasant  society,"  I  replied,  try- 
ing to  be  cheerful. 

**  As  to  the  society,  there  can  be  no 
doubt ;  the  quarters  are  not  quite  the 
same  thing.  Habit,  you  know,  ma'am,  is 
second  nature ;  and  I  must  own  that  I  find 
it  difficult  to  dispense  with  certain  little 
comforts." 

At  this  juncture  Cherry  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  Jane  with  a  tray,  and  I  must  say 
that  Mr.  Goldthorpe  did  full  justice  to  the 
little  comforts  that  were  still  at  his  dis- 
posal. Mrs.  Roper  was  reported  not  so 
well,  having  had  a  wakeful  night,  and  I 
knew  to  what  to  attribute  it. 

Would  Mr.  Goldthorpe  use  his  oppor- 
tunity? No  man  ever  had  a  better.  Here 
he  was,  shut  up  with  his  ladye-love  for 
hours,  her  mother  safe  out  of  the  way, 
and  her  other  chaperon  frequently  sitting 
with  the  invalid.  I  knew  at  least  one 
other  who  would  have  cared  little  in  such 
a  situation  for  floods  outside  and  business 
in  London,  but  thought  himself  in  Para- 
dise. Mr.  Goldthorpe  was  of  a  different 
opinion.  He  kept  perpetually  fidgeting 
over  to  the  window,  looking  out  for  the 


«94' 


CHERRY   ROPERS   PENANCE. 


boat  that  never  came,  and  interrupting  all 
attempts  at  talk  or  occupation. 

"It's  no  use,  Mr.  Goldlhorpe,"  said 
Cherry  at  last.  '*  Nothing  seems  to  pass 
us  except  some  poor  man's  swede  turnips. 
You'd  better  occupy  yourself  in  fishing 
for  them.  We  may  be  thankful  to  have 
them  for  dinner  in  a  day  or  two." 

•*For  dinner!" 

'*  Well,  seriously,  things  look  somewhat 
blue.  We  have  very  little  room  for  keep- 
ing anything  in  this  house,  and  we  get 
most  things  in  small  quantities.  The 
butcher  was  to  have  called  this  very  day, 
and  unless  he  takes  boat  to  us  now,  we 
shall  be  short  commons  at  dinner-time. 
The  only  things  that  we  have  a  good  sup- 
ply of  are  flour,  bacon,  tea,  and  jam.*' 

"We  shan't  starve,  at  any  rate,"  I  re- 
marked, much  relieved  by  the  presence  of 
tea  in  the  list. 

"  But  one  can't  live  on  flour  and  bacon," 
said  Mr.  Goldthorpe  in  dismay. 

"  Flour  can  be  made  into  bread,  and  I 
shall  proceed  to  effect  the  conversion,  if 
necessary,"  laughed  Cherry.  "If  we 
can't  live  on  bread,  bacon,  and  tea,  for  a 
day  or  two,  we  must  be  Sybarites." 

"  One  need  not  be  a  Sybarite  to  object 
to  living  like  a  farm-laborer,"  Mr.  Gold- 
thorpe muttered.  "  Really,  when  one 
lives  in  such  a  place,-  one  should  make 
provision  for  what  may  happen." 

Cherry  did  not  reply,  but  left  the  room 
rather  offended,  By-and-by  she  recov- 
ered her  temper,  and  her  sense  of  duty 
towards  Mr.  Goldthorpe.  She  returned 
to  the  drawing-room,  and  tried  with  all 
her  might  to  entertain  him.  She  sang  to 
him  until  he  got  up  and  walked  to  the 
window,  yawning,  and  looking  out  for 
boats.  She  played  cribbage  with  him 
until  he  grew  tired  of  beating  her,  and 
she  grew  tired  of  being  beaten.  She 
took  her  work,  and  waited  for  him  to  be- 
gin making  love  to  her;  but  he  never 
began.  In  the  intense  ennui  of  that  day, 
the  poor  girl  did  ample  penance  for  the 
sin  of  her  flirtation  with  him. 

At  last,  about  the  middle  of  the  after- 
noon, an  idea  struck  her. 

"  If  you  are  so  very  anxious  to  go,  Mr. 
Goldthorpe,  can't  you  make  an  attempt  to 
get  the  boat?  It  is  only  at  the  other  side 
of  the  shrubbery,  tied  up,  and  the  oars 
are  in  the  house.  I  don't  think  the  water 
can  be  above  your  knees  anywhere  be- 
tween us  and  it,  and  once  you  had  got  to 
it,  you  would  be  all  right." 

"  Let  me  tell  you.  Miss  Roper,"  he  re- 
plied ill-temperediy,  "that  it  is  not  so  easy 
to  walk  in  a  current  of  water  up  to  one's 


knees;  I  should  probably  lose  my  foot- 
ing. And  when  I  had  got  the  boat,  it 
would  be  of  no  use.  I  am  not  accus- 
tomed to  rowing,  especially  in  such  awk- 
ward places  as  this.  I  should  certainly 
be  upset,  and  drowned,  and  1  prefer  the 
chance  of  being  starved." 

Cherry  subsided,  and  the  day  dragged 
through  without  any  heroic  attempt  at 
remedy.  We  had  what  I  should  have 
thought  a  nice  and  sufficient  little  dinner, 
but  for  Mr.  Goldthorpe's  scarcely  dis- 
guised disgust:  and  we  ladies  enjoyed  an 
hour's  peace,  while  he  slept  after  it.  We 
all  went  to  bed  early;  and  if  ever  a  girl 
looked  utterly  fagged  and  worn-out,  it  was 
Cherry  Roper  on  the  night  of  t*hat  wet 
Saturday  which  was  to  have  been  her 
betrothal  day. 

IV. 

Morning  dawned,  and  a  dreary  light 
spread  slowly  over  a  dreary  scene.  We 
had  agreed  that  ten  o'clock  would  be 
quite  soon  enough  for  breakfast,  and 
about  that  hour  I  wended  my  way  down- 
stairs. The  hall  door  was  open,  and  Mr, 
Goldthorpe  stood  at  it,  staring  out  dis- 
mally at  the  prospect,  and  keeping  up  his 
everlasting  watch  for  boats.  So  far  from 
falling,  the  flood  had  risen  in  the  night, 
and  it  was  now  nearly  up  to  the  step. 
Marked  only  by  the  tops  of  submerged 
hedges  and  palings,  the  brown  water 
stretched  in  front  of  us  over  miles  of 
country.  We  could  not  tell  how  far  it 
spread,  for  trees  bounded  our  view ;  but 
under  and  around  every  visible  object 
there  was  the  dull  gleam  of  water.  The 
trees  swayed  in  the  current  across  the 
meadows,  the  pines  dipped  their  needles 
into  the  quiet  stream  that  overflowed  the 
shrubberies,  distant  roofs  seemed  to  rise 
out  of  the  river,  and  we  could  hear  a  faint 
lowing,  as  of  cows  in  distress.  Every 
now  and  then  something  indistinguishable 
would  float  down  the  main  stream,  too  far 
away  for  us  to  make  out  what  it  might  be, 
though  we  strained  our  eyes;  but  never 
came  a  boat.  Indeed,  none  could  have 
come  by  way  of  the  river ;  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  any  to  have  lived  in 
such  a  current.  The  sky  was  heavy,  and 
looked  full  of  rain;  and  there  seemed  no 
reason  why  the  flood  should  ever  go 
down. 

It  was  not  a  cheerful  sight,  and  I  turned 
from  it  to  meet  Cherry  in  the  dining- 
room. 

"  Breakfast  is  ready,"  she  said.  "  We 
have  eaten  all  our  bread,  and  so  I  have 
made  some  hot  cakes.    But  matters  are 


CHERRY   ROPERS   PENANCE, 


«9S 


growing  serious.  I  find  Jane  was  mis- 
taken in  telling  me  that  we  had  plenty  of 
flour;  we  have  only  about  as  much  lett  as 
I  have  used  this  morning.  The  moral  of 
that  is  —  to-morrow  we  shall  probably 
starve." 

'M  don't  think  we  shall  be  left  to 
starve,"  I  said,  as  cheerfully  as  I  could ; 
"people  will  be  sure  to  remember  what  a 
predicament  we  must  be  in." 

'*  I  don't  know  who  there  is  to  think 
much  about  us,"  said  Cherry  drearily. 
*' And  that  boat  lying  there,  a  few  yaros 
off!  Oh,  if  we  only  had  a  man  with  us, 
instead  of  a  fogey ! " 

The  fogey  was  summoned  to  breakfast, 
and  told  the  state  of  affairs,  and  that  it 
was  necessary  to  make  our  provisions  go 
as  far  as  we  could.  He  only  replied  that 
of  course  a  boat  would  come,  and  it  was 
nonsense  to  starve  ourselves ;  he,  for  one, 
was  not  going  to  do  it.  And  accordingly, 
while  Cherry  and  I  ate  only  enough  to 
keep  us  going,  he  made  extra  havoc 
among  the  precious  cakes,  by  way  of  pro- 
test against  our  abstinence.  Cherry's 
patience  at  last  gave  way,  and  when  he 
made  a  momentary  pause,  she  rose  from 
table  and  carried  away  the  dish.  Mr. 
Goldthorpe  glared  after  her. 

"  Polite,  upon  my  word ! "  he  remarked. 

I  could  not  stand  any  more  of  him  just 
then,  and  left  the  room.  I  was  going  up- 
stairs when  I  heard  a  sudden  call  from 
Cherry  in  the  kitchen.  I  hurried  to  her; 
she  was  standing  at  the  back  door,  with 
clasped  hands  and  gleaming  eyes. 

*^  A  boat ! "  she  cried ;  "a  boat,  coming 
here  I " 

I  looked  where  she  pointed,  and,  through 
one  of  the  bare  hedges,  could  see  some- 
thing moving  in  a  neighboring  field. 

**  Let  us  call,"  I  said ;  "  it  may  not  come 
to  us." 

*'lt  is  coming,"  said  Cherry;  "don't 
you  trouble," 

**  I  wonder  who  it  can  be?"  I  remarked 
innocently. 

She  turned,  and  flashed  a  look  at  me. 
*•  A  friend  of  yours,"  she  said,  her  eyes 
dancing  with  fun ;  "  come  to  take  you 
home  to  luncheon.  There'll  be  all  the 
more  cakes  for  Mr.  Goldthorpe's  tea." 

The  boatman  knew  his  way,  apparently; 
he  was  feeling  along  the  hedge  for  a  thin 
place,  where  he  could  force  his  boat 
through,  for  of  course  it  was  impossible 
to  open  any  gates.  We  could  hear  lnim 
breaking  away  boughs.  Presently,  there 
appeared  among  the  thorns  what  proved  to 
be  the  bow  of  a  light  river  gig,  and  slowly 
the  inmate  pushed  and  pulled  himself  and 


his  boat  through.  The  instant  that  he 
had  done  so,  however,  he  was  in  the  full 
current  of  the  stream  which  flowed  past 
the  lawn  ;  his  boat  was  whirled  round, 
and  swept  away  towards  the  river.  He 
had  been  obliged  to  draw  in  his  oars  when 
passing  her  through  the  hedge,  and  now 
he  could  not  at  once  get  them  into  use. 
In  that  moment,  how  far  he  had  been 
carried  I  Could  he  recover  himself? 
We  watched  helplessly  and  breathlessly. 
There  was  not  only  the  danger  of  the 
boat's  being  carried  into  the  river,  but  of 
its  being  wrecked  against  something  un- 
der water,  which  he  could  not  see  or  know 
of.  But  he  knew  his  ground.  He  let  the 
stream  carry  him  past  the  garden,  and  out 
into  the  meadow  beyond.  There,  of 
course,  the  current  was  slacker,  and  he 
easily  pulled  aside  out  of  it  into  the  com- 
paratively quiet  water,  where  he  could 
turn  his  boat  round.  We  had  rushed  to 
one  of  the  up-stair  windows,  and  could 
see  the  incidents  of  the  perilous  little 
voyage.  Without  encountering  the  stream 
a  second  time,  the  oarsman  made  his  way 
into  the  garden  through  a  weak  place  in 
the  hedge  at  the  bottom,  as  he  had  broken 
in  from  the  field,  and  slowly  poled  himself 
up  between  the  rose-bushes.  Hy  that 
time  the  whole  household  was  gathered  at 
the  door,  to  welcome  Hugh  Garfield.  Of 
course  it  was  he:  Cherry  had  known  it 
from  the  first,  and  I  had  not  been  long  in 
guessing  who  was  most  likely  to  have 
come  to  our  rescue. 

**  Are  you  all  well  ?  "  shouted  the  young 
man,  almost  before  he  was  within  speak- 
ing distance. 

**  All  well,"  responded  Mr.  Goldthorpe, 
with  an  air  of  responsibility.  "  I  hope 
you  have  brought  us  provisions." 

"  Everything  I  could  think  of  that  would 
go  in  my  boat,"  answered  Hugh,  bringing 
it  up  to  the  steps. 

**  You  see  I  was  right,"  said  Mr.  Gold- 
thorpe, turning  round  to  us.  "  I  told  you 
that  a  boat  would  come,  and  that  such 
measures  as  Miss  Roper  proposed  this 
morning  were  quite  unnecessary.  But 
young  ladies  always  like  to  do  the  heroic." 

It  was  so  provoking  that  he  ^a/i  been 
right,  that,  if  I  had  not  been  so  hungry 
myself,  I  could  almost  have  wished  that 
relief  had  not  come  so  soon.  But  by  this 
time  Mrs.  Roper  was  shaking  hands  with 
our  deliverer. 

"  I  don  t  know  how  to  thank  you;  Dr. 
Carfield,"  she  said,  "  for  coming  to  help 
us  —  and  at  such  risk,  too !  " 

"  Don't  take  too  much  to  yourself, 
mamma,"  laughed  Cherry.    "  Dr.  Carfieid 


296 


EARTH   MOVEMENTS   IN  JAVA. 


would  never  have  left  Mrs.  Singleton  to 
starve.''  Then,  in  a  lower  tone  she  added, 
as  he  clasped  her  hand  :  **  It  was  good  of 
you  to  come.  I  was  never  so  glad  of  any- 
thing in  my  life  as  to  see  your  boat  behind 
the  hedge.^' 

Hugh  could  find  nothing  nice  to  say,  of 
course  —  Englishmen  never  can  when 
they  are  the  heroes  of  the  situation;  so 
he  only  asked  how  we  had  fared.  After 
we  had  related  our  experiences  (or  some 
of  them),  a  council  of  war  was  held,  at 
which  it  was  promptly  and  unanimously 
decided  that  Hugh  should  return  to  the 
town,  and  send  punts  at  once  to  remove 
the  whole  party,  the  men  being  provided 
with  hatchets  to  cut  away  the  gates  which 
blocked  the  lane.  Mrs.  Roper  and  Cherry 
would  return  with  me  to  my  house.  He 
departed,  taking  a  more  circuitous  and 
safer  route  than  that  by  which  he  had 
come.  Cherry  watched  him  out  of  sight; 
and  then  we  made  a  hasty  but  very  cheer- 
ful supplement  to  our  short  breakfast,  and 
proceeded  to  devote  ourselves  to  the  task 
of  packing  up  what  they  needed  to  take 
with  them,  and  putting  the  house  in  a 
state  to  be  left  empty.  We  were  so  ab- 
sorbed in  our  work  that  we  never  heard 
the  arrival  of  the  first  punt.  The  sound 
of  voices  outside,  however,  drew  us  to  the 
house-door,  just  in  time  to  see  it  pushing 
off,  with  Mr.  Goldthorpe  seated  inside. 
When  he  caught  sight  of  us  he  waved  his 
hand,  and  called  out,  — 

"Excuse  my  not  saying  good-bye,  la- 
dies: important  business  —  must  catch 
next  train;  your  boat  will  be  up  in  a 
minute." 

Cherry  stood  for  a  moment  in  speech- 
less indignation,  then  burst  out  laughing. 

"  He  is  gone,"  she  cried.  "  Hurrah  1  I 
never  was  so  rejoiced  to  see  any  one*s 
back.  The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  was  a 
joke  to  him,  Michael  Scott's  familiar  spirit 
was  a  pleasant  companion.  He  is  the 
worst  incubus  that  ever  a  set  of  unfortu- 
nate women  had  on  their  shoulders  for 
two  interminable  days  ! "  Then  turning  to 
her  mother,  she  added  with  intense  grav- 
ity: "I  am  quite  satisfied  now,  mamma, 
that  I  did  right  in  discouraging  Mr.  Gold- 
thorpe. You  must  see  for  yourself  that  it 
never  would  have  done." 

That  was  Caerry  Roper's  only  peccavi^ 
but  it  was  quite  enough  for  her  mother. 
I  doubt  that  even  Hugh  got  much  more 
out  of  her  at  any  time;  but  if  she  kept 
her  contrition  to  herself,  and  made  con- 
fession to  nobody,  she  at  any  rate  made 
ample  satisfaction  for  her  fit  of  worldli- 
ness.    For  when  Mr.  Goldthorpe  recov- 


ered himself,  and  wrote  a  formal  proposal 
of  marriage  she  refused  him  with  equal 
formality;  and  a  month  or  two  later,  her 
engagement  to  Hugh  Carfield  was  an- 
nounced. He  is  not  exactly  a  poor  man, 
but  he  is  not  likely  ever  to  be  a  rich  one; 
yet  Cherry  seems  perfectly  contented. 
She  herself  accounts  for  it  by  saying  that 
the  great  merit  of  a  doctor  as  a  husband 
is  that  you  don't  have  enough  of  his  so- 
ciety to  get  tired  of  him. 


From  The  Contemporary  Review. 
EARTH  MOVEMENTS  IN  JAVA. 

Those  who  in  recent  times  have  begun 
to  doubt  whether  the  records  of  ancient 
earthquakes  can  possibly  be  veracious  — 
whether  tens  of  thousands  of  human  be- 
ings have  ever  been  destroyed  by  earth- 
throes  —  must  have  had  their  doubts  dis- 
placed by  the  account  of  the  terrible 
earthquake  in  Java.  Here  not  only  such 
numbers  as  the  ancient  records  mention 
have  perished,  but  the  aspect  of  an  extent 
of  earth-surface  to  be  measured  certainly 
by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  square  miles 
has  been  altered.  The  earth-fashioning 
power  of  vulcanian  forces  has  been  dis- 
played, as  Sir  Charles  Lyell  long  since 
showed  that  they  may  be  displayed  in  our 
own  times ;  and  the  truth  is  made  clear  to 
us  that  though  the  period  of  volcanic 
disturbances,  in  which  the  mountain 
ranges^ere  formed,  may  be  removed  by 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  years  from  the 
present  era,  yet  this  era  is  in  truth  part  of 
that  remote  one.  The  earth's  frame  is 
still  instinct  with  the  fiery  energies  to 
which  the  Alps  and  the  Apennines,  the 
Himalayas,  the  Andes,  and  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  owe  their  formation. 

The  region  of  disturbance  in  which  the 
recent  great  earthquake  occurred  has  long 
been  known  to  geologists  as  one  in  which 
the  earth's  subterranean  forces  show 
themselves  most  actively.  It  has  been 
said  of  the  whole  range  of  islands,  from 
the  Aleutian  Islands  to  Sumatra,  extend- 
ing along  the  eastern  and  south-eastern 
coastline  of  Asia,  that  they  are  but  the 
upraised  parts  of  a  region  of  the  earth's 
crust  which  is  simply  alive  with  the  action 
of  subterranean  forces.  Professor  Milne, 
of  Japan,  has  said  of  a  portion  of  this  re- 
gion, and  certainly  not  the  most  active 
portion,  that  earthquakes  are  in  reality  of 
almost  momentary  occurrence,  though  it 
will,  of  course,  be  understood  that  in  so 
speaking  he  refers   not  to  earthquakes 


EARTH   MOVEMENTS   IN  JAVA. 


297 


which  can  be  clearly  felt,  still  less  to  those 
which  caD  destroy  fife,  but  to  tiiose  undu- 
lations and  oscillations  of  the  earth's 
crust  which,  imperceptible  by  ordinary 
observation,  are  rendered  evident  by  the 
action  of  delicate  seismometers. 

Java  itself,  though  it  has  not  been  here- 
tofore the  scene  of  quite  such  disastrous 
earthquakes  as  have  occurred  in  other 
places  (as,  for  instance,  in  Sicily  and  Ca- 
labria in  the  Old  World,  and  in  Peru  and 
Chili  in  the  New),  is  nevertheless  one  of 
the  most  singularly  volcanic  regions  of 
the  earth.  There  are  thirty-eight  large 
volcanoes  in  Java,  some  of  which  are 
more  than  ten  thousand  feet  in  height.  It 
IS  a  peculiarity  of  the  earthquakes  in  this 
region  that  they  seldom  eject  lava,  but 
enormous  masses  of  mud  —  "rivers  of 
mud,"  they  have  been  called,  flow  from 
them.  Enormous  quantities  of  sulphur 
are  also  emitted,  with  sulphurous  vapors 
poisoning  the  air  for  miles  around.  Van 
der  Boon  Mesch,  speaking  of  the  eruption 
of  Galungung,  in  Java,  on  October  8,  1822, 
says  that  the  mountain  began  to  belch 
forth  hot  water  and  a  mass  of  mud  and 
burning  sulphur,  and  the  streams  of  these 
overflowed  fields  distant  more  than  ten 
miles  from  the  mountains. 

This  mountain  of  Galungung  is  situate 
in  the  interior  of  Java,  far  from  the  scene 
of  the  recent  earthquake.  In  1822  its 
sides  were  covered  with  forest  trees.  All 
around  was  a  fruitful  region,  and  the  dis- 
trict was  inhabited  by  a  numerous  and 
thriving  community.  Even  as  Vesuvius, 
at  the  beginning  of  this  century,  had  long 
been  supposed  dead,  so  was  it  with  Ga- 
lungung. No  tradition  remained  among 
the  people  that  this  mountain  had  ever 
been  in  eruption,  though  a  circular  hollow 
at  its  summit  showed  the  student  of  geol- 
ogy that  the  mountain  had  once  been  an 
active  volcano.  It  was  noticed  in  June, 
1822,  that  the  waters'  of  the  river  Kunir, 
or  Chikunir,  one  of  several  flowing  from 
the  flanks  of  Galungung,  were  hot  and 
muddy.  They  deposited  a  white  powder, 
exhaled  a  sulphurous  odor,  and  became 
acid  and  bitter  to  the  taste.  On  October 
8,  at  one  in  the  afternoon,  terrible  roar- 
ings were  heard.  The  mountain  was  im- 
mediately hidden  by  a  dense  smoke,  and 
hot  waters,  muddy  and  sulphurous,  poured 
from  all  sides  down  the  flanks  of  the 
mountain,  destroying  and  bearing  away 
all  that  they  encountered  in  their  passage. 
With  horror  men  saw,  says  Leopold  de 
Buch,  the  river  Chiwulem,  at  Badang,  car- 
rying down  towards  the  sea  an  immense 
Dumber  of  corpses  of  men  and  animals 


—  rhinoceroses,  tigers,  stags,  and  even 
entire  houses.  For  two  hours,  he  goes 
on,  this  eruption  of  hot  and  muddy  water 
continued;  but  these  two  hours  sufficed 
to  consummate  the  ruin  and  the  devasta- 
tion of  a  whole  province.  After  it  ceased 
(at  three  in  the  afternoon)  a  heavy  rain  of 
cinders  and  lapilli  destroyed  such  trees 
and  fields  as  hitherto  had  escaped.  At  five 
calm  was  restored,  and  the  mountain  reap- 
peared. But  all  the  villacres  around,  every 
single  habitation,  to  a  distance  of  several 
leagues  from  the  mountain,  had  been  cov- 
ered in  by  mud.  On  the  12th,  at  seven  in 
the  evening,  the  mountain  again  began  its 
work  of  destruction.  On  this  occasion 
the  torrents  of  hot  and  muddy  water 
rushed  so  violently  towards  the  valleys 
that  they  bore  with  them  rocks  and  forests 
(desforets  entilres)  in  such  sort  that  hills 
were  raised  in  parts  where  a  moment  be- 
fore there  had  been  but  a  plain.  "  It  was 
soon  impossible,"  adds  De  Buch,  whose 
account  we  have  followed,  "to  recognize 
this  valley,  formerly  so  fertile  and  so  well 
peopled." 

Sir  Charles  Lyell,  speaking  of  this 
eruption,  says  that  "immense  columns  of 
hot  water  and  boiling  mud,  mixed  with 
burning  brimstone,  ashes  and  lapilli  of 
the  size  of  nuts,  were  projected  from  the 
mountain  like  a  waterspout  with  such  pro* 
digious  violence  that  large  quantities  fell 
beyond  the  river  Tandui,  which  is  forty 
miles  distant.'*  This  stupendous  energy 
of  ejection  has  been  doubted.  If  the 
Tandui  River  was  really  overpassed  by 
the  range  of  these  lapilli,  the  distance  trav- 
ersed certainly  exceeded  forty  miles,  as 
Mr.  Peacock  has  shown  in  a  recent  work 
("Saturated  Steam  the  Motive  Power  in 
Volcanoes  and  Earthquakes"),  in  fact, 
on  the  shortest  distance  between  Galun- 
gung and  the  Tandui  River  there  are  forty 
geographical  miles,  or  forty-six  English 
miles.  The  range  is  enormous.  Our  most 
powerful  cannon,  in  which  all  the  forces 
exerted  are  carefully  directed  to  obtain 
velocity  of  oatrush,  will  not  propel  mis- 
siles, even  when  these  are  specially  pre- 
pared to  travel  with  the  least  possible 
resistance  through  the  air,  to  a  greater 
distance  than  seven  or  eight  miles.  Erup- 
tive forces  capable  of  projecting  light 
matter  to  a  distance  of  over  forty  miles, 
though  the  chief  part  of  their  energies 
must  of  necessity  have  been  engaged  in 
ejecting  the  torrents  of  mud  and  water 
which  changed  the  whole  aspect  of  the 
region  round  the  volcano,  must  have  been 
of  terrible  might.  As  the  straw  shows 
which  way  the  wind  blows,  so  the  fall  of 


S9S  EARTH  If OYEHENTS  IN  JAVA. 


of  the  least  and  highest  ol  these  '  eraptioD  of  Vesovius  in  the  year  yg.  The 
la{KL:  beyood  the  Tandai  shoved  the  fear*  rcdoctioo  ol  the  crater  in  height  corre- 
lol  ur^e  ol  tbe  forces  at  work  beneath  spoods  to  the  change  in  the  height  of 
Galan^^ng.  It  is  notevorthy,  however,  Somma,  the  ancient  crater  of  Vesuvius, 
that  Lie  forces  exerted  vithio  the  mooii-  when,  after  many  centuries  of  quiescence, 
tain  seem  to  have  beeo  directed  at  a  the  volcano  again  became  active.  More- 
coosidf  rable  an«;Ie  to  the  vertical.  Had  over«  as  Sir  Charles  Lyell  says,  it  is  prob- 
the  mod  and  water  and  lapiHi  been  pro-  able  that  a  new  cone  will  one  day  rise  out 
jected  eqoally  in  a!I  directions  above  the  ^  of  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  Papandayung, 
horizoa.  ue  quantity  falling  around  the  even  as  the  modem  Vesuvius  has  risen 
moaata:a  wouid  hare  been  rather  greater '  from  the  remains  of  Somroa. 
near  the  crater  than  at  a  distance  uom  it.  ■  The  earthquake  of  Sumbawa,  in  1815, 
But  actually  the  reverse  was  the  case,  belongs  to  the  disturbances  which  we  as- 
For  it  was  remarked,  says  LyelU  ^  (hat  sociate  with  the  Javan  volcanic  system, 
the  boiling  mud  and  cinders  were  pro-'aI:hou^h  Sumbawa  is  about  two  hundred 
jected  with  such  violence  irom  the  moun- '  miles  from  the  eastern  extremity  of  Java« 
tain,  that  while  remote  vilia^s  were  Yet  this  earthquake  is  related  to  the  Javan 
utterly  destroyed  and  buried,  or  hers  much  disturbances  somewhat  as  the  Chilian 
nearer  the  volcano  were  scarcely  injured.'* ,  earthquakes  are  related  to  those  in  Peru ; 
A  space  of  twenty-four  mountains  be-  they  indicate  movements  on  opposite 
tween  the  mountain  and  Tandui  was  cov- ,  sides  of  a  sort  of  centre  of  relative  quies- 
ered,  Lyell  adds,  ^ to  such  a  depth  with.cence.  It  is,  indeed,  noteworthy  that 
bluish  mud,  that  people  were  buried  in  .  Sumatra,  Java,  and  Bali  (the  small  island 
their  houses,  and  not  a  trace  of  the  numer-  between  Java  and  the  Straits  of  Lombok), 
Otts  villages  and  plantations  throughout  may  be  regarded  as  forming  a  single  vol- 
tbat  extent  was  visible."  It  was  estimated  ,  canic  region ;  while  those  on  the  other  or 
that  about  four  thousand  persons  perished  eastern  side  of  the  Straits  of  Lombok,  in- 
on  this  occasion.  :  eluding  Sumbawa,  belong  to  a  dififerent 

The  eruption  of  Papandayung  in  1773  region  of  volcanic  disturbance.  The 
was  even  more  terrible,  thou^^h  we  have  Straits  of  Lombok,  though  narrow,  de- 
not  records  so  complete.  Formerly  Pa-  •  serve  to  be  rejrarded  as  forming  a  special 
pandayung  was  one  of  the  highest  vol-  dividing  line  between  two  distinct  regions; 
canoes  in  Java.  But  suddenly  the  sides  for  the  simple  reason  that  the  Straits  of 
of  the  mountain  gave  way. '  A  region .  Sunda,  and  the  passages  between  the 
fifteen  miles  long  and  six  broad  was  en- .  various  islands  between  Java  and  the 
golfed.  Forty  villages  were  destroyed, ,  Lombok  straits,  are  demonstrably  of  much 
some  disappearing  with  the  sinking  earth,  t  more  recent  formation  than  the  deep  rift 
others  being  buried  under  the  masses  of  '  through  which  the  Straits  of  Lombok  flow, 
mud  and  ciay  thrown  out  from  the  moun*  j  ^The  Straits  of  Lombok  are  only  fifteen 
tain.  The  cone  was  reduced  from  nine;  miles  across,'*  says  Lyell,  *Mess  wide  than 
thousand  feet  in  height  to  about  five  thou-  the  Straits  of  Dover ;  and  yet  the  contrast 
sand.  In  this  case,  as  in  the  eruption  of  between  the  animals  of  various  classes  on 
Gaiuns^ung.  the  ejected  matter  reached  both  sides  of  this  narrow  channel  is  as 
enormous  distances;  for  Junghuhn«  who  great  as  that  between  the  old  and  new 
examined   the   mountain   in    1S42,  found    worlds.** 

that  towns  and  villages  were  destroyed  |  It  is,  indeed,  surprising  that  the  di£Eer- 
which  were  far  from  the  cone ;  they  were  ,  ence,  not  only  in  species  but  it  genera, 
buried,  like  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii,  1  should  be  as  great  between  the  fauna  of 
under  a  mass  of  ejected  matter.  lung-  Lombok  and  the  fauna  of  Bali,  as  we 
huhn  infers  that  the  lowering  ot  the  '  usually  find  only  where  a  n  ide  ocean  flows 
mountain  was  due  for  the  most  part  to  between  two  regions.  On  one  side  we 
explosion  rather  than  engulfment.  But ,  have  the  fauna  proper  to  the  Indian 
there  seems  to  me  no  sufficient  reasons  region,  on  the  other  the  Australasian 
for  disbelievinor  the  statements  made  in  fauna.  This  extends  to  the  human  race. 
1772,  to  the  ettect  that  the  flanks  of  the  On  one  side  of  the  Straits  of  Lombok  we 
mountains  fell  in  before  the  eruption  be- ;  have  the  Malayan  type,  and  on  the  other 
gan.  About  three  thousand  perished  on ,  the  Pacific  type  ^including  Papuans  and 
this  occasion.  |  Polynesians,  as   well   as   Australasians). 

It  has  been  noted,  and  with  justice,  that  So  far  as  human  races  are  concerned,  we 
several  circumstances  in  the  erruption  of  can  infer  nothing  as  to  a  past  connection 
Papandayung,  in  1772,  resemble,  though  between  Sumatra,  Borneo,  Java,  and  Bali, 
on  even  a  grander  scale,  the  tremendous  ^  on  the  one  hand,  and  between  Celebes, 


EARTH   MOVEMENTS   IN  JAVA. 


299 


the  Moluccas,  New  Guinea,  Timor,  Floris, 
Suinbawa,  and  Lombok,  on  the  other ;  for 
men  could  readily  cross  from  island  to 
island.  But  when  we  find  all  races  of 
animals  in  one  set  of  islands  akin  to  each 
other,  and  those  in  the  other  set  akin  to 
each  other  but  altogether  distinct  from 
the  former,  it  becomes  as  certain  that  the 
Straits  of  Sunda,  and  the  other  straits 
separating  each  set  of  islands,  were  of 
comparatively  recent  formation,  as  that 
the  Straits  ot  Lombok  must  have  been  an 
impassable  barrier  for  all  animals,  except 
those  domesticated  by  man,  for  periods  of 
time  of  much  greater  duration. 

The  earthquake  of  Sumbawa,  in  1815, 
was  comparable  with  the  recent  earth- 
quake so  far  as  the  material  changes 
wrought  by  it  were  concerned,  though  not 
in  the  destruction  of  life  and  property. 
The  eruption  began  on  April  5,  though  it 
is  noteworthy  that  in  April,  1814,  the 
volcano  had  given  signs  of  activity,  ashes 
flung  from  within  it  having  fallen  on  the 
decks  of  passing  vessels.  The  sound  of 
the  explosions  which  accompanied  the  be- 
ginning of  the  earthquake-throes  on  April 
5,  18 1 5,  were  heard  in  Sumatra  on  the 
west,  at  a  distance  of  more  than  seven 
hundred  English  miles,  and  in  Ternateon 
the  east,  at  a  distance  of  more  than  eight 
hundred  miles  —  that  is,  over  a  range  of 
more  than  nineteen  hundred  miles,  a  dis- 
tance equal  to  nearly  a  quarter  of  the 
earth*s  diameter.  Of  twelve  thousand 
persons  in  the  province  of  Tomboro,  in 
Sumbawa,  only  twenty-six  survived.  The 
progress  of  the  earthquake  was  accom- 
panied by  violent  atmospheric  disturb- 
ances, whirlwinds  of  tremendous  force 
tearing  the  largest  trees  up  by  the  roots, 
and  carrying  into  the  air,  men,  horses, 
cattle,  and  whatever  else  was  encountered 
in  their  course.  Houses  at  Bima,  forty 
miles  east  of  the  centre  of  disturbance, 
were  rendered  uninhabitable  by  heavy 
falls  of  ashes.  On  the  west,  the  ashes 
from  the  volcano  were  carried  still  farther 
—  viz.,  fully  three  hundred  miles  —  in 
sufficient  quantities  to  darken  the  air! 
In  Celebes,  two  hundred  and  seventeen 
miles  from  Sumbawa,  a  similar  phenome- 
non was  observed.  It  is  said  that  in  Java 
the  darkness  caused  by  the  ashes  was 
deeper  than  that  of  the  darkest  night. 
Mr.  Crawford  states  that  some  of  the 
finer  particles  of  the  volcanic  dust  ejected 
from  Sumbawa  were  carried  as  far  as 
Amboyna  and  Banda,  the  latter  island 
being  about  eight  hundred  miles  east  of 
the  volcano.  As  the  south-east  monsoon 
was  at  its  height,  and  would  have  carried 


the  dust  in  the  opposite  direction,  the 
volcanic  dust  must  have  been  projected 
into  those  upper  regions  of  the  air  where 
the  counter  current  prevailed.  The  dust 
formed  a  fine,  almost  impalpable  powder, 
yet  when  compressed  it  was  found  to  have 
considerable  weight,  a  pint  weighing 
twelve  ounces  and  three-quarters.  As  in 
the  recent  earthquake,  and  in  the  great 
earthquakes  of  Peru,  the  sea  played  an 
important  part  in  the  earthquake  of  Sum- 
bawa. The  town  of  Tomboro  was  over- 
flowed, the  sea  remaining  eighteen  feet 
deep  where  before  there  had  been  land. 
But  far  beyond  the  limits  of  Sumbawa,  a 
wave,  varying  in  height  from  two  to  twelve 
feet,  rolled  upon  the  shores.  At  Bima 
every  proa  and  boat  was  forced  from  its 
anchorage  and  flung  on  the  coast. 

The  oscillations  of  the  earth,  with  sub- 
terranean rumblings,  bellowings,  and  so 
forth,  were  noticed  over  an  area  about 
one  thousand  miles  in  diameter  around 
Sumbawa  as  a  centre.  This  would  corre- 
spond to  an  area  of  about  eight  hundred 
thousand  square  miles.  It  included  the 
Moluccas,  Java,  and  a  large  portion  of 
Celebes,  Sumatra. 

Sir  Charles  Lyell  calls  attention  to  the 
fact  that  but  for  the  accidental  presence  of 
Sir  Stamford  RafBes  in  Java  (as  governor), 
we  should  scarcely  have  heard  in  Europe 
of  this  tremendous  disturbance  of  the 
earth's  crust.  He  was  told  that  similar 
effects,  though  in  less  degree,  had  accom- 
panied an  eruption  of  Carang  Assam,  in 
Bali,  west  of  the  Straits  of  Lombok,  seven 
years  before ;  but  of  that  disturbance  no 
records  have  reached  us. 

The  earthquake  of  January  5,  1699,  in 
Java,  was  remarkable  chiefly  for  the  great 
number  of  shocks  which  were  noticed 
during  its  progress,  no  less  than  two  hun- 
dred and  eight  having  been  recorded. 
The  centre  of  disturbance  seems  to  have 
been  Mount  Salek,  a  volcano  six  days* 
journey  from  Batavia;  yet  in  this  city 
many  houses  were  overthrown.  The 
Batavian  River,  which  rises  in  Mount 
Salek,  became  very  muddy  and  rose  high 
above  its  banks.  It  bore  down  bushes 
and  trees,  partly  burned.  The  water 
overflowed  the  gardens  round  the  town,  so 
that  dead  fishes  were  found  strewn  over 
them  when  the  waters  retreated.  Drowned 
buffaloes,  tigers,  rhinoceroses,  deer,  apes, 
and  other  wild  beasts,  were  carried  down 
by  the  current.  Crocodiles  were  killed, 
though  the  river  was  their  home.  Nay, 
all  the  fish  in  the  river  were  killed,  ex- 
cept only  the  carp.  The  accounts  of  the 
earthquake  state  that  seven  hills  on  the 


298 


EARTH   MOVEMENTS   IN  JAVA, 


one  of  the  least  and  highest  of  these 
lapiilt  beyond  the  Tandui  showed  the  fear- 
ful nature  of  the  forces  at  work  beneath 
Galungung.  It  is  noteworthy,  however, 
that  the  forces  exerted  within  the  moun- 
tain seem  to  have  been  directed  at  a 
considerable  angle  to  the  vertical.  Had 
the  mud  and  water  and  lapilli  been  pro- 
jected equally  in  all  directions  above  the 
horizon,  ihe  quantity  falling  around  the 
mountain  would  have  been  rather  greater 
near  the  crater  than  at  a  distance  from  it. 
But  actually  the  reverse  was  the  case. 
For  it  was  remarked,  says  Lyell,  **that 
the  boiling  mud  and  cinders  were  pro- 
jected with  such  violence  from  the  moun- 
tain, that  while  remote  villages  were 
utterly  destroyed  and  buried,  others  much 
nearer  the  volcano  were  scarcely  injured." 
A  space  of  twenty-four  mountains  be- 
tween the  mountain  and  Tandui  was  cov- 
ered, Lyell  adds,  "to  such  a  depth  with 
bluish  mud,  that  people  were  buried  in 
their  houses,  and  not  a  trace  of  the  numer- 
ous villages  and  plantations  throughout 
that  extent  was  visible."  It  was  estimated 
that  about  four  thousand  persons  perished 
on  this  occasion. 

The  eruption  of  Papandayung  in  1772 
was  even  more  terrible,  though  we  have 
not  records  so  complete.  Formerly  Pa- 
pandayung was  one  of  the  highest  vol- 
canoes in  Java.  But  suddenly  the  sides 
of  the  mountain  gave  way.  A  region 
fifteen  miles  long  and  six  broad  was  en- 
gulfed. Forty  villages  were  destroyed, 
some  disappearing  with  the  sinking  earth, 
others  being  buried  under  the  masses  of 
mud  and  clay  thrown  out  from  the  moun* 
tain.  The  cone  was  reduced  from  nine 
thousand  feet  in  height  to  about  five  thou- 
sand. In  this  case,  as  in  the  eruption  of 
Galungung,  the  ejected  matter  reached 
enormous  distances;  for  Junghuhn,  who 
examined  the  mountain  in  1842,  found 
that  towns  and  villages  were  destroyed 
which  were  far  from  the  cone  ;  they  were 
buried,  like  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii, 
under  a  mass  of  ejected  matter.  Jung- 
huhn infers  that  the  lowering  of  the 
mountain  was  due  for  the  most  part  to 
explosion  rather  than  engulfment.  But 
there  seems  to  me  no  sufficient  reasons 
for  disbelieving  the  statements  made  in 
1772,  to  the  efiEect  that  the  flanks  of  the 
mountains  fell  in  before  the  eruption  be- 
gan. About  three  thousand  perished  on 
this  occasion. 

It  has  been  noted,  and  with  justice,  that 
several  circumstances  in  the  erruption  of 
Papandayung,  in  1772,  resemble,  though 
on  even  a  grander  scale,  the  tremendous 


eruption  of  Vesuvius  in  the  year  79.  The 
reduction  of  the  crater  in  height  corre« 
sponds  to  the  change  in  the  height  of 
Somma,  the  ancient  crater  of  Vesuvius, 
when,  after  many  centuries  of  quiescence, 
the  volcano  again  became  active.  More- 
over, as  Sir  Charles  Lyell  says,  it  is  prob- 
able that  a  new  cone  will  one  day  rise  out 
of  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  Papandayung, 
even  as  the  modern  Vesuvius  has  risea 
from  the  remains  of  Somma. 

The  earthquake  of  Sumbawa,  in  181 5, 
belongs  to  the  disturbances  which  we  as- 
sociate with  the  Javao  volcanic  system, 
although  Sumbawa  is  about  two  hundred 
miles  from  the  eastern  extremity  of  Java. 
Yet  this  earthquake  is  related  to  the  Javaa 
disturbances  somewhat  as  the  Chilian 
earthquakes  are  related  to  those  in  Peru  ; 
they  indicate  movements  on  opposite 
sides  of  a  sort  of  centre  of  relative  quies- 
cence. It  is,  indeed,  noteworthy  that 
Sumatra,  Java,  and  Bali  (the  small  island 
between  Java  and  the  Straits  of  Lombok), 
may  be  regarded  as  forming  a  single  vol- 
canic region  ;  while  those  on  the  other  or 
eastern  side  of  the  Straits  of  Lombok,  in- 
cluding Sumbawa,  belong  to  a  different 
region  of  volcanic  disturbance.  The 
Straits  of  Lombok,  though  narrow,  de- 
serve to  be  regarded  as  forming  a  special 
dividing  line  between  two  distinct  regions ; 
for  the  simple  reason  that  the  Straits  of 
Sunda,  and  the  passages  between  the 
various  islands  between  Java  and  the 
Lombok  straits,  are  demonstrably  of  much 
more  recent  formation  than  the  deep  rift 
through  which  the  Straits  of  Lombok  flow. 
*'The  Straits  of  Lombok  are  only  fifteen 
miles  across,"  says  Lyell,  **  less  wide  than 
the  Straits  of  Dover ;  and  yet  the  contrast 
between  the  animals  of  various  classes  on 
both  sides  of  this  narrow  channel  is  as 
great  as  that  between  the  old  and  new 
worlds.'* 

It  is,  indeed,  surprising  that  the  differ- 
ence, not  only  in  species  but  it  genera, 
should  be  as  great  between  the  fauna  of 
Lombok  and  the  fauna  of  Bali,  as  we 
usually  find  only  where  a  wide  ocean  flows 
between  two  regions.  On  one  side  we 
have  the  fauna  proper  to  the  Indiaa 
region,  on  the  other  the  Australasian 
fauna.  This  extends  to  the  human  race. 
On  one  side  of  the  Straits  of  Lombok  we 
have  the  Malayan  type,  and  on  the  other 
the  Pacific  type  (including  Papuans  and 
Polynesians,  as  well  as  Australasians). 
So  far  as  human  races  are  concerned,  we 
can  infer  nothing  as  to  a  past  connection 
between  Sumatra,  Borneo,  Java,  and  Bali, 
on  the  one  hand,  and  between  Celebes, 


EARTH   MOVEMENTS   IN  JAVA. 


299 


the  Moluccas,  New  GuiDea,  Timor,  Floris, 
Surobawa,  and  Lombok,  on  the  other;  for 
men  could  readily  cross  from  island  to 
island.  But  when  we  find  all  races  of 
animal^  in  one  set  of  islands  akin  to  each 
other,  and  those  in  the  other  set  akin  to 
each  other  but  altogether  distinct  from 
the  former,  it  becomes  as  certain  that  the 
Straits  of  Sunda,  and  the  other  straits 
separating  each  set  of  islands,  were  of 
comparatively  recent  formation,  as  that 
the  Straits  of  Lombok  must  have  been  an 
impassable  barrier  for  all  animals,  except 
those  domesticated  by  man,  for  periods  of 
time  of  much  greater  duration. 

The  earthquake  of  Sumbawa,  in  1815, 
was  comparable  with  the  recent  earth- 
quake so  far  as  the  material  changes 
wrought  by  it  were  concerned,  though  not 
in  the  destruction  of  life  and  property. 
The  eruption  began  on  April  5,  though  it 
is  noteworthy  that  in  April,  1814,  the 
volcano  had  given  signs  of  activity,  ashes 
flung  from  within  it  having  fallen  on  the 
decks  of  passing  vessels.  The  sound  of 
the  explosions  which  accompanied  the  be- 
ginning of  the  earthquake-throes  on  April 
5,  1S15,  were  heard  in  Sumatra  on  the 
west,  at  a  distance  of  more  than  seven 
hundred  English  miles,  and  in  Ternateon 
the  east,  at  a  distance  of  more  than  eight 
hundred  miles  —  that  is,  over  a  range  of 
more  than  nineteen  hundred  miles,  a  dis- 
tance equal  to  nearly  a  quarter  of  the 
earth's  diameter.  Of  twelve  thousand 
persons  in  the  province  of  Tomboro,  in 
Sumbawa,  only  twenty-six  survived.  The 
progress  of  the  earthquake  was  accom- 
panied by  violent  atmospheric  disturb- 
ances, whirlwinds  of  tremendous  force 
tearing  the  largest  trees  up  by  the  roots, 
and  carrying  into  the  air,  men,  horses, 
cattle,  and  whatever  else  was  encountered 
in  their  course.  Houses  at  Bima,  forty 
miles  east  of  the  centre  of  disturbance, 
were  rendered  uninhabitable  by  heavy 
falls  of  ashes.  On  the  west,  the  ashes 
from  the  volcano  were  carried  still  farther 
—  viz.,  fully  three  hundred  miles  — in 
sufficient  quantities  to  darken  the  air! 
In  Celebes,  two  hundred  and  seventeen 
miles  from  Sumbawa,  a  similar  phenome- 
non was  observed.  It  is  said  that  in  Java 
the  darkness  caused  by  the  ashes  was 
deeper  than  that  of  the  darkest  night. 
Mr.  Crawford  states  that  some  of  the 
finer  particles  of  the  volcanic  dust  ejected 
from  Sumbawa  were  carried  as  far  as 
Amboyna  and  Banda,  the  latter  island 
being  about  eight  hundred  miles  east  of 
the  volcano.  As  the  south-east  monsoon 
was  at  its  height,  and  would  have  carried 


the  dust  in  the  opposite  direction,  the 
volcanic  dust  must  have  been  projected 
into  those  upper  regions  of  the  air  where 
the  counter  current  prevailed.  The  dust 
formed  a  fine,  almost  impalpable  powder, 
yet  when  compressed  it  was  found  to  have 
considerable  weight,  a  pint  weighing 
twelve  ounces  and  three-quarters.  As  in 
the  recent  earthquake,  and  in  the  great 
earthquakes  of  Peru,  the  sea  played  an 
important  part  in  the  earthquake  of  Sum- 
bawa. The  town  of  Tomboro  was  over- 
flowed, the  sea  remaining  eighteen  feet 
deep  where  before  there  had  been  land. 
But  far  beyond  the  limits  of  Sumbawa,  a 
wave,  varying  in  height  from  two  to  twelve 
feet,  rolled  upon  the  shores.  At  Bima 
every  proa  and  boat  was  forced  from  its 
anchorage  and  flung  on  the  coast. 

The  oscillations  of  the  earth,  with  sub- 
terranean rumblings,  bellowings,  and  so 
forth,  were  noticed  over  an  area  about 
one  thousand  miles  in  diameter  around 
Sumbawa  as  a  centre.  This  would  corre- 
spond to  an  area  of  about  eight  hundred 
thousand  square  miles.  It  included  the 
Moluccas,  Java,  and  a  large  portion  of 
Celebes,  Sumatra. 

Sir  Charles  Lyell  calls  attention  to  the 
fact  that  but  for  the  accidental  presence  of 
Sir  Stamford  Raffles  in  Java  (as  governor), 
we  should  scarcely  have  heard  in  Europe 
of  this  tremendous  disturbance  of  the 
earth's  crust.  He  was  told  that  similar 
effects,  though  in  less  degree,  had  accom- 
panied an  eruption  of  Carang  Assam,  in 
Bali,  west  of  the  Straits  of  Lombok,  seven 
years  before ;  but  of  that  disturbance  no 
records  have  reached  us. 

The  earthquake  of  January  5,  1699,  in 
Java,  was  remarkable  chiefly  for  the  great 
number  of  shocks  which  were  noticed 
during  its  progress,  no  less  than  two  hun- 
dred and  eight  having  been  recorded. 
The  centre  of  disturbance  seems  to  have 
been  Mount  Salek,  a  volcano  six  days' 
journey  from  Batavia;  yet  in  this  city 
many  houses  were  overthrown.  The 
Batavian  River,  which  rises  in  Mount 
Salek,  became  vei^  muddy  and  rose  high 
above  its  banks.  It  bore  down  bushes 
and  trees,  partly  burned.  The  water 
overflowed  the  gardens  round  the  town,  so 
that  dead  fishes  were  found  strewn  over 
them  when  the  waters  retreated.  Drowned 
buffaloes,  tigers,  rhinoceroses,  deer,  apes, 
and  other  wild  beasts,  were  carried  down 
by  the  current.  Crocodiles  were  killed, 
though  the  river  was  their  home.  Nay, 
all  the  fish  in  the  river  were  killed,  ex- 
cept only  the  carp.  The  accounts  of  the 
earthquake  state  that  seven  hills  on  the 


300 


EARTH   MOVEMENTS   IN  JAVA. 


river  banks  sank  down,  and  filled  the 
chann:l  of  the  river,  and  the  waters  hav- 
ing to  find  their  way  under  the  mass  of 
earth  thus  thrown  across  the  river  from 
either  side,  flowed  out  thick  and  muddy 
beyond  these  obstructions.  The  Tanga- 
ran  River  was  similarly  dammed  up  by  no 
less  than  nine  landslips ;  for  doubtless 
Sir  Charles  Lyell  is  right  in  considering 
that,  when  the  accounts  speak  of  the  fall 
of  hills  into  the  river,  great  landslips  only 
were  meant. 

It  is  singular  that  in  a  later  earthquake 
in  Java  —  namely,  the  earthquake  at  Batur 
in  1786  —  a  river  was  forced  by  the 
changes  which  took  place  in  the  banks  to 
pursue  a  subterranean  course.  The 
river  Dotog  began,  after  the  earthquake, 
to  pour  into  one  of  several  newly  formed 
rents,  and  it  has  ever  since  continued  to 
flow  along  the  new  course  which  it  formed 
for  itself  underground. 

It  appears  from  all  the  records  of  Javan 
earthquakes  and  volcanic  disturbances, 
that  the  feature  noticed  at  the  outset  is 
really  characteristic  of  subterranean  dis- 
turbances in  Java.  As  De  Buch  has 
said,  it  would  seem  that  the  effect  of  vol- 
canic action  in  Java  is  to  develop  enor- 
mous quantities  of  sulphurous  ana  aque- 
ous vapors,  which  attacking  the  rocks 
forming  the  interior  of  the  mountain,  de- 
compose them  into  the  consistence  of 
paste,  and  at  length,  when  the  solid  mass 
is  destroyed  so  as  no  longer  to  be  able  to 
oppose  an  efiEective  resistance,  the  vapors 
force  their  way  out,  and  the  fluid  mass 
escapes  through  the  crevices,  not  like  a 
current  of  viscous  lava,  but  as  torrents  of 
water,  leaping  through  every  tiny  opening 
they  can  find.  M.  Payen,  painter  and 
naturalist,  who  endeavored  to  approach 
Galungung  after  the  eruption  of  1822, 
was  prevented  by  masses  of  clay  and 
numerous  crevasses.  This  destructive 
clay  was  examined  later  by  M.  Blume,  the 
botanist.  He  describes  it  as  of  a  yellow- 
ish brown  color,  earthy  and  friable,  ex- 
haling a  sulphurous  odor,  and  burning 
readily.  No  doubt  a  large  portion  of  its 
substance  was  sulphur.  This  substance, 
called  bua  by  the  Malays,  is  analogous 
to  the  Moya  of  the  Andes,  of  Quito,  which 
^Humboldt  tells  us)  destroyed  thirty  or 
forty  thousand  lives  in  the  great  eruption 
of  1798. 

The  emission  of  enormous  quantities  of 
sulphurous  vapors  would  account  for  the 
existence  of  the  so-called  poison  val- 
leys of  Java.  The  famous  Guevo  Upas 
was  one  of  these.  An  extinct  crater  near 
Batur,  forming  a  small  valley  about  half 


a  mile  in  circumference,  was  thus  called, 
on  account  of  its  deadly  character,  the 
words  meaning  Valley  of  Poison.  It  was, 
and  probably  still  is,  a  region  of  terror  to 
the  inhabitants  of  the  surrounding  re* 
gion.  Sir  Charles  Lyell  says  that  every 
living  being  that  penetrates  into  the  valley 
falls  down  dead,  and  that  the  soil  is  cov- 
ered with  the  carcases  of  tigers,  deer, 
birds,  and  even  the  bones  of  men.  Tala- 
ga  Bodas  is  another  crater  described  by 
Reinwardt  as  a  poison  valley.  Pakama- 
ran,  a  small  depression  in  a  gorge  of  the 
Dieuge  Mountains,  has  a  similar  reputa* 
tion ;  but  when  visited  by  Dr.  Otto  Kuntze 
recently,  it  was  found  to  be  perfectly  free 
from  the  lethal  qualities  attributed  to  it 
by  the  inhabitants  of  the  neighborhood. 
It  is  approached  by  two  footpaths,  wind- 
ing downwards  from  the  hills  around  the 
valley.  Disregarding  the  entreaties  of 
his  servants.  Dr.  Kuntze  entered  the  val- 
ley of  death  by  one  of  these  paths,  and 
having  traversed  the  valley  in  several  di- 
rections, left  it  by  the  other  path.  "The 
natives  assured  him,**  he  tells  us,  "that 
he  would  find  the  valley  choked  up  by 
skeletons,  as  even  the  swiftest  birds  fly- 
ing above  it  would  drop  down  stone-dead, 
slain  by  its  poisonous  exhalations.'*  But 
he  failed  to  6nd  even  a  single  bone,  nor 
was  there  the  least  unpleasant  odor.  He 
therefore  pronounced  Pakamaran  "  to  be 
an  imposture,  the  offspring  of  ignorance 
and  superstition.*'  Yet  it  is  not  clear  that 
the  tradition  respecting  the  death-dealing 
qualities  of  this  valley  is  a  mere  supersti- 
tion. Quite  possibly  the  valley  was  as 
poisonous  at  some  former  time  as  it  is 
commonly  reputed  in  the  neighborhood  to 
be  now;  a  similar  tradition  prevailed  re- 
specting Avernus,  no  doubt  long  after  it 
had  assumed  its  present  innocuous  condi- 
tion. The  name  Avernus  is,  indeed,  de- 
rived from  the  Greek  aornos,  birdless, 
from  the  belief,  once  doubtless  true,  but 
now  no  longer  so,  that  no  bird  could  cross, 
even  on  swiftest  wing,  this  fatal  valley, 
without  being  destroyed  by  its  poisonous 
exhalations. 

A  comparison  of  what  has  been  said 
above  respecting  the  principal  volcanic 
eruptions  and  earthquakes  in  Java,  with 
the  records,  so  far  as  they  have  yet  reached 
us,  of  the  recent  tremendous  disturbance 
at  the  western  extremity  of  the  island  -^ 
shows  that  the  last  Javan  earthquake  has 
surpassed  all  previous  ones  of  which  any 
records  have  reached  us,  in  destruction  of 
life  and  property,  and  probably  also  in  the 
amount  of  material  change  which  it  has 
wrought*    The  fact  that  the  Straits  of 


EARTH   MOVEMENTS   IN  JAVA. 


301 


Saada  have  been  so  changed,  that  the 
passage  is  no  longer  safe  for  those  using 
the  old  charts,  speaks  clearly  enough  on 
the  last  point.  It  shows  that  the  subter- 
ranean forces  at  work  in  this  part  of  the 
earth's  surface  are  as  energetic  as  those 
whose  effects  have  been  observed  any- 
where in  either  hemisphere. 

With  regard  to  the  great  sea-wsve  which 
followed  the  recent  earthquake,  spreading 
at  least  as  far  as  San  Francisco,  there  are 
no  sufficient  reports  at  the  moment  when 
these  lines  are  written.  We  hear  that  on 
the  day  following  the  earthquake  a  series 
of  waves  flowed  in  at  San  Francisco,  the 
water  rising  one  foot  at  intervals  of  about 
an  hour,  and  several  hours  passed  before 
the  abnormal  undulation  of  the  water 
ceased.  This  wave,  by  the  way,  was  ab- 
surdly described  in  several  newspapers  as 
a  tidal  wave  —  a  term  which  is,  to  say  the 
least,  misleading.  If  the  word  tidal  wave 
be  understood,  as  it  usually  is,  to  refer  to 
waves  raised  by  the  action  of  the  moon 
and  sun,  then  the  expression  as  applied 
to  the  wave  raised  by  an  earthquake  is 
altogether  incorrect. 

Now,  in  the  case  of  the  great  earth- 
quake of  Peru,  on  August  13,  1868,  a 
much  greater  sea-wave  was  generated,  so 
far  at  least  as  the  recorded  disturbance 
at  San  Francisco  enables  us  to  judge ;  for 
at  Yokohama  —  which  is  considerably 
farther  from  Peru  than  San  Francisco  is 
from  the  Sunda  Straits  —  an  enorrar.  *' 
wave  flowed  in  on  August  "  '°^°  ' 
less,  but  still  vast  distances 


retired  and  returned  with  great  power  at 
intervals  of  about  two  hours.  Afterwards 
the  waters  began  to  be  less  disturbed ; 
but  it  was  not  until  the  18th,  or  four  days 
after  the  disturbance  began,  that  the  reg- 
ular ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide  was  resumed. 

It  is  probable  that  before  these  lines 
appear,  news  will  have  come  in  from  sev* 
eral  seaports  and  islands  where  sea  dis* 
turbances  caused  by  the  recent  earthquake 
have  been  observed.  But  already  it  Is 
tolerably  clear  that  the  oceanic  disturb- 
ances at  equal  distances  were  not  to  be 
compared  with  those  which  followed  the 
great  Peruvian  earthquake  of  1868  (a 
complete  record  of  these  remarkable  phe- 
nomena is  given  in  an  essay  entitled, 
I*  The  Greatest  Sea- Wave  ever  Known," 
in  the  first  series  of  my  **  Light  Science 
for  Leisure  Hours'*).  I  am  inclined,  in- 
deed, noticing  the  relatively  small  oceanic 
oscillation  observed  at  San  Francisco,  to 
regard  with  some  doubt  a  few  of  the  more 
stupendous  phenomena  which  have  beea 
described  in  some  papers,  and  especially 
in  one  New  York  paper,  in  connection 
with  the  recent  earthquake. 

And  now  it  remains  that  a  few  remarks 
should  be  made  on  the  evidence  whic^i,^ 
such  disturbances  as  lho!L2J%ls<^iay 


V«r8t','^bd1 


soon 


Java  ?^^.'.ff[j^rS^uni\\  it  was  very  ab- 
"^^^^^^^BHndslf  ^^      ^^'"  blindfolded. 


t?««ter  DunTber/     ^"^^®  *'"^^*'  ^"'^®  °**' 
part  of  n,e/f*'*^''qL Another  day,  the 

^''^t  ivi (/,,„/       !*   fo^made,  and  e\ 


*».  are 

fiT'Ves 


every- 
'"^ff'ons.  aV'tness  another 


14,  1868  '"  '■emains  e„'    I""" 

"".  "8  not  IT^  ret  to  cf  ,!!""-/;;y-    Thols>  '"•'""d  our 

j'»ousands  -JA^  ^"  ordinary 


the  great  sea-wave  were  still   .«  n^.   .     —  j^l  m  ^ 
markable.    Thus  some  of  the  ir-d  "q^,^"*.  as  seemT'^^' 

Tuomotu    group   were    comp  ji/e  earthl  *^^'*^'''«  interl'^; I  f""'^ ^verti^>^^^^^ 

merged.     In   the  lonely  Opatai/tv  xXi    ^  '"^ernai /,!  ??W '"  ihe  cf""!*^  ^^e  and  bor- 

coaling  station  of  the  kn?  TheL": ^^  *v/,/c/,  hli)l^^  ^^  of  thl u^^^^^ 

Zealan^d  steamships  was   the  po^^o! 'Jj,'^^^^^^^^^^^ 

low  which   swept  away.'  every  no...-  f  attraction   '.l^r'l  "^^ofsut 

^'CHadies  of 
ribbon 


coal 
roll 


;hips  was   the  povver  ^^>  ^''tai/tyVs  "'/^^ 
which  swept  away^'  every  ;7:,.°f  attrachi^^  ''^  ^^^'on  of  su^ 

dep6t.    Great  wp  ^erful  ^,?^'^'^'e  of  her  L'll"^'' 
in  here  at  inlervr'  '^^finitQ  /„  .  \  ^'•^Wtat/on  ^i  T 


roil  in   ncrc  «ic  luicrvr     ••"•iire  in    -^, '*—•'' larion   n»*.    . 

minutes,  and  several.^^n^e  throu"  K^f  l^"^  the  orolT"'' 

the  sea   resumed  li^^^Sht  ionX,.°"^  3^'  ^Pace'^&'J^ 

flow.    The  effecu  oi^  no^v   (and   ?""*  ^^''^t  sc%o^^"  ^ 

0^  New  Zealand  we^  .^or  teac^J)  \Z  *^^«   ^00"^^/^ 

water  v.  ^l  God's  ia^;'  ^r^  «quai/y  i^Z-^ 


.ress,ia 
m  Mrs. 


twenty   minutes 
seen  returni 
twelve  feet 
a  tremendous 
town.    Towar 
tired,  very  slo 
Us   lowest  eb 
another  enor 
port.    Four 


^^^'fi  ^^^nmscEifCKs'T^  but 


al^orT^'uttleton,;.",'  the  forcVo/'"   ^''"«  a/so'""//^ 

entirely  dry.  and  ^  ^  e/ram^  ^^e1rS»  .  -o,.er.o^^..u.,  ;  uu. 

she 


300 


EARTH   MOVEMENTS   IN  JAVA. 


river  banks  sank  down,  and  filled  the 
channel  of  the  river,  and  the  waters  hav- 
ing to  find  their  way  under  the  mass  of 
earth  thus  thrown  across  the  river  from 
either  side,  flowed  out  thick  and  muddy 
beyond  these  obstructions.  The  Tanga- 
ran  River  was  similarly  dammed  up  by  no 
less  than  nine  landslips ;  for  doubtless 
Sir  Charles  Lyell  is  right  in  considering 
that,  when  the  accounts  speak  of  the  fall 
of  hills  into  the  river,  great  landslips  only 
were  meant. 

It  is  singular  that  in  a  later  earthquake 
in  Java  —  namely,  the  earthquake  at  Uatur 
in  1786  —  a  river  was  forced  by  the 
changes  which  took  place  in  the  banks  to 
pursue  a  subterranean  course.  The 
river  Dotog;  began,  after  the  earthquake, 
to  pour  into  one  of  several  newly  formed 
rents,  and  it  has  ever  since  continued  to 
flow  along  the  new  course  which  it  formed 
for  itself  underground. 

It  appears  from  all  the  records  of  Javan 
earthquakes  and  volcanic  disturbances, 
that  the  feature  noticed  at  the  outset  is 
really  characteristic  of  subterranean  dis- 
turbances in  Java.  As  De  Buch  has 
said,  it  would  seem  that  the  effect  of  vol- 
canic action  in  Java  is  to  develop  enor- 
mous quantities  of  sulphurous  and  aque- 
ous vapors,  which  attacking  the  rocks 
forming  the  interior  of  the  mountain,  de- 
compose them  into  the  consistence  of 
paste,  and  at  length,  when  the  solid  mass 
is  destroyed  so  as  no  longer  to  be  able  to 
oppose  an  effective  resistance,  the  vapors 
force  their  way  out,  and  the  fluid  mass 
escapes  through  the  crevices,  not  like  a 
current  of  viscous  lava,  but  as  torrents  of 
water,  leaping  through  every  tiny  opening 
they  can  find.  M.  Payen,  painter  and 
naturalist,  who  endeavored  to  approach 
Galungung  after  the  eruption  of  1S22, 
was  prevented  by  masses  of  clay  and 
numerous  crevasses.  This  destructive 
clay  was  examined  later  by  M.  Blume,  the 
botanist.  He  describes  it  as  of  a  yellow- 
ish brown  color,  earthy  and  friable,  ex- 
haling a  sulphurous  odor,  and  burning 
readily.  No  doubt  a  large  portion  of  its 
substance  was  sulphur.  This  substance, 
called  bua  by  the  Malays,  is  analogous 
to  the  Moya  of  the  Andes,  of  Quito,  which 
^Humboldt  tells  us)  destroyed  thirty  or 
forty  thousand  lives  in  the  great  eruption 
of  1798. 

The  emission  of  enormous  quantities  of 
sulphurous  vapors  would  account  for  the 
existence  of  the  so-called  poison  val- 
leys of  Java.  The  famous  Guevo  Upas 
was  one  of  these.  An  extinct  crater  near 
Batur,  forming  a  small  valley  about  half 


a  mile  in  circumference,  was  thus  called, 
on  account  of  its  deadly  character,  the 
words  meaning  Valley  of  Poison.  It  was, 
and  probably  still  is,  a  region  of  terror  to 
the  inhabitants  of  the  surrounding  re- 
gion. Sir  Charles  Lyell  says  that  every 
living  being  that  penetrates  into  the  valley 
fails  down  dead,  and  that  the  soil  is  cov- 
ered with  the  carcases  of  tigers,  deer, 
birds,  and  even  the  bones  of  men.  Tala- 
ga  Bodas  is  another  crater  described  by 
Reinwardt  as  a  poison  valley.  Pakama- 
ran,  a  small  depression  in  a  gorge  of  the 
Dieuge  Mountains,  has  a  similar  reputa- 
tion ;  but  when  visited  by  Dr.  Otto  Kuntze 
recently,  it  was  found  to  be  perfectly  free 
from  the  lethal  qualities  attributecl  to  it 
by  the  inhabitants  of  the  neighborhood. 
It  is  approached  by  two  footpaths,  wind- 
ing downwards  from  the  hills  around  the 
valley.  Disregarding  the  entreaties  of 
his  servants.  Dr.  Kuntze  entered  the  val- 
ley of  death  by  one  of  these  paths,  and 
having  traversed  the  valley  in  several  di- 
rections, left  it  by  the  other  path.  "The 
natives  assured  him,**  he  tells  us,  "that 
he  would  find  the  valle}'  choked  up  by 
skeletons,  as  even  the  swiftest  birds  fly- 
ing above  it  would  drop  down  stone-dead, 
slain  by  its  poisonous  exhalations."  But 
he  failed  to  find  even  a  single  bone,  nor 
was  there  the  least  unpleasant  odor.  He 
therefore  pronounced  Pakamaran  "  to  be 
an  imposture,  the  offspring  of  ignorance 
and  superstition."  Yet  it  is  not  clear  that 
the  tradition  respecting  the  death-dealing 
qualities  of  this  valley  is  a  mere  supersti- 
tion. Quite  possibly  the  valley  was  as 
poisonous  at  some  former  time  as  it  is 
commonly  reputed  in  the  neighborhood  to 
be  now;  a  similar  tradition  prevailed  re- 
specting Avernus,  no  doubt  long  after  it 
had  assumed  its  present  innocuous  condi- 
tion. The  name  Avernus  is,  indeed,  de- 
rived from  the  Greek  aornos,  birdless, 
from  the  belief,  once  doubtless  true,  but 
now  no  longer  so,  that  no  bird  could  cross, 
even  on  swiftest  wing,  this  fatal  valley, 
without  being  destroyed  by  its  poisonous 
exhalations. 

A  comparison  of  what  has  been  said 
above  respecting  the  principal  volcanic 
eruptions  and  earthquakes  in  Java,  with 
the  records,  so  far  as  they  have  yet  reached 
us,  of  the  recent  tremendous  disturbance 
at  the  western  extremity  of  the  island  -^ 
shows  that  the  last  Javan  earthquake  has 
surpassed  all  previous  ones  of  which  any 
records  have  reached  us,  in  destruction  of 
life  and  property,  and  probably  also  in  the 
amount  of  material  change  which  it  has 
wrought.    The  fact  that  the  Straits  of 


EARTH   MOVEMENTS   IN  JAVA. 


301 


Suoda  have  been  so  changed,  that  the 
passage  is  no  longer  safe  for  those  using 
the  old  charts,  speaks  clearly  enough  on 
the  last  point.  It  shows  that  the  subter- 
ranean forces  at  work  in  this  part  of  the 
earth's  surface  are  as  energetic  as  those 
whose  effects  have  been  observed  any- 
where in  either  hemisphere. 

With  regard  to  the  great  sea-wave  which 
followed  the  recent  earthquake,  spreading 
at  least  as  far  as  San  Francisco,  there  are 
no  sufficient  reports  at  the  moment  when 
these  lines  are  written.  We  hear  that  on 
the  day  following  the  earthquake  a  series 
of  waves  flowed  in  at  San  Francisco,  the 
water  rising  one  foot  at  intervals  of  about 
an  hour,  and  several  hours  passed  before 
the  abnormal  undulation  of  the  water 
ceased.  This  wave,  by  the  way,  was  ab- 
surdly described  in  several  newspapers  as 
a  tidal  wave  —  a  term  which  is,  to  say  the 
least,  misleading.  If  the  word  tidal  wave 
be  understood,  as  it  usually  is,  to  refer  to 
waves  raised  by  the  action  of  the  moon 
and  sun,  then  the  expression  as  applied 
to  the  wave  raised  by  an  earthquake  is 
altogether  incorrect. 

Now,  in  the  case  of  the  great  earth- 
quake of  Peru,  on  August  13,  1868,  a 
much  greater  sea-wave  was  generated,  so 
far  at  least  as  the  recorded  disturbance 
at  San  P>ancisco enables  us  to  judge;  for 
at    Yokohama  —  which    is    considerably 


retired  and  returned  with  great  power  at 
intervals  of  about  two  hours.  Afterwards 
the  waters  began  to  be  less  disturbed ; 
but  it  was  not  until  the  i8th,  or  four  days 
after  the  disturbance  began,  that  the  reg- 
ular ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide  was  resumed. 

It  is  probable  that  before  these  lines 
appear,  news  will  have  come  in  from  sev- 
eral seaports  and  islands  where  sea  dis- 
turbances caused  by  the  recent  earthquake 
have  been  observed.  But  already  it  Is 
tolerably  clear  that  the  oceanic  disturb- 
ances at  equal  distances  were  not  to  be 
compared  with  those  which  followed  the 
great  Peruvian  earthquake  of  186S  (a 
complete  record  of  these  remarkable  phe- 
nomena is  given  in  an  essay  entitled, 
"  The  Greatest  Sea- Wave  ever  Known,** 
in  the  first  series  of  my  "Light  Science 
for  Leisure  Hours'*).  I  am  inclined,  in« 
deed,  noticing  the  relatively  small  oceanic 
oscillation  observed  at  San  Francisco,  to 
regard  with  some  doubt  a  few  of  the  more 
stupendous  phenomena  which  have  been 
described  in  some  papers,  and  especially 
in  one  New  York  paper,  in  connection 
with  the  recent  earthquake. 

And  now  it  remains  that  a  few  remarks 
should  be  made  on  the  evidence  whicji 
such  disturbances  as  *^^rii^iJtilllT''*iiiii 
Java  affordo^Jftipgtrral  vitality.    The 
materia!„|;f*Sf  a  planet  is  beginning  to 
°^-^cognized  as  being  no  less  real  than 


n 


farther  from  Peru  than  San  Francisco  \s^'^  jjfe  ^f  ^  plant  or  of  an  animal.     It  is 

from   the   Sunda  Straits  — an  enornjgj  a  different  kind  of  life;  there  is  neither 

wave  flowed  in  on  August  14,  186?^  j^^   consciousness  such  as  we  see  in  one  of 

less,  but  still  vast  distances  the  ei^|>^3  q{ 

the  great  sea-wave  were  still  ^'^^^  ^.g. 

markable.    Thus  some  of  the  U     q£  ^|^q 

Tuomotu    group    were    comj*^^.      ^^^ 

merged.     In  the  lonely  Opf^,   j^^,     ^^e 

coaling  station  of  the  Pan^^  ^„j  ^^^ 

Zealand  steamships  was^-^jj^^  .     ^  ^il- 

low  which  swept  away^  portion  of  the 

coal  dep6t.    Great  w'^es   continued  to 

roll  in  here  at  inter^^^  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^^^^ 

7  Hav« 


mmutes,  and  severa/^  ^^^^^  ^^^^/^ 

the  sea   resumed  1     J^^^       ^^b  and 

^V  M  ^7""  I  H  /^served  on  the  shores 
of  New  Zealand  vv/     ^^jjj  ^^^^  ^^^^^^^^ 

^^%  T^''•Ml  f  /as  observed  to  retreat 
at  Port  Littletoy      jj  ^^^  ^„  l,f^ 

entirely  dry,  iin±  remained  for  about 
twenty  minutes'  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^^  ,,.^3 
seen  returning^.j^^  ^  ^^,1  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^, 
twelve  feet  in  .  .  ^^.^  ^^^^^^  ^^^h 
a  tremendous  'g    •  ^^^  ^„d 

town.     Towajf  ^     ^^^^^  ^   j„  ,g. 

Isl^res^  elf  IV  as  before,  not  reaching 
us   lo\\est  ei^  ^.jj  g.^^     j^^   ^^^^  jatgr, 

^[1?.  ir^nr 'n^ous  wave  rushed  into  the 
port.     Four  ^^  ^.^  ^^^  ^^j^^  ^j^^  3^^ 


those  forms  of  life,  nor  such  systematic 
progress  as  we  recognize  in  plant  life. 
But  it  is  life,  all  the  same.  It  has  had  a 
beginning,  like  all  things  which  exist; 
and  like  them  all,  it  must  have  an  end. 

The  lifetime  of  a  world  like  our  earth 
may  be  truly  said  to  be  a  lifetime  of  cool- 
ing. Beginning  in  the  glowing,  vaporous 
condition  which  we  see  in  the  sun  and 
stars,  an  orb  in  space  passes  gradually  to 
the  condition  of  a  cool,  non-luminous 
mass,  and  thence,  with  progress  depend- 
ing chiefly  on  its  size  (slower  for  the  large 
masses  and  quicker  for  the  small  ones),  it 
passes  steadily  onwards  towards  inertness 
and  death.  Regarding  the  state  in  which 
we  find  the  earth  to  be  as  the  stage  of  a 
planet's  mid-life  —  viz.,  that  in  which  the 
conditions  are  such  that  multitudinous 
forms  of  life  can  exist  upon  its  surface, 
we  may  call  that  stage  death  in  which 
these  conditions  have  entirely  disap- 
peared. Now,  among  the  conditions  nec- 
essary for  the  support  of  life  in  general  are 
some  which  are  unfavorable  to  individual 
life.    Among  these  may  be  specially  noted 


30* 


SOME   REMINISCENCES   OF  JANE   WELSH   CARLYLE, 


the  action  of  those  subterranean  forces 
by  which  the  earth's  surface  is  continually 
modelled  and  remodelled.  It  has  been 
remarked  with  jgfreat  justice,  by  Sir  John 
Herschel,  that  since  the  continents  of  the 
earth  were  formed,  forces  have  been  at 
work  which  would  long  since  have  sufficed 
to  have  destroyed  every  trace  of  land, 
and  to  have  left  the  surface  of  our  globe 
one  vast,  limitless  ocean.  But  against 
these  forces  counteracting  forces  have 
been  at  work,  constantly  disturbing  the 
earth^s  crust,  and,  by  keeping  it  irregular, 
leaving  room  for  ocean  in  the  depres- 
sions, and  leaving  the  higher  parts  as 
continents  and  islands  above  the  ocean's 
surface.  If  these  disturbing  forces  ceased 
to  work,  the  work  of  disintegrating,  wear- 
ing away,  and  washing  off  the  land  would 
go  on  unresisted.  In  periods  of  time 
such  as  to  us  seem  long,  no  very  great 
effect  would  be  produced;  but  such  pe- 
riods as  belong  to  the  past  of  our  earth, 
even  to  that  comparatively  short  part  of 
the  past  during  which  she  has  been  the 
abode  of  life,  would  suffice  to  produce 
effects  utterly  inconsistent  with  the  exis- 
tence of  life  on  land.  Only  by  the  action 
^of  her  vulcanian  energies  can  the  earth 

She  is.  thenTmi^n.rtSief  ''".  «'"*"  '° 
support  life  in  those  very  thftJftj^iiLJ'T'  * 
too  often,  many  lives  are  lost.  TTft>i*P 
heavals  and  downsinkings,  the  rushing 
ocean  in  great  waves  over  islands  and 
seaports,  by  which  tens  of  thousands  of 
human  beings,  and  still  greater  numbers 
of  animals,  lose  their  lives,  are  part  of  the 
evidence  which  the  earth  gives  that  within 
her  frame  there  still  remains  enough  of 
vitality  for  the  support  of  life  during  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  years  yet  to  come. 

This  vitality  is  not  due,  as  seems  com- 
monly imagined,  to  the  earth's  internal 
heat.  Rather  the  earth's  internal  heat  is 
due  to  the  vitality  with  which  her  frame 
is  instinct.  The  earth's  vitality  is  in  real- 
ity due  to  the  power  of  attraction  which 
resides  in  every  particle  of  her  mass  — 
that  wonderful  force  of  gravitation,  omni- 
present, infinite  in  extent,  the  property 
whose  range  throughout  all  space  should 
have  taught  long  since  what  science  is 
teaching  now  (and  has  been  foolishly 
blamed  for  teaching),  the  equally  infinite 
range  of  God's  laws  in  time  also.  By 
virtue  of  the  force  of  gravity  pervading 
her  whole  frame,  the  crust  of  the  earth  is 
continually  undergoing  changes,  as  the 
loss  of  heat  and  consequent  contraction, 
or  chemical  changes  beneath  the  surface, 
leave  room  for  the  movement  inwards  of 


the  rock-substances  of  the  crust,  with 
crushing,  grinding  action,  and  the  genera- 
tion of  intense  heat.  If  the  earth's  en- 
ergy of  gravity  were  lost,  the  internal 
fires  would  die  out  —  not,  indeed,  quickly, 
but  in  a  period  of  time  very  short  com- 
pared with  that  during  which,  maintained 
as  they  constantly  are  by  the  effects  of 
internal  movements,  they  will  doubtless 
continue.  They  are,  in  a  sense,  the  cause 
of  earthquakes,  volcanoes,  and  so  forth, 
because  they  prepare  the  earth's  interior 
for  the  action  of  her  energies  of  attrac- 
tion. But  it  is  to  these  energies  and  the 
material  which  as  yet  they  have  on  which 
to  work,  that  the  earth's  vitality  is  due. 
She  will  not,  indeed,  retain  her  vitality  as 
long  as  she  retains  her  gravitating  power. 
That  power  must  have  something  to  work 
on.  Whtfn  the  whole  frame  of  the  earth 
has  been  compressed  to  a  condition  of  the 
greatest  density  which  her  attractive  ener- 
gies can  produce,  then  terrestrial  gravity 
will  have  nothing  left  to  work  on  within 
the  earth,  and  the  earth's  globe  will  be  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  dead.  She  will 
continue  to  exercise  her  attractive  force 
on  bodies  outside  of  her.  She  will  ro- 
tate on  her  axis,  revolve  around  the  sun, 
and  reflect  his  rays  of  light  and  heat. 
But  she  will  have  no  more  life  of  her  own 
than  has  the  moon,  which  still  discharges 
all  these  planetary  functions,  yet  has  a 
surface  arid  and  airless,  dreary,  desolate, 
^  dead. 

such   disturbances  as  the  recent 

akes,  while  disastrous  in  their  ef- 

those   living    near    the  shaken 

jsure  us  that  as  yet  the  earth  is 

«^»  «oo/^Vh-    She  is  still  full  of  vital- 
not  near  dnL_  j_      i       ^     j      *• 


a 

B 
earthq 
fects   i<S 
regions, 

"°y.  °Tho'irs\'"^,»-°»y'  tens,  hundreds  of 
thousands  Jl^^y^r"  «"'«""  P?="'  be- 
fore even  the  b??l''"'"«  "J  "'*  '"\'^  '*  '***": 
in  the  steady  diK"**^:'''""'"  *°*'  ''""°''^• 

of  the  land  withoul^""^""""  "'  ''«"'«'»»* 
K., »!,.  o/.>;».  «f  .„«terranean  forces, 
by  the  action  of  sul^^j,  ^^  Proctor. 


V 


\ 


From  Temple  Bar. 


SOME   REMINISCENCES^^  ^^^^  WELSH 

CARLYL^* 


"  Speak  of  me  as  I  am* 
Nothing  extenuate.  \  malice." 
N  or  set  down  aught  is 

Although  the  "Men^"*'*"  °/,  ^'.' 
and  Mrs.  Carlyle  have  bee?  """s^ally  i«|- 
nute  and  exhaustive,  they  h^"  <:»"ed  forth 
so  much  interesting  discui*'""',  "'"'??.' 
favorable  or  otherwise,  thl'  .^  '$*  *°T 
tional  recollections  of  this  S'"""*  «^°»P'« 


SOME   REMINISCENCES   OF  JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE. 


303 


may  not  be  unwelcome  from  one  who 
lived  much  in  their  society  during  fifteen 
or  sixteen  years  of  their  lives.  It  was 
at  the  Grange,  during  the  lifetime  of  the 
first  Lady  Ash  burton,  that  we  first  spent 
some  weeks  under  the  same  roof  with 
them. 

Much  commiseration  has  been  ex- 
pressed for  Mrs.  Carlyle,  and  she  certainly 
suffered  greatly  from  various  ailments, 
but  her  life  had  its  bright  side  also.  She 
remained  a  good  deal  in  her  own  room  at 
the  Grange  during  the  early  part  of  the 
day,  whilst  her  husband  took  long  walks, 
eagerly  accompanied  by  some  of  hismany 
admirers.  But  when  Mrs.  Carlyle  did 
appear,  it  was  by  no  means  as  an  insig- 
nificant or  neglected  personage.  She  was 
always  especially  taken  care  of  by  Lady 
Ashburton,  and  she  expected,  and  was 
conceded,  a  certain  prominence  amongst 
the  many  other  visitors  of  more  or  less 
distinction  in  that  delightful  and  most 
hospitable  house. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  at  that  time  was  slight, 
neat,  and  erect  in  figure,  animated  in 
expression,  with  very  good  eyes  and 
teeth,  but  with  no  pretension  to  beauty. 

She  was  remarkably  practical  in  all  the 
details  of  daily  life,  yet  with  an  inconsis- 
tent  impulsiveness  and  vehemence  of  char- 
acter  which  made  it  impossible  to  predict 
beforehand  how  she  would  act  on  any 
given  occasion — except  where  Carlyle 
was  concerned.  Towards  him  she  was 
unwearied  in  consistent  self-sacrifice,  and 
this  being  the  fixed  rule  of  her  life,  she 
gave  herself  the  freedom,  and  enjoyed 
showing  up  his  peculiarities  to  her  friends, 
as  mere  motes  in  the  sunbeam,  from  her 
own  point  of  view,  —  such  as  his  reti- 
cence of  praise,  and  his  exacting  habits 
about  domestic  arrangements.  These 
she  recounted  with  a  lively  zest,  which 
was  particularly  amusing,  since  there  was 
no  malice  in  it.  She  placed  him  on  a 
pedestal,  once  for  all,  and  herself  at  his 
feet,  working  for  him  in  all  ways.  **  If  he 
would  only  say  he  is  satisfied,*'  she  some- 
times complained, —  **but  I  have  had  to 
learn  that  when  he  does  not  find  fault 
he  is  pleased;  and  that  has  to  content 
me." 

"  The  very  least  attention  from  Carlyle 
jast  glorifies  me,"  she  said  one  day. 
**  When  I  have  one  of  my  headaches,  and 
the  sensation  of  red-hot  knitting-needles 
darting  into  my  brain,  Carlyle's  way  of 
expressing  sympathy  is  to  rest  a  heavy 
hand  on  the  top  of  my  head,  and  keep  it 
there  in  perfect  silence  for  several  sec- 
onds, so  that  although   I  could  scream 


with  nervous  agony,  I  sit  like  a  martyr, 
smiling  with  joy  at  such  a  proof  of  pro- 
found pity  from  him." 

Mrs.  Carlyle*s  instinct  certainly  was  to 
take  the  lead.  At  the  Grange  this  was 
not  easy,  for  the  grandeur  and  brilliancy 
of  our  hostess  could  not  fail  to  be  the  first 
attraction  and  interest  to  all  around  her. 
The  late  Mrs.  Twistleton  wrote  in  those 
days,  that  Lady  Ashburton  possessed 
"the  fairy  gift  of  scattering  pearls  and 
diamonds  whenever  she  spoke."  To  those 
who  knew  her  more  intimately,  the  wise 
counsels,  the  tender  consideration,  and 
the  protection  of  her  faithful  friendship, 
were  beyond  all  superficial  comparison  to 
**  pearls  and  diamonds,"  and  can  never  be 
forgotten. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  possessed  social  courage 
to  a  remarkable  degree.  On  one  occa- 
sion, whilst  at  the  Grange,  she  suggested 
an  experiment,  which  she  said  never  failed 
to  amuse.  The  visitors  were  called  to- 
gether, statesmen,  fastidious  ladies,  men 
of  letters,  twenty  or  thirty  in  number,  to 
stand  in  front  of  the  house,  whilst  Mrs. 
Carlyle,  blindfolded,  promised  conscien- 
tiously to  walk  in  as  straight  a  line  as  she 
possibly  could,  to  a  fixed  point  about  a 
hundred  yards  down  the  avenue.  Noth- 
ing seemed  easier  at  first,  but  very  soon 
divergences  began,  until  it  was  very  ab- 
surd to  see  Mrs.  Carlyle,  still  blindfolded, 
groping  about  under  the  trees,  quite  out 
of  the  line  intended.  Another  day,  the 
same  roll-call  was  again  made,  and  every* 
body  was  assembled  to  witness  another 
experiment,  organized  also  by  the  ever 
energetic  Mrs.  Carlyle,  who  induced  our 
ever  courteous  host  to  fire,  at  an  ordinary 
board,  set  up  as  a  target  —  the  gun  loaded 
with  a  common  dip  tallow  candle,  and  bor- 
ing just  as  clean  a  hole  through  the 
wood  as  a  bullet  would  have  done.  This 
went  off  very  successfully. 

On  New  Year's  Day  several  ladies  of 
the  party  received  little  colored  ribbon 
rosettes,  to  be  pinned  on  to  their  dress,  in 
token  of  good-will  and  kindness,  from  Mrs. 
Carlyle,  and  made  by  herself. 

Everybody  was  interested  in  her,  but 
she  was  generally  characterized  as  "i/^ry 
peculiar^*  partly,  perhaps,  from  the  many 
unusual  kindly  devices  for  amusing  oth- 
ers, which  she  took  the  trouble  to  in- 
augurate, and  partly  because  she  seemed 
at  the  same  time  to  maintain  a  certain 
attitude  of  proud  defiance  towards  those 
verv  few  sceptics  who  did  not  appear  to 
uncferstand  or  recognize  her  remarkable 
ability. 

To  those  in  high  social  position  she 


304 


SOME   REMINISCENCES   OF  JANE  WELSH   CARLYLE. 


testified  a  rather  exajs^c^erated  deference, 
and  took  especial  pleasure  in  winning 
their  regard.  But  amongst  her  more  ha- 
bitual associates  she  required  homage, 
rather  than  equal  terms.  She  did  not 
pass  over  or  neglect  those  whose  worldly 
surroundings  were  insignificant;  quite  the 
reverse;  but,  where  it  was  possible,  she 
preferred,  like  everybody  else,  to  asso- 
ciate with  those  who  were  "on  the 
heights." 

In  conversation,  clever  and  amusing  as 
she  often  was,  she  had  the  fatal  propen- 
sity of  telling  her  good  stories  at  extraor- 
dinary length.  With  her  Scotch  accent, 
and  her  perseverance  in  finishing  off  every 
detail,  those  who  were  merely  friendly 
acquaintances,  and  not  positive  devotees, 
longed  for  an  abridgement  —  perhaps  also 
to  have  their  own  turn  in  the  conversa- 
tion. But  there  were  certainly  enthusi- 
asts for  Mrs.  Carlyle,  who  could  listen 
with  delight  to  her  longest  narrations, 
chapter  after  chapter,  without  flinching. 

To  the  diffident  and  the  young  she  was 
certainly  alarming,  as  most  complicated 
natures  cannot  fail  to  be.  She  was  fond 
of  analyzing  characters,  and  observant  of 
small  peculiarities,  to  which  she  attached 
undue  importance.  You  felt  you  were 
weighed  in  the  balance  by  a  keenly  acute 
mind,  which  was  liable  to  be  swayed  by 
impulse  —  either  to  a  generous  extreme 
of  .confidence  and  affection,  or  to  a  cold 
and  guarded  suspiciousness  «^  and  **all 
or  nothing"  appeared  to  be  her  rule  if 
her  acquaintance  was  to  expand  into 
friendship. 

When  the  question  arose  of  buying  np 
and  silencing  the  noise  of  the  cocks  and 
hens  which  disturbed  Carlyle's  rest  at 
night,  his  wife  left  the  Grange,  as  he  has 
described  in  his  **  Reminiscences,"  to  get 
this  matter  settled  for  him.  She  had  to 
start  very  early.  We  joined  her  at  break- 
fast; but  she  was  ill  with  headache,  and 
could  not  eat.  At  the  carnage  door,  early 
as  it  was,  Carlyle  appeared,  just  in  time 
to  say  good-bye.  He  asked  with  evident 
concern  after  her  headache,  and  whether 
she  had  eaten  anv  breakfast.  *'  No,  quite 
impossible;  but  by-and-byshe  might  have 
eaten  a  bit  of  toast  if  she  had  thought  of 
taking  it  —  too  late  now." 

Instantly  Carlyle  had  darted  into  the 
bouse,  and  hurried  back,  just  able  to 
throw  the  bit  of  toast  into  the  carriage 
window.  She  smiled  pleasantly  at  him 
as  she  drove  away  —  toast  in  hand.  Af- 
terwards, on  our  return  to  London,  she 
described  her  charwoman  sort  of  work  to 
get  all  in  perfect  order  for  her  husband's 


arrival;  and  when  all  was  complete  —  his 
dinner  ready,  his  armchair  in  its  usual 
attitude,  his  pipe  and  tobacco  prepared  ; 
all  looking  as  comfortable  as  possible  — 
Mrs.  Carlyle  sat  down  at  last  to  rest,  and 
to  expect  him,  with  a  ouiet  mind.  He 
arrived;  and,  ** after  he  Iiad  just  greeted 
me,  what  do  you  think  he  did?  He 
walked  to  the  window,  and  shook  it,  and 
asked,  •  Where's  the  wedge  of  the  win- 
dow ? '  and  until  we  had  found  that  blessed 
wedgei  nothing  would  content  him.  He 
said  the  window  would  rattle  and  spoil  all. 
That's  just  Carlyle."  This  was  said  with 
the  most  comic  liveliness  and  not  as  a 
grievance. 

The  practical  power  of  utilizing  others, 
so  as  to  avoid  waste  of  time  or  labor,  was 
very  remarkable.  The  poor  head  so  oftea 
suffering,  was  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Carlyle's 
failing  to  keep  an  engagement  to  dine 
with  us  one  day.  There  was  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  we  were  told  the  postman 
wished  to  speak  to  us.  The  man  said,  as 
he  went  his  rounds,  the  lady  at  5  Cheyne 
Row,  who  was  wrapped  in  a  blanket  on 
the  rug  by  the  dining-room  fire,  had  sent 
for  him  to  come  in  as  he  passed  her  door, 
and  had  asked  him  to  tell  us  that  she  was 
too  ill  to  write,  and  was  very  sorry  she 
could  not  dine  with  us.  A  friend  gave 
her  the  little  curly  dog  to  which,  so  often, 
reference  is  made  in  her  letters,  and  it 
was  a  question  how  to  give  it  exercise 
enough.  This  same  postman  was  applied 
to,  and  agreed  to  let  the  dog  run  by  his 
side  as  he  delivered  his  letters.  The  dog 
required  to  be  washed  once  a  week,  and 
the  one  valuable  maid  obviously  not  hav- 
ing time  to  wash  the  curly-haired  dog,  the 
washerwoman  was  asked  if  she  could  not 
fetch  it  away  with  the  clothes  for  the 
wash,  and  bring  it  back  the  same  day 
clean  and  neat.  This  was  arranged  for 
sixpence  a  week,  and  only  once  failed  to 
be  successful ;  when  the  laundress,  either 
in  carelessness  or  in  over-zeal  to  produce 
a  good  effect,  washed  the  poor  little  dog 
in  water  with  so  much  starch  in  it  that  it 
produced  an  irritation  of  the  skin. 

These  little  stories  of  every-dav  life 
were  q^uite  short,  and  used  to  be  tolcl  with 
an  enjoyment  of  tone  which  cannot  be 
reproduced.  To  make  others  of  use, 
came  naturally  to  one  who  worked  with 
such  good-will  to  help  all  who  needed  it; 
beginning  with  Carlyle  she  did  not  stop 
there,  but  was  full  of  helpfulness  to  otb« 
ers  in  every  degree.  And  in  spite  of  ill- 
health,  ana  of  many  vexations,  these  few 
pages  may  bear  witness  that  there  was 
much  to  light  up  and  to  sustain  her,  from 


■) 


SOME    REMINISCENCES   OF   JANE   WELSH    CARLYLE, 


305 


many  sources  of  interest  outside  her  own 
home,  as  well  as  within  it. 

The  two  following  letters  may  be  read 
with  interest,  and  will  represent  her  more 
playful  moods ;  — 

My  dear , 

I  stand  amazed  before  you  as  in  the  presence 
of  the  Infinite  !  How  you  can  **  make  wits "  in 
this  weather  !     How  you  can  so  much  as  try  it ! 

Oh,  permit  me^  at  least,  to  lie  stupid.  All  I 
desire  of  gods  or  men,  for  the  moment,  is  just 
leave  to  be  as  stupid  as  I  please.  In  plain 
prose  then,  we  will  be  at  the  station  at  one 
o'clock  on  Monday,  "if  all  go  well,"  as  Mr. 
C  *s  phrase  is,  which  means  intrinsically,  if  Mr. 
C.  do  not  contrive  to  be  too  late.  Hoping  that 
there  may  be  no  quarrelling  or  breaking  of 
heads  among  us,  before  we  get  back, 

Yours  faithfully, 
Jane  Carlylk. 

5  Cheyne  Row,  Saturday,  February  25,  1865. 

My  dear ^ 

You  are  very  absurd  I  —  a  great  merit,  let 
me  tell  you,  in  these  sensible  times  !  But  you 
must  not  come  to-night;  you  must  come  to- 
morrow night,  or  Monday  night.  Because, 
you  see,  there  are  two  "  terrible  blockheads  " 
coming  to-night,  by  their  own  appointment, 
and  Mr.  C.  says  he  "  wouldn't  for  any  consid- 
eration have  you  there  along  with  such  a  pair 
of  jackasses " !      I  suggested    that  the  very 

i'ackassness  of  the  people  might  amuse  you ; 
>ut  he  declared,  "No,  no  !  such  a  combination 
is  not  to  be  thought  of ! " 

You  will  come  to-morrow  evening,  or  Mon- 
day? We  shall  be  going  away  presently  to 
Seaton,  now  the  weather  is  auspicious.  But 
Lady  Asbburton  was  to  fix  the  day. 

Truly  yours, 
Jane  Carlylb. 

Does  this  vituperative  phraseoloojy  give 
the  impression  of  an  unkindly  man?  It 
did  not  strike  us  as  malignant  or  venom- 
ous when  we  read  it  in  those  days.  We 
only  found  it  very  amusing.  Carlyle  was 
privileged  in  his  intolerance,  and  from  the 
expressive  epithets  quoted  by  his  wife,  we 
merely  gathered  that  some  rather  dull 
people  would  be  at  his  house.  Could  it 
have  been  on  this  occasion  that  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle described  herself  as  having  become 
so  much  irritated  by  the  stupidity  of  a 
conventional  set  of  visitors  who  sat  round 
the  fire,  talking  the  **  stupidest  common- 
place," that  at  last  in  desperation,  she  felt 
that  she  must  create  a  diversion  of  some 
kind,  and  suddenly  threw  her  cup  of  tea 
into  the  fireplace  ?  Such  a  clatter  of  con- 
dolence and  surprise  then  arose,  and  so 
much  congratulation,  because,  if  the  cup 
was  broken,  the  saucer  was  saved ;  such 
a  Utile  **  storm  in  a  teacup,"  in  short,  was 
raised  by  this  reckless  action,  that  the  ice 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV,  2256 


of  reserve  was  broken  at  all  events,  and 
the  conversation  thawed  and  became  more 
genial.  She  seemed  quite  pleased  with 
her  feat. 

With  one  more  characteristic  anecdote 
of  Mrs.  Carlyle,  these  few  recollections 
shall  conclude. 

Some  reference  is  made  in  the  "  Me- 
morials "  to  a  misunderstanding^  with 
Colonel  Sterling.  There  is,  therefore,  no 
impropriety  in  referring  to  it  here.  He 
was  a  very  old  and  devoted  friend  of  Mrs. 
Carlyle's,  and  he  was  much  pained,  when 
ordered  off  to  India,  that  he  was  unable  to 
take  leave  of  her.  She  had  refused  to  see 
him.  It  seemed  as  if  some  friendly  medi* 
ator  might  procure  a  reconciliation.  Each 
thought  the  other  to  blame,  ;and  yet  it 
was  obvious  the  sincere  regard  of  so  many 
years  could  not  be  quite  extinct. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  did  not  refuse  to  hear  us 
on  his  behalf,  and  every  argument  was 
used  to  induce  her  to  relent,  and  to  shake 
hands  with  her  old  friend  before  he  left 
England.  She  listened  quietly  to  all  that 
was  urged  upon  her,  and  at  length,  when 
a  pause  came,  she  said  she  had  made  a 
curious  discovery.  She  had  long  known 
that  she  was  herself,  **  by  the  natural  fit- 
ness of  things,"  intended  for  a  detective 
policeman  ;  the  career  for  which  we  had 
been  destined  was  that  of  a  special  plead- 
er. Every  argument  had  been  exhausted 
against  her  own  view  that  it  was  better 
not  to  meet  Colonel  Sterling  again  —  that 
she  had  no  answer  to  make  that  she  was 
conquered.  **  You  mav  tell  him  to  call, 
but  it  will  do  no  good." 

Of  course  he  did  call,  and  we  were  san- 
guine as  to  the  result.  But  Mrs.  Carlyle 
soon  after  appeared  at  our  house,  and  the 
expression  of  her  countenance  was  omi- 
nous as  she  entered  the  room. 

**  I  have  come  to  thank  you,*'  she  said, 
in  an  ironical  tone,  "not,  as  you  may  ex- 
pect, for  having  induced  me  to  change  my 
purpose,  but  I  thank  you  for  having  taught 
me  a  lesson  —  never  to  try  to  make  peace 
between  those  who  have  resolved  to  quar- 
rel." She  then  explained,  with  much 
agitation  and  vehemence,  that  she  had 
been  prepared  to  meet  her  old  friend  in  a 
kindly  spirit,  but  he  had  made  all  recon- 
ciliation impossible.  **  What  do  you  think 
he  brought  as  a  farewell  offering  to  miy 
the  most  sensitive  and  superstitious  of 
women,  as  he  well  knows?  He  brought 
me  the  headgear  that  he  had  taken  from 
the  body  of  a  dead  Highlander  in  the 
Crimean  War,  and  asked  me  to  take  care 
of  it  for  him.  Can  you  imagine  anything 
which  would  better  prove  how  little  be 


A   CHINESE   MARTYR   OF   OUR   OWN   TIME. 


30S 

understands  me  ?  All  is  over  between  os. 
It  is  worse  than  it  was  before." 

Still  it  seemed  to  us  that  all  regard 
could  not  be  blotted  out,  or  she  would  not 
have  been  so  much  hurt ;  and  the  much- 
enduring  Colonel  Sterling  was  told,  pri- 
vately, that  he  had  better  try  once  more 
to  obtain  a  friendly  farewell,  but  he  must 
take  no  more  warlike  trophies  with  him. 

After  he  had  started  for  India,  Mrs. 
Carlyle  called  again,  and  in  a  softened 
mood.  She  said  her  old  friend  had  made 
amends  for  his  first  ill-judged  choice  of  a 
remembrance. 

"  He  came  once  more,"  she  said ;  "this 
last  time,  with  a  little  shabby  old  wooden 
tea-caddy  under  his  arm,  out  of  which  I 
remembered  to  have  seen  his  dear  moth- 
er make  tea,  ever  so  many  times,  in  old 
davs,  and  he  said  he  believed  I  was  the 
only  human  being  now  living  who  would 
value  'lit /or  Ais  mother^ s  sake^  as  he  had 
done  —  and  so  he  would  like  me  to  have 
It."  And  as  she  spoke  she  burst  into 
tears. 


From  The  Month. 
A  CHINESE  MARTYR  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 

There  are  many  persons  who  think 
that  Christian  martyrdom  no  longer  exists 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  that  the  world  has 
really  become  more  tolerant,  that  the  days 
of  the  Roman  emperors  can  never  be  re- 
newed, nor  Christians  be  called  upon  to 
seal  their  faith  with  their  blood.  But 
those  who  have  travelled  in  the  remoter 
parts  of  China,  Tonquin,  Siam,  and  the 
Malay  Peninsula,  know  that  ever  and 
anon  the  persecuting  spirit  of  heathenism 
breaks  out  afresh,  and  a  massacre  of  the 
*•  Christian  dogs  "  and  "  foreign  devils  "  is 
resolved  on  and  suddenly  carried  into 
effect.  Little  time  is  left  for  deliberation : 
the  choice  has  to  be  made  all  at  once;  the 
mind,  it  may  be  of  some  very  young  per- 
sons, on  whom  life  in  all  its  brightest 
colors  was  bursting,  is  awakened  in  one 
hour  to  the  astounding  fact  that  the  cross 
must  literally  be  taken  up  or  Christ  be 
denied  and  lost  forever.  There  can  be 
no  compromise.  Yet  who  is  sufficient  for 
such  a  terrific  combat  ?  Who  can  endure 
the  torture  and  the  nails,  the  flames,  the 
aj^ony,  and  the  shame?  In  the  strength 
of  weak  human  nature  they  cannot  be 
endured  ;  and  if  he  were  not  faithful  who 
hath  promised,  and  if  his  grace  were  not 
supplied  abundantly  in  the  hour  of  need, 
terror  and  the  sharp  sense  of  intolerable 


pain  would  make  an  apostate  of  one  whom 
God  intends  to  be  a  martyr. 

"Tis  long  since  arid  earth  has  been 
Steeped  grandly  in  the  crimson  flood 
That  nurtures  blades  of  brighter  green 
And  redder  roses  born  of  blood 
Than  in  her  summers  lately  seen  ; 
But  she  shall  soon  be  richer  clay. 
Oh  joy  I  the  knives  are  quivering  keen, 
Prepare  for  martyrdom  to-day.* 

A  few,  very  few  years  ago,  a  martyr's 
tragedy  was  enacted  at  Talee,  a  small 
town  about  a  hundred  miles  distant  from 
Canton.  Circumstances,  over  which  they 
had  no  control,  bad  drawn  three  Catholic 
missionaries  together,  and  they  had  estab- 
lished themselves  in  a  mission-house  in  a 
kind  of  community.  One  of  these  was  an 
Italian  named  Buglio,  a  second  Father 
Gneist  from  Germany,  and  the  third  the 
Abbd  Lefevre.  In  character  they  differed 
considerably,  the  eldest  being  naturally 
cheerful  and  joyous  to  the  extent  of  some- 
times passing  the  bounds  of  discretion, 
while  his  juniors,  the  German  and  the 
French  fathers,  were,  the  former  habitu- 
ally serious  almost  to  sadness,  and  the 
Frenchman,  unlike  most  of  his  race,  tak- 
ing all  changes  and  chances  apparently 
unmoved,  without  any  outward  expression 
either  of  gladness  or  complaint.  A  num- 
ber of  native  converts  had  settled  near 
them,  and  they  all  dressed  and  lived  as 
Chinamen.  It  was  important  not  to  pro- 
voke hostility  by  any  needless  difference 
of  costume,  and  therefore  in  all  non-essen- 
tial matters  the  native  and  foreign  Chris- 
tians did  and  fared  aKke.  Though  the 
fathers  of  the  mission  did  not  belons;  to  an 
order,  they  had  special  devotions  of  their 
own.  Many  of  the  enemies  of  Catholi- 
cism are  taught  to  believe  that  Catholic 
missionaries  make  converts  by  condescen- 
sion to  paganism  and  by  adopting  heathen 
rites  and  symbols.  It  they  had  visited 
the  mission-house  at  Talee,  they  would 
have  learned  how  the  fathers  there  com- 
mence every  day  with  the  worship  of  God 
the  Father,  the  Word,  and  the  Holy 
Ghost  —  one  God;  after  which  they  en- 
deavor to  realize  to  their  faith  the  house 
of  Nazareth  with  the  Holy  Child  Jesus, 
the  Blessed  Virgin  Mother,  and  St.  Jo- 
seph, as  they  are  at  present  in  their  actual, 
developed,  glorious  condition.  Starting 
from  such  foundation,  there  was  little 
chance  of  any  of  the  Talee  converts  con- 
descending to  any  of  the  forms  or  to  the 
spirit  of  paganism.   The  more  they  learned 

*  Th?  Angel  o£  Love  and  other  Poems.     By  R.  Y. 
StuT^es. 


k 


CHINESE   MARTYR   OF   OUR   OWN   TIME. 


307 


of  their  religion,  the  more  they  felt  lifted 
out  of  the  natural  into  the  spiritual  order. 
The  parts  of  their  system  which  appear  to 
the  gaze  of  outsiders  most  superstitious 
were  exactly  those  which,  to  their  appre- 
hension, were  most  sacred  and  sublime, 
being  concerned  with  the  communion  of 
saints  and  inseparably  linked  with  the 
divine  nature  of  Christ,  the  Alpha  and 
Omega,  the  first  and  last,  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  their  faith.  The  missiona- 
ries used  to  speak  to  them  of  it  familiarly 
as  the  doctrine  of  Christ,  and  continually 
insisted  on  Christ  being  all  in  all.  Thus 
they  were  doubly  prepared  to  withstand 
the  attacks  of  heathen  on  the  one  hand 
and  sectarian  Christians  on  the  other. 

As  a  long  period  had  elapsed  since  the 
last  outbreak  of  persecution,  many  of  the 
converts  supposed  that  it  was  passed  by 
forever,  that  the  disposition  of  the  Chi- 
nese Buddhists  was  materially  altered, 
and  that,  liable  as  they  are  to  sudden 
bursts  of  uncontrollable  temper,  there  was 
not  the  slightest  chance  of  their  again 
staining  their  hands  with  the  blood  of 
martyrs.  The  fathers,  however,  were  too 
well  read  in  the  history  of  their  Chinese 
missions,  and  of  the  people  in  adjoining 
countries  also,  to  flatter  themselves  with 
any  such  prospect  of  perpetual  security. 
Everything  contributed  to  make  them 
take  a  more  serious  view  of  their  position 
than  their  flock  did.  They  had  cut  the 
bridge  behind  them  and  could  never  re- 
turn. Never  would  they  see  again  the 
shores  of  France,  so  dear  to  Frenchmen, 
of  Germany,  with  all  its  great  intellectual 
advance,  or  of  Italy,  the  garden  of  Eu- 
rope, and  the  home  of  one  greater  than 
the  Cssars,  or  any  mere  earthly  king. 
They  had  landed  in  China  as  young  and 
newly  ordained  priests,  provided  by  the 
care  of  the  Soci^td  des  iMissions  Etran- 
g^res  from  its  headquarters  in  Paris. 
They  had  vowed  to  dedicate  the  rest  of 
their  life  to  the  mission  which  they  had 
undertaken.  Having  put  their  hand  to 
the  plough,  they  dared  not  think  of  turn- 
ing back.  Nay,  if  it  were  possible  for 
any  recreant  priest  to  seek  the  violation 
of  his  agreement  and  to  quit  the  country, 
the  mandarins  themselves  would  be  sure 
to   seize  him  and  send   him  back  to  the 

i'urisdiction  of  the  mission.  Toleration 
lad  been  accorded  by  an  imperial  edict 
to  those  missionaries  only  who  would 
swear  never  to  return  to  Europe.  Thev 
bad  stripped  themselves  of  their  national- 
ity ;  their  heads  were  shaven,  and  in  all 
respects  they  conformed  to  the  Chinese 
mode  of  life.    But  they  knew  bow  fickle 


was  the  heathen  mind.  A  sudden  panic 
or  excitement  might  undo  the  labor  of 
years,  and  bring  down  upon  the  converts 
violence  and  outrage  equally  sudden  and 
unreasonable.  Father  Buglio,  with  his 
cheerful  disposition,  was  always  inclined 
to  look  to  the  bright  side  of  things.  He 
looked  confidently  for  the  continuance  of 
the  Church's  prosperity  in  China,  because 
he  remembered,  and  of  ten.  reminded  his 
fiock,  how  the  Christians  had  survived 
the  persecutions  of  the  last  century,  and 
now,  after  only  one  hundred  years,  num- 
ber their  hundreds  of  thousands,  and  are 
found  in  all  the  provinces  of  the  empire. 

"  Let  us  be  of  good  cheer,  dear  breth- 
ren," he  would  say,  "remembering  what 
astonishing  and  rapid  successes  it  pleased 
God  to  give  in  former  years  to  the  brave 
followers  of  Xavier,  Fathers  Ricci  and 
Ruggieri.  Had  we  not  hopes  at  one 
time  of  the  emperor  and  all  the  grandees 
of  the  empire  embracing  the  faith  of 
Christ,  when  a  magnificent  church  rose  in 
Pekin,  and  the  holy  sacrifice  was  offered 
there  with  transports  of  hope?  These 
hopes,  indeed,  were  overthrown  for  a  time, 
but  they  have  revived,  blessed  be  God. 
It  is  not  now  the  poor  and  needy  only 
who  kneel  at  our  altars,  the  well-to-do  and 
the  wealthy  are  found  side  by  side  with 
laborers  and  peasants,  and  times  of  re- 
freshing are  at  hand.''  Father  Gneist 
was  naturally  prone  to  gloomy  reflections. 
The  acts  of  the  martyrs  had  a  singular 
fascination  for  him,  and  he  was  well  read 
in  the  Roman  martyrology,  the  different 
kinds  of  torture,  ana  the  persecution  un- 
der the  emperors  from  Nero  to  Diocle- 
tian. "It  would  be  well,"  he  would  say, 
"for  every  Christian  at  times  to  put  be- 
fore him  the  possibility  of  his  being  called 
to  suffer  for  his  faith,  and  lay  down  his 
life  rather  than  deny  his  Lord."  It  hap- 
pened that  Father  Lefevre  had  formed  a 
close  friendship  with  a  wealthy  merchant 
and  convert  of  Talee,  named  Tien.  He 
was  the  main  support  of  the  mission, 
both  by  his  wealth  and  his  prudence. 
The  house  which  he  occupied  had  been 
purchased  of  a  mandarin,  and  contained 
every  facility  for  the  entertainment  of  his 
friends.  The  entrance  hall  was  adorned 
with  large  pictures  of  Chinese  princes, 
but  on  each  side  of  these,  the  small  gilt 
josses  or  household  gods,  with  lamps 
burning  in  front  of  them,  were  removed 
from  the  niches  in  the  wall.  Every  ves- 
tige of  idolatrous  worship  had  disap- 
peared, and  often  would  Father  Lefevre 
resort  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  to  an 
elegant  little   room   next   the  counting- 


3o8 


A  CHINESE   MARTYR   OF  OUR  OWN  TIME. 


house,  where  he  would  probably  meet 
several  Christian  merchants,  smoking 
their  pipes,  each  with  his  cup  of  tea  on  a 
small  table  before  him.    Quickly  and  with 

?[uiet  politeness  a  little  boy  would  place  a 
resh  teacup  before  the  new  comer,  throw 
in  a  pinch  of  fragrant  tea,  and  pour  in 
boilino^  water  from  a  kettle,  taken  from  a 
stand  over  a  charcoal  fire  burning  in  an 
iron  brasier  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
Then  the  boy  would  lake  a  long  Chinese 
pipe,  fill  it  with  tobacco,  hand  it  to  the 
reverend  father  with  a  light,  and  take  his 
place  behind  his  chair.  The  conversa- 
tion seldom  flagged,  for  besides  commer- 
cial interests,  the  Christians,  who  were 
generally  in  the  ascendant,  gladly  learned 
and  communicated  all  they  could  that  was 
new  in  reference  to  their  faith.  The  ex- 
citement of  political  party  was  altogether 
wanting  to  stir  the  stagnant  waters  of 
Chinese  society.  The  converts  who  hap- 
pened to  be  present  on  such  occasions  as 
arc  here  referred  to,  were  in  the  habit  of 
bending  the  knee  to  Father  Lefevre  and 
other  missionaries.  In  expecting  this 
homage,  which  was  willingly  granted,  the 
fathers  imitated  the  native  magistrates; 
but  the  act  was  sometimes  regarded  with 
jealousy  of  the  sacerdotal  influence  by 
some  of  the  Chinese.  As  these,  however, 
know  no  medium  between  servile  submis- 
sion and  insolent  independence,  persons 
who  are  well  acquainted  with  the  country 
believe  that  the  clergy  are  quite  right  in 
maintaining  their  religious  authority,  and 
even  the  outward  show  of  it.  And  here 
I  may  observe  that  whenever  Christianity 
is  on  the  adva.ice,  a  corresponding  im- 
provement is  sure  to  show  itself  in  the 
manners  of  the  people  and  the  aspect  of 
the  place.  The  towns  become  more  clean- 
ly; the  villages  with  their  little  white 
houses  look  very  neat  and  nice,  even  the 
temples  are  gaily  decorated  with  carved 
work,  and  resplendent  with  gilding  and 
color,  while  many  detached  buildings  are 
embosomed  in  gardens  and  orchards  of 
orange-trees.  A  measure  of  advance, 
too,  is  made  io  literature.  Certain  prov- 
inces produce  paper  and  wooden  type 
cheaper  than  others.  Booksellers  travel 
about  selling  their  dictionaries  and  books 
of  legends,  bringing  home  in  return  nov- 
els and  histories.  Colleges  and  literary 
graduates  are  not  unknown  in  some  parts 
of  the  country. 

It  was  of  great  importance  to  the  wel- 
fare of  the  mission  at  Talee,  that  the 
chief  convert  resident  in  the  place  was 
munificent  in  his  habits  and  unhampered 
in  his  means.    The  pay  of  the  mission- 


aries in  the  neighborhood  was  small,  and 
in  consequence  of  their  frugal  expendi- 
ture there  were  all  the  more  to  profit  by 
the  liberal  supplies  of  the  merchant  Tien. 
A  noble  career  was  open  before  him  by 
the  impetus  he  was  able  to  give  to  educa- 
tion. At  Talee  and  all  the  principal  mis- 
sion stations,  there  were  separate  schools 
for  boys  and  girls.  The  boys  had  the 
double  advantage  of  learning  Chinese 
and  Latin,  besides  geography  and  other 
practical  matters  tending  to  disperse  na- 
tive prejudices.  Promising  candidates 
from  among  them  who  aspired  to  the 
priesthood  were  sometimes  sent  to  receive 
instruction  at  Hong  Kong  or  Macao,  and 
girls  were  taught  in  school  to  read  and 
write,  as  well  as  to  sew  and  learn  useful 
domestic  arts.  And  Tien  was  sensible  of 
the  true  dignity  of  his  station  as  a  fosterer 
of  Christianity  and  a  promoter  of  civili- 
zation. This  was  more  honorable  in  his 
eyes  than  the  attainment  of  wealth  or 
anything  which  wealth  could  purchase. 
Did  not  the  Christian  boarding-schools 
produce  the  most  excellent  wives,  and 
were  not  the  houses  of  these  distinguished 
by  superior  cleanliness  and  order?  Is 
not  opium-smoking  banished  from  their 
households  as  the  most  insidious  and 
deadly  practice  ? 

The  marriage  between  Tien  and  his 
wife  had  not  been  effected  in  the  usual 
way,  which  produces  so  much  mischief 
and  entails  so  large  an  amount  of  unhap- 
piness.  It  is,  in  general,  all  arranged  by 
the  go-between.  The  bride  and  bride- 
groom never  see  each  other,  except  among 
the  laborers,  until  the  day  of  marriage. 
The  go  between  plans  everything,  reports 
everything,  and  gets  sumptuously  enter- 
tained on  both  sides  till  the  negotiations 
are  complete.  To  the  last  hour  the  bride 
is  veiled  closely  with  a  red  silk  kerchief, 
and  even  if  she  proves  to  be  deformed, 
the  suitor  cannot  withdraw  from  the  con- 
tract when  once  she  has  unveiled  her  face. 
But  among  Christians,  things  are  better 
managed.  Sometimes  one  of  the  mission- 
ary fathers  concerns  himself  in  the  mat- 
ter with  great  effect  and  happy  results; 
and  this  had  been  the  case  when  Tien 
became  acquainted  with  his  bride  before 
marriage,  and  the  alliance  was  formed 
with  full  consent  and  mutual  attachment 
on  both  sides.  Their  wedded  life  had 
brought  them  much  happiness,  for  though 
they  had  trials,  they  were  supported  by 
principle  and  a  strong  sense  of  duty.  The 
Christian  religion,  indeed,  was  to  their 
minds  so  glorious  and  wonderful  that  they 
I  feared  lest,  through  its  very  brightness 


A  CHINESE   MARTYR  OF   OUR   OWN  TIME. 


309 


tod  beauty  and  dazzling  splendor,  they 
should  lose  sight  of  its  simple  duties  and 
humbler  truths.  They  had  a  daughter 
themselves,  who,  though  very  young,  was 
DOW  of  a  marriageable  age.  There  was  a 
wealthy  mandarin  in  Talee  who  had  lately 
set  his  eyes  upon  her,  and  the  parents 
were  filled  with  fear  lest  he  should  take 
any  step  whatever  towards  prosecuting  a 
suit.  The  very  thought  of  such  an  alli- 
ance was  enough  to  plunge  the  whole 
family  in  grief,  if  not  terror,  for  to  refuse 
such  an  o^er  would  be  sure  to  draw  upon 
them  vindictive  measures,  and  to  accept 
it  would  be  perilous  to  the  faith  and  the 
liberty  of  the  child.  She  had  been  most 
carefully  educated  as  a  Christian,  and  the 
thought  dearest  to  her  was  that  of  serving 
and  loving  God  and  following  the  foot- 
steps of  his  dear  son,  her  Saviour  and 
Lord.  How  would  she  fare  in  a  country 
where  wives  are  little  better  than  slaves  ? 
How  could  she  practise  her  religion  freely 
under  a  heathen  lord?  How  could  it  be 
possible  to  bring  up  her  children  duly  in 
the  fear  of  God  ? 

The  dreaded  moment  at  length  arrived. 
A  nephew  of  the  Chinese  mandarin,  who 
had  for  some  time  been  a  Christian  cate- 
chumen, and  had  then  deserted  and  ceased 
to  attend  the  services  which  took  place  in 
the  Christian  mission-house,  called  one 
day  on  Tien  and  intimated  the  wishes  of 
bis  uncle  with  regard  to  his  daughter. 
He  laid  before  him  the  magnificent  pros- 
pect a  mandarin  so  wealthy  and  full  of 
literary  and  artistic  taste  was  able  to  hold 
out.  *'  His  house,"  said  the  young  advo- 
cate, "is  overflowing  with  works  of  art, 
paintings,  bronzes,  and  old  porcelain. 
The  gardens  make  a  perfect  little  para- 
dise. Orange,  pear,  shaddock,  and  lemon 
trees  grow  there  luxuriously*  and  your 
daughter  will  sit  there  like  a  queen  in  the 
midst  of  the  maidens  of  her  court.*'  And 
here  he  launched  into  a  description  of  the 
mandarin's  mansion,  thinking  he  might 
thus  make  a  favorable  impression  on  the 
mind  of  an  imaginative  girl.  *'The  pond 
is  lovely,  surrounded  with  rock  work;  and 
the  water  glitters  with  gold  and  silver  fish. 
The  walls  of  the  dwelling  are  covered 
with  the  best  specimens  of  Chinese  art. 
Choice  tables,  well  disposed  in  spacious 
apartments,  are  laden  with  beautiful 
bronzes  and  china  vases;  and  a  musical 
stream,  that  has  its  birth  among  the  hills, 
waters  the  flowers  and  plants  that  spring 
up  to  adorn  the  shady  walks  where  the 
daughter  of  the  richest  Christian  mer- 
chant of  Talee  will  share  in  peace  the 
health,  wealth,  and  happiness  of  the  rich- 


est and  most  influential  of  the  mandarins. 
It  is  long  since  there  has  been  such  an 
alliance  in  this  neighborhood.  May  I 
convey  to  my  uncle  your  acceptance  of 
his  proposal,  and  assure  him  that  your 
bishop  will  honor  the  wedding  with  his 
sanction  and  presence?  He  has  instructed 
me  to  give  you  the  fullest  assurance  that 
the  religion  of  your  daughter  will  be  re- 
spected in  the  event  of  her  becoming  his 
wife,  and  that  her  liberty,  like  that  of  the 
other  Christians  who  obey  the  laws  of  the 
empire,  will  be  thoroughly  respected.  He 
trusts  that  this  assurance  will  satisfy  you, 
since  you  may  fully  depend  upon  its  being 
sincere." 

Though  the  experience  of  Tien  did  not 
lead  him  to  regard  assurances  of  this  kind 
as  of  much  value,  he  was  so  far  willing,  in 
this  case,  to  hope  for  the  best,  that  he  re- 
solved to  leave  the  decision  of  the  ques- 
tion to  the  child  herself.  He  asked  only 
for  a  sufficient  time  for  consideration,  and 
promised  in  one  week  to  give  a  final  an- 
swer. There  was  no  absolute  necessity 
for  rejecting  the  mandarin's  proposals. 
The  missionaries  would  possibly  not  have 
refused  to  celebrate  the  marriage,  if  they 
could  have  had  a  sufficient  guarantee  for 
the  wife  being  the  only  wife  and  bein^:  left 
free  to  bring  up  her  children  in  the  Cath- 
otic  faith.  But  this,  of  course,  would  have 
been  only  as  an  exceptional  case,  and, 
under  special  conditions.  The  entire  cir- 
cumstances were  made  known  to  Lo-tzung, 
and  she  earnestly  prayed  that  she  might 
be  directed  aright.  Many  things  in  the 
proposal  looked  very  tempting,  especially 
to  a  childish  mind,  but  on  the  other  hand 
she  knew  that  there  was  danger,  and  that 
treachery  and  cruelty  were  but  too  fre- 
quent among  husbands  of  the  national 
and  Buddhist  creed.  Her  early  age  and 
inexperience  of  the  world  inclined  her  to 
trust  the  promises  made  by  the  mandarin, 
and  she  did  not  suspect,  what  was  the 
fact,  that  the  go-between  was  solely  anx- 
ious for  his  own  advantage,  and  that  he 
had  invented  all  that  part  of  the  contract 
which  referred  to  the  liberty  of  the  wile 
and  mother  in  the  possession  and  practice 
of  her  religion.  He  made  no  mention  of 
this  subject  to  his  uncle,  and  was  pre- 
pared to  stipulate  anything  on  either  side 
which  might  suit  best  the  success  of  the 
scheme  which  his  relative  and  he  had  in 
view.  But  the  course  of  the  negotiation 
did  not  run  smooth.  It  came  to  the  man- 
darin's ears  that  Tien  designed  building 
a  Christian  church  and  enlarging  the  mis- 
sion-house ;  that  there  was  a  secret  inten- 
tion of  bringing  qd  the  cbsldrea  of  the 


310 


A   CHINESE   MARTYR   OF   OUR   OWN   TIME. 


proposed  marriage  as  Christians ;  that 
Tien  had  dismissed  a  gardener  solely  be- 
cause he  was  of  the  national  creed  ;  that 
the  Christians  practised  magical  arts  and 
prayed  to  the  evil  one.  The  nephew 
thought  he  should  fail  as  go-between,  and 
that  he  had  better  avenge  himself  for  hav- 
ing been,  as  he  chose  to  think,  ill-treated 
while  a  catechumen  and  provoked  into 
turning  his  back  on  the  Christian  race. 
A  number  of  vague  calumnies,  not  always 
reconcilable,  met,  and  the  result  was  men- 
ace to  the  missionaries.  But  no  outward 
disturbance  of  peace  took  place.  The 
mandarin  had  received  no  direct  offence, 
nor  had  his  offer  of  marriage  been  directly 
rejected.  He  felt,  however,  that  his  pride 
was  offended  by  the  Christian  girl  and 
her  relatives  having  even  thought  of  re- 
quiring a  protection  against  his  religion, 
which  must  be  more  divine  than  hers. 

In  the  early  spring  of  i8 — ,  a  glorious 
and  gorgeous  morning  shone  upon  Talee. 
The  entire  scene  was  flooded  with  splen- 
dor; the  very  shops  looked  bright  and 
attractive ;  and  in  the  cool  air  which  pre- 
ceded the  burning  sun  of  noon  the  Chris- 
tians were  making  their  way  in  boats  up 
the  river,  and  through  patches  of  sugar- 
cane and  beans,  interspersed  with  gay 
poppies,  to  the  mission-house,  where  mass 
was  to  be  celebrated  by  the  bishop.  Fa- 
ther Gneist  was  to  preach  the  sermon, 
Father  Bugllo  had  gone  to  serve  a  distant 
station  in  one  direction,  while  Father 
Lefevre  had  departed  in  another.  Little 
Lo-tzung  was  delighted  at  having  escaped 
the  snares  set  for  her,  and  felt  sure  that 
her  father  would  find  her  a  Christian  hus- 
band when  the  proper  time  should  arrive. 
Father  Gneist  preached  in  Chinese  — 
that  most  difficult  language,  of  which  the 
largest  native  dictionary,  that  of  Kangui, 
contains  43,496  separate  symbols.  Some 
simple  Chinese  hymns  also  were  sung 
during  the  mass.  The  preacher,  as  if  by 
a  forecast  of  succeeding  events,  spoke 
much  of  suffering,  and  was  almost  mysti- 
cal in  his  references  to  the  union  with 
Christ  which  is  wont  to  attend  it.  Throw- 
ing himself  into  the  words  of  the  Apostle 
Peter,  he  exclaimed,  **  *  Dearly  beloved, 
think  not  strange  the  burning  heat  which 
is  to  try  you,  as  if  some  new  thing  hap- 
pened to  you,  but  if  ^'ou  partake  of  the 
suffering  of  Christ,  rejoice  that  when  his 
glory  shall  be  revealed  you  may  also  be 
glad  with  exceeding  joy.*  Even  now,  after 
long  quiet,  the  air  may  be  charged  with 
more  than  electric  fire  Jcindled  in  the 
depths  of  hell,  and  explosions  equally 
fierce  and  sudden  may/take  place  on  our 


right  hand  and  our  left.  We  may  find 
ourselves  under  circumstances  of  the 
most  trying  and  torturing  nature  alone 
with  our  God,  alone  with  that  Saviour 
who  loved  his  own  to  the  end.  And  what 
is  there  but  the  presence  of  Christ  that 
will  support  the  martyr  in  the  flame,  oa 
the  cross,  or  in  the  mouth  of  the  lions  }  " 

Even  while  the  father  spoke  these 
words  yells  and  shouts  were  heard  in  the 
distance,  and  the  noise  rapidly  increased. 
The  Christians,  as  "foreign  devils,"  were 
threatened  with  death,  and  it  did  not  apn 
pear  why.  A  blind  rage  had  taken  pos- 
session of  the  multitude.  Buddha  had 
been  outraged :  a  new  and  detestable  reli- 
gion was  brought  from  a  remote  shore,  and 
foisted  by  stealth  and  every  kind  of  craft 
into  the  Celestial  Empire.  Creatures  sa- 
cred to  Buddha  had  been  destroyed. 
Buddha  must  be  avenged ;  the  intolerable 
arrogance  of  the  Christians  must  be 
brought  low,  and  their  best  buildings  and 
chief  men  alone  could  expiate  the  evil  that 
had  been  done.  The  prosperity  of  Tiea 
was  a  curse  on  the  land,  and  the  manda- 
rin's nephew,  who  had  been  among  the 
Christians,  knew  that  the  abominations 
practised  among  them  were  enough  to 
bring  any  nation  to  perdition.  Curses  oq 
England  1  Curses  on  the  missionaries ! 
Curses  on  the  converts  I 

Such  were  the  notes  borne  on  the  air 
of  the  storm  raging  without.     Affrighted 
messengers,  breathless  with  haste,  came 
to  tell  the  cause  of  the  outbreak.    The 
mandarin  was  wild  with  rage.     His  plans 
were  frustrated.     It  was  not  to  be  ea- 
dured  that  the  foreigners,  who  were  only 
tolerated  in  China,  should  take  the  lead 
and  dictate  terms  to  them.    The  foremost 
rioters  burst  into  the  church,  led  by  Tz 
Talowya,  the  mandarin's  nephew,  and  the 
voice  of  the  preacher  was  drowned  in  a 
chorus  of  yells.    Consternation  and  even 
terror  followed.    Some  imperial  soldiers 
stepped  in,  summoned  on  pretext  of  an- 
ticipated tumult  on  the  part  of  the  Chris- 
tians.    But  their  presence  was  evidently 
due  to  falsehood  and  treachery,  for  they 
were  used  to  ensure  liberty  for  the  Chi- 
nese in  their  deed  of  darkness,  and  led 
here  and  there  by  the  mandarin's  orders, 
while  the  deluded   mob   were   made  to 
execute  his  vengeance  and  jealousy.    A 
murderous  plan  appeared  to  have  been 
concerted  beforehand,  and   while   indis- 
criminate massacre  was  avoided,  particu- 
lar victims  were  marked  out  for  destruc- 
tion.    Ominous  arrivals  took  place.    The 
bishop  was  bound  in  silence  and  put  aside 
with  a  certain  amount  of  respect,  though 


A  CHINESE  MARTYR  OF  OUR  OWN  TIME. 


3" 


waraed  to  be  qoiet  under  pain  of  instant 
death.  He  begged  to  be  allowed  to  stay 
with  his  flock  and  share  their  fate,  but  his 
request  was  refused.  Many  rough  carts, 
or  tumbrils,  were  brought  from  different 
directions,  laden  with  large  folds  of  cot- 
ton wadding,  jars  of  oil,  crosses,  faggots, 
and  various  instruments  of  torture.  Tien 
and  Lotzung  were  seized  —  the  father 
indignant  and  dignified,  the  daus:hter 
trembling  and  clinging  to  her  father*s 
side.  Crosses  were  planted  in  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  missionaries'  home,  where 
the  garden  had  lately  received  many  new 
additions  of  rare  flowers  and  creepers. 
£very  moment  as  it  flew  made  it  more 
plain  that  nothing  less  than  the  death  of 
the  victims  was  intended.  Fathers  Bu- 
glio  and  Lefevre  were  stopped  on  their 
return  from  the  country,  and  warned  by 
friendly  voices  not  to  approach  their  home, 
which  was  now  occupied  by  the  fiercest 
of  foes;  but  they  would  not  hear  of  de- 
serting their  brethren  in  the  hour  of  need, 
and  when  told  that  they  could  only  share 
their  destruction,  they  replied,  *' That  is 
all  we  ask.  Take  us  to  them,  and  we  are 
taken  to  Christ."  The  savage  treatment 
of  the  Christians  which  ensued  was  even 
more  lawless  and  summary  than  the  like 
would  have  been  in  the  time  of  the  Ro- 
man emperors.  Tz  Talowya  directed  all 
with  the  coolest  and  most  unsparing  cru- 
elty. He  had  posted  a  placard  far  and 
wide  on  that  morning,  calling  for  a  gen- 
eral massacre  of  the  native  Christians  on 
the  great  festival  which  was  soon  to  fol- 
low. It  ascribed  every  vice  to  the  "for- 
eign devils,**  and  said  that,  to  preserve 
the  peace  and  purity  of  Chinese  society, 
those  who  have  corrupted  them  must  be 
cut  off.  One  phrase  of  the  placard  was, 
**  The  wickedness  of  these  foreign  devils 
is  so  great  that  even  pigs  and  dogs  would 
refuse  to  eat  their  flesh  1"  The  preva- 
lence of  such  feelings  will  account  in 
some  measure  for  the  preparations  made. 
Tien,  the  honest  merchant,  whose  only 
crime  was  that  he  had  raised  one  church 
and  proposed  building  another,  was 
brought  before  an  image  of  Buddha  and 
some  objects  to  which  the  folly  and  su- 
perstition of  paganism  attached  a  rever- 
ence of  a  fanatical  order.  He  was  then 
required  to  speak  certain  words,  and  ren- 
der an  obeisance  that  is  regarded  as  equiv- 
alent to  denying  Christ.  This  he  abso- 
lutely refused  to  do,  but  abstained  from 
any  expressions  of  contempt  or  even  the 
shadow  of  discourtesy.  No  torture  could 
shake  his  constancy.  Threats  were  of  no 
avail.    "Do  your  worst,"  he  replied  to 


his  persecutor;  "I  fear  nothing  but  lest 
I  should  denv  my  Lord."  The  ruffians 
then  wrappea  him  in  cotton  wadding, 
which  they  soaked  in  oil.  He  was  bound 
to  one  of  the  crosses,  which  he  embraced, 
and  exhorted  Lo-tzung  not  to  be  afraid  of 
the  agony.  "This,  my  love,"  he  said, 
"  will  be  your  bridal  day.  You  shall  be 
the  Lamb's  bride,  and  his  strength  will 
be  made  perfect  in  your  weakness."  "It 
is  but  for  a  moment,  dear  child,"  echoed 
Father  Gneist;  "sleep  will  be  your  ref- 
uge from  torture,  and  out  of  sleep  you 
will  wake  to  behold  Jesus  Christ."  lien 
by  this  time  was  bound  to  his  cross,  and 
faggots  were  kindled  under  his  bodv. 
The  zeal  of  his  tormentors  shortened  his 
sufferings.  There  is  a  point  beyond 
which  our  nature  cannot  bear  pain,  and  at 
that  point  he  found  relief.  His  fellow- 
martyrs  were  made  to  undergo  a  still 
more  painful  and  ignominious  death.  Not 
only  were  they,  too,  to  be  wrapped  in  cot- 
ton steeped  in  oil  and  then  delivered  to 
the  flames ;  they  were  reserved,  and  Lo- 
tzung the  last  among  them,  to  have  their 
arms  and  legs  cut  off,  to  have  crosses 
tied  to  their  trunks,  and  in  that  state  to 
be  burnt.  Father  Buglio  was  not  even 
depressed  by  the  approaching  end.  His 
buoyant  and  cheerful  disposition  sur- 
mounted every  obstacle,  and  became  pos- 
sessed of  a  supernatural  joy.  The  Ian* 
guage  of  his  inmost  being  was  "Alle- 
luia!" and  the  Son  of  God  was  walking 
in  the  midst  of  the  fire  with  him  and  his 
companions.  Father  Gneist  was  sad- 
dened by  the  terrible  realities  enacted 
before  his  eyes,  but  that  was  all.  He  was 
not  by  nature  emotional.  He  did  not  la- 
ment nor  fall  into  any  paroxysm  of  grief. 
He  preserved  a  mournful  but  unruffled 
exterior  till  the  sharp,  murderous  steel 
made  the  blood  gush  from  the  wounds  of 
his  sacred  limbs.  How  was  it  possible 
such  passions  could  reign  in  human 
breasts,  and  men  become  most  fiendish  in 
torturing  the  best,  the  meekest  of  mis- 
sionaries? Father  Lefevre  was  neither 
excited  nor  depressed.  His  feet  rested 
on  a  rock,  and  his  eye  was  fixed  on  the 
crown  of  justice  which  the  righteous  Judge 
should  give  him  as  his  speedy  reward. 

The  heathen,  with  some  sense  of  de- 
cency, kept  Lo-tzung  to  the  last.  But 
none  of  her  kindred  or  acquaintance  were 
allowed  to  attend  her.  No  mother's  or 
sister's  hand  might  assist  to  robe  her  as  a 
sacrifice  to  be  offered  in  the  name  of 
Jesus.  Hurried  to  and  fro  by  brutal  ex- 
ecutioners, this  fairest  and  sweetest  of 
womankind,  just  entering  on  life  fresh 


3" 


INEZ  DE   CASTRO. 


and  pare,  was  treated  as  the  offscoarin^ 
of  all  things  because  she  dared  to  have  a 
will  of  her  own  to  honor  Christ  as  Master 
and  Lord.  The  death  of  her  father,  con- 
fessor, and  pastors,  before  her  eyes,  en- 
deared her  reKffion  a  hundredfold  to  her 
heart,  and  Tz  Talowya  in  vain  offered  her 
every  earthly  advantage  as  the  price  of 
her  apostasy.  There  was  a  country  house 
belonging  to  the  mandarin,  which  Tien 
and  his  family  had  been  permitted  to  oc- 
cupy as  their  own  during  some  delightful 
months  in  the  days  of  their  friendship. 
This  Tz  Talowya  was  directed  by  his 
uncle  to  offer  Lotzung  without  any  revival 
of  the  project  of  marriage,  if  she  would 
speak  but  one  word  and  make  but  one 
obeisance  in  honor  of  Buddha.  '*You 
have  still,"  he  said,  **time  to  be  wise  and 
renounce  a  stupid  and  bad  superstition. 
The  minute  care  of  that  estate  and  its 
cultivation  is  by  this  time  wonderful;  the 
kitchen  gardens  are  kept  to  perfection. 
The  reservoirs  on  the  hills  transmit  the 
rain-water  to  the  terraces,  which  are  ab- 
solutely lovely.  Even  the  bottom  of  the 
lakes  and  ponds  and  rivulets  there  are 
cultivated,  and  the  water-chestnut  (pitsi) 
will  there  produce  for  you  its  most  whole- 
some and  delicate  fruit.  Love  and  plenty, 
flowers  and  music,  will  soon  cause  you 
to  forget  the  past.  You  will  make  new 
friends  and  find  life  full  of  new  charms. 
A  dark  superstition  has  tricked  out  for 
you  in  unreal  colors  the  religion  of  Gol- 
gotha. It  has  hallowed  the  cross,  the 
scourge,  mortification,  fasting,  celibacy, 
and  all  that  is  un joyous  and  unlovely.  It 
has  brought  you  to  this.  Fling  it  all 
away.  Bury  it  with  these  corpses  and 
crosses,  that  it  rise  no  more.  Embrace 
nature  —  she  is  lovely  and  you  were  made 
for  love.  Turn  to  Buddha.  Only  look 
towards  Buddha.    Say:  — 

I  take  my  refuge  in  thy  order  I  Om  I 
The  dew  is  on  the  lotus !  Rise,  great  Sun  I 
And  lift  my  leaf  and  mix  me  with  the  wave. 
Om  mani  padme  hum,  the  Sunrise  comes  I 
The  Dewdrop  slips  into  the  shining  sea ! "  * 

Breathless  with  emotion,  the  enthusiast 
stretched  his  hand  towards  her,  as  if  in 
hope  of  some  affirmative  response.  But 
Lo-tzung  shrank  from  his  touch  as  from 
that  of  a  serpent,  and  answered :  **  Fiend ! 
there  is  but  one  gift  I  can  take  from  your 
hand,  and  that  is  death." 

The  native  Christians  in  China  will 
long  be  told  of  the  heroic  sufferings  of 
Lo-tzung,  and  her  name  will  be  inscribed 

*  ArDoI<Fa  Light  oC  Asia. 


in  the  roll  of  their  martyrs,  as  were  those 
of  Felicitas,  Perpetua,  Agatha,  Cecilia, 
and  Anastasia  in  the  ancient  missal  of 
the  Romans.  We  have  a  permanent 
treasure  and  fountain  of  blest  recollection 
in  the  record  of  such  followers  of  the 
Lamb.  Protestant  missionaries,  we  are 
told,  joined  heartily  in  their  sympathy 
with  the  courageous  Catholic  merchant 
and  his  daughter,  who,  with  the  devoted 
fathers,  had  been  faithful  unto  death,  even 
the  death  of  the  cross.  The  days  of 
Symphorosa  and  her  seven  sons  were 
brought  back  in  our  modern  time  and  in 
the  midst  of  our  boasted  civilization,  to 
remind  us  that  persecution  for  Christ's 
sake  is  by  no  means  at  an  end,  and  the 
reign  of  Antichrist  has  still  to  be  accom- 
plished. Every  important  particular  in 
this  narrative  is  supported  by  the  testi* 
mony  of  a  most  intelligent  and  trust* 
worthy  traveller,  whose  researches  in 
foreign  countries,  especially  the  Sandwich 
Islands,  Japan,  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
and  the  Golden  Chersonese,  are  the  de- 
light of  all  who  read  them.* 

J.  C.  Earle. 

•  Sec  •  The  Golden  Chersonese,"  by  Miss  Bird  (Mur- 
ray, 18S3),  pp.  63,  64,  and  the  **  Travels  of  a  Pioneer  of 
Commerce,  chai)s.  iii.  and  iv.  (Murray,  1S71).  The 
Tabltt^  in  reviewing  "  Across  Chrx'se,"  July  7,  1S83, 
says :  *'  There  is  a  plentiful  opening;  \qx  missionary  labor 
in  China,  and  Mr.  Colquhoun  refer*  to  the  aocouat 
given  by  the  Catholic  bishop,  Mgr.  Fenouil,  of  his  cap- 
tivity and  escape  in  the  *AnnaUs  de  la  Propaj^aticn 
d*  ia  FoiJ  .  .  .  Difficult  ait  it  may  be  for  some  persons 
to  believe,  the  crown  of  ancient  martyrdom  may  be 
earned  at  this  very  day  in  modem  China  in  the  midst 
of  all  its  modest  surroundings.'* 


From  Belsravia. 
INEZ  DE  CASTRO. 

The  story  of  Ifiez  de  Castro  has  long 
taken  captive  the  hearts  of  the  Portu* 
guese,  and  tired  their  imaginations  as  one 
of  the  most  romantic  incidents  in  the  an- 
nals of  their  country. 

The  scene  of  her  death  "done  into 
colors'*  hangs  on  the  walls  alike  of  the 
nobleman's  quinta  and  the  humble  ^^fo^a 
or  wayside  inn,  and  her  memory  after  the 
lapse  of  five  centuries  is  still  the  genius 
loci  in  the  old  university  town  of  Coimbra, 
the  earthly  setting  and  background,  as  it 
were,  of  her  sequestered  life  and  piteous 
death.  Although  the  story  has  often 
been  told  before — by  Fernao  Lopes  and 
other  Portuguese  chroniclers  and  histo- 
rians, as  well  as  by  Camoens  in  the  third 
"Lusiad"  and  Ferreira  in  his  tragedy 
** Ifiez  de  Castro"  —  yet,  as    there   are 


INEZ   D£   CASTRO. 


$n 


many  to  whom  the  ill-starred  mistress  of 
Pedro  the  Just  of  Portugal  is  by  do  means 
the  most  familiar  figure  in  the  long  gallery 
of  the  favorites  of  kings,  it  may  not  be 
superfluous  in  the  interest  of  these  to  re- 
count its  main  incidents  once  again. 

Ifiez  de  Castro  then,  the  daughter  of 
Don  Pedro  Fernandez  de  Castro,  was 
born  in  Spanish  Galicia  early  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  the  family  from  which  she 
sprang  being  one  of  the  most  ancient  and 
powerful  in  Spain,  and  playing  no  incon- 
siderable part  in  the  history  of  the  time. 
Her  mother,  Donna  Alon^a  Soanes  de 
Villaderes,  was  a  Portuguese  lady  of  no- 
ble birth. 

There  seems  to  be  some  dispute  as  to 
whether  her  parents  were  ever  married, 
and  it  is  not  now  likely  that  the  point  will 
ever  be  satisfactorily  cleared  up,  for  of 
the  earlier  years  of  her  life  we  know  noth- 
ing or  next  to  nothing  positive.  We  may 
suppose,  indeed,  that  she  was  early  cele- 
brated for  her  beauty,  of  which  the  most 
striking  feature  —  the  long  and  graceful 
neck  —  is  indicated  for  us  oy  the  name  of 
•*  Cai/o  de  Gar^a;'  or  "  Heron's  Neck," 
bestowed  upon  her.  One  thing  is  certain, 
namely,  that  her  youth  was  spent  at  the 
court  of  Juan  Manuel,  Duke  of  Pefiat:eld, 
where  she  was  the  friend  and  playmate  of 
Constanta,  the  duke's  daughter  and  her 
own  cousin,  and  we  know  also  that  when 
Constan9a  left  her  father's  court  in  1341, 
on  her  espousal  to  Don  Pedro  the  Portu- 
guese infante,  Iftez  de  Castro  accompa- 
nied her  to  her  new  home  as  one  of  the 
ladies  in  her  train.  Coimbra  was  assigned 
to  the  infanta  as  a  place  of  residence,  and 
here  it  was  that  Ifiez  met  the  prince  — 
the  gallant  and  impetuous  Pedro  —  with 
whose  name  her  own  is  linked  forever. 
To  enable  the  reader  to  fully  understand 
th^  events  that  followed,  some  reference 
seems  necessary  to  the  character  of  Pedro, 
as  well  as  to  that  of  his  father  Affonso 
IV.,  known  in  Portuguese  history  as  Af- 
fonso the  Proud.  Pedro's  disposition  was 
a  very  attractive  one.  Gay,  social,  good- 
humored,  a  good  scholar,  no  indifferent 
poet,  skilled  in  mu<;ic  and  dancing,  he  was 
generally  liked,  while  his  strong  sense  of 
justice  and  stern  impartiality  in  the  ad- 
ministration of  it  tempered  the  popularity 
his  winning  gifts  inspired  with  a  suffi- 
ciently wholesome  amount  of  respect  and 
fear.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  recorded 
that  he  was  of  a  somewhat  passionate 
temper,  and  when  offended  implacable  in 
his  revenge.  The  character  of  the  father 
stands  out  in  strong  contrast  to  that  of 


the  son.  Affonso,  the  fourth  of  his  name 
who  sat  on  the  throne  of  Portugal,  was 
undoubtedly  a  man  of  ability  as  well  as  of 
considerable  force  of  character.  His  mili- 
tary reputation  is  attested  by  his  successes 
against  the  Moors,  and  he  has  the  reputa- 
tion of  having  been  both  a  strong  and  a 
just  ruler.  But  in  his  domestic  relations 
he  does  not  appear  to  such  advantage,  for 
he  was  equally  cruel  and  unscrupulous, 
and  displayed  an  utter  want  of  filial  and 
fraternal  affection.  He  is  also  remarkable 
for  his  fondness  of  intrigue;  and  holding, 
as  he  did,  that  in  affairs  of  State  the  end 
invariably  justifies  the  means,  he  was  al- 
ways, provided  that  that  end  was  gained, 
perfectly  indifferent  as  to  the  road  by 
which  he  reached  it. 

Returning  to  Ifiez,  we  find  that  the  con- 
nection between  her  and  the  infante  be- 
gan soon  after  her  arrival  at  Coimbra  in 
1341.  In  1345  the  infanta  Constanta 
died,  and  Pedro  was  thus  set  at  liberty  to 
legalize  his  union  with  Ifiez  by  a  public 
marriage.  This  step,  however,  he  did  not 
venture  to  take,  dreading  most  probably 
the  anger  of  his  father,  who  would,  there 
can  be  no  doubt,  have  refused  his  sanc- 
tion to  such  a  misalliance.  There  re- 
mained the  alternative  of  a  clandestine 
marriage,  but  it  was  not  till  1354,  or  nine 
years  after  Constanta's  death,  that  Pedro 
resolved  even  on  this.  It  was  at  Bra- 
ganza  in  that  year  that  the  secret  and 
hurried  rites  were  performed  which  lifted 
Ifiez  de  Castro  from  the  level  of  a  favored 
mistress  to  the  proud  position  of  infanta 
of  Portugal.  The  Bishop  of  Guarda  was 
the  officiating  prelate,  and  Pedro's  cham- 
berlain the  only  witness. 

It  had  been  necessary  to  secure  from 
the  pope  a  special  dispensation  for  the 
marriage,  as  on  one  occasion  Ifiez  had 
stood  sponsor  to  a  child  of  Pedro  by  the 
deceased  infanta,  and,  by  the  old  canon 
law,  marriage  between  the  father  or  mother 
of  a  child,  and  any  one  who  had  acted  as 
its  godmother  or  godfather,  was  forbidden. 
It  is  worth  remarking  that,  according  to 
the  chronicler  William  of  Malmesbury, 
there  was  a  similar  impediment  to  the 
marriage  of  our  own  Anglo-Saxon  king, 
Eadgar,  with  i^lfthryth  (Elfrida)  —  an  ob- 
stacle wliich  in  their  case  also  did  not 
prove  insuperable. 

Secretly  as  the  wedding  ceremony  was 
conducted,  some  hint  or  suspicion  of  it 
reached  the  court,  and  caused  consider- 
able alarm  and  uneasiness  there ;  but 
when  Pedro  was  questioned  on  the  matter 
by  his  father,  he  distinctly  denied  having 


SH 


INEZ   DE   CASTRO. 


/" 
f 


contracted  any  marriage  with  Ifiez,  aod 
the  old  king  was  satisfied,  or  professed  to 
be  satisfied,  with  his  assurances. 

The  marriage  made  no  alteration  in  the 
mutual  relations  of  Pedro  and  Iflez,  and 
they  continued  to  reside,  as  before,  at 
Coimbra,  which  was  once  the  capital  of 
the  kingdom,  and  is  still  the  site  of  the 
national  university.  The  Mondego  —  the 
Isis  of  this  Portuguese  Oxford  —  rolls  its 
waters  by  and  below  the  town,  of  which 
latter  Southey,  writing  from  Portugal  in 
1801,  gives  the  following  description  :  **  I 
never  saw  a  city  so  nobly  situated,  a  view 
so  altogether  glorious  opened  upon  us 
from  its  near  heights.  The  country  is 
hilly  and  well-watered — olives  and  orange- 
groves  everywhere,  and  cypresses  thick  as 
poplars  about  Lauda.  Mountains  bounded 
the  scene :  the  furthest  object  was  one 
snowy  summit  of  the  Estrella,  glittering 
in  the  sun.  .  .  .  The  city  with  its  fine 
convents  shone  on  an  eminence  over  the 
Mondego  now  in  the  fulness  of  its  waters." 
(Southey's  "Letters,"  i.  136-137.)  The 
^^  Fonte  dos  Amores^"*  and  ^^Quinta  das 
LagrimaSy'*  scenes  in  the  vicinity  associ- 
ated with  the  memory  of  Ifiez,  are  still 
shown  to  the  curious  stranger. 

'Twas  here,  in  this  charming  spot,  that 
Ifiez  dwelt  in  seclusion  with  her  royal 
lover  and  husband,  over  whom  her  influ- 
ence had  in  all  these  years,  year  by  year, 
grown  greater,  as  year  by  year  his  pas- 
sion for  her  had  increased  in  the  depth 
and  intensity  of  its  ardor.  This  great 
and  growing  influence  over  the  heir-ap- 
parent at  length  awoke,  as  might  naturally 
be  expected,  the  alarm  and  jealousy  of  the 
courtiers  of  his  father,  Affonso,  and,  their 
misgivings  being  once  aroused,  they  did 
not  lose  much  time  in  communicating 
them  to  the  crafty  and  unscrupulous  old 
king.  Nor  were  their  apprehensions  of 
evil  altogether  without  foundation.  When 
that  remorseless  tyrant,  Pedro  the  Cruel, 
seized  the  throne  of  Castile  in  1341,  many 
of  the  nobility,  who  had  opposed  his  ac- 
cession, fied  for  refuge  into  Portugal. 
These  exiles  were  warmly  received  by 
Iflez,  who  did  not  rest  till  she  had  also 
succeeded  in  interesting  her  husband, 
Pedro,  in  their  favor.  Such  conduct  was 
obviously  calculated  to  excite  the  resent- 
ment of  the  Castilian  Pedro,  and,  if  per- 
sisted in,  might  even  end  in  embroiling 
the  two  countries,  Castile  and  Portugal, 
in  war,  for  in  those  turbulent  old  times 
kings  not  unfrequently  went  to  war  for 
less. 

It  was  felt,  moreover  —  and  this  per- 


haps was  the  chief  source  of  uneasiness 
—  that,  if  Ifiez  lived,  troubles  might  here- 
after arise  with  regard  to  the  succession 
to  the  crown,  as,  from  Pedro*s  infatuation 
for  his  Spanish  mistress  (for  such  she  was 
still  considered),  his  children  by  her  would 
prove  rivals  —  and  formidable  ones  —  to 
his  lawful  issue  by  the  deceased  infanta 
Constan9a. 

These  reasons  made  it  desirable,  in  the 
interests  of  the  State,  that  Ifiez  should  be 
removed,  and  the  old  king  Affonso  (who, 
as  we  have  already  hinted,  was  sufficiently 
unscrupulous)  did  not  long  hesitate  as  to 
what  line  of  action  to  adopt.  For  the  act 
he  meditated,  he  found  instruments  ready 
to  hand  in  three  gentlemen  —  Alvaro 
Gongales,  Pedro  Coelho,  and  Diego  Lopes 
Pacheco  —  who,  for  reasons  of  their  own, 
cherished  a  deadly  enmity  against  the 
Castro  family.  He  watched  his  opportu* 
nity,  and  one  day  in  the  year  1355,  when 
Pedro  was  absent  with  a  hunting  party,  he 
suddenly  appeared  with  these  men  at  the 
gates  OK  the  convent  of  Santa  Clara,  at 
Coimbra,  where  she  was  then  residing, 
and  summoned  her  to  his  presence.  The 
wretched  woman  read  his  fatal  purpose  in 
his  eyes,  and  flinging  herself  at  his  feet, 
and  clasping  his  knees,  besought  with 
tears  and  cries  for  mercy,  or,  at  least,  some 
respite  to  make  her  peace  with  God.  The 
old  king,  savage  as  he  was,  was  not  alto- 
gether .  destitute  of  humanity;  he  was 
moved,  deeply  moved,  by  the  tears  of  Ifiez, 
as  well  as  by  the  sight  of  her  innocent  in- 
fant children  —  his  own-grandchildren,  be 
it  remembered  —  whom  she  presented  to 
him.  For  a  moment,  indeed,  he  wavered ; 
but  the  villains  at  his  back  had  now  suffi- 
ciently compromised  themselves  to  know 
that  their  own  safety  depended  on  the 
death  of  Ifiez.  They  drew  the  king  aside, 
and,  remonstrating  with  him  on  his  weak- 
ness, at  length  wrung  from  him  his  con- 
sent for  the  completion  of  the  deed.  They 
then  fell  upon  Ifiez,  and  despatched  her 
with  their  daggers  —  a  sigh,  a  groan,  and 
all  was  over. 

Pedro's  horror  and  wrath  when  he 
heard  of  this  dastardly  assassination  defy 
description.  Nor  did  his  passion  ex- 
pend itself  merely  in  words.  Instantly  he 
rose  in  open  revolt  against  his  father,  and 
with  fire  and  sword  laid  waste  the  fair  and 
fertile  district  that  stretches  between  the 
Douro  and  the  Minho.  He  then  laid 
siege,  although  unsuccessfully,  to  Oporto, 
next  to  Lisbon  the  most  important  city  in 
the  kingdom,  and  declared  his  determina- 
tion to  %6  on  with  the  war  until  his  father 


INEZ  DE   CASTRO. 


315 


gave  the  assassins  ap  to  him.  Affonso 
either  would  not  or  could  not  make  the 
surrender,  and  so  the  miserable  hostilities 
continued  to  drag  on.  At  length,  how- 
ever, through  the  mediation  of  the  queen 
and  the  Archbishop  of  Braga,  a  compro- 
mise was  arrived  at,  by  which  it  was 
agreed  that,  if  Pedro  would  lay  down  his 
arms,  his  father  on  his  part  would  banish 
the  assassins  from  his  court  and  king- 
dom, and  at  the  same  time  admit  his  son 
to  the  chief  share  in  the  government. 
The  prince,  whether  reluctantly  or  not, 
agreed  to  these  terms  and  made  peace ; 
Pacheco,  Gonzales,  and  Coelho  took  ref- 
uge in  Castile,  and  Pedro  solemnly  prom- 
ised his  father  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of 
further  vengeance  against  them.  But 
when  Pedro  ascended  the  throne,  on  the 
death  of  his  father  Affonso  in  1357,  his 
thirst  for  revenge  proved  stronger  than 
his  sense  of  the  sacredness  of  an  oath,  and 
one  of  his  first  acts  was  to  procure  from 
Pedro  of  Castile  the  surrender  of  Pache- 
CO,  Coelho,  and  Gonzales  in  exchange  for 
some  of  the  already  mentioned  Castilian 
refugees  in  his  own  dominions.  Pache- 
CO,  indeed,  contrived  to  make  his  escape 
(in  a  manner  sufficiently  curious-,  but 
which  it  would  take  long  to  relate),  but 
the  other  two  were,  in  accordance  with 
the  terms  of  the  agreement,  delivered  into 
the  custody  of  Pedro,  who,  in  his  charac- 
ter alike  otinsulted  prince  and  of  a  lover 
outraged  in  his  tenderest  affection,  was 
DOW  enabled  to  gratify  to  the  full  his 
thirst  for  blood  and  vengeance.  Coelho 
and  Goni^ales  were  cast  into  a  dungeon  at 
Santarem,  and  torture  was  immediately 
applied  to  them  in  order  to  extort  from 
their  own  jips,  if  possible,  a  confession  of 
their  crime,  as  well  as  the  names  of  any 
who  might  have  been  their  accomplices 
in  the  planning  or  the  execution  of  it. 

Pedro  himself,  we  are  told,  was  present 
in  the  torture-chamber;  and  when  the 
unhappy  men  could  not  be'induced,  even 
by  the  almost  intolerable  anguish  they 
suffered,  either  to  confess  their  guilt  or 
implicate  others,  he  was  so  frenzied  with 
passion  that  he  actually  seized  a  whip,  and 
with  his  own  hand  lashed  one  of  them, 
Coelho,  across  the  face  with  it. 

After  their  examination  the  criminals 
were  without  loss  of  time  hurried  to  the 
scaffold,  where  again  Pedro  was  present, 
and  from  his  palace  windows  (overlook- 
ing the  place  of  execution)  feasted  his 
eyes,  as  he  sat  at  table,  with  their  dying 
agonies. 

Pedro  *s  next  step  was  to  make  a  public 


avowal  of  his  marriage  with  Tfiez.  For 
this  purpose  he  summoned  an  assembly  of 
the  States  at  Cantanedes,  in  1361,  and 
took  oatU  before  them  that  he  had  been 
privately  wedded  to  Itiez  de  Castro  in 
1354,  his  declaration  being  confirmed  by 
the  two  witnesses  of  the  ceremony,  name- 
ly, his  own  chamberlain  and  the  officiating 
prelate  the  Bishop  of  Guarda.  At  the 
same  time  the  papal  bull  of  Innocent  VI., 
containing  the  necessary  dispensation  for 
the  marriage,  was  published,  and  copies 
of  it  distributed  throughout  the  country. 
And  now  follows  Ihe  strangest  part  of 
this  most  singular  and  romantic  story. 

Immediately  after  Pedro's  avowal  of  his 
marriage,  the  corpse  of  Iflez  was  brought 
from  the  convent  of  Santa  Clara  (where, 
as  we  have  already  mentioned,  it  had  been 
hastily  interred  after  the  assassination), 
and  crowned,  and  sceptred,  and  arrayed 
in  all  the  insignia  of  royalty,  was  placed 
on  a  throne  set  by  that  of  the  king  him- 
self. Then  the  courtiers  and  nobility 
advanced,  and  one  by  one  kissing  the 
fieshless  hand,  swore  fealty  and  did  hom- 
age, acknowledging  by  their  act  and  by 
unanimous  acclaim  the  departed  Itiez  as 
their  sovereign  mistress  and  the  queen  of 
Portugal. 

It  might  not  unnaturally  be  suspected 
that  Pedro  was  impelled  to  this  extraordi- 
nary act  of  disinterring  and  crowning  his 
dead  wife,  by  a  disordered  reason,  were  it 
not  for  the  fact  that  an  incident  of  an 
exactly  similar  character  is  recorded  in 
connection  with  another  and  former  king 
of  Portugal,  the  famous  Affonso  Henri- 
quez,  who  in  like  manner  was  lifted  from 
his  tomb  after  a  lapse  of  years,  and,  being 
similarly  enthroned  with  crown  and  scep- 
tre, received  the  fealty  and  obeisance  of 
the  reigning  King  Emanuel  and  all  his 
nobility. 

After  the  coronation  the  remains  of 
Ifiez  were  transferred  to  the  royal  mon- 
astery of  Alcobaga,  a  Cistercian  abbey 
founded  by  that  same  Affonso  Henriquez 
whom  we  have  just  mentioned.  Here 
Pedro  had  caused  two  great  tombs  of 
white  marble  to  be  prepared  —  the  body 
of  Ifiez  to  be  interred  in  the  one,  the  other 
destined  as  the  last  resting-place  of  him- 
self. These  tombs  were  placed  in  such  a 
position  that  when  the  last  trump  sounded 
and  all  the  dead  woke  again  to  life,  Pedro 
and  this  woman  he  loved  might  rise  face 
to  face,  beholding  each  other  before  aught 
else  at  that  great  awakening. 

The  funeral  obsequies  of  Ifiez  were 
celebrated  at  night  and  distinguished  by  a 


Si6 

most  extraordinary,  indeed  almost  un- 
paralleled, pomp  and  magnificence.  The 
corpse,  placed  on  a  sumptuous  funeral 
car,  was  borne  slowly  through  the  night 
along  the  road  leading  from  the  convent 
of  Santa  Clara  to  the  monastery  of  Alco- 
baga,  followed,  or  escorted,  by  a  throng 
of  the  nobility  of  both  sexes,  all  display- 
ing, by  their  mourning  garments,  a  real  or 
simulated  grief.  Mingnngwith  these  and 
lining  either  side  of  the  road  were  an 
immense  multitude  of  spectators  holding 
blazing  torches  above  their  heads,  so  that 
as  an  old  Portuguese  chronicler  (quoted 
by  Mr.  Oswald  Crawfurd  in  his  amusing 
book  "  Portugal,  Old  and  New  ")  quaintly 
puts  it,  the  body  of  Ifiez  passed  to  its  rest 
** along  an  avenue  lined  as  with  all  the 
stars  of  heaven."  On  its  arrival  at  the 
monastery  of  Alcoba^a  the  corpse  of  Ifiez 
was  placed  in  its^marble  tomb,  and  above 
it  was  raised  a  fair  statue  of  her,  crowned 
and  garbed  in  the  robes  of  a  queen.  But 
not  even  here  were  the  bones  of  Ifiez 
allowed  to  remain  at  rest  forever.  For 
centuries,  indeed,  they  continued  undis- 
turbed, until  at  length  the  years  arrived 
when  Portugal  became  the  theatre  of  the 
war  between  the  English  and  the  first 
Napoleon.  The  great  emperor,  as  is  well 
known,  was  wont  to  enrich  the  Louvre 
with  the  spoils  of  his  foreign  conquests, 
and  his  marshals,  following  his  example, 
ransacked  the  Peninsula  in  every  direc- 
tion in  search  of  works  of  art,  stripping 
without  remorse  convents,  cathedrals,  and 
public  buildings  of  their  most  priceless 
chefs-d^ceuvre.  Nor  in  these  patriotic  re- 
searches did  they  disdain  to  enrich  them- 
selves also  with  such  treasures  in  gold 
and  plate  as  they  could  manage  to  lay 
their  hands  on.  The  great  monastery  of 
Alcoba9a  did  not  remain  unvisited  by  the 
French  soldiery,  and  when  they  came  they 
made  wild  work  of  it.  In  fact,  they  laid 
waste  the  place,  and  partly  impelled  by 
curiosity,  partly  in  search  of  plunder, 
broke  into  and  rified  among  others  the 
mausoleum  of  Ifiez.  With  a  truly  shock- 
ing brutality  they  tore  the  corpse  from  its 
coffin  and  cut  away  from  the  skull  the 
golden  hair  that  still  adhered  to  it.  The 
statue  also  was  damaged,  though  fortu- 
nately not  irreparably,  by  them.  They 
were  interrupted  in  the  further  work  of 
destruction  by  the  approach  of  the  allied 
English  and  Portuguese  armies,  before 
whom,  after  a  fruitless  attempt  to  fire  the 
abbey,  they  retreated. 

The  corpse  of  Ifiez  was  afterwards  re- 
placed in  its  coffin  and  restored  to  the 


LE   MASCARET. 


tomb,  never  again,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  to  be 
disturbed. 

A  few  words  must  be  added  about 
Pedro,  and  then  we  have  done.  His  spirit 
was  so  broken  by  the  death  of  Ifiez  that 
he  never,  we  are  told,  recovered  his  nat- 
ural gaiety  of  disposition,  but  to  the  end 
of  his  days  remained  a  gloomy  and  re- 
served man.  Before  that  great  disaster 
occurred  he  had  been  known  from  his 
candor  and  impartiality  as  "<?  yusficeiro^^ 
or  "  the  Just ; "  but  his  stern  treatment  of 
the  assassins,  Pedro  Coelho  and  Alvaro 
Gonzales  (who,  it  must  be  mentioned, 
were  executed  in  a  horribly  barbarous 
fashion),  afterwards  earned  for  himself 
the  title  of  "  the  Cruel."  He  provided 
munificently  for  the  personal  attendants 
of  Ifiez;  and  when  he  found  that  Diego 
Lopez  Pacheco,  one  of  her  alleged  mur- 
derers (and  who,  it  will  be  remembered, 
succeeded  in  making  his  escape),  was 
really  guiltless  of  the  crime,  he  not  only 
.pardoned  him  but  also  restored  him  his 
possessions,  which,  as  those  of  a  traitor, 
had  in  the  usual  course  escheated  to  the 
crown. 

Pedro  died  in  1385,  and  in  obedience  to 
his  solemn  injunction  was  laid  by  the  side 
of  the  woman  whom  he  had  loved  in  life, 
and  from  whom  in  death  he  would  not  be 
divided. 

Such  is  the  mournful  and  impressive 
history  of  Inez  de  Castro.  Surely,  the 
page  that  tells  her  tale  is  a  living  one, 
palpitating  with  passion,  pain,  and  sorrow, 
bedewed  with  tears  and  wet  with  blood. 
Her  sad  eyes  appealing  to  us  from  that 
far-off  mediaeval  past  make  us  forget  her 
errors  in  her  sorrows,  nor  indeed  could  it 
have  been  a  poor  or  a  base  nature  that 
inspired  a  passion  so  deep,  so  tragically 
constant,  as  that  which  Pedro  cherished 
for  her. 

Of  Pedro  and  Ifiez,  of  these  two,  it  may 
indeed  be  said,  that  they  loved  **  not  wise- 
ly, but  too  well."  C.  A.  W. 


From  The  Saturday  Review. 
LE  MASCARET. 

In  the  middle  of  the  river  Seine,  about 
half-way  between  Rouen  and  the  sea, 
there  was  in  olden  times  an  island  named 
Belcinac,  which  has  long  since  disap- 
peared. In  the  seventh  century  this  isl- 
and, which  was  long  and  broad  and  well 
wooded,  was  given  by  King  Thierry,  the 
son  of  Clovis  II.,  to  CondSde,  a  monk  of 


J 


LE   MASCARET. 


317 


Fontenelle,  who  built  thereon  a  monastery 
and  three  churches.  Time  passed  by,  ana 
the  island  and  the  monastery  of  Belcinac, 
along  with  the  three  churches,  were  grad- 
ually swept  away  by  the  stream.  In  1641 
the  island,  which  had  long  been  lost  to 
sight,  reappeared,  but  only  for  a  while. 
••It  was,"  says  a  French  historian,  ** hid- 
eous and  naked  as  death.  The  sun  was 
nevermore  to  vivify  its  desolate  shores. 
The  barrey  its  old  enemy,  soon  destroyed 
and  submerged  it  anew."  Since  that  time 
it  has  never  been  seen  again,  but  it  has 
been  supposed  that  some  of  the  shifting 
shoals  which  render  the  navigation  of  the 
Seine  so  dangerous  are  due  to  attempts 
made  by  the  remains  of  the  drowned  isl- 
and to  rear  their  heads  above  water. 

The  barre^  the  destroyer  of  the  once 
flourishing  island  of  Belcinac,  has  for 
ages  wrought  great  havoc  in  the  valley  of 
the  Seine,  especially  in  that  part  which 
lies  between  Quillebeuf  and  Caudebec. 
It  is  the  swift  wave,  or  series  of  waves, 
with  which  the  tide,  as  soon  as  it  begins 
to  flow,  rushes  up  the  bed  of  the  river, 
driving  back  the  downward  flowing  waters, 
and  filling  the  whole  valley  with  its  angry 
roar.  It  is  the  same  as  the  tidal  wave 
which  is  well  known  in  some  of  our  riv- 
ers,  especially  the  Severn,  as  the  bore, 
and  in  others;as  the  oegir.  The  words 
bore  and  barre  appear  to  require  no  ex- 
planation. That  of  oegir  or  aegir  is  curi- 
ous, inasmuch  as  it  seems  to  be  a  remi- 
niscence of  the  old  Scandinavian  deity 
Oegir,  the  god  of  the  stormy  sea.  He 
has  long  been  forgotten :  but  on  some  of 
our  eastern  coasts  the  descendants  of  the 
hardy  Norsemen  who  once  worshipped 
him  still  call  by  his  name  the  rush  of  the 
tidal  wave,  which  might  well  to  fancy's 
eye  suggest  the  furious  onset  of  the  ruler 
of  the  waters.  In  some  places  the  name 
of  the  dethroned  monarch  has  passed 
through  a  change  of  a  sadly  degrading 
nature,  not  only  rustics,  but  even  provin- 
cial editors,  allowing  themselves  to  speak 
of  their  local  bore  as  their  ego.  In  the 
Seine  the  usual  designation  of  the  tidal 
wave  was  long  the  barre,  though  it  was 
also  known  as  \\\^flot.  But  of  late  years 
a  new  term,  that  of  the  mascaret,  has 
gradually  crept  into  use,  and  seems  likely 
to  supplant  the  older  names.  Its  etymol- 
ogy is  uncertain.  Littr^  says  of  it  mere- 
ly, *^  Etymologie  inconnue^^  Some  philol- 
ogists are  inclined  to  attribute  to  it  a 
Basque  origin;  but  no  word  at  all  ap- 
proaching to  it  is  to  be  found  in  the 
Basque-French    dictionary.    All    that   is 


known  about  its  history  is,  that  it  has 
made  its  way  into  Normandy  from  the 
Gironde,  where  it  has  from  immemorial 
times  been  employed  to  designate  the 
rush  of  the  tidal  wave  in  the  river  Dor* 
dogne,  beginning  at  the  Bee  d'Amb^s, 
where  the  Dordogne  and  the  Garonne 
unite,  and  running  up  the  former  river  for 
twenty  or  thirty  miles.  A  legend,  at 
which  Littrd  justly  scoffs,  associates  the 
name  of  the  phenomenon  with  that  of  St. 
Macarius,  to  whom  a  chapel  was  conse- 
crated at  the  spot  still  known  as  St.  Ma- 
caire,  at  which  the  destructive  rush  of  the 
tidal  wave  was  wont  to  be  stayed.  The 
intercession  of  the  saint  was  supposed  to 
have  acted  as  a  bulwark  against  the  irrup- 
tion of  the  tide.  But  the  etymology, 
though  ingenious,  is  not  more  trustworthy 
than  that  which  resolves  Teddington  into 
Tide-end-town.  A  somewhat  similar  leg- 
end is  attached  to  the  little  chapel  of 
Barre-y-va  which  stands  close  to  the 
Seine,  about  a  mile  below  Caudebec.  Of 
it  a  well-known  guide-book  says:  **The 
name  probably  comes  from  the  circum- 
stance of  the  much-dreaded  barre,  or 
bore,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Seine,  ascend- 
ing at  times  thus  far."  The  fact  is  the 
rush  of  the  incoming  tide  makes  itself 
felt  as  high  as  Pont  de  I'Arche,  a  small 
town  at  a  considerable  distance  above 
Rouen.  The  guide-book  proceeds  to  say 
that  the  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  Grace  at 
Barre-y-va  is  "  much  resorted  to  by  sail- 
ors, who  have  covered  its  walls  with  ex- 
votos,  paintings,  models  of  ships,  etc.*' 
In  reality,  the  chapel  now  contains  merely 
one  ex-voto  picture  and  one  model  of  a 
ship,  not  being  nearly  as  interesting  in 
this  respect  as  the  seaside  churches  really 
resorted  to  by  mariners  in  so  many  towns 
along  the  coasts  of  France. 

Compared  with  such  terrific  manifesta- 
tions of  the  force  of  rushing  water  as  are 
afforded  bv  the  incoming  of  the  bore  in 
the  Hooghly  or  the  Amazon,  the  mascaret 
or  barre  in  the  Seine  almost  shrinks  into 
insignificance.  It  has  of  late  years  lost 
much  of  its  ancient  power  to  harm.  The 
bed  of  the  Seine  is  now  much  narrower 
than  it  used  to  be,  and  its  waters  are  con* 
sequently  deeper.  It  had  been  remarked 
that  in  the  Ganges  ships  anchored  in 
deep  water  sufiEered  but  little,  while  those 
which  were  caught  by  the  bore  in  shoal 
water  were  frequently  destroyed.  Conse- 
quently Arago,  when  his  advice  was  asked 
as  to  what  measures  ought  to  be  adopted 
to  restrain  the  violence  of  the  barre  in 
the  Seine,  recommended  that  the  width  of 


3i8  LE  MASCARET. 

the  nTcr  xliould  be  reduced  and  its  depth 
thereby  increased.  Accordingly,  dykes 
were  constructed,  an  tmraense  amount  of 
land  was  reclaimed,  and  the  barre  found 
ilself  unable  to  da  more  than  harmlessly 
wash  the  banks  of  the  f;reat  plains  across 
which  it  had  been  accustomed  for  count- 
less centuries  to  sweep  furiously.  For 
some  years  after  the  construction  of  these 
dykes  it  was  not  an  uncommon  sight  for 
travellers,  sailing  up  or  down  the  river,  to 
see  from  (he  decks  of  their  vessels  the 
masts  of  ships  long  stranded,  protruding 
from  meadows  luxuriantly  clothed  with 
rich  grass  and  dotted  with  groups  of  tran- 
quilly  grazing  cattle.  Across  these  wide 
plains,  now  so  monotonously  peaceful,  the 
angry  waters  urging  Iheir  way  from  the 
storm-vexed  sea,  at  Ihe  periods  of  the 
equinoctial  springtides,  would  dash,  a 
thousand  years  ago,  with  a  force  like  that 
of  a  mill-race,  capable  of  snapping  the 
toughest  cables  and  hurling  far  inland  the 
vessels  that  a  few  moments  before  had 
been  anchored  in  apparent  security.  It 
is  easy  to  conceive  how  greatly  so  unex- 
pected an  aliack  must  have  astonished 
the  lirsl  Norse  chieftain  who  encountered 
it  after  his  galleys  had  ascended  the  river 
as  high  as  Qulllebeuf,  and  had  been 
moored  for  the  night  in  perfectly  calm 
water.  His  feelinc^s,  when  the  roar  of  (he 
coming  billows  first  made  itself  heard, 
and  then  came  the  dash  of  the  foaming 
and  seething  waves,  sweeping  everything 
before  them  In  wild  confusion,  must  have 
been  somewhat  like  those  experienced  bv 
Alexander  the  Great,  when  a  similar  ad- 
venture beiel  him  in  the  estuary  of  the 

The  highest  tides  of  the  present  year, 
with  the  exception  of  those  in  March, 
occurred  in  the  Seine  between  the  i6(h 
and  the  igth  of  September.  On  each  of 
those  days  they  were  watched  in  the 
morninjT  and  the  evening  by  an  observer 
who  had  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  banks 
of  the  Seine  for  that  express  purpose,  and 
It  over-frequented 


t  the 


One  of  the 


s  of  the 


i   that 
.,  by 

1  compilers  of  guide-books  are 
geraied,  so  far  as  the  present 
spectacle  is  concerned.  Com- 
whal  it  used  to  be,  if  old  de- 
nay  be  trusted,  thi 
:d  of  its  terrors.  Jt res 
lature  force  which  used 
lley  of  the  Seine,  like 


the  mythical  dragons  which,  as  legends 
icll,  laid  whole  districts  waste,  about  as 
much  as  a  lion  confined  in  a  cage  resem- 
bles the  free  monarch  of  (he  African  wil- 
derness. But,  for  all  that,  it  is  well  wor- 
thy of  being  seen.  And  those  bends  of 
the  river  on  the  banks  of  which  it  spends 
its  fury  will  well  repay  the  visitor  for  tlie 
time  he  has  devoted  to  them.  If  he  is 
fortunate  enough  to  witness  the  arrival  of 
an  equinoctial  high  tide  which  coincides 
with  an  easterly  gale,  he  will  wiiness  a 
spectacle  which  he  will  not  easily  forget. 
Out  in  any  circumstances  the  sight  of  so 
great  a  nature-force  cannot  fail  to  make  a 
striking  impression.  Take,  for  instance, 
Ihe  rising  ground  a  little  above  Quillebcuf, 
where  two  poplars  bend  towards  ihe  river 
from  the  summit  of  the  bank,  and  look 
seawards  by  the  light  oE  the  almost  full 


J  high  i 


The 


quaint  old  town  i'Cems  lapped  in  slumber 
along  Ihe  edge  of  the  water,  which  now  is 
gliding  almost  imperceptibly  by.  Beyond 
the  houses  begins  the  immense  plain, 
stretching  away,  like  a  tranquil  sea,  to- 
wards Ihe  range  of  low  hills  vaguely  seen 
in  the  far-off  distance  to  the  lelt.  On  the 
right  side  of  the  river,  the  white  cliffs 
glimmer  mile  after  mile,  ending  with  the 
quarried  headland  which  runs  out,  dimly 
seen,  where  the  remains  of  Tancarville 
Castle  crown  the  wooded  heights.  Across 
the  river  glooms  the  long  avenue  of  pop- 
lars which  leads  in  a  direct  line  to  Lille- 
bonne,  famous  for  its  Roman  tiieatre  and 
for  its  castle,  within  which,  as  legends 
tell,  was  held  the  council  at  which  the 
invasion  of  England  by  William  the  Con- 
queror was  decided  upon.  All  is  still,  a 
perfect  calm  reigns  around;  or,  if  the 
silence  of  the  night  be  broken,  it  is  merely 
by  sounds  suggestive  of  repose,  the  dis- 
tant lowing  of  cattle  in  the  meadows,  the 
metallic  chink  of  a  plaintive  frog  near  at 
hand.  Equally  calm-inspiring  is  the  view 
of  the  river  seen  by  moonlight  from  Vieux 
Port,  the  long  stretch  of  water  in  a  direct 
line  reflecting  the  light  of  the  great  white 
clouds  in  the  sky,  the  wooded  slopes 
where  the  stream  bends  casting  a  black 
shadow  across  the  surface  of  the  water, 
and  between  the  thick  trees  a  light  sliin- 
ing  here  and  there  like  a  glow-worm  from 
a  window  of  one  of  the  few  cottages.  All 
nature  seems  to  sleep.  Presentlv,  from 
the  far  off  distance  comes  a  strange' sound, 
at  first  as  it  were  muffled  and  halt  sap- 
pressed,  then  gradually  becoming  lotider 
'  ■  -■  -  -■■'  -  last  it  tills  the  wh-'.. 
—  a  low  thunder  like 


rav-|  and   louder,  till 
e  of  I  valley  with  its 


THE   DISTANCE   OF  THE   SUN. 


319 


the  deep  bass  of  a  lion.  As  the  sound 
deepens  there  may  be  seen  a  long  line 
across  the  river  reaching  from  one  bank 
to  the  other,  chaaging  the  color  of  the 
surface  as  it  advances,  and  sending  the 
reflections  flying,  curling  over  on  the  fur- 
ther side  like  a  breaker  on  a  shingly  sea 
beach,  and  sweeping  along  with  its  white 
crest  gleaming  bright  in  the  moonlight, 
while  on  this  side  the  water  first  seethes 
and  hisses  and  then  dashes  against  the 
shore  in  a  great  turbid  wave,  which  sweeps 
with  a  wild  rush  over  the  sandbanks  and 
other  low-lying  flats,  and  breaks  in  a  great 
shower  of  spray  over  any  obstacle  it  may 
encounter  in  its  wild  career.  For  a  short 
time  after  the  first  rush  has  taken  place 
the  river  seems  to  be  swayed  by  great 
throes,  the  waters  dash  against  the  shores 
and  again  retreat,  forming  countless  little 
whirlpools  and  meetings  of  opposing 
surges,  which  toss  their  foam-flakes  high 
in  the  air.  Then  gradually  the  agitation 
subsides,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  the 
scene  is  again  as  peaceful  as  it  was  before 
the  tide  turned,  except  that  the  surface  of 
the  water  is  no  longer  an  unrufBed  mir- 
ror, for  the  stream  is  running  swiftly  from 
the  sea  towards  the  interior,  and  a  thou- 
sand tiny  eddies  and  rapids  break  up  the 
reflections  of  the  moonlit  clouds  into 
countless  dimly-seen  flying  gleams  of 
white. 

In  the  daytime  the  roar  of  the  advanc- 
ing wave  is  not  quite  so  impressive  as  at 
night ;  but  the  rush  of  the  waters  can  be 
more  distinctly  seen.  At  some  distance 
above  Quillebeuf  and  Vieux  Port,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  stand  the  bright 
little  towns  of  Villeouier  and  Caudel^c, 
against  tlie  quays  of  both  of  which  the 
fnascaret  breaks  with  great  fury.  Ville- 
quier  is  now  chiefly  known  as  the  scene  of 
a  tragedy  which,  forty  years  ago,  saddened 
the  household  of  a  great  poet.  Here,  on 
the  4th  of  September,  1843,  a  young 
couple  who  had  been  married  little  more 
than  half  avearwere  drowned,  together 
with  two  of  their  relatives,  while  on  a 
pleasure  trip  on  the  river.  The  young 
wife,  who  was  only  nineteen  years  old, 
was  the  daughter  of  M.  Victor  Hugo. 
Beside  the  slab  which  marks  the  spot 
where  sleep  the  four  victims  of  the  river 
stands  a  gravestone  bearing  the  simple 
inscription  **Ad^le,  femme  de  Victor 
Hugo;*' and  next  to  her  re'sting-place  is 
the  vacant  spot,  now  covered  with  turf, 
reserved  for  the  remains,  when  his  ap- 
pointed hour  shall  have  come,  of  the 
mighty  roaster  from  whose  life  the  shade  j 


cast  by  his  yoong  daughter's  death  has 
never  quite  passed  away.  Caudebec  is  a 
bright  little  town,  which  was  captured  in 
1419  by  the  English  under  Talbot  and 
Warwick,  and  is  often  visited  by  tourists 
of  the  same  nationality,  who  find  much  to 
interest  them  in  its  old  church,  with  its 
steeple  of  open  stonework,  and  in  the 
ruins  of  the  neighboring  abbey  of  St. 
VVandrille.  Of  this  abbey  there  exists,  in 
the  public  library  of  Havre,  a  manuscript 
history,  written  in  the  ninth  century,  and 
entitled  **Majus  Chronicon  Fontanella.^^ 
It  contains  a  short  description  of  the  mas- 
caret,  the  roar  of  which  at  that  time  could 
be  heard  at  places  five  miles  distant  from 
the  river's  banks.  At  the  present  day 
the  sound  does  not  penetrate  so  far,  but 
still  it  can  be  heard  afar  off.  It  is  a  flue 
sight  to  see  the  wave  tearing  its  way  along 
the  shore  and  dashing  furiously  against 
the  walls  of  the  quay  at  Caudebec,  hurl- 
ing high  into  the  air  columns  of  foam  and 
spray,  and  then  to  watch  the  rush  past  of 
the  other  greater  waves  which  follow  the 
flrst,  like  the  long  swell  of  the  Atlantic 
seen  from  one  of  our  western  promonto- 
ries, full  of  life  and  force  and  freedom. 


From  The  Timet. 
THE  DISTANCE  OF  THE  SUN. 

It  has  long  been  familiarly  known  that 
the  astronomical  phenomena  most  relied 
upon  for  the  discovery  of  the  .solar  dis- 
tance were  those  called  the  transits  of 
Venus  —  that  is  to  say,  the  occasions, 
sometimes  separated  by  long  intervals, 
when  the  planet  Venus  passes  directly 
between  the  sun  and  the  earth,  and  be- 
comes visible  as  a  dark  spot  crossing  the 
sun's  disc.  If  the  moments  of  apparent 
contact  with  the  edge  of  the  sun,  of  ap- 
parent complete  intervention,  the  planet 
being  wholly  on  the  disc,  and  the  corre- 
sponding moments  of  first  and  of  flnai 
emergence  could  be  accurately  determined 
by  two  or  more  observers,  situated  at  dis- 
tant points  of  the  earth's  surface,  then  the 
materials  for  calculation  would  be  ob- 
tained, and  the  distance  capable  of  pro- 
ducing the  difference  in  the  times  which 
the  different  observations  would  disclose 
would  become  a  question  of  trigonometry. 
Unfortunately  the  supposed  conditions 
cannot  be  perfectly  fulfllled,  partly  on  ac- 
count of  an  element  of  uncertainty  intro- 
duced by  the  atmosphere  of  Venus,  which 
produces  apparent  distortion  of  the  edge  at 


3i8 

the  river  should  be  reduced  and  its  depth 
thereby  increased.  Accordingly,  dykes 
were  constructed,  an  immense  amount  of 
land  was  reclaimed,  and  the  barre  found 
itself  unable  to  do  more  than  harmlessly 
wash  the  banks  of  the  great  plains  across 
which  it  had  been  accustomed  for  count- 
less centuries  to  sweep  furiously,  i^or 
some  years  after  the  construction  of  these 
dykes' it  was  not  an  uncommon  sight  for 
travellers,  sailing  up  or  down  the  river,  to 
see  from  the  decks  of  their  vessels  the 
masts  of  ships  long  stranded,  protruding 
from  meadows  luxuriantly  clothed  with 
rich  grass  and  dotted  with  groups  of  tran- 
quilly grazing  cattle.  Across  these  wide 
plains,  now  so  monotonously  peaceful,  the 
angry  waters  urging  their  way  from  the 
storm-vexed  sea,  at  the  periods  of  the 
equinoctial  spring-tides,  would  dash,  a 
thousand  years  ago,  with  a  force  like  that 
of  a  mill-race,  capable  of  snapping  the 
toughest  cables  and  hurling  far  inland  the 
vessels  that  a  few  moments  before  had 
been  anchored  in  apparent  security.  It 
is  easy  to  conceive  how  greatly  so  unex- 
pected an  attack  must  have  astonished 
the  first  Norse  chieftain  who  encountered 
it  after  his  galleys  had  ascended  the  river 
as  high  as  Quillebeuf,  and  had  been 
moored  for  the  night  in  perfectly  calm 
water.  His  feelings,  when  the  roar  of  the 
coming  billows  first  made  itself  heard, 
and  then  came  the  dash  of  the  foaming 
and  seething  waves,  sweeping  everything 
before  them  in  wild  confusion,  must  have 
been  somewhat  like  those  experienced  by 
Alexander  the  Great,  when  a  similar  ad- 
venture befel  him  in  the  estuary  of  the 
Indus. 

The  highest  tides  of  the  present  year, 
with  the  exception  of  those  in  March, 
occurred  in  the  Seine  between  the  i6th 
and  the  19th  of  September.  On  each  of 
those  days  they  were  watched  in  the 
morning  and  the  evening  by  an  observer 
who  had  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  banks 
of  the  Seine  for  that  express  purpose,  and 
who  tarried  at  various  not  over-frequented 
spots,  in  order  to  correct  the  impressions 
he  had  obtained  from  books.  One  of  the 
conclusions  at  which  he  arrived  was  that 
the  accounts  of  the  mascaret  given  by 
tourists  and  compilers  of  guide-books  are 
much  exaggerated,  so  far  as  the  present 
state  of  the  spectacle  is  concerned.  Com- 
pared with  what  it  used  to  be,  if  old  de- 
scriptions may  be  trusted,  the  mascaret  is 
now  stripped  of  its  terrors.  It  resembles 
the  great  nature  force  which  used  to  rav- 
age the  valley  of  the  Seine,  like  one  of 


LE   MASCARET. 


the  mythical  dragons  which,  as  legends 
tell,  laid  whole  districts  waste,  about  as 
much  as  a  lion  confined  in  a  cage  resem- 
bles the  free  monarch  of  the  African  wil- 
derness. But,  for  all  that,  it  is  well  wor- 
thy of  being  seen.  And  those  bends  of 
the  river  on  the  banks  of  which  it  spends 
its  fury  will  well  repay  the  visitor  for  the 
time  he  has  devoted  to  them.  If  he  is 
fortunate  enough  to  witness  the  arrival  of 
an  equinoctial  high  tide  which  coincides 
with  an  easterly  gale,  he  will  witness  a 
spectacle  which  he  will  not  easily  forget. 
But  in  any  circumstances  the  sight  of  so 
great  a  nature-force  cannot  fail  to  make  a 
striking  impression.  Take,  for  instance, 
the  rising  ground  a  little  above  Quillebeuf, 
where  two  poplars  bend  towards  the  river 
from  the  summit  of  the  bank,  and  look 
seawards  by  the  light  of  the  almost  full 
moon  riding  high  in  the  heavens.  The 
quaint  old  town  s^eems  lapped  in  slumber 
along  the  edge  of  the  water,  which  now  is 
gliding  almost  imperceptibly  by.  Beyond 
the  houses  begins  the  immense  plain, 
stretching  away,  like  a  tranquil  sea,  to- 
wards the  range  of  low  hills  vaguely  seen 
in  the  far-off  distance  to  the  left.  On  the 
right  side  of  the  river,  the  white  cliffs 
glimmer  mile  after  mile,  ending  with  the 
quarried  headland  which  runs  out,  dimly 
seen,  where  the  remains  of  Tancarville 
Castle  crown  the  wooded  heights.  Across 
the  river  glooms  the  long  avenue  of  pop- 
lars which  leads  in  a  direct  line  to  Lille- 
bonne,  famous  for  its  Roman  theatre  and 
for  its  castle,  within  which,  as  legends 
tell,  was  held  the  council  at  which  the 
invasion  of  England  by  William  the  Con- 
queror was  decided  upon.  All  is  still,  a 
perfect  calm  reigns  around;  or,  if  the 
silence  of  the  night  be  broken,  it  is  merely 
by  sounds  suggestive  of  repose,  the  dis- 
tant lowing  of  cattle  in  the  meadows,  the 
metallic  chink  of  a  plaintive  frog  near  at 
hand.  Equally  calm-inspiring  is  the  view 
of  the  river  seen  by  moonlight  from  Vieux 
Port,  the  long  stretch  of  water  in  a  direct 
line  reflecting  the  light  of  the  great  white 
clouds  in  the  sky,  the  wooded  slopes 
where  the  stream  bends  casting  a  black 
shadow  across  the  surface  of  the  water, 
and  between  the  thick  trees  a  light  shin- 
ing here  and  there  like  a  glow-worm  from 
a  window  of  one  of  the  few  cotta«;es.  All 
nature  seems  to  sleep.  Presently,  from 
the  far  off  distance  comes  a  strange  sound, 
at  first  as  it  were  muffled  and  half  sup- 
pressed, then  gradually  becoming  louder 
and  louder,  till  at  last  it  filN  the  wh'^*- 
valley  with  its  roar  —  a  low  thunder  like 


THE   DISTANCE  OF  THE   SUN. 


319 


the  deep  bass  of  a  lion.  As  the  sound 
deepens  there  may  be  seen  a  long  line 
across  the  river  reaching  from  one  bank 
to  the  other,  chaaging  the  color  of  the 
surface  as  it  advances,  and  sending  the 
reflections  flying,  curling  over  on  the  fur- 
ther side  like  a  breaker  on  a  shingly  sea 
beach,  and  sweeping  along  with  its  white 
crest  gleaming  bright  in  the  moonlight, 
while  on  this  side  the  water  first  seethes 
and  hisses  and  then  dashes  against  the 
shore  in  a  great  turbid  wave,  which  sweeps 
with  a  wild  rush  over  the  sandbanks  and 
other  low-lying  flats,  and  breaks  in  a  great 
shower  of  spray  over  any  obstacle  it  may 
encounter  in  its  wild  career.  For  a  short 
time  after  the  first  rush  has  taken  place 
the  river  seems  to  be  swayed  by  great 
throes,  the  waters  dash  against  the  shores 
and  again  retreat,  forming  countless  little 
whirlpools  and  meetings  of  opposing 
surges,  which  toss  their  foam-flakes  high 
in  the  air.  Then  gradually  the  agitation 
subsides,  and  in  a  Tew  minutes  more  the 
scene  is  again  as  peaceful  as  it  was  before 
the  tide  turned,  except  that  the  surface  of 
the  water  is  no  longer  an  unruffled  mir- 
ror, for  the  stream  is  running  swiftly  from 
the  sea  towards  the  interior,  and  a  thou- 
sand tiny  eddies  and  rapids  break  up  the 
reflections  of  the  moonlit  clouds  into 
countless  dimly-seen  flying  gleams  of 
white. 

In  the  daytime  the  roar  of  the  advanc- 
ing wave  is  not  quite  so  impressive  as  at 
night ;  but  the  rush  of  the  waters  can  be 
more  distinctly  seen.  At  some  distance 
above  Quillebeuf  and  Vieux  Port,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  stand  the  bright 
little  towns  of  Villeauier  and  Caudel^c, 
against  the  quays  of  both  of  which  the 
mascaret  breaks  with  great  fury.  Ville- 
quier  is  now  chiefly  known  as  the  scene  of 
a  tragedy  which,  forty  years  ago,  saddened 
the  household  of  a  great  poet.  Here,  on 
the  4th  of  September,  1843,  a  young 
couple  who  had  been  married  little  more 
than  half  a  vear  were  drowned,  together 
with  two  of  their  relatives,  while  on  a 
pleasure  trip  on  the  river.  The  young 
wife,  who  was  only  nineteen  years  old, 
was  the  daughter  of  M.  Victor  Hugo. 
Beside  the  slab  which  marks  the  spot 
where  sleep  the  four  victims  of  the  river 
stands  a  gravestone  bearing  the  simple 
inscription  "  Ad^le,  femme  de  Victor 
Hugo; "and  next  to  her  re'sting-place  is 
the  vacant  spot,  now  covered  with  turf, 
reserved  for  the  remains,  when  his  ap- 
pointed hour  shall  have  come,  of  the 
mighty  roaster  from  whose  life  the  shade 


cast  by  his  yoong  daughter's  death  has 
never  quite  passed  away.  Caudebec  is  a 
bright  little  town,  which  was  captured  in 
1419  by  the  English  under  Talbot  and 
Warwick,  and  is  often  visited  by  tourists 
of  the  same  nationality,  who  find  much  to 
interest  them  in  its  old  church,  with  its 
steeple  of  open  stonework,  and  in  the 
ruins  of  the  neighboring  abbey  of  St. 
VVandrille.  Of  this  abbey  there  exists,  in 
the  public  library  of  Havre,  a  manuscript 
history,  written  in  the  ninth  century,  and 
entitled  ^^Afajus  Chronicon  Fontanella,^^ 
It  contains  a  short  description  of  the  mas- 
caret, the  roar  of  which  at  that  time  could 
be  heard  at  places  five  miles  distant  from 
the  river's  banks.  At  the  present  day 
the  sound  does  not  penetrate  so  far,  but 
still  it  can  be  heard  afar  off.  It  is  a  fine 
sight  to  see  the  wave  tearing  its  way  along 
the  shore  and  dashing  furiously  against 
the  walls  of  the  quay  at  Caudebec,  hurl- 
ing high  into  the  air  columns  of  foam  and 
spray,  and  then  to  watch  the  rush  past  of 
the  other  greater  waves  which  follow  the 
flrst,  like  the  long  swell  of  the  Atlantic 
seen  from  one  of  our  western  promonto- 
ries, full  of  life  and  force  and  freedom. 


From  The  Timet. 
THE  DISTANCE  OF  THE  SUN. 

It  has  long  been  familiarly  known  that 
the  astronomical  phenomena  most  relied 
upon  for  the  discovery  of  the  solar  dis- 
tance were  those  called  the  transits  of 
Venus  —  that  is  to  say,  the  occasions, 
sometimes  separated  by  long  intervals, 
when  the  planet  Venus  passes  directly 
between  the  sun  and  the  earth,  and  be- 
comes visible  as  a  dark  .spot  crossing  the 
sun's  disc.  If  the  moments  of  apparent 
contact  with  the  edge  of  the  sun,  of  ap- 
parent complete  intervention,  the  planet 
being  wholly  on  the  disc,  and  the  corre- 
sponding moments  of  first  and  of  final 
emergence  could  be  accurately  determined 
by  two  or  more  observers,  situated  at  dis- 
tant points  of  the  earth^s  surface,  then  the 
materials  for  calculation  would  be  ob- 
tained, and  the  distance  capable  of  pro- 
ducing the  difference  in  the  times  which 
the  different  observations  would  disclose 
would  become  a  question  of  trigonometry. 
Unfortunately  the  supposed  conditions 
cannot  be  perfectly  ful^lled,  partly  on  ac- 
count of  an  element  of  uncertainty  intro- 
duced by  the  atmosphere  of  Venu.s,  which 
produces  apparent  distortion  of  the  edge  at 


320 


THE   DISTANCE   OF  THE   SUN. 


the  moment  of  contact,  and  partly  from 
other  optical  reasons,  to  which  Dr.  Ball 
has  referred.  To  some  extent,  perhaps, 
the  errors  incidental  to  imperfect  seeing 
may  be  corrected  by  photography ;  and  on 
the  occasion  of  the  last  transit,  the  last, 
moreover,  which  will  occur  until  the  year 
2004,  the  British  and  other  governments 
did  all  that  could  be  accomplished  to  ob- 
tain the  required  information.  In  some 
places  the  weather  was  unfavorable ;  and 
Dr.  Ball  gives  a  graphic  description  of 
his  own  disappointment  from  this  cause, 
the  clouds  only  allowing  him  to  see  the 
planet  after  it  had  half  entered  upon  the 
disc,  and  again  for  a  brief  period  in  the 
middle  of  the  transit.  As  in  the  analo- 
gous case  of  solar  eclipses  —  the  transit 
would  be  an  eclipse  if  Venus  were  nearer 
to -us  —  the  observation  of  each  will  afford 
guidance  in  the  use  of  future  opportuni- 
ties; but  eclipses  are  comparatively  fre- 
quent, and  the  experience  derived  from 
them  comes  often  into  play.  Astrono- 
mers cannot  be  expected  to  wait  patiently 
for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  until  the 
course  of  Venus  in  relation  to  the  sun  and 
earth  once  more  brings  her  to  their  as- 
sistance ;  and  so  various  other  methods 
have  been  suggested  and  applied.  The 
chief  of  these  are  sketched  by  Dr.  Ball 
with  admirable  lucidity;  and  he  enables 
even  non*scientific  persons  to  arrive  at 
clear  notions  of  what  they  are  intended  to 
accomplish.  He  explains  how  a  determi- 
nation of  the  weight  of  the  earth  in  com- 
parison with  the  sun,  if  it  could  be 
obtained,  would  lead  to  a  solution  of  the 
problem.  Such  a  determination  has  been 
sought  by  observations  of  the  extent  to 
which  Kncke*s  comet  and  other  heavenly 
bodies  deviate  from  the  precise  orbits  in 
which  the  attraction  of  the  sun  alone 
would  retain  them  ;  in  consequence  of  this 
attraction  being  partially  overcome  by  the 
attraction  of  the  earth  or  of  other  planets, 
the  weight  of  which  would  be  proportion- 
ate to  the  attractive  force  they  could  ex- 
ert. 1 1  will  be  remembered  that  the  planet 
Neptune  was  discovered  before  it  was 
seen,  and  discovered  simultaneously  by 
Adams  and  by  Le  Verrier  inconsequence 
of  the  disturbing  effect  of  its  attraction, 
which  caused  it  to  be  looked  for  in  the 
position  from  which  this  disturbance  was 
exercised.  But  for  the  determination  of 
the  precise  weight  of  any  given  planet  it 
would  be  necessary  to  be  quite  certain  of 
all  the  forces  that  were  in  operation,  and 


this  does  not  seem  to  be  possible.  The 
method  is  theoretically  correct,  but  the 
means  are  wanting  for  its  perfect  practical 
application.  The  latest  suggestion,  and 
that  of  which  Dr.  Ball  speaks  most  hope- 
fully, is  to  proceed  by  the  help  of  the 
small  planets,  of  which  two  hundred  and 
forty  are  now  known,  revolving  round  the 
sun  between  Mars  and  Jupiter.  The  larger 
of  these,  under  favorable  conditions,  come 
within  about  seventy  million  miles  of  the 
earth,  and  their  movements  admit  of  being 
measured  by  taking  stars  as  fixed  points  — 
the  distances  of  the  stars  themselves  being 
too  great  to  be  productive  of  any  impor- 
tant error.  An  observer  placed  near  the 
equator,  who  takes  the  bearings  of  one  of 
these  small  planets  in  the  evening,  as 
soon  as  it  can  be  distinctly  seen  after  its 
rising,  and  again  shortly  before  dawn,  has 
in  the  mean  while  been  carried  thousands 
of  miles  by  the  rotation  of  the  earth,  and 
wiU  see  a  considerable  apparent  change  of 
the  position  of  the  planet  in  relation  to 
the  selected  stars.  This  change  is  partly 
due  to  its  own  motion,  but  chiefly  to  the 
parallactic  displacement  arising  from  the 
rotation  of  the  earth  and  the  consequent 
displacement  of  the  observer.  The 
amount  due  to  each  of  these  causes  may 
be  ascertained,  or  rather  that  due  to  the 
motion  of  the  planet  itself  may  be  esti- 
mated, by  careful  and  repeated  measure- 
ments of  its  place  in  relation  to  the  stars 
among  which  it  passes.  Dr.  Ball  names 
two  planets,  Victoria  and  Sappho,  as  lend- 
ing themselves  particularly  to  this  method 
of  research,  which  has  already  been  pur- 
sued with  hopeful  results;  and  he  con* 
fidently  expects  that  before  the  occurrence 
of  the  next  transit  the  problem  of  the 
solar  distance  will  have  been  solved, 
within  the  thousandth  part,  by  the  aid  of 
the  minor  planets.  Already,  he  thinks, 
the  last  estimate  of  ninety-two  millioa 
seven  hundred  thousand  miles  is  not  likely 
to  be  erroneous  to  the  extent  of  three 
hundred  thousand  miles.  It  is  impossible^ 
of  course,  to  forecast  all  the  various  ways 
in  which  the  satisfactory  settlement  of 
this  question  might  contribute  to  the  so- 
lution of  others ;  but  we  may  at  least  be 
sure  that  such  a  settlement,  like  all  forms 
of  new  knowledge,  will  have  unexpected 
applications  to  research  of  other  kinds« 
The  British  Association  may  be  congratu- 
lated that  a  subject  of  such  magnitude 
has  found,  during  their  meeting,  an  ex- 
positor so  well  calculated  to  do  it  justice. 


LITTELL'S  LIVING  AGE. 


imh  BoriM 
VoluM  XLIYi 


f.  }         No.  2055. -November  10,  188a       {^foifffi^' 


CONTENT 
L  Scotland  in  the  Eightebntu  Century 

—  1707 

IL  The  Wizard's  Son.    Part  XVIL, 

III.  Samuel  Richardson, 

IV.  A  Recollection  of  the  Riviera,     • 

V.   Through  Portugal, 

VL  Ruth  Hayes, 

VII.  University  Life  in  the  Early  Part  of 
the  Seventeenth  Century,    •       • 

VII L  Alpine  Gossip 

IX.  A  Pilgrimage  to  Adam's  Peak, 

X.  A  River  Parade  in  the  British  Army,  . 


S. 

Scottish  RetnrWt   •        . 
MacmiilaH^s  Afaganfu^ 
Contemporary  Reinew^ 
Temple  Bar, 
Fortnightly  Review^      , 
BelgraviOf    •        •        • 


Centlemat^s  Magaune^ 
Pall  Mall  GoMette, 
Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
Pall  Mall  GautUt 


323 
335 
345 
355 
359 
365 

374 
380 

381 

383 


POETRY. 

'^  Green,"       ••••••    322!  Sonnets, 

Song, 322 'Autumn  Sympathy, 


Miscellany. 


322 
322 

384 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  Dollars,  remitted  dirocHfiotht  FtiMitktrt,  th«  LivxNa  Aca-will  be  punctually  forwarded 
ior  %ytaxt/rg*  offstage. 

Kemittances  Bbouldbe  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  po8>K>ffice  money-order^  if  pomible.  If  neither 
t/L  these  can  be  procured,  the  moneyshould  be  aent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  poetmasters  are  obliged  to  rwister 
letters  when  requested  to  do  sa  X>raf  ts,  checks  and  money-orders  should  be  made  payable  to  the  oraer  o| 
LrrrxLL  &  Co. 

Sti^e  Numbers  of  Thb  Lnrwo  An,  iSontib 


320 


THE   DISTANCE   OF   THE   SUN. 


the  moment  of  contact,  and  partly  from 
other  optical  reasons,  to  which  Dr.  Ball 
has  referred.  To  some  extent,  perhaps, 
the  errors  incidental  to  imperfect  seeing 
may  be  corrected  by  photography ;  and  on 
the  occasion  of  the  last  transit,  the  last, 
moreover,  which  will  occur  until  the  year 
2004,  the  British  and  other  governments 
did  all  that  could  be  accomplished  to  ob- 
tain the  required  information.  In  some 
places  the  weather  was  unfavorable ;  and 
Dr.  Ball  gives  a  graphic  description  of 
his  own  disappointment  from  this  cause, 
the  clouds  only  allowing  him  to  see  the 
planet  after  it  had  half  entered  upon  the 
disc,  and  again  for  a  brief  period  in  the 
middle  of  the  transit.  As  in  the  analo- 
gous case  of  solar  eclipses  —  the  transit 
would  be  an  eclipse  if  Venus  were  nearer 
to  us  —  the  observation  oi  each  will  a£Eord 
guidance  in  the  use  of  future  opportuni- 
ties; but  eclipses  are  comparatively  fre- 
quent, and  the  experience  derived  from 
them  comes  often  into  play.  Astrono- 
mers cannot  be  expected  to  wait  patiently 
for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  until  the 
course  of  Venus  in  relation  to  the  sun  and 
earth  once  more  brings  her  to  their  as- 
sistance ;  and  so  various  other  methods 
have  been  suggested  and  applied.  The 
chief  of  these  are  sketched  by  Dr.  Ball 
with  admirable  lucidity;  and  he  enables 
even  non-scientiiic  persons  to  arrive  at 
clear  notions  of  what  they  are  intended  to 
accomplish.  He  explains  how  a  determi- 
nation of  the  weight  of  the  earth  in  com- 
parison with  the  sun,  if  it  could  be 
obtained,  would  lead  to  a  solution  of  the 
problem.  Such  a  determination  has  been 
sought  by  observations  of  the  extent  to 
which  Kncke*s  comet  and  other  heavenly 
bodies  deviate  from  the  precise  orbits  in 
which  the  attraction  of  the  sun  alone 
would  retain  them ;  in  consequence  of  this 
attraction  being  partially  overcome  by  the 
attraction  of  the  earth  or  of  other  planets, 
the  weight  of  which  would  be  proportion- 
ate to  the  attractive  force  they  could  ex- 
ert. 1 1  will  be  remembered  that  the  planet 
Neptune  was  discovered  before  it  was 
seen,  and  discovered  simultaneously  by 
Adams  and  by  Le  Verrier  inconsequence 
of  the  disturbing  effect  of  its  attraction, 
which  caused  it  to  be  looked  for  in  the 
position  from  which  this  disturbance  was 
exercised.  But  for  the  determination  of 
the  precise  weight  of  any  given  planet  it 
would  be  necessary  to  be  quite  certain  of 
all  the  forces  that  were  in  operation,  and 


this  does  not  seem  to  be  possible.  The 
method  is  theoretically  correct,  but  the 
means  are  wanting  for  its  perfect  practical 
application.  The  latest  suggestion,  and 
that  of  which  Dr.  Ball  speaks  most  hope- 
fully, is  to  proceed  by  the  help  of  the 
small  planets,  of  which  two  hundred  and 
forty  are  now  known,  revolving  round  the 
sun  between  Mars  and  Jupiter.  The  larger 
of  these,  under  favorable  conditions,  come 
within  about  seventy  million  miles  of  the 
earth,  and  their  movements  admit  of  being 
measured  by  taking  stars  as  fixed  points  — 
the  distances  of  the  stars  themselves  being 
too  great  to  be  productive  of  any  impor- 
tant error.  An  observer  placed  near  the 
equator,  who  takes  the  bearings  of  one  of 
these  small  planets  in  the  evening,  as 
soon  as  it  can  be  distinctly  seen  after  its 
rising,  and  again  shortly  before  dawn,  has 
in  the  mean  while  been  carried  thousands 
of  miles  by  the  rotation  of  the  earth,  and 
wiU  see  a  considerable  apparent  change  of 
the  position  of  the  planet  in  relation  to 
the  selected  stars.  This  change  is  partly 
due  to  its  own  motion,  but  chiefly  to  the 
parallactic  displacement  arising  from  the 
rotation  of  the  earth  and  the  consequent 
displacement  of  the  observer.  The 
amount  due  to  each  of  these  causes  may 
be  ascertained,  or  rather  that  due  to  the 
motion  of  the  planet  itself  may  be  esti- 
mated, by  careful  and  repeated  measure* 
ments  of  its  place  in  relation  to  the  stars 
among  which  it  passes.  Dr.  Ball  names 
two  planets,  Victoria  and  Sappho,  as  lend- 
ing themselves  particularly  to  this  method 
of  research,  which  has  already  been  pur- 
sued with  hopeful  results;  and  he  con- 
fidently expects  that  before  the  occurrence 
of  the  next  transit  the  problem  of  the 
solar  distance  will  have  been  solved, 
within  the  thousandth  part,  by  the  aid  of 
the  minor  planets.  Already,  he  thinks, 
the  last  estimate  of  ninety-two  million 
seven  hundred  thousand  miles  is  not  likely 
to  be  erroneous  to  the  extent  of  three 
hundred  thousand  miles.  It  is  impossible, 
of  course,  to  forecast  all  the  various  ways 
in  which  the  satisfactory  settlement  of 
this  question  might  contribute  to  the  so- 
lution of  others ;  but  we  may  at  least  be 
sure  that  such  a  settlement,  like  all  forms 
of  new  knowledge,  will  have  unexpected 
applications  to  research  of  other  kinds. 
The  British  Association  may  be  congratu- 
lated that  a  subject  of  such  magnitude 
has  found,  during  their  meeting,  an  ex- 
positor so  well  calculated  to  do  it  justice. 


LITTELL'S  LIVING  AGE. 


Fifth  SoriM 
Voluia  XLIYi 


I  }         No.  2055. -November  10,  188a       }^oifS^' 


CONTENTS. 

L  Scotland  in  the  Eightkbntu  Cbntury 

^1707, Scottish  Review^   •        . 

IL  The  Wizard's  Son.    Part  XVIL,       •       •  MacntUlan^s  Magaum^ 

III.  Samuel  Richardson, Contemporary  Revitw^ 

IV.  A  Recollection  of  the  Riviera,     .       .  Temple  Bar, 

V.   Through  Portugal, Fortnightly  Review^ 

VL  Ruth  Hayes, Belgravia^    • 

VII.  University  Life  in  the  Early  Part  of 

the  Seventeenth  Century,    .       •       .  dntUman^s  Afagaum^ 

VIIL  Alpine  Gossip, Pall  Mall  Gatetu, 

IX.  A  Pilgrimage  to  Adam*s  Peak,        •       .  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 

X.  A  River  Parade  in  the  British  Army,  .  Pall  Mall  Gautu, 


323 
335 
345 
355 
359 
365 

374 
380 

381 
383 


POETRY. 

''Green," 322 1  Sonnets, 

Song, 322 'Autumn  Sympathy, 


Miscsliany. 


322 
322 

384 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,   BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  Dollahs,  remUttd  dir9etfyi9th0  PmUith^rt,  the  Liyino  Agb-wiU  be  pusctoally  forwarded 
for  %jnaXf/ree  offstage, 

Kemittances  snouldbe  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  posvoffice  money^mier,  if  ponstble.  If  neither 
of  tbeae  can  be  procuredt  the  mcmeyshouldbe  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  poatmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.  Drafts,  checks  and  money-orders  should  be  made  payable  to  the  oroarof 
LnrrvLL  &  Co. 

Sti^e  Numbers  of  TkuLnrwo  An,  iSontib 


3»2 


"GREEN,"   ETC. 


••GREEN." 


Soft  shades,  that  rest  and  soothe  the  eye, 

Half-blinded  by  the  glare  of  day, 
When,  turning  from  the  dusty  road, 

In  deep  green  gloom  of  woods  we  stray, 
And  mark  the  tint  of  springing  ferns. 

Their  summer  beauties  scarce  unfurled, 
And  listen  to  the  voice  of  birds. 

The  bum  of  all  the  insect  world. 

Then,  looking  upwards  where  warm  rays 
Through  tender  leaves  of  beeches  shiue, 

We  dimly  catch  reflected  there 
Faint  images  of  things  divine. 

A  whisper  fails  from  yon  green  arch 
Of  beauty  higher  than  its  own. 
In  sight  like  to  an  emerald," 
**  A  rainbow  round  about  the  throne." 


<• 


And  it  is  sweet  to  wander  forth 

In  summer  by  the  river-side, 
Where  trees  and  water-weeds  have  hung 

Green  shadows  on  the  glassy  tide ; 
And  idly  pulling  here  and  there 

Fresh  blossoms  in  the  aftermath. 
To  watch  the  flicker  of  the  leaves 

Where  ash-tree  shadows  fleck  the  path. 

a 

For  is  there  not  a  deeper  joy, 

A  hope  these  soft  green  hues  suggest, 
A  vision  of  a  peaceful  life. 

Leading  at  last  to  perfect  rest  ? 
To  where, the  living  waters  flow, 

Beside  those  green  and  quiet  meads, 
Where  the  Good  Shepherd  even  now 

His  own  beloved  ones  safely  leads. 
Sunday  Magazine.  S.  M.  GiDLBY. 


SONG. 

Look  through  the  gloaming,  the  fireflies  are 
roaming, 
Music  and  moonlight  are  over  the  lea ; 
Joy*s  iridescence  of  passion  and  pleasaunce 
Glows  on  the  meadow,  and  gleams  on  the 
sea. 
Come  let  us  go 
Where  the  still  waters  flow. 
Love  with  its  rapture  shall  render  us  free. 

Pure  is  the  blessing  our  spirits  caressing, 

Sweet  is  the  silence  and  dim  is  the  dell ; 
Far  through  the  portal  of  music  immortal 
Love  leads  the  measure  and  sorrow  the  spell. 
Borne  on  the  stream 
Of  an  exquisite  dream, 
Music  and  moonlight  their  secret  shall  tell. 

Come  then  unheeding  the  hours  that  receding. 
Dream  in  the  distance  and  murmur  no  more ; 
Listen  I  oh  listen  !  the  dewy  woods  glisten, 
Hope  floats  before  us  along  the  dim  shore. 
Come  let  us  rove 
Through  the  shadowy  grove ; 
Come— ere  the  fragrance  of  feeling  is  o'er. 

Blackwood's  Magazine. 


SONNETS. 


LOVE  STRONG  AS  DEATH. 

A  MOTHER  watched  with  many  a  silent  vow. 
Where,  restless,  lay  her  child,  with  burning 

brow. 
Fevered,  yet  weak,  too  ill  to  recognize 
Its  mother's  anxious  care  and  yearning  eyes. 
One  hour's  neglect,  and  Death's  cold  stiff  em* 

brace 
Had  touched  with  icy  chill  the  little  face ; 
But  one  omission  of  each  needful  care. 
And  the  dread  angel  had  alighted  there. 
Vet  still  the  mother  at  her  post  was  found. 
While  days  and  nights  dragged  on  their  weary 

round ; 
Then  on  the  infant  fell  a  restful  sleep. 
And    happy  tears  the  mother's  heart    could 

weep: 
The  struggle  o'er,  in  peace  the  babe  drew 

breath. 
And  life  returned — for  Love  was  strong  as 

Death. 

LOVE  STRONGER  THAN  DEATH. 

The  wailing  infant  grew  to  man's  estate ; 
But  here  again  Death's  angel  lay  in  wait. 
And  when  life's  rainbow  shone  most  bright 

and  clear, 
Its  colors  faded  as  the  foe  drew  near. 
No  meek  unconscious  child  might  now  await. 
What  worldlings  idly  call  the  stroke  of  Fate ; 
They  judged  it  best  the  babe  had  lost  the  strife, 
Than  lived  to  fade,  when  clinging  most  to  life. 
Unknowing  how  the  young,  but  Christian  soul 
Can  face  in  hope  and  trust  Heaven's  distant 

goal. 
Such  faith  had  he  —  though  mother's  love  was 

v^in, 
She  would  not  now  recall  her  boy  again  ; 
Still  to  her  mourning  heart  his  memory  saith, 
"The   Love  and  Life  beyond  shall  conquer 

Death." 
Chamber^  JoumaL  M.  P. 


AUTUMN  SYMPATHY. 

The  prinirose  and  the  violet. 
The  bloom  on  apricot  and  peach, 
The  marriage  song  of  larks  in  heights. 
The  south  wind  and  the  swallow's  nest ; 
All  born  of  spring,  I  once  loved  best. 

But  now  the  dying  leaf  and  flower, 
The  frost  wind  moaning  in  the  pane, 
The  robin's  plaintive  latter  song. 
The  early  sunset  in  the  west ; 
All  born  of  autumn,  I  love  best. 

Tell  me,  my  heart,  the  reason  why 
Thy  pulse  thus  beats  with  things  that  die; 
Is  it  thine  own  autumnal  sheaves  ? 
Is  it  thine  own  dead  fallen  leaves  ? 

£.  G.  Charles  WORTH. 
Sunday  Magaxine. 


SCOTLAND   IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY— 1707. 


323 


From  The  Scottish  Review. 
SCOTLAND    IN    THE    EIGHTEENTH 
CENTURY  — 1707. 

I. 

Scotland  in  1707!  Not  so  loni^  ago, 
yet  perhaps  few  of  us  have  anything  like 
a  true  image  of  the  time  before  our  minds. 
England,  at  least  London,  in  1707,  we  are 
all  pretty  familiar  with  ;  but  how  many  of 
us  have  even  so  much  as  tried  to  realize 
the  daily  life  and  circumstances  of  the 
Scottish  contemporaries  of  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley?  Do  our  readers  start  at  the 
singularity  of  the  question  ?  We  have 
long  noticed  that  the  period  of  Scottish 
history  between  the  Revolution  of  1688 
and  the  Rebellion  of  1745,  and  its  chief 
and  central  event,  the  Union,  has  no  place 
in  the  national  memory.  You  hear  often 
enough  of  the  old  heroic  days  when 
Presbytery  and  Prelacy  were  locked  in  the 
death  grip,  and  how,  after  the  long  agony, 
rest  came  to  the  wearied  but  still  defiant 
land;  and  of  the  stout-heartedness  of 
Melville  and  our  first  Pilgrim  fathers,  and 
of  the  way  they  braved  and  bore  the  wrath 
of  King  James;  and  of  Knox,  whom 
neither  queen  nor  noble  could  cajole  from 
his  severe  and  splendid  singleness  of  pur- 
pose :  but  you  do  not  hear  of  the  men  who 
devised  the  measure  which  put  an  end  to 
feud  and  dispeace  between  the  two  king- 
doms, and  who  carried  it  in  the  teeth  of 
all  opposition,  being  assured  of  the  truth 
of  the  prophecies  of  their  own  hearts  that 
such  a  measure  would  be  the  beginning  of 
a  new  epoch  in  the  history  of  Scotland. 
You  hear  of  Bannockburn,  and  how  it 
turned  the  tide  of  conquest  from  King 
Robert's  throne ;  but  you  never  hear  of 
the  Union  as  being  one  of  the  great  victo- 
ries of  peace,  and  not  less  fruitful  than  it 
of  lasting  blessings.  This  ought  not  so  to 
be.  The  sooner  we  see  this  period  in  its 
actual  form  and  movement,  and  mark  its 
relation  to  the  periods  which  immediately 
come  before  and  follow  after  it,  the  bet- 
ter. It  has  very  great  intrinsic  interest. 
We  shall  not  find  the  delight  in  its  pic- 
tures which  we  find  in  the  pages  of  "The 
Spectator"  and  "Taller,"  and  their  pic- 
tures of  contemporary  English  life.  In- 
deed, no  two  things  can  be  more  unlike 
than  "  merry  England  "  and  "  puir  Scot- 


land," at  the  opening  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Yet  we  shall  not  have  to  go 
away  empty. 

The  Union  was  no  revolution  ;  yet  it  is 
one  of  the  few  conspicuous  landmarks  in 
Scottish  history  where  we  pass,  and  are 
sensible  that  we  pass,  from  one  region 
with  its  characteristic  scenery  and  tradi- 
tions into  another  region,  like  yet  unlike, 
the  same  yet  wonderfully  changed.  Not 
greater  are  the  contrasts  of  Scottish  land- 
scape. The  carse  which  broadens  down 
from  the  hills  in  greenest  haughs,  and  the 
dale  and  strath  which  stretch  in  upland 
and  meadow  and  moor,  when  seen 
drenched  by  the  pitiless  mists  so  common 
to  them,  are  pictures  of  grim  cheerless- 
ness  and  general  hardness  of  lot.  But 
the  same  scenes  under  a  clear  April  or 
autumnal  sky  present  pictures  of  pastoral 
beauty  and  examples  of  energy  and  thrift 
unsurpassed  in  other  lands.  In  like  man- 
ner is  it  with  her  history.  The  first  of 
May,  1707,  was  the  morning  of  a  new  era. 
The  middle  period  of  Scottish  history 
then  came  to  its  close ;  its  modern  period 
then  began.  In  the  hundred  and  eighty 
years  which  have  since  elapsed,  a  change 
almost  fabulous  has  passed  over  Scotland. 
Steadily,  if  slowly,  the  nation  rose  to  its 
opportunities  as  well  as  to  its  pledges,  un- 
hindered by  sentiment  and  its  perpetual 
shadow  discontent.  For  the  first  half  of 
the  century,  it  is  true,  little  progress  was 
made.  It  was  the  raw  day  of  early 
spring.  But  gradually  the  land  smiled; 
the  thorns  and  the  thistles  of  Jacobitism 
were  cleared  from  the  ground  ;  the  surly 
political  mood  of  an  influential  portion  of 
the  people  passed;  and,  freed  from  the 
old  impediments,  the  national  vigor  burst 
forth  with  irrepressible  vitality,  and  in  new 
forms  of  industrial  enterprise  —  in  philos- 
ophy, in  literature,  in  science,  in  politics 

—  expressed  itself  in  a  way  as  original 
and  influential  as  brilliant. 

To  describe  this,  to  mark  the  first  stir- 
rings of  the  modern  spirit  and  its  steady 
leavening  influence,  is  not  what  is  at- 
tempted in  the  following  pages.  Their 
object  is  to  do  what  is  preparatory  to  this, 
and  necessary  to  its  true  comprehension 

—  to   describe   the  general  condition  of 
Scotland  when  on  the  eve  of  this  change: 


324 


SCOTLAND   IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1 707. 


in  other  words,  to  mark  the  relation  of 
this  period,  1 688-1 707,  to  the  period 
which  followed  it.  If  we  truly  knew  what 
was  the  condition  of  Scotland  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  eighteenth  century,  we  should 
easily  be  able  to  mark  wherein  the  past 
differed  from  the  present,  and  in  what,  if 
in  any,  degree  or  circumstance  we  have 
made  national  progress.  There  is  a  con- 
siderable class  who  are  always  looking 
back  to  what  they  picturesquely  and  pa- 
thetically call  "  the  good  old  times."  To 
this  class  the  period  referred  to  has  a 
charm  which  cannot  be  broken.  The 
world  they  say  was  better  then :  life  was 
truer  and  nobler :  the  hills  that  girdled 
the  plains  were  the  Delectable  Mountains : 
the  Land  of  Beulab  was  never  far  off.  But 
to  speak  in  this  way  is  to  idealize,  and 
although  it  always  has  been  natural  to 
man  to  do  this,  it  ought  to  be  remembered 
that  some  of  the  most  extravagant  and 
impossible  conceptions  of  bygone  times 
are  due  to  this  humor  of  blaming  the 
present  and  admiring  the  past.*  Let  us 
not  idealize ;  let  us  try  to  see  what  the 
facts  of  that  period  plainly  show,  and 
hear  what  they  unanimously  and  distinctly 
tell. 

11. 

It  was  not  till  towards  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century  that  Scotland  was 
really  one,  politically  and  territorially:  it 
must  always  be  borne  in  mind,  therefore, 
that  in  1707  Scotland  was  that  part  of 
Great  Britain  which  lies  between  Dum- 
barton and  Perth  on  the  north,  and  the 
Tweed  on  the  south,  including  the  towns 
on  the  north-east  coast,  and  a  few  baro- 
nies in  the  great  straths.  These  collec- 
tively were  the  Lowlands.  They  had  a 
population  which  numbered  a  little  over 
one  million.  This  body  of  people  was 
pretty  evenly  distributed  over  the  country, 
and  was  either  immediately  engaged  in 
larming  or  in  the  small  trades  incident  to 
home  consumption,  as  we  still  see  in 
Peebles,  Haddington,  Selkirk.  The  vil- 
lages and  hamlets,  each  seldom  more  than 
a  few  turf  or  thatch-covered  houses  in 

*  Hume's  Essays:  On  Populousness  of  Ancient  Na- 
tions. Macaula/s  History  of  England,  opening  and 
dosing  paragraphs  of  third  chapter. 


double  row,  were  mean  and  uncleanly, 
and  unbrightened  by  the  fresh  and  simple 
beauty  of  flower  and  tendril  by  porch  or 
window,  or  bit  of  garden  or  greensward 
by  the  door.  Some  of  these  still  survive 
in  the  remote  districts,  and  enable  us  to 
see  what  the  old  Scottish  village  was,  and 
to  judge  whether  the  author  of  "  Waver- 
ley  *'  and  the  authoress  of  **  The  Cottagers 
of  Glenburnie'*  spoke  falsely  or  truly  in 
their  very  unsavory  descriptions  of  it.* 
The  towns,  with  only  one  or  two  excep- 
tions, were  not  so  big  as  most  modern 
mining  or  manufacturing  or  watering  vil- 
lages ;  and  their  uneven,  grass -grown 
streets  were  fewer  in  number  than  the 
centuries  which  had  passed  since  their 
charters  had  been  granted.  Whatever 
they  had  once  been,  or  promised  to  be,  in 
commercial  enterprise,  they  were  now 
stricken  with  the  stillness  and  stupor  of 
decay,  and  their  burgesses,  living  in  the 
pause  which  comes  betwixt  the  close  of 
one  epoch  and  the  dawn  of  another,  could 
only  live  on  the  recollections  of  the  past, 
grumble  at  the  present,  and  forbode  ill  of 
the  future.  Scottish  history  from  the 
War  of  Independence  to  the  Revolution 
of  1688,  is  simply  a  succession  of  scenes 
which  prove  the  existence  of  a  state  of 
things  in  which  it  was  impossible  to 
plough  and  sow,  to  weave  and  build,  to 
extend  trade,  to  introduce  manufactures, 
to  gather  wealth,  to  find  leisure  to  think, 
to  observe,  to  adventure,  to  invent.  The 
whirl  of  events  drew  in  and  swept  on  every 
man.  For  generations  the  deepest  and 
the  darkest  passions  of  our  nature  were 
moved  to  their  depths,  either  by  political 
or  religious  questions.  Households  were 
rent  in  twain  and  lived  apart  in  open, 
mutual  hatred.  Irresistibly  compelled  by 
the  logic  of  their  feelings,  all  men  took 
sides.  As  the  religious  crisis  deepened, 
they  felt  that  the  one  thing  to  live  for  was 
the  spread  and  success  of  the  particular 
dogma  in  which  they  each  believed.  It 
was  neither  trade  nor  money  which  men 
then  cared  most  for.  The  motive  power 
of  action  was  the  hope  of  the  triumph  of 

*  Everybody  must  know  Scott's  description  of  Tul- 
lyveolan,  Waverley,  ch.  8.  Although  Mrs.  Elisabeth 
Hamilton's  Cottagers  of  Glenbumie  is  out  of  date  now, 
it  is  a  striking  and  faithful  picture  of  old  Scottish  life. 
Waverley,  ch.  7J. 


SCOTLAND   IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1 707. 


325 


ideas  which  seemed  to  them  to  be  abso- 
lute truth,  fixed  in  the  nature  of  things. 
Grasping  these  with  an  uncompromising 
realism,  all  their  energy  and  time  were 
consumed  in  struggling  for  their  general 
adoption  and  spread. 

It  would  have  been  strange  if  a  country 
in  these  circumstances,  so  poor  in  itself 
and  so  distant  from  the  chief  centres  of 
commerce,  had  shown  any  greatness  of 
trade,  and  the  refinement,  the  luxury,  the 
art,  which  always  follow  in  due  time  upon 
the  possession  of  wealth.  Many  of  these 
burghs  owed  their  importance  to  other 
causes  than  trade.  St.  Andrews,  Dun- 
fermline, and  Melrose,  for  instance,  were 
dependent  upon  the  cathedral  or  great 
abbey;  Edinburgh,  Stirling,  and  Linlith- 
gow, upon  the  royal  castle  or  desmesne ; 
and  towns  like  Elgin  and  Arbroath,  where 
bishops  had  early  fixed  their  sees,  had  a 
special  means  of  income  of  their  own. 
These  are  the  towns  which  figure  in  the 
middle  period  of  Scottish  history,  as  cen- 
tres of  religion,  of  learning,  of  political 
life;  all  the  others, excepting  Berwick-on- 
Tweed  and  Aberdeen,  lived  by  a  petty 
home  trade. 

The  general  character  and  the  social 
and  moral  atmosphere  of  the  old  Scottish 
burgh,  we  can  fortunately  realize  to  the 
life  from  the  burgh  records  now  in  course 
of  publication ;  and  certainly  they  exhibit 
one  of  the  most  interesting,  if  also  unat- 
tractive aspects  of  our  history.  Created 
by  David  L,  the  Alfred  and  the  Augustus 
of  early  Scotland,*  the  laws  he  framed 
for  them  were  after  the  law  which  regu- 
lated the  trade  of  the  larger  European 
marts,  and  which  he  had  seen  in  opera- 
tion during  his  residence  in  England, 
where  the  State,  for  so  long  through  the 
great  London  companies,  took  a  paternal 
care  of  the  interests  of  the  people.f 
These  burghal  laws  and  privileges  fairly 
answered  their  primary  objects;  they  en- 
couraged both  baron  and  bishop  to  gather 
their  men  and  serfs  for  peaceful  purposes 
into  little  lots,  and  when  so  gathered 
helped  and  protected  them  in  their  infant 
efforts  and  trade,  and  their  rude  begin- 

*  RoberUen*B  Scotland  under  her  Early  Kings,  vol. 
i.,  pp.  3J8-20. 
t  Froode't  History  of  England,  ch.  L 


nings  in  civilization.  But  what  was  per- 
haps really  necessary  for  the  burghs  in 
their  first,  that  is,  their  feudal  stage,  was 
likely  to  prove  to  be  both  hindersome  and 
harmful  when  the  country  passed  beyond 
it.  And  this  these  laws  had  become  pre- 
vious to  the  eighteenth  century.  In  the 
early  part  of  it,  and  simultaneous  with 
the  rise  of  the  mercantile  spirit,  serious  I 
complaints  and  definite  objections  were  * 
common.*  Nor  could  it  be  otherwise. 
Monopoly  was  the  one  regulative  princi- 
ple of  all  production,  which,  with  the  priv- 
ileges enjoyed  and  of  course  jealously  held 
by  the  principal  crafts,  made  extension  of 
trade  by  the  natural  play  of  the  laws  of 
supply  and  demand  an  impossibility,  and 
every  craft  a  close,  aristocratic  body.  No 
doubt  the  burgh  laws  sought  to  protect 
the  buyer  from  the  knavery  of  the  maker, 
and  to  ensure  honest  and  faithful  dealing 
between  man  and  man.  B'ut  if  they  gen- 
erally succeeded  in  ensuring,  in  that  sim- 
ple phase  of  commercial  development,  to 
every  man,  that  the  article  sold  should  be 
sound,  it  is  certain  that  they  succeeded  in 
making  it  dear  and  scarce.  The  corn 
which  was  brought  to  the  market  might 
be  extremely  good,  but  as  none  was  or 
could  be  imported,  monopoly,  the  parent 
of  scarcity,  now  and  then  slew  its  hun- 
dreds by  famine.  The  cloth  which  was 
declared  to  be  of  honest  make,  was  after 
all  no  better  than  what  could  be  shown  by 
neighboring  **  unfreemen  ; "  but  as  a  priv- 
leged  article,  was  of  course  much  higher 
priced. 

As  we  linger  over  the  pages  of  the 
burgh  records,  a  picture  of  the  trade  and 
finance  of  those  bygone  days,  more  vivid 
and  accurate  than  we  get  anywhere  else, 
rises  distinctly  before  us.  The  old  times 
live  again.  The  exceeding  smallness  of 
the  interests  involved,  and  the  absence  of 
every  sign  of  plenty  and  comfort  and 
growing  wealth,  with  their  natural  tenden- 
cies to  expansiveness  in  new  and  more 
ambitious  forms,  are  visible  on  every  page. 
Money  is  a  mere  name.  The  chill  and 
dismal  quiet  of  an  extremely  poor  coun- 
try, which  has  no  resources  or  knows  of 
none,  are  everywhere  felt.    The  wagon 

*  The  Interest  of  Scotland  Considered.    Edinburgh, 
«733i  PP-  50-58. 


H* 


SCOTLAND  IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1707. 


326 

and  the  warehouse  are  unknown ;  the 
bank  and  the  exchange  are  not  yet  dreamt 
of.  And  as  distinctly  visible  is  this  other 
proof  of  a  primitive  order  of  society,  or  a 
narrow  range  of  interests  —  namely,  the 
incessant  interference  of  the  authorities 
with  the  free  current  of  trade  and  labor 
and  general  social  life.  Nothing  indeed 
can  be  conceived  so  absurd  as  not  to  have 
been,  under  the  pretence  of  promoting 
honesty  of  dealing,  good  order,  or  religion, 
subject  to  this  meddlesomeness.  So  un- 
like is  this,  and  the  laws  which  created 
and  sanctioned  it,  to  anything  in  the  pres- 
ent day,  that  the  illustrations  of  it  in 
those  pages  may  be  referred  to  as  exhibit- 
ing in  the  clearest  light  the  chief  points 
of  difference  between  the  middle  and  the 
modern  periods  of  Scottish  history. 

We  shall  realize  this  difference  when 
we  descend  into  and  dwell  upon  details. 
Fletcher  of  Saltoun,  no  favorer  of  the 
Union,  speaks  of  Scotland  having  one- 
fifth  of  the  population,  but  only  one-thir- 
tieth of  the  wealth  of  England.*  And  his 
statement  agrees  with  all  we  know.  The 
entire  currency  of  Scotland  at  the  time 
of  the  Union  was  little  more  than  half  a 
million  sterling,!  which  is  less  than  the 
private  fortune  of  many  living  English- 
men ;  and  gold  coin  was  so  seldom  seen 
among  the  people  that  it  is  all  but  certain 
the  word  silver,  or  in  Scots  phrase  "  siller," 
became  in  consequence  the  national  syno- 
nym for  money .(  A  fraction  of  a  farthing, 
as  Mr.  Burton  points  out,  was  one  of  the 
coins  of  the  realm  !  §  Like  the  ** cowrie  " 
of  the  savage,  this  coin  truly  indicated 
the  social  condition  of  the  nation  it  circu- 
lated among,  and  exactly  measured  its 
commercial  dealings.  The  Scots  laird 
estimated  his  income  in  bolls  of  meal  and 
malt.  The  clergyman  and  schoolmaster 
were  chiefly  paid  in  kind,  the  latter  some- 
times altogether  so.  In  1707,  the  whole 
customs  and  excise  only  amounted  to 
;£65,ooo,  and  the  total  exports  to  England 
in  cattle,  linen,  fish,  etc.,  did  not  reach 
the  sum  of  ;£50o,ooo.  The  statement, 
therefore,  that  the  Bank  of  Scotland 
could  not  circulate  thirty  thousand  pounds 
a  year  during  the  first  thirty  years  of  its 
existence  -^  that  is,  until  the  nrst  quarter 
of  the  eighteenth  century  had  passed, 
however  startling  —  will  not  seem  at  all 
unlikely.)     No  Signor  Antonio,  the  great 

*  First  Discourse. 

t  Chambers'  Domestic  Aniuls  of  Scotland,  vol.  iii., 
p.  333- 

}  (bid.,  p.  213. 

4  History  of  Scotland,  vol.  Tiii.,  p.  171. 
.R  Chambers'  Domestic  Annals  of  Scotland,  voL  iii., 
PP-  45<  339* 


Venetian  capitalist  and  trader,*  and  no 
English  banker  like  Sir  Thomas  Gresham, 
were  possible  in  these  circumstances. 

As  little  possibility  was  there  of  a  Blake 
or  Anson  being  bred  in  any  Scottish  sea- 
port. Berwick-on-Tweed,  although  no 
longer  the  place  it  was  when  the  chroni- 
clers likened  it  to  Alexandria,!  could  now 
and  then  show  a  crowd  of  masts ;  Aber- 
deen had  a  good  carrying  trade;  and 
there  was*a  steady  fishery'lcarried  on  along 
the  east  coast  from  Buchanness  to  Eye- 
mouth, in  the  villages  which  still  dot  the 
coast.  But  the  vessels  engaged  in  this 
trade  were  the  same  small  craft,  the  lug- 
gers, wherries,  and  cobles,  which  are  at 
present  employed  in  it,  the  biggest  of 
which  rarely  exceeded  an  hundred  tons 
burthen,  or  ventured  further,  and  that  not 
often,  than  France  or  Holland.  The 
Clyde  was  a  clear  flowing  stream,  from 
its  native  moorlands  to  Dumbarton,  with 
its  sunny  shallows  and  its  shady  pools 
abounding  in  salmon;  its  magnificent 
firth,  now  one  of  the  great  highways  of 
merchandise  and  colonization,  rarely 
crossed  by  a  vessel  of  more  than  fifty 
tons;  and  its  bays  and  lochs,  now  the 
luxurious  haunts  of  wealth  and  leisure, 
unvisited  but  by  an  occasional  herring- 
boat.  Greenock  was  a  mean  fishing  vil- 
lage of  a  single  row  of  thatched  cottages.^ 
Glasgow  had  no  commerce,  but  happy  in 
its  situation  and  in  its  past  progress,  was 
great  in  the  possibility  of  improvement. 
Favored  by  king  and  bishop  and  rector, 
it  had  steadily  grown  up  first  around  the 
cathedral  and  then  around  the  college  to 
be  a  city  of  fifteen  thousand  inhabitants, 
the  second  city  in  the  country  ;§  and  to 
experienced  eyes  *^the  mercantile  genius 
of  the  people*'  was  sufficient  to  prove 
their  ability  to  adapt  themselves  to  what- 
ever new  development  of  trade  might 
arise.  The  river  Clyde  only  drew  two  or 
three  feet  of  water  at  high  tide  at  the 
quav  —  whatever  that  was ;  and  was  easily 
foraed  there  at  ebb;  and  although  the 
number  of  her  vessels  at  the  end  of  the  sev- 
enteenth century  was  sixty-six,  their  total 
tonnage  did  not  equal  the  tonnage  of  one 
of  that  unrivalled  fleet  of  clippers  which 
now  line  her  quays  and  crowd  her  docks. 
And  Dundee,  Kirkcaldy,  Anstruther,  and 
Burntisland  had  still  fewer. || 

*  Shakes]:>eare*s  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

t  Teller's  History  of  Scotland.  Note  on  the  An- 
cient State  of  Scotland.     Burton,  vol.  ii.,  p.  94. 

t  Chalmers'  Caledonia,  vol.  iii.,  p.  806. 

$  Gibson's  History  of  Glasgow,  1777.  Pp.  ioa-106. 
Burton,  vol.  ii.,  p.  04. 

II  There  is  an  almost  contemporary  account  of  the 
shipping,  etc,  of  Scotland,  which  puts  the  whole  case 


SCOTLAND   IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY— 1707. 


327 


These  facts,  taken  along  with  the  reve- 
nue returns  of  the  respective  ports,  de- 
cisively forbid  all  illusion  as  to  the  threat- 
ness  of  Scottish  shipping  and  commerce. 
The  trade  was  a  small  coasting  one,  much 
the  same  as  it  was  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  before,  as  described  in  'Mhe  oldest 
of  actual  merchants'  books  that  has  been 
preserved  in  Scotland,'**  and  consisted 
of  the  raw  produce  of  the  country,  wool, 
skins,  hides,  salmon,  and  herring.  If  we 
add  a  very  little  linen  and  coarse  cloth  to 
these,  the  list  of  the  exports  of  Scottish 
trade  at  the  time  of  the  Union  will  be 
complete.  In  exchange  for  these  few 
commodities  it  was  then  as  it  had  always 
been,  and  as  it  continued  to  be  for  yet 
two  more  generations,  that  nearly  every- 
thing above  the  hodden  gray  cloth  and 
brogues  of  the  peasantry,  the  luxuries, 
comforts,  and  almost  necessaries  of  life, 
from  the  velvet  and  satin  and  rich  cloths 
of  Bruges  to  the  pots  and  pans  for  the 
kitchen,  were  of  forei<;n  make  and  had  to 
be  imported.!  Scotland  was  yet  in  the 
first  stage  of  its  industrial  development, 
the  stage  when  all  that  is  grown  or  woven 
or  made  is  merely  for  ordinary  domestic 
supply. 

We  may  easily  and  quite  accurately 
comprehend  the  commercial  condition  of 
Scotland  at  this  period,  and  for  the  next 
fifty  years,  by  simply  remembering  that 
every  one  of  the  great  existing  industries 
were  not  then  dreamt  of;  and  that  most 
of  the  towns  whose  names  are  now  known 
over  the  civilized  world,  were  but  a  few 
rows  of  huts,  if  even  that. 

Lanarkshire,  with  its  three  or  four 
landward  towns,  each  of  a  few  hundred 
inhabitants,  although  rich  in  historic  asso* 
ciations,  was  nothing  but  a  series  of 
sheep-walks,  except  in  the  haughs  and 
hollows  of  the  valley  of  the  Clyde.  The 
shepherds  who  wandered  over  the  lone- 
some tracts  from  Cadder  to  Crawfordjohn, 

dearly  before  us.  Ooe^  Thomas  Tucker  was  sent  down 
by  Cromwell  in  1656,  just  after  the  ordinance  of  free- 
dom of  trade  between  tne  two  countries  had  been  estab- 
lished, to  report  upon  the  commerce  of  the  northern 
kingdom ;  and  this  he  did  with  a  discernment  which 
hutified  the  confidence  placed  in  him,  and  has  made 
nis  account  of  lasting  value.  It  is  one  of  the  Bamnatyne 
Club  publications. 

Baillie^s  Letters  and  Journals,  vol.  ii.,  p.  41  z. 

Chalmers'  Caledonia,  vol.  iii.,  p.  606. 

Strang's  Glasgow  and  its  Clubs. 

*  That  is,  the  ledger  of  Andrew  Haliburton;  see 
Scotland  in  the  Middle  Ages,  by  Cosmo  Innes;  pp. 

a40'350' 

t  It  would  appear  that  up  to  1703  there  was  no  such 
thing  in  Scotland  as  a  work  for  making  earthenware ; 
a  want  which  occasioned  **  the  yearly  export  of  large 
sums  of  money  out  of  the  kingdom.*'  Domestic  An- 
nals, vol.  iii.,  p.  1^6.  See  also  Somerville's  Life  and 
Times,  ch.  9.  Edin.  1861.  The  Interest  of  Scotland 
Consioertd,  p.  10 1. 


had  perhaps  many  thoughts  and  visions 
of  their  native  dales  as  they  saw  them 
stretching  away  southward,  dappled  by 
the  sunshine  and  shadows  of  their  west- 
ern skies;  but  no  Merlin  foretold  them  of 
the  immense  fields  of  coal  and  iron  and 
clay  which  lay  underneath  their  bog  and 
moorland — of  the  mighty  furnaces  which 
would  by-and-by  lighten  up  the  whole  cir- 
cle of  the  horizon  —  of  the  numberless 
collieries  which  would  darken  it  —  of  the 
wildernesses  where  the  curlew  screamed 
and  the  heron  fished  undisturbed,  being 
changed  into  busy  hives  of  human  toil. 
The  Clyde  was  only  a  mill-stream;  the 
villagers  who  idly  whiled  away  their  su- 
perabundant time  in  its  leafy  murmur, 
little  imagined  our  day  when  no  wind  can 
blow  that  does  not  waft  from  its  shores 
the  manufactures  of  the  queenly  city  of 
the  West,  to  lands  which  were  to  them  a 
mystery  or  an  Eastern  fable. 

Glasgow,  that  city,  had  not  yet  started 
upon  its  wonderful  career  of  prosperity. 
It  had  grown  into  importance,  as  we  have 
seen,  and  took  rank  as  the  second  city  of 
the  kingdom  from  its  connection  with  the 
cathedral  and  the  college;  but  slow  had 
been  that  growth,  and  slight  that  impor- 
tance as  compared  with  what  they  were 
destined  to  be  from  its  connection  with 
commerce.  Gibson,  describing  its  trade 
in  1707,  says :  **  The  number  of  people  did 
not  exceed  fourteen  thousand,  and  they 
were  in  general  poor;  manufactures,  the 
only  certain  means  of  diffusing  wealth 
over  a  whole  people,  were  almost  un- 
known;  and  commerce,  which,  without 
manufactures,  tends  to  the  enriching  of 
only  a  few,  was  carried  to  a  very  trifling 
extent."*  But  ere  another  fifty  years 
had  passed  the  population  had  doubled 
itself.  A  new  world  was  opened  up  by 
the  Union,  and  its  merchants  were  not 
slow  to  see  it.  In  1718  the  first  home- 
built  vessel  crossed  the  Atlantic.  Seven 
vears  later,  in  1725,  they  introduced  the 
linen  manufacture.  The  start  then  made 
has  bem  maintained  without  a  pause; 
and  now,  a  hundred  and  sixty  years  after, 
the  great  city  is  still  growing  and  looking 
as  itonly  yet  in  its  youth. 

Renfrewshire,  better  divided  into  ara- 
ble and  waste  land,  had  a  larger  rural 
population  for  its  size;  but  the  farmer 
who  carried  his  few  sacks  of  oats  on 
horseback,  the  universal  mode  of  convey- 
ance in  those  days,  to  the  **  very  pleasant 
and  well-built  little  town  of  Paisley,' 
which  is  further  described  by  the  chroni 

*  History  of  Glasgow,  p.  106. 


}f 


3^3 


SCOTLAND   IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1707. 


cler  *  as  being  *' plentifully  provided  with 
all  sorts  of  grain,  fruits,  coals,  peats, 
fishes,  and  what  else  is  proper  for  the 
comfortable  use  of  man,  or  can  be  expect- 
ed in  any  other  place  of  the  kingdom," 
could  hardly  think  that  round  the  ancient 
Abbey  of  the  Stewarts,  ere  two  genera- 
tions should  pass,  a  manufacturing  popu- 
lation would  be  gathered  exceeding  in 
number  the  collective  population  of  all 
the  towns  in  the  shire.  The  sound  of  the 
shuttle  was  indeed  heard  in  its  half  Arca- 
dian streets  —  but  there  was  nothing  to 
prophesy  the  invention  of  Christian  Shaw 
of  Bargarran,  and  the  looms  of  Humphrey 
Fulton  and  others,  which  speedily  made 
the  name  of  Paisley  celebrated  for  mus- 
lins, gauzes,  shawls,  and  thread.  Green- 
ock  was  then  what  Tarbert  on  Lochfyne 
now  is,  the  headquarters  of  the  summer 
herring-fishing,  and  Tarbert  consisted  of 
only  a  row  or  two  of  fishermen's  huts. 
Its  harbor  was  yet  to  dig,  and  its  quays  to 

build.t 

Going  southwards  through  the  ancient 
Strathclyde,  we  see  on  either  hand  that 
the  country  is  a  wild  pastoral  one,  thinly 
wooded  and  thinly  peopled,  and  without  a 
single  indication  of  human  power  and 
comfort  other  than  had  existed  for  cen- 
turies. Hamlets  of  turf-built  huts  and 
occasionally  a  small  burgh,  whose  very  air 
is  historic  and  whose  name  and  annals 
are  common  to  history  and  romance,  we 
pass  on  our  way  to  the  Border  dales, 
whose  straggling  forests  and  frequent 
ruins  of  abbey  and  castle  and  peel,  recall 
the  days  of  feudal  foray  and  English  har- 
rying. No  hillsides  are  loud  with  the 
bleatings  of  innumerable  sheep;  we  notice 
only  a  few  black  cattle  and  small-sized 
wethers.  No  dairy  farms,  with  their 
score  of  sleek  milch-kine  in  the  ample 
pastures  and  clover  leas.  No  fair  sweeps 
of  clean  and  carefully  tilled  fields,  which 
promise  abundance  to  the  husbandman, 
attract  and  delight.  The  truth  is  that  the 
men  and  women  were  either  in  their 
cradle  or  unborn  who  made  Cunningham 
famous  for  its  butter  and  cheese,  and 
Carrick  for  its  cows;  f  who  improved  the 
breed  of  sheep  until  the  Border  fells  be- 
came no  mean  rivals  of  the  southern 
downs ;  who  made  store-farming  a  possi- 

*  Hamilton  of  Wishaw.    Maitland  Club,  p.  73. 
t  Crawfurd's  History  of  Renfrewshire.    Caledonia, 
vol.  iiiv  ch.  7.    Domestic  Annals,  vol.  iiL,  p.  510. 
X  As  the  local  rhyme  has  it :  — 

**  Kyle  for  a  man, 

Carrick  for  a  cooP ; 
Cunningham  for  butter  and  cheese^ 
And  Galloway  for  woo*.'* 
(Fullarton's  Gazetteer  of  Scotland,  VoL  I.,  pp.  90, 401.) 


bility ;  who  by  drainage  and  the  anxious 
and  intelligent  use  of  lime  and  marl  and 
manure  converted  wildernesses  into  gar- 
dens ;  who  made  Dumfriesshire  the  land 
of  tranquil  prosperity  and  smiling  pastoral 
quiet. 

Turning  northwards  into  the  old  Pictish 
land,  we  see,  as  we  pass  from  Stirling  to 
St.  Andrews,  and  thence  to  Brechin  and 
Aberdeen,  that  the  condition  of  the  coun- 
try and  the  circumstances  of  the  people 
are  much  the  same  as  in  the  south.  Ruins 
of  solitary  "strengths  "  which  once  over- 
awed the  neighboring  valleys  are  not  un- 
frequent,  and  here  and  there  in  suggestive 
proximity  new  mansions  are  rising,  while 
evidently  in  every  district  chestnut  and 
larch  and  fir  are  being  thickly*sown  —  to 
become  those  magnificent  forests  which 
now  clothe  the  beautiful  straths  and  slopes 
of  the  Ochils,  the  Lomonds,  and  the  east- 
ern Grampians.  But  everything  else  con- 
tinues as  it  has  long  been.  The  laird,  if 
a  little  milder  in  his  jurisdiction  than  bis 
forefathers  were,  is  as  indifferent  to  agri- 
culture and  village  economics.  He  cares 
for  none  of  these  things.  From  the  Allan 
to  the  Dee  the  miserable  black  hut  is  the 
only  dwelling  for  the  peasant  and  the 
small  farmer.  There  is  no  sound  and  no 
sign  of  change  anywhere.  And  it  will  be 
a  generation  after  this  before  these  dis- 
tricts feel  the  first  pulse  of  change,  before 
they  are  touched  by  the  spirit  of  improve- 
ment, and  ere  they  see  in  Barclay  of  Ury 
one  of  the  foremost  of  those  landholders 
who  set  themselves  to  revolutionize  agri- 
culture in  Scotland  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury.* 

H  these  facts,  not  hard  to  find  nor  hid 
in  the  ciphers  of  State  papers,  have  not 
been  sufficiently  noticed,  it  is  because  we 
are  still  under  the  spell  of  famous  names. 
Dunfermline,  Perth,  Linlithgow,  Stirling, 
and  above  all  Edinburgh,  are  towns  whose 
names  are  associated  in  our  minds  with 
every  form  of  human  passion,  and  hence 
have  become  imperishable  in  the  national 
story  and  sacred  to  the  national  imagina- 
tion* We  dream  of  them ;  we  doat  upon 
them;  our  fancv  fills  the  past  with  a 
golden  haze  which  glorifies  everything 
belonging  to  them:  we  yield  ourselves 
unwittingly  and  as  a  matter  of  course  to 
the  belief  of  their  former  power  and  popu- 
lousness.  This  is  one  of  the  commonest 
of  illusions,  which  all  peoples  delightedly 
live  under  as  to  some  portion  of  their  his- 
tory.   Yet  few  are  more  pernicious,  few 

*  A  leisurely  turning  over  of  the  pages  of  Chalmer^ 
"Caledonia"  will  convince  the  roost  incredolous of  the 
truth  of  the  above  paragraphs. 


SCOTLAND  IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1707. 


329 


more  treacherous;  and  certaioly  none 
more  groundless  than  any  which  may  ex- 
ist respectint;  the  considerable  commerce 
and  wealth  of  these  famous  towns.  Leith, 
according  to  Tucker,  had  fourteen  vessels 
averaging  nine  hundred  and  seventy  tons. 
Aberdeen  had  nine  vessels  averaging  four 
hundred  and  forty  tons.  St.  Andrews, 
♦•proud  in  the  ruins  of  her  former  mag- 
nificence," and  with  "the  silence  and  soli- 
tude of  inactive  indigence  and  gloomy  de- 
population "  in  her  streets,  had  a  solitary 
twent3--tonner.  Dundee,  like  Paisley,  was 
not  yet  even  dreaming  of  things  to  come. 
Dunfermline  drew  its  fame  altogether 
from  the  royal,  hallowed  pile  which  over- 
shadowed the  petty  group  of  cottages  that 
formed  the  burgh.  Linlithgow,  unusually 
rich  in  historic  associations,  was  and  long 
continued  to  be  not  only  without  trade, 
but  in  a  state  of  irrecoverable  bankruptcy. 
Edinburgh, 

Sutely  Edinborough  throned  on  crags, 

had  no  court,  no  manufactures,  no  com- 
merce—  but  then  no  one  thinks,  no  one 
has  ever  thought  of  the  haughty  beauty 
of  the  north  but  as  the  home  and  haunt  of 
mediaeval  romance. 

III. 

So  much  for  the  commerce  and  trade 
of  Scotland.  What  was  its  rural  condi- 
tion ? 

The  first  feature  of  this  condition  which 
arrests  us,  and  it  may  well  arrest  us,  is 
the  frequency  of  dearths.*  Hardly  a  dec- 
ade passed  in  the  seventeenth  century 
without  a  period  of  severe  local  or  general 
scarcity  and  pinching  want,  when  "the 
ancient  monotonous  story  of  starvation  "  f 
was  repeated  in  village  and  glen  with 
greater  or  less  emphasis  and  bitterness  of 
accent.  The  spring  was  "unkindly"  and 
"wet;"  the  "seed  corn  is  being  eaten 
up ; "  "  the  cattle  are  dying  in  great  num- 
bers ;  ••  "  prices  have  risen ; "  are  notices 
which  meet  us  again  and  again  in  the 
brief  and  scanty  domestic  annals  of  the 
century,  until  the  imagination,  instructed 
by  experience  what  human  agonies  are 
represented  by  these  words,  is  oppressed 
and  sickened.  And  in  the  preceding  cen- 
tury it  was  the  same. 

No  lamentation  was  made  about  these 
calamities,  and  but  slight  mention  of  them 
IS  found  in  contemporary  records,  the 
Scottish,  like  other  peoples  who  have 
been  born  into  hardness  of  lot,  having 

*  This  has  not  escaped  the  cominlers  of  the  Do- 
nettic  Annals  of  Scotland. 
t  HuBter's  Annals  of  Rural  Bengal,  1871,  p.  51. 


learned  to  bear  them  as  "  the  will  of  God.** 
It  is  only  from  the  stray  or  incidental  re« 
mark  of  some  too  brief  chronicler,  who 
shows  no  emotion  in  noting  the  event, 
that  we  hear  of  famine  being  sore  in  the 
land. 

The  historian  of  the  century,  occupied 
with  its  larger,  constitutional  questions, 
passes  over  these  events  as  insignificant, 
if  he  sees  them  at  all;  while  the  nation 
bows  itself  to  them  as  things  common  to 
the  course  of  nature,  and  makes  no  sign* 
Like  fire  and  pestilence,  famine  was  a 
judgment  of  o£Eended  Heaven. 

A  melancholy  if  also  a  natural  conse- 
quence of  these  famines  was  that  the 
number  of  vagrant  poor  at  the  beginning 
of  the  eighteenth  century  was  unusually 
large.  It  does  not  appear  as  if  men  were 
much  shocked  at  the  miserv  around  them, 
as  we  find  only  one  writer  airectly  dealing 
with  the  subject.  This  writer  was  An- 
drew Fletcher  of  Saltoun,  already  referred 
to.  In  his  "  Second  Discourse  on  Public 
Affairs,"  published  in  1698,  he  speaks  of 
the  dearth  then  in  the  land  as  a  calamity 
which  "if  drawn  in  proper  colors  and  only 
according  to  the  precis^  truth,  must  cast 
the  minds  of  all  honest  men  "  into  anxiety 
—  and  goes  on  to  make  the  following 
statement :  "The  particulars  of  this  great 
distress  are  known  to  all.  Though  per- 
haps the  evil  be  greater  and  more  press- 
ing than  at  any  time  in  ourdavs,  yet  there 
have  always  been  in  Scotland  such  num- 
bers of  poor  as  by  no  regulations  could 
ever  be  ordinarily  provided  for ;  and  this 
country  has  always  swarmed  with  such 
numbers  of  idle  vagabonds  as  no  laws 
could  ever  restrain.  There  are  at  this 
day  in  Scotland  (besides  a  great  many 
poor  families  very  meanly  provided  for  by 
church  boxes)  two  hundred  thousand  peo- 
ple begging  from  door  to  door.  Though 
the  number  of  them  be  perhaps  double  to 
what  it  was  formerly  by  reason  of  this 
great  distress,  yet  in  all  times  there  have 
been  about  one  hundred  thousand  of  those 
vagabonds,  who  have  lived  without  any 
regard  or  subjection  either  to  the  laws  of 
the  land  or  even  those  of  God  and  nature. 
They  are  not  only  an  unspeakable  oppres- 
sion to  poor  tenants,  but  they  rob  many 
poor  people  who  live  in  houses  distant 
from  any  neighborhood." 

We  have  been  used,  owing  in  some 
degree  to  Scott's  Edie  Ochiltree,  to  think 
of  the  Gaberlunzie  or  the  Bluegown  as 
common,  and  indeed  as  picturesque  fig- 
ures, in  bygone  days,  but  not  of  a  time 
when  no  fewer  than  one-fifth  of  the  popu- 
lation were  sturdy  beggars,  as  this  state* 


330 


SCOTLAND   IN   THE  EIGHTEENTH.  CENTURY— 1707. 


ment,  which  has  oever  been  contradicted 
or  proven  false,  asserts.  We  have  no 
means  of  testing  its  absolute  accuracy, 
as  there  were  no  poor  rates  or  system  of 
parochial  relief  in  existence  then ;  but  it 
IS  not  so  needful  to  know  the  precise 
numbers  of  the  really  indigent,  as  to  no- 
tice that,  speaking  in  round  numbers,  one 
out  of  every  five  of  the  peasantry  were 
beggars  simply  because  there  was  neither 
food  nor  employment  in  the  country  for 
them ;  because,  in  other  words,  the  popu- 
lation of  the  country  was  much  in  excess 
of  its  corn-producing  power  and  its  means 
of  industrial  occupation.  It  introduces 
an  element  into  this  period  of  Scottish 
history,  which  gives  a  darker  shading  to 
it  than  it  has  been  usual  to  think  it  pos- 
sessed. 

And  yet  nothing  seems  more  probable 
than  that  there  should  have  been  such  a 
body  of  vagrants  in  Scotland,  which  had 
no  means  of  employing  its  population. 
Just  as  we  see  crowds  of  lazzaroni  in 
those  parts  of  Europe  which  have  no 
great  industries  or  public  works,  and  just 
as  multitudes  of  a  like  class  existea  in 
our  Gaelic-speak ipg  districts  and  in  Ire- 
land, before  emigration  became  so  easy 
and  attractive,  it  was  natural  that  in  the 
seventeenth  and  part  of  the  eighteenth 
centuries  there  should  be  very  many  of 
the  wandering,  miserably  fed,  miserably 
clad  wretches  in  Scotland,  whom  Fletcher 
describes.  But  the  proofs  of  the  exis* 
tence  of  such  a  class  are  conclusive.  Ray, 
the  itinerary,  who  was  in  Scotland  in 
1660,  says:  "The  country  abounds  with 
poor  people  and  beggars."  *  Gibson,  the 
historian,  and  a  merchant  of  Glasgow, 
writes  that  in  1707  "the  body  of  the  peo- 
ple were  but  in  a  degree  above  want;  the 
streets  were  crowded  with  beggars,  both 
old  and  young,  who  were  able  and  willing 
to  work,  could  thev  have  found  employ- 
ment."! Somerville,  minister  of  Jed- 
burgh, describing  his  own  neighborhood 
as  it  was  fifty  years  later,  frankly  owns 
that  **  the  country  was  overrun  with  va- 
grabt  beggars.  They  had  access  to  every 
house,  and  received  their  alms  in  meal 
and  bread,  which  was  deposited  in  bags 
and  wallets,  as  they  were  called,  hung 
over  their  shoulders.  Strolling  beggars 
often  travelled  in  companies,  and  used  to 
take  up  their  night  quarters  at  the  houses 
of  the   tenant  farmers."  ^    And  in  that 

*  Select  Remains,  1760,  p.  309.  Scott,  in  The  Bride 
of  Laranfiermoor,  ch.  xxi.,  speaks  of  Scotland  being  **a 
country  where  men  were  numerous  beyond  proportion 
to  the  means  of  emploving  them." 

t  History  of  G'asgow,  p.  106. 

t  Liie  and  Times,  p.  370b 


remarkable  series  of  pictures  of  the  man- 
ners  and  customs  of  the  rural  contempo- 
raries of  "The  Gentle  Shepherd,"  "The 
Man  of  Feeling,''  and  "  The  Statistical  Ac- 
count,"* there  are  many  notices  of  this 
same  class,  long  the  chronic  evil  of  Scot- 
land. These  statements,  taken  along  with 
Fletcher's,  leave  us  in  no  doubt  of  the  ex- 
istence of  a  large  number  of  idle,  unem- 
ployed persons  in  town  and  country ;  some 
of  whom  wandered  about  homeless  and 
lawless,  following  begging  as  a  regular 
calling;  while  others,  wizened  and  wan, 
dragged  out  cheerless  lives  in  still  more 
cheerless  homes,  the  misery  of  which  was 
occasionally  lightened  but  not  lessened 
by  such  hours  of  wild  animalism  as 
Burns's  Jolly  Beggars  enjoyed  in  Poosie- 

Nansie's.f 

Our  probable  surprise  at  the  frequency 
of  dearths  will  cease  when  we  know  what 
was  the  state  of  as:riculture  at  that  time 
in  Scotland.  Scotch  farming  in  the  pres- 
ent day  is  the  embodiment  of  intelligence, 
economy  and  skill ;  but  at  the  time  of  the 
Union,  agriculture,  in  any  true  sense  of 
the  word,  had  no  existence. 

The  half  of  the  land  was  cultivated  in 
"runrig,"  that  is,  rig  about,  neighbor  with 
neighbor  working  in  common.  No  farms 
were  enclosed.  Hedgerows,  fences,  and 
walls  were  all  but  unknown.  They  were 
divided  into  what  was  called  "  iniield  "  and< 
"  outfield  ; "  the  former  being  those  fields 
nearest  the  house  and  which  were  con- 
stantly under  tillage ;  the  latter  being  the 
further  ones,  on  which  the  cattle  grazed 
and  which  were  left  to  nature.  And 
hardly  could  any  one  be  more  ignorant  of 
his  craft  and  have  ruder  modes  of  working 
at  it,  not  to  be  in  a  state  of  barbarism, 
than  the  tiller,  whether  tenant  or  proprie- 
tor, of  their  fields.  He  knew  nothing  of 
the  rotation  of  crops ;  nothing  of  the  fal- 
lowing system ;  nothing  of  manures.  He 
had  no  green  crops,  no  clovers,  no  artifi- 
cial grasses,  no  potatoes,  no  field  turnips. 
Oats  succeeded  bere,  or  bere  oats,  until 
the  land  was  exhausted.  His  hay  was  the 
boggage  of  the  marsh,  and  his  pasture 
such  weeds  as  chanced  to  infest  and 
cover  the  ground.  1  n  winter  his  cows  had 
scant  supplies  of  miserable  fodder;  his 
horse  was  content  with  nettles.  He  had 
no  pens  or  other  shelter  for  his  sheep—- 
and  these  w^ere  further  lessened  in  num* 

*  The  Statistical  Account  of  Scotland.  In  ai  vols. 
Drawn  up  from  the  communications  of  the  ministers  of 
the  different  parishea.    By  Sir  J  no.  Sinclair,  BarL, 

t  The  best  description  of  the  sturdy  beggars  that  w« 
have  met  is  in  Hunter's  Biggar  and  tlie  House  ol 
Fleming,  chap.  19. 


SCOTLAND   IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1707. 


331 


ber  and  lowered  in  quality  by  severe 
and  long-continued  milking.  The  plough 
he  used  was  as  curiously  clumsy  a  thing 
as  ever  was  held  by  the  hand  of  man.  A 
huge,  uncouth  wooden  implement,  so  rude 
in  its  build  that  two  or  three  of  them 
could  be  made  in  a  day,  or  one  before 
breakfast,  it  usually  took  a  dozen  oxen  to 
pull  it  through.  The  twelve-oxen  Scots 
p]ous:h  is  as  much  beyond  our  modern 
conception  as  the  system  of  runrig.  Well 
might  a  writer  on  rural  atfairs  of  last  cen- 
tury say  that  it  was  '*  beyond  description 
bad,"  and  as  he  declined  to  describe  it,  he 
probably  felt  that  what  Lord  Kaimes  said 
of  the  harrows  of  his  day  could  jilso  be 
said  of  the  plou(;hs,  that  they  were  better 
adapted  to  raise  laughter  than  to  raise 
soil !  Everything  else  about  the  farm- 
yard was  of  the  same  rude,  unskilled  sort. 
The  natural  wind  of  heaven  blowing  be- 
tween the  open  barn-doors,  or  else  on  the 
nearest  hillock,  was  the  only  winnowing 
machine  then  known.  Creels  were  gener- 
ally used  for  carrying  dung  to  the  fields. 
Carts  were  few  in  number,  and  those 
which  did  exist  were  clumsy  and  incon- 
venient, as  in  place  of  the  wheels  turning 
round  on  the  axle,  which  was  always  of 
wood,  the  axle  itself  turned  rouncl.  It 
completes  this  description  of  the  old 
Scottish  farmyard,  with  which  none  of  us 
has  any  poetical  associations,  when  we 
add,  that  the  traces  used  in  the  harness- 
ing and  draught  equipments  were  mostly 
made  either  of  dried  rushes  or  of  twisted 
fir-roots,  hempen  rope  and  iron  chain  be- 
ing scarcely  known.* 

ill-favored  and  scant  by  nature  as  the 
lot  of  the  farmers  was,  it  was  made  a  hard 
as  well  as  a  scant  one  by  the  feudal  obli- 
gations and  personal  services  which  they 
were  accustomed  to  come  under  as  ten- 
ants, and  to  pay  as  part  of  their  rent; 
arriage,  carriage,  bonnage,  multures, 
kane,  thirlage,  and  other  exactions,  which 
were  seldom  either  specified  in  the  lease, 
or  regulated  by  anything  more  precise 
than  the  use  and  wont  of  the  manor  or 
barony,  and  whose  very  names  are  now 
obsolete,  and  their  meaning  forgotten. 
Thirlage,  the  most  unjust  of  these,  was 
the  right  of  the  superior  to  oblige  all  his 
tenants  to  grind  their  corn  at  a  certain  mill, 
which  in  some  cases  was  not  the  nearest, 
and  failing  to  do  this,  to  pay  as  if  they 
had.  Distance,  delay,  inferiority  of  work, 
all  counted  in  this  case  for  nothing.    Bon- 

•  Wight's  Present  State  of  Husbandry  in  Scotland: 
6  vols.,  17S4.  Somerville,  ch.  9;  Pennicuik,  p.  66 ;  Do- 
mestic Annals,  vol.  iii.^  Northern  Rural  Life,  chaps. 
k-iOb    Caledonia,  vols.  ii.  and  ilL 


nage  was  the  obligation  of  the  tenant  to 
assist  at  the  corn-cutting;  as  carriage  was 
the  obligation  to  dig,  dry,  and  fetch  home 
so  much  peat  for  the  winter's  fuel ;  or  to 
lead  and  lay  manure ;  or  otherwise  to 
work  a  certain  number  of  days  in  the 
laird's  service. 

But  wretched  as  this  condition  was,  a 
deeeper  wretchedness  was  common  to 
those  clusters  of  cottar  farms,  numerous 
in  every  county,  called  "toons,"  or 
"towns."  These  were  either  part  of  a 
large  farm  establishment  and  inhabited  by 
the  servants  who  worked  on  it,  or  a  sepa- 
rate group  of  houses  whose  occupiers 
were  shepherds  or  woodsmen  or  fisher- 
men, as  occasion  offered,  but  who  more 
frequently  had  no  occupation  but  that  of 
tilling  their  share  of  the  few  acres  of  land 
attached  to  the  "town."  Composed  of 
huts  or  rather  of  hovels  built  of  sods 
(sometimes  called  divots)  or  of  sods  and 
stone,  with  a  window  no  bigger  than  your 
hand,  and  a  hole  in  the  middle  of  the  roof 
for  the  chimney,  the  door  usually  doing 
duty  for  both  window  and  chimney,  and 
always  placed  towards  one  another,  as  if 
they  had  dropped  from  the  clouds  into 
their  place,  they  were  the  first  remove  in 
the  path  of  civilization  from  the  beehive 
houses  of  the  early  settlers,  and  looked 
mere  specks  or  molehills  on  the  moor- 
land and  hillside.  Tidy  ways  and  trim 
borders  were  unknown  to  them,  and  as 
almost  every  dwelling,  as  Waverley  no- 
ticed in  passing  through  one  of  them,* 
was  fenced  in  front  by  a  stack  of  peat  on 
one  side  of  the  door,  while  on  the  other 
the  dung-heap  ascended  in  noble  emula- 
tion, pure  air  and  clean  footing  were  out 
of  the  question. 

Such  "towns"  still  abound  in  Arran 
and  other  of  the  western  islands,  and  are 
an  interesting  curiosity  to  the  student  of 
social  progress ;  to  some  they  are  one  of 
the  many  attractions  of  that  unique  and 
unspoiled  bit  of  mountain  land.  In  most 
of  them  the  communal  mode  of  farming  has 
been  abandoned,  although  there  are  two 
places  in  Arran  where  it  still  exists  (above 
Iroacher  and  Kildonan);  but  enough  re- 
mains of  the  old  style  to  show  what  slug- 
gish and  semi-savage  spots  these  "  towns  " 
must  everywhere  have  been  a  hundred 

•  Waverley,  ch.  viii. 

Cottagers  of  Glenbumie,  ch.  vi. ;  Northern  Rural 
Life,  p.  3.  As  to  "the  beehive  houses"  which  still 
exist,  see  Smith's  Lewsiana,  or.  Life  in  the  Outer 
Hebrides,  London,  1875.  **  ^^  the  Lews,*'  he  says, 
**  there  is  an  intelligent  people  still  living  in  the  most 

Erimitive  of  known  dwelhngs  — dwellings  that  carry  us 
ack  to  the  earliest  dawn  of  civilization,"  p.  aS.  Sea 
also  Mitchell's  The  Past  in  the  Present  The  Rhind 
Lectures,  1876  and  1878,  Edin.  1880. 


33« 


SCOTLAND   IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1707. 


and  eighty  years  ago.  However  fair  ••  the 
auld  clay  biggin* "  of  the  Lowland  peas- 
ant raay  appear  in  "  The  Cottar's  Saturday 
Night/'  and  however  picturesque  the  huts 
of  the  western  crofters  on  the  painters* 
canvas,  they  lead  the  reflecting  mind  back 
to  a  quite  recent  past,  when  they  were 
always  the  haunts  of  dirt  and  disease,  and 
too  often  the  homes  of  idleness  and  in- 
digence. Quotations  enough  might  be 
given  in  proof  of  this  statement ;  but  no 
Scotsman,  and  no  stranger  who  has  trav- 
elled in  Scotland  so  as  to  see  its  typical 
features  of  scenery  and  social  life  —  who 
has  not  hurried  on  with  the  annual  crowd 
but  has,  instead,  lingered  by  the  way  and 
sauntered  into  Highland  glen  and  Low- 
land^iale  where  the  old  fashions  still  con- 
tinue, will  need  any  written  authorities  to 
help  him  to  the  truth  on  this  subject. 

As  to  the  food,  we  see  from  the  illus- 
trations above,  that  Scotland  was  barely 
able  to  supply  her  children  with  the  mere 
necessaries  of  life.  Oats  and  barley  were 
the  only  grains  cultivated;  and  if  we  add 
colewort  or  "lang  kale,"  the  one  pot-herb 
in  the  cottagers*  croft,  or  "  kale  yaird,*' 
the  three  articles  of  food  have  been  named 
on  which  the  Scottish  people  subsisted, 
and  were  almost  entirely  dependent.  Oats, 
barley,  kale  !  Not  a  varied  stock  of  victual, 
truly.  The  oats,  ground  into  meal,  sup- 
plied the  porridge  and  brose  for  breakfast 
and  supper,  and  the  griddle  bread  or  oat- 
cake. The  kale  made  the  chief  article  of 
the  dinner;  and  was  used  either  as  a 
boiled  mess  without  beef  or  mutton,  or 
with  the  broth  or  water  of  it  thickened 
with  oat  or  pease  meal,  when  it  was  called 
**  kale  brose.**  Neither  potatoes  nor  wheat 
were  grown.  Barley  and  pease  were  also 
ground,  and  made  into  *' bannocks'*  or 
••  scones ;  **  and  these  with  the  **  kebbuck  ** 
or  cheese,  which  was  of  a  poor  quality, 
made  the  peasant's  midday  meal.  Red  fish 
or  salmon  in  some  parts,  **braxy '*  mutton 
and  the  "  mart  **  or  Martinmas  ox,  which 
lasted  through  the  winter  and  spring,  were, 
items  of  food  used  in  the  better  class 
of  cottages.  The  ordinary  drink  was  a 
mild  ale  called  "  two  penny ;  **  claret  and  a 
little  brandy  were  used  by  the  gentry ;  tea 
and  coffee  were  unknown,  and  asquebagh 
or  whiskey  was  as  yet  the  special  bever- 
age of  the  Highlanders.  Any  other  com- 
modities, beyond  the  dairy  produce,  were 
only  to  be  had  for  money ;  and  as  the 
greater  part  of  the  wages  were  then  paid 
in  kind,  they  were  not  within  the  reach  of 
the  majority  of  the  people. 

There  had  been  no  possibility  of  more 
than  this.    It  has  been  said  that  it  would 


have  been  infinitely  better  for  Scotland  (f 
it  had  been  conquered  by  Edward  L  and 
become  English  territory,  as  it  would 
have  saved  centuries  of  feud  and  oppres- 
sion and  a  heavy  inheritance  of  poverty, 
suspiciousness,  and  prejudice ;  and  instead 
of  having  to  begin  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury to  undo  the  effects  of  those  years,  it 
would  have  been  as  fair  and  flourishing  as 
Yorkshire  and  Kent,  and  with  them  would 
have  been  further  advanced  in  the  social 
art  and  in  intellectual  range  and  serenity. 
Whether  these  would  have  been  the 
blessed  results  of  conquest  we  do  not 
know ;  nor  does  it  matter  now.  The  bulk 
of  the  Scottish  people  enthusiastically 
preferred  a  royal  line  and  a  Church  of 
their  own  to  an  English  king  and  an  En- 
glish hierarchy;  and  were  willing  —  in 
the  eyes  of  the  philosopher  were  fanati- 
cally willing  —  to  part  with  every  comfort 
and  present  opportunity  of  progress,  for 
the  dearsymbols  of  national  independence. 
They  secured  them  both;  but  although 
the  character  of  the  people  must  have  ac- 
quired a  distinctive,  perhaps  an  imperish- 
able quality  in  these  struggles,  their  cost 
in  a  material  aspect  was  incalculable.  No 
matter.  It  was  enough  that  peace  was  ia 
the  land,  and  that  the  oppressors  could 
oppress  no  more.  No  scantiness  of  fare, 
no  roughness  of  raiment,  no  meanness  of 
dwelling  weighed  for  a  moment  against 
these  blessings.  The  Norman  castle, 
with  its  fair,  broad  desmesnes,  and  its 
nestling  village  homes  hid  in  ivy  and 
honeysuckle,  had  no  existence  north  of 
the  Tweed,  and  had  not  created  the  mea 
and  manners  which  were  found  every- 
where, in  strictly  rural  districts,  south  of 
the  Palatine  palace  of  Durham.  Pastoral 
quiet,  with  kine  knee-deep  in  grass,  every 
landscape  with  its  ancient  towers  of  learn- 
ing, whither  the  tramp  of  armed  men  had 
seldom  or  never  come ;  the  rich  fairs  and 
richer  guilds  and  companies  which  had 
for  centuries  been  a  bright  and  notable 
feature  in  English  life,  were  all  unknown 
to  poor  and  barren  Scotland.  Her  people 
knew  nothing  of  these  things,  and  did  not 
care  for  them.  Their  desires  had  been 
whetted  on  less  material  objects ;  their 
traditions  and  flreside  legends  were  of 
simple  men  and  women  whom  persecution 
had  changed  into  heroes  and  heroines, 
and  whose  names  were  sacred  to  the 
nation.  For  many  weary  generations 
thevhad  been  face  to  face  with  a  declared 
ancf  powerful  enemy,  and  their  wits  had 
been  constantly  occupied  either  with  the 
means  of  defence  or  revenge.  The  price- 
less treasures  of  national  independence 


SCOTLAND  IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1707. 


333 


and  liberty  of  conscience  only  had  been 
preserved  to  them.  Every  energy  and 
every  penny  had  been  spent  in  securing 
these,  the  K)undations  of  modern  national 
greatness,  —  and  so  Scotland,  in  1707, 
was  alike  without  commercial  spirit  and 
industrial  skill,  the  artist's  creations  and 
the  philosopher's  triumphs ;  known  only, 
like  some  other  mountain  lands,  as  the 
nurse  of  rugged,  uncompromising  natures. 

IV. 

One  other  aspect  of  the  physical  con- 
dition of  Scotland  at  this  time  remains  to 
be  shown ;  an  aspect,  the  special  force  of 
which  the  reader  will  feel  as  exhibiting 
the  state  of  its  agriculture  and  commerce, 
and  as  affecting  the  common  weal  of  its 
people. 

If  the  demands  of  the  commerce  of  the 
country  as  to  shipping  were  few,  its  de- 
mands as  to  roads  were  still  fewer. 
Roads  as  we  know  them,  and  as  the 
Romans  knew  them,  had  no  existence 
either  in  fact,  or  in  the  imagination  of  the 
people  in  any  portion  of  Great  Britain  in 
the  eighteenth  century.  Nothing,  in  the 
altered  state  of  things  in  which  we  live, 
would  more  astonish  the  men  of  those 
days  than  our  roads,  our  bridges,  and  our 
modes  of  travelling;  and  nothing  is  more 
likely  to  escape  us  when  trying  to  form  a 
correct  idea  of  olden  times,  than  the  few- 
ness of  roads  then  in  existence  and  the 
frightful  state  in  which  they  were  always 
kept.  They  were  roads  only  by  courtesy. 
They  were  in  no  instance  the  work  of  the 
surveyor,  the  engineer,  and  the  surface- 
man. They  had  no  regard  to  directness 
or  to  level.  Marked  out  in  most  cases 
from  the  forest  by  the  hoofs  of  the  cattle 
that  for  generations  had  tramped  over 
them,  and  worn  in  later  times  by  the  pack- 
horses  which  journeyed  painfully  through 
them,  and  left  to  the  drought  of  summer 
and  the  storms  of  winter,  they  were,  as 
they  could  not  but  be,  simply  abominable 
either  with  dust  or  mire.  Occasionally 
the  bed  of  a  river  was  the  only  road  be- 
tween two  places ;  most  of  the  roads, 
however,  were  cattle  tracks  and  nothing 
else.  A  week's  rain  in  summer  made 
them  miles  of  sloughs  which  no  foot-pas- 
senger could  wade  through  and  no  horse- 
roan  would  long  brave ;  while  a  wet  win- 
ter all  but  put  an  end  to  trafficking  and 
travelling.  If  such  was  the  general  con- 
dition of  the  roads  and  lanes  m  the  south 
down  till  the  middle  of  the  century,  and  if 
even  Kensington,  as  Lord  Harvey  tells  us, 
was  separated  sometimes  from  London  by 
an  impassable  gulf  of  mud,  in  Scotland 


they  must  have  been  a  good  deal  worse,  if 
that  was  possible.  The  roads  in  Perth- 
shire, says  Penny,  "were  in  a  miserable 
state.  Many  were  mere  hilly  tracts,  on 
which  carriages  could  not  venture,  and 
w'ere  totally  unfit  for  foot-passengers."* 
That  is,  they  were  no  better  than  our 
worst  field  and  farm  roads,  ruts  and 
ditches  through  which  no  one  could  pass 
unless  on  horseback,  and  not  even  then 
without  discomfort  and  danger.  In 
Tweeddale  it  was  the  same.  Somerville 
assures  us  that  "the  parish  roads  even  to 
the  church  and  to  the  market  towns  were 
unfit  for  wheel  carriages,  and  in  bad 
weather  were  altogether  un practicable. 
There  were  few  bridges  over  the  rivers. 
The  Tweed  throughout  its  whole  length 
was  crossed  by  only  two ; "  f  and  these, 
the  one  at  Peebles  and  the  other  at  Ber- 
wick, were  sixty  miles  apart.  There  were 
no  main,  well-kept  highways  piercing  the 
country  from  point  to  point  and  joining 
the  cross  lanes;  there  was  not  a  single 
turnpike  in  "broad  Scotland."  There 
were  no  carriage-ways  out  of  sight  of  the 
capital.  The  great  post-road  between 
Edinburgh  and  London  was  little  better 
than  a  track;  and  although  it  was  the 
main  communication  between  the  two 
kingdoms,  its  northern  half  was  notori- 
ously unfit  for  carriages,  for  in  1746,  while 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland  contrived  to 
reach  Durham  in  a  coach  and  six,  so  bad 
were  the  roads  north  of  it  he  was  com- 
pelled to  go  forward  on  horseback. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  no,one  knew 
how  to  make  roads  ;  and  mending  those 
which  did  exist  meant  filling  up  the 
biggest  ruts  with  stones  of  any  size  and 
shape,  and  the  smaller  ruts  with  mire  or 
clay.  Nor  was  there  any  right  system 
of  assuring  even  this  amount  of  repair. 
Statute  lalx>r  was  the  legitimate  mode  of 
doing  this,  but  statute  labor  was  disliked 
by  all  and  shirked  by  many.  Each  farmer 
was  bound  to  give  so  many  men,  and  each 
tenant  so  many  days,  to  the  repairing  of 
the  parish  roads.  But  there  was  no  uni- 
form and  convenient  system  of  employing 
this;  it  was  left  to  interest  and  caprice; 
and  in  many  cases  the  peasant  was  re- 
quired to  contribute  his  share  of  labor 
when  he  could  least  afford  to  give  it.  At 
the  best,  statute  labor,  like  some  other 
forms  of  direct  taxation,  was  an  objec- 
tionable arrangement,  and  amid  the  gen- 
eral indifference  of  town  and  country  to 
the  necessity  for  good  roads,  came  to  be 

*  Traditions  of  Perth,  p.  131-a.    See  the  whole  pas- 
sage, 
t  Life  and  Times,  p.  355. 


324^  SCCTLJkyZp  7S  THE  nCSTEESTH  CESTT7RT — 1707. 


'Masked  irvm  sfi  a  w*i^im  and  a  Tfifne  to   tmponftie  to  better  the  climate,  bat  it 

3e  ^rr'iftfTTU  aLyAdtOiCi^z.,  -n  facr.  Jke  was  poasfaie  to  improTe  the  soil.  It  was 
a^r-^rzins.  -vas  bcci  -la^caom  and  an-  impoasibie  to  pieveot  late  and  bad  crops, 
.tesitlecu  7in'>.«£s  v'^^sear'v  acesmnr  bat  it  was  ponaible  to  prevent  famines. 
t:^fanr.  T^iror-i  anr!  Kacacfaou  like  And  i£,  theretore;  10  tiiaes  of  scarcity  the 
'•V«xt  iMui  dtegneaaftn.  aeftoagso  our  own  sitnatioa  of  Scotland  was  deplorable,*  it 
dby  was  chiefly  becanse  there  were  00  means 

??(!«▼  in<iaco''7  tr-rea  was  Scotiand  of  reaching  the  distressed  districts,  and 
-piTkCi'rt  as  :*^  ar-c'i.:jre.  and  now  cnm-  »i  cos vcraooes  to  carry  food  to  the  starv- 
j»c?i?!v  ir*^s  :ta  ijrjd  *<iccrcs  conaniied   in?  and  dyin^. 

ir  ^r^.im!**ances:     Tie  coaacrr  was  one       Tits  stite  of  things  did  not  begin  to 

n  i.  Z'^''^^"^ '  cal  sense,  bat  ouny  oi  't3    rnend  nnrii  1750*  in  which  year  the  first 

par^o*^  jr^re  rri  'e  soiaredL  aad  :a  wa-   Tiripiice  Act  for  Scotland  was  passed. 

'^*r  ai.noHr  - nacce^s' :;^e.     lis  mral  pocnLa-    Frooi  that  nocwent  a  happy  change  crept 

;on  #a«  a  series  oc  xT'oc^s  or  tare  1  es^    over  the  tace  of  everything;  the  stirrings 


jiwnv  ".i  -v-.  CI  rid  or.  .-  larercwiiae  wi    ot  a  eew  lie  thrilled  aJon^  the  numbed 
<M«  aoct  .er   is  z-ie  cpcw  Boa:as  of  tae   frame  of  the  nation.    County  after  county 


y<*ar.     fccou-daotbentnerwise.    Twenty     oo^ed  u>  its  roads,  opened  up  hundreds 
m*  e*  ct  mr>r,r,  cr  an  n*it>r''-!»ed  riv^er.  or  ni  m-.es  of  permanent   way,  and   spent 


ac^Mi^ii^rri  >i£  ra.i^^  oc  rl^  were  las^ir-   :ens  of  choosands  of  pounds  on  these  and 
m«%onta.',.e  nitural  barners  to  interooarse.    lew  bridges.     Road  reform,  in   fact,  as 


N>  means  were  at  hand  of  overcom-ar   the  statate  book  abundantly  shows,  be- 
fhem^     Coose'^uent^y  ihere  were  towns  to   came  the  qnestioo  of  the  day,  and  along 


the  same  county  far  more  widely  son-  viih  agricultare*  then  pushed  on  with 
dered  r>.r  ali  practical  purposes  ttiao  Loo-  moch  earnestness  by  the  Society  of  Im« 
(Um  and  Aberdeen  are  at  the  present  day.  prorers,  completely  absorbed  the  attention 
Peopie  knew  !  ttle  outside  of  the  bounds  of  the  landed  gentry  till  the  end  of  the 
o(  V^e^r  own  ^len  or  parish,  and  the  world    century.f 

beyond  their  narrow  horizon  was  alto-  Such  was  the  outward  aspect  of  things 
getter  unknown.  From  the  same  cause,  in  town  and  country  in  Scotland  at  the 
namely,  want  of  roads,  the  farmer  had  no  Union.  If  such  homesteads  and  farm- 
means  of  improving  his  farm  and  had  no  steads  —  if  such  a  mean  and  poor  condi- 
motire  to  do  so.  Shut  in  upon  himself  t ion  of  life — are  not  what  we  have  usually 
and  wi'h  no  opportunity  of  enlarging  bis  associated  with  the  last  heroic  period  of 
know!er|;re,  he  could  only  be  slovenly  in  Scottish  history,  it  may  be  owing  to  our 
hi 4  home,  and  slovenly  and  stationary  in  lookinsr  at  everything  belonging  to  it  with 
his  mode  of  farming.  ,  the  exaltation  of  feeling  not  unnatural  to 

The  inevitable  result  of  this  ignorance  the  interested  spectator.  Touched  by  the 
of  national  economics  was  dearths  and  spectacle  of  our  enduring  sires,  we  may 
famines.  And  so  common  were  these,  so  never  have  felt  any  call  to  look  closely 
often  had  they  been  experienced  by  the  •  into  the  commonplace  of  their  lives,  and 
people,  that  they  concluded,  as  people  in  the  rude  details  of  their  daily  circuro- 
the  same  sta^^e  of  knowledge  have  always  •  stances.  And  we  have  in  consequence 
concluded,  that  they  belonged  to  an  order  been  fooled  by  the  enchantments  of  vague- 
of  things  in  nature  over  which  they  had  ness.  and  blinded  by  the  glamor  and  fan- 
no  control  or  influence,  an  order  which  tasies  of  romance.  An  acquaintance  with 
could  be  chan^red,  not  by  their  improved  '  facts  like  those  here  given  should  do  much 
agricultural  practice  and  better  roads,  but  •  to  put  us  right.  They  ought  to  make  cer- 
bv  their  prayers,  and  their  prayers  only.  1  tain  to  us  the  particulars  in  which  the 
The  land  was  not  cultivated;  the  farming  i  present  differs  from  the  past,  and  enable 
which  did  exist  was  simply  a  scratching!  us  to  mark  the  immense,  the  almost  fab- 
of  the  surface  of  the  ground ;  the  climate  >  ulous  change  which  has  taken  place  since 
was  a  wet,  unkindly  one,  and  therefore  it  |  then.  Nor  can  there  be  in  anv  but  a 
was  always  very  likely  that  the  harvests  j  strangely  prejudiced  mind  a  doubt  as  to 
would  be  late  and  light.  Dearths  did  I  whether  the  Union  has  been  fruitful  of 
happen;  the  crops  did  occasionally  fail,  blessings,  and  whether  the  Scotland  of 
and  famine  in  consequence  paralyzed  and 
blighted  the  land.  And  why?  Because, 
In  the  first  place,  all  the  conditions  neces- 
sary to  agricultural  prosperity  were  want- 
ing; and  in  the  second  place,  because 
there  was  no  free  trade  in  corn.    It  was 


•  Soroerville,  p.  305,  384.  This  writer  puts  the  mat- 
ter very  clearly  ;  he  sees  the  causes  and  also  the  rem- 
edie^ 

t  As  an  example  of  what  was  done,  see  Douglass 
General  View  of  the  Agriculture  in  the  Counties  of 
Roxburgh  sind  Selkirk.  1793,  pp.  198,  aoo.  Also  Sta- 
tistical Account,  voL  ix.,  pp.  530^ 


THE  WIZARD  S   SON. 


335 


to-day  is  not  a  fairer  coantry,  and  life 
more  pleasant  now  than  in  *'the  good  old 
tiroes.*'  If  we  could  add  to  the  foregoing 
facts  the  characteristic  traits  of  the  inner 
life  of  the  town  and  country  —  if  we  could 
supplement  this  picture  of  the  country 
with  a  companion  picture  of  the  political 
and  intellectual  condition  of  the  people 
(and  this  we  may  attempt  on  another  oc- 
casion), we  should  be  tenfold  more  im- 
pressed with  both  the  change  and  the 
progress  which  our  fatherland  has  made 
since  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  and  should 
heartily  endorse  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Lecky, 
that  "no  period  in  the  history  of  Scotland 
is  more  momentous  than  that  between  the 
Revolution  and  the  middle  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  —  for  in  no  other  period 
did  Scotland  take  so  many  steps  in  the 
path  which  leads  from  anarchy  to  civiliza- 
tion." ♦ 

*  History  of  Eogland  in  the  i8th  Century,  voL  iL, 


From  Macmillan*s  Magasine. 
THE  WIZARD'S  SON. 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

This  was  not  the  only  danger  that  once 
more  overshadowed  the  path  of  Lord 
Erradeen.  Underwood  had  been  left 
alone  in  one  of  those  foreign  centres  of 
"pleasure,"  so  called,  whither  he  had  led 
his  so  often  impatient  and  unruly  pupil. 
He  had  been  left,  without  notice,  by  a 
sudden  impulse,  such  as  he  was  now  suffi- 
ciently acquainted  with  in  Walter  —  who 
had  always  the  air  of  obeying  angrily  and 
against  bis  will  the  temptations  with  which 
he  was  surrounded:  a  sort  of  moral  in- 
dignation against  himself  and  all  that 
aided  in  his  degradation  curiously  min- 
gling with  the  follies  and  vices  into  which 
he  was  led.  You  never  knew  when  you 
had  him,  was  Captain  Underwood's  own 
description.  He  would  dart  aside  at  a 
tangent,  go  off  at  the  most  unlikely  mo- 
ment, dash  down  the  cup  when  it  was  at 
the  sweetest,  and  abandon  with  disgust 
the  things  that  had  seemed  to  please  him 
most.  And  Underwood  knew  that  the 
moment  was  coming  when  his  patron  and 
protisi  must  return  home :  but  notwith- 
stancling  he  was  left,  without  warning,  as 
by  a  sudden  caprice  ;  the  young  man  who 
scorned  while  he  yielded  to  his  influence, 
having  neither  respect  nor  regard  enough 
for  his  companion  to  leave  a  word  of  ex- 
planation.     Underwood  was  astonished 


and  angry  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  his 
anger  soon  subsided,  and  his  sense  of 
Lord  Erradeen's  importance  to  him  was 
too  strong  to  leave  room  for  lasting  re- 
sentment, or  at  least  for  anything  in  the 
shape  of  relinquishment.  He  was  not  at 
all  disposed  to  give  the  young  victim  up. 
Already  he  had  tasted  many  of  what  to 
him  were  the  sweets  of  life  by  Walter's 
means,  and  there  were  endless  capabili- 
ties in  Lord  Erradeen's  fortune  and  in 
his  unsettled  mind,  which  made  a  com* 
panion  like  Underwood,  too  wise  ever  to 
take  ofiFence,  necessary  to  him  —  which 
that  worthy  would  not  let  slip.  After  the 
shock  of  finding  himself  deserted,  he 
took  two  or  three  days  to  consider  the 
matter,  and  then  he  made  his  plan.  It 
was  bold,  yet  he  thought  not  too  bold. 
He  followed  in  the  very  track  of  his  young 
patron,  passing  through  Edinburgh  and 
reaching  Auchnasheen  on  the  same  mo* 
roentous  day  which  had  witnessed  Julia. 
Herbert's  visit  to  the  isle.  Captain  Un- 
derwood was  very  well  known  at  Auchna- 
sheen. He  had  filled  in  many  ways  the 
position  of  manager  and  steward  to  the 
fast  lord.  He  had  not  been  loved,  but 
yet  he  had  not  been  actively  disliked. 
If  there  was  some  surprise  and  a  little 
resistance  on  the  part  of  the  household 
there  was  at  least  no  open  revolt.  Thev 
received  him  coldly,  and  required  consid- 
erable explanation  of  the  many  things 
which  he  required  to  be  done.  They  were 
all  aware,  as  well  as  he  was,  that  Lord 
Erradeen  was  to  be  expected  from  day  to 
da}*,  and  they  had  made  such  preparations 
for  his  arrival  as  suggested  themselves : 
but  these  were  not  many,  and  did  not  at 
all  please  the  zealous  captain.  His  affairs, 
he  felt,  were  at  a  critical  point.  It  was 
very  necessary  that  the  young  man  should 
feel  the  pleasure  of  being  expected,  the 
surprise  of  finding  everything  arranged 
according  to  his  tastes. 

"You  know  very  well  that  he  will  come 
here  exhausted,  that  he  will  want  to  have 
everything  comfortable,"  he  said  to  the 
housekeeper  and  the  servants.  "  No  one 
would  like  after  a  fatiguing  journey  to 
come  into  a  bare  sort  of  a  miserable  place 
like  this." 

"  My  lord  is  no  so  hard  to  please,"  said 
the  housekeeper,  standing  her  ground. 
"  Last  year  he  just  took  no  notice.  What- 
ever was  done  he  was  not  heeding." 

"  Because  he  was  unused  to  everything : 
now  it  is  different ;  and  I  mean  to  have 
things  comfortable  for  him." 

"  Well,  captain !  I  am  sure  it's  none  of 
my  wish  to  keep  the  poor  young  gentle* 


336 

man  from  his  bits  of  little  comforts.  Ye'Il 
have  his  authority  ?  " 

**  Oh,  yes,  I  have  his  authority.  It  will 
be  for  your  advantage  to  mind  what  I  tell 
you ;  even  more  than  with  the  late  lord. 
I*ve  been  abroad  with  hi  in.  He  left  me 
but  a  short  time  ago ;  I  was  to  follow  him, 
and  look  after  everything." 

At  this  the  housekeeper  looked  at  the 
under-f actor,  Mr.  Shaw's  subordinate,  who 
had  come  to  intimate  to  her  her  master's 
return.  "Will  that  be  all  right,  Mr.  Ad- 
amson  ?  '*  Adamsoo  put  his  shaggy  head 
on  one  side  like  an  intelligent  dog,  and 
looked  at  the  stranger.  But  they  all 
knew  Captain  Underwood  well  enough, 
and  no  one  was  courageous  enough  to 
contradict  him. 

"It  will,  maybe,  be  as  ye  say,'*  said  the 
under-factor  cautiously.  "  Anyway  it  will 
do  us  no  harm  to  take  his  orders,"  he 
added,  in  an  undertone  to  the  woman. 
"He  was  always  very  far  ben  with  the  old 
lord." 

•*  The  worse  for  him,"  said  that  impor* 
tant  functionary  under  her  breath.  But 
she  agreed  with  Adamson  afterwards  that 
as  long  as  it  was  my  lord's  comfort  he 
was  looking  after  and  not  his  own,  his 
orders  should  be  obeyed.  As  with  every 
such  person,  the  household  distrusted  this 
confident  and  unpaid  major-domo.  But 
Underwood  had  not  been  tyrannical  in 
his  previous  reign,  and  young  Lord  Erra- 
deen  during  his  last  residence  at  Auchna- 
sheen  had  frightened  them  all.  He  had 
been  like  a  man  beside  himself.  If  the 
captain  could  manage  him  better,  they 
would  be  grateful  to  the  captain;  and 
thus  Underwood,  though  by  no  means 
confident  of  a  good  reception,  had  no  seri- 
ous hindrances  to  encounter.  He  strolled 
forth  when  he  had  arranged  everything  to 
"look  about  him."  He  saw  the  Birken- 
braes  boat  pass  in  the  evening  light,  re- 
turning from  the  castle,  with  a  surprise 
which  took  away  his  breath.  The  boat 
was  near  enough  to  the  shore  as  it  passed 
to  be  recognized  and  its  occupants ;  but 
not  even  Katie,  whose  eyesight  was  so 
keen,  recognized  the  observer  on  the 
beach.  He  remarked  that  the  party  were 
in  earnest  conversation,  consulting  with 
each  other  over  something  which  seemed 
to  secure  everybody's  attention,  so  that 
the  ordinary  quick  notice  of  a  stranger, 
which  is  common  to  country  people,  was 
not  called  forth  by  his  own  appearance. 
It  surprised  him  mightily  to  see  that  such 
visitors  had  ventured  to  Kinloch-houran. 
They  never  would  have  done  so  in  the 
time  of  the  last  lord.    Had  Walter  all  at 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


once  become  more  friendly,  more  open- 
hearted,  perhaps  feeling  in  the  company 
of  his  neighbors  a  certain  safety?  Un- 
derwood was  confounded  by  this  new 
suggestion.  It  did  not  please  him.  Noth- 
ing could  be  worse  for  himself  than  that 
Lord  Erradeen  should  find  amusement  in 
the  society  of  the  neighborhood.  There 
would  be  no  more  riot  if  this  was  the 
case,  no  "  pleasure,"  no  play ;  bat  perhaps 
a  wife  —  most  terrible  of  all  anticipations. 
Underwood  had  been  deeply  alarmed  be- 
fore by  Katie  Williamson's  ascendency ; 
but  when  Lord  Erradeen  returned  to  his 
own  influence,  he  had  believed  that  risk 
to  be  over.  If,  however,  it  recurred  agaia» 
and,  in  this  moment  while  undefended  by 
his.  Underwood's  protection,  if  the  young 
fellow  had  rushed  into  the  snare  once 
more,  the  captain  felt  that  the  incident 
would  acquire  new  significance.  He  felt 
even  that  something  of  the  kind  must  be 
the  case,  or  that  the  Birkenbraes  party 
would  never  have  been  so  bold  as  to 
break  into  the  very  sanctuary,  into  the 
fated  precincts  of  Kinloch-houran.  This 
thought  brought  the  moisture  suddenly  to 
his  forehead.  There  were  women  whom 
he  might  have  tolerated  if  better  could 
not  be.  Julia  Herbert  was  one  whom  he 
could  perhaps  —  it  was  possible  —  have 
"got  on  with," though  possibly  she  would 
have  changed  after  her  marriage;  but 
with  Katie,  Underwood  knew  that  he 
never  would  get  on.  If  this  were  so  he 
would  have  at  once  to  disappear.  All  his 
hopes  would  be  over  —  his  prospect  of 
gain  or  pleasure  by  means  of  Lord  Erra- 
deen. And  he  had  "put  up  with"  so 
much  I  nobody  knew  how  much  he  had 
put  up  with.  He  had  humored  the  young 
fellow,  and  endured  his  fits  of  temper,  his 
changes  of  purpose,,  his  fantastic  incon- 
sistencies of  every  kind.  What  friend- 
ship it  was  on  his  part,  after  Erradeen 
had  deserted  him,  left  him  planted  there  — 
as  if  he  cared  for  the  d-^^  place  where  be 
had  gone  only  to  please  the  young  'un !  — 
thus  to  put  all  his  grievances  in  his  pocket 
and  hurry  over  land  and  sea  to  make  sure 
that  all  was  comfortable  for  the  ungrate- 
ful young  man!  That  was  true  friend- 
ship, by  Jove ;  what  a  man  would  do  for  a 
man  I  not  like  a  woman  that  always  had 
to  be  waited  upon.  Captain  Underwood 
felt  that  his  vested  rights  were  being  as- 
sailed, and  that  if  it  came  to  this  it  would 
be  a  thing  to/jbe  resisted  with  might  and 
main.  A  wife  I  what  did  Erradeen  want 
with  a  wife  I  Surely  it  would  be  possible 
to  put  before  him  the  charms  oi  liberty 
once  more  and  prevent  the  sacrifice.    He 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


337 


walked  along  the  side  of  the  loch  almost 
keeping  up  with  the  boat,  hot  with  right- 
eous indi«;nation,  in  spite  of  the  cold  wind 
which  bad  driven  Mrs.  Forrester  into  the 
house.  Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of 
salutations  on  the  water,  of  oars  clanking 
upon  rowlocks  from  a  different  quarter, 
and  saw  the  boat  from  the  isle  —  Hamish 
rowing  in  his  red  shirt  —  meet  with  the 
large,  four-oared  boat  from  Birkenbraes 
and  pause  while  the  women's  voices  ex- 
changed a  few  sentences,  chorused  by 
Mr.  Williamson^s  bass.  Then  the  smaller 
boat  came  on  towards  the  shore,  towards 
the  point  near  which  a  carriage  was  wait- 
ing. Captain  Underwood  quickened  his 
steps  a  little,  and  he  it  was  who  presented 
himself  to  Julia  Herbert's  eyes  as  she 
approached  the  bit  of  rocky  beach,  and 
hurrying  down,  offered  his  hand  to  help 
her. 

"  What  a  strange  meeting  I "  cried  Julia ; 
*'  what  a  small  world,  as  everybody  says  ! 
Who  could  have  thought,  Captain  Under- 
wood, of  seeing  you  here?" 

'•  I  might  reply,  if  the  surprise  were 
not  so  delightful,  who  could  have  thought, 
Miss  Herbert,  of  seeing  you  here?  for 
myself  it  is  a  second  home  to  roe,  and  has 
been  for  years." 

**  My  reason  for  being  here  is  simple. 
Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  cousin,  Lady 
Herbert.  Sir  Thomas  has  got  the  shoot- 
ings lower  down.  I  suppose  you  are  with 
Lord  Erradeen." 

Lady  Herbert  had  given  the  captain  a 
verv  distant  bow.  She  did  not  like  the 
looics  of  him,  as  indeed  it  has  been  stated 
no  ladies  did,  whether  in  Sloebury  or  else- 
where ;  but  at  the  name  of  Erradeen  she 
paid  a  more  polite  attention,  though  the 
thought  of  her  horses  waiting  so  long  in 
the  cold  was  already  grievous  to  her.  "  I 
hope,"  she  said,  "that  Lord  Erradeen 
does  not  lodge  his  friends  in  that  old  ruin, 
he  does  himself,  people  say." 
We  are  at  Auchnasheen,  a  house  you 
may  see  among  the  trees,"  said  the  cap- 
tain. ''Feudal  remains  are  captivating, 
but  not  to  live  in.  Does  our  friend  Wal- 
ter know.  Miss  Herbert,  what  happiness 
awaits  him  in  your  presence  here  ?  " 

"What  a  pretty  speech !"  Julia  cried; 
••far  prettier  than  anything  Walter  could 
muster  courage  to  say.  No,  Captain  Un- 
derwood, he  does  not.  It  was  all  settled 
quite  suddenly.  1  did  not  even  know 
that  he  was  here." 

"Julia,  the  horses  have  been  waiting  a 
long  time,"  said  Lady  Herbert.  **  1  have 
no  doubt  Lord  Erradeen  is  a  very  inter- 
esting subject  —  but  I  don't  know  what 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2258 


•» 


Barber  (who  was  the  coachman)  will  say. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  see  your  friends  any  day 
at  luncheon.  Tell  Lord  Erradeen,  please. 
We  are  two  women  alone.  Sir  Thomas  is 
on  the  hills  all  day  ;  all  the  more  we  shall 
be  glad  to  see  him  —  I  mean  you  both  — 
if  you  will  take  pity  on  our  loneliness. 
Now,  Julia,  we  really  must  not  wait  any 
longer." 

"Tell  Walter  I  shall  look  for  him," said 
Julia,  kissing  her  hand  as  they  drove 
away.  Underwood  stood  and  looked  after 
the  carriage  with  varied  emotions.  As 
against  Katie  Williamson,  he  was  over- 
joyed to  have  such  an  auxiliary  —  a  girl 
who  would  not  stand  upon  any  pupctiiio 
—  who  would  pursue  her  object  with  any 
assistance  she  could  pick  up,  and  would 
not  be  above  an  alliance  defensive  or  of- 
fensive, a  girl  who  knew  the  advantage  of 
an  influential  friend.  So  far  as  that  went 
he  was  glad  ;  but,  heavens  1  what  a  neigh- 
borhood, bristling  with  women ;  a  girl  at 
every  corner  ready  to  decoy  his  prey  out 
of  his  hands.  He  was  rueful,  even  though 
he  was  in  a  measure  satisfied.  If  he  could 
play  his  cards  sufficiently  well  to  detach 
Walter  from  both  one  and  the  other,  to 
show  the  bondage  which  was  veiled  under 
Julia's  smiles  and  complacency,  as  well  as 
under  Katie's  uncompromising  code,  and 
to  carry  him  off  under  their  very  eyes, 
that  would  indeed  be  a  triumph  ;  but  fail- 
ing that,  it  was  better  for  him  to  make  an 
ally  of  Julia,  and  push  her  cause,  than  to 
suffer  himself  to  be  ousted  by  the  other, 
the  little  parvenue,  with  her  cool  imperti- 
nence, who  had  been  the  first,  he  thought, 
to  set  Walter  against  him. 

He  walked  back  to  Auchnasheen,  full 
of  these  thoughts,  and  of  plans  to  recover 
his  old  ascendency.  He  had  expedients 
for  doing  this  which  would  not  bear  re- 
cording, and  a  hundred  hopes  of  awaken- 
ing the  passions,  the  jealousies,  the  vanity 
of  the  young  man  whom  already  he  had 
been  able  to  sway  beyond  his  expectations* 
He  believed  that  he  had  led  Walter  by 
the  nose,  as  he  said,  and  had  a  mastery 
over  him  which  would  be  easily  recovered 
if  he  but  got  him  for  a  day  or  two  to  him* 
self.  It  was  a  matter  of  tact  that  he  had 
done  him  much,  if  not  fatal  harm;  and  if 
the  captain  had  been  clever  enough  to 
know  that  he  had  no  mastery  whatever 
over  his  victim,  and  that  Walter  was  the 
slave  of  his  own  shifting  and  uneasy 
moods,  of  his  indolences  and  sudden  im- 
pulses, and  impatient  abandonment  of 
himself  to  the  moment,  but  not  of  Captain 
Underwood,  that  tempter  might  have  done 
him  still  more  barm.    But  he  did  not  pos- 


'  '  3  1  t  fi  V  L^,mMjt^»    "Zm 


«    * 


^r^ 


-a'    • 


^  V      -ru 


''.'■'?    ^v   F'O'i^'n^   1.11   »:?a   le 

jvv^  v*'^';iin".  -T"  1 1  -ria  nor?* 

y^y  ^"  .'»  <w  •'vi  *l  ^rxcecu     I:  -vas  5a#ii-  ,rTCJi    liniii^  sxd   unxxk   i  c^cLsderabie 

■•'    M   -  -»i.    n   i'4  'ij-n-^w.  'A  lart  asvsj  ijannr-  it  x-ner    T*iis  rrcniint  so  pcne* 

jV-,^    -i/<^j»  V  iri,  r»:i.  •;  tar^rt  iv  ^-nu^in  -r-y<Mf    i;s  anatL  Aat   »radiiallT  ill   his 

r»*   ;,  -..v*  '^  vs  "A  \'¥t  %i  ".Ti :  yaz  zx  z.\ia  uiniir^ra  were     lmm  wtn  ,>fwft   .-a  the  old 

♦  "n**  •  -^  yvicx   ^'^'l  »'Vjn  3c  too  itad.  jema:  s  gciuimiianaiu  -vatca  igr  for  it 

^\  ^^  ^  ^  #vi«5   -.«rf<.  •<>  ^inie  back  and  ind  .^eiars  c  snie.  :ii;3k:ii^  if  *t  afrsr  -t  had 

%    -i        >   :.'  < vl  r^^y  u>  na^e  a^u^vaacss  -3^«^"ft,     Tje  sceady  ami  soienia  saiTih  at 

i-^  '  n.  avl  f^  w*..  ac.via.ated  w.ta  axa  :icer7ala»  wares  v'gniffi  cucu  ared  aad 

'•.''-  v-tiv^.^*vr*  \^t.        '  --x^LiT^  was  eaou^p   od   haTC  ::npresscd 

v>   *•  ,   ao*.  Ji;a*«ji   w'th    S'«  crraafr-  -::e  iras'^ii.aa  c£  any  sci-drr  person. 

V*"*-^*       O'.vlerwvyi^   .•%   h*  t^iie,  had  A.id  :=e  ca=C2:a  was  ct  z  pr-n::  re  sritt- 

iv^i^^.v,'^'v^'-,/;^*e/i  o<w*T:-;e»ea*  aia.:±  as  s- cry  c£  aiiad  ti  sane  respects.     His 

*'*,/  'r**i     v*t  t.-%t  wa-f  >xi^  a:j.%  and  'se  i'ears'paralyzsd  Ji  ii:  he  was  arrx'dtoget 

A4-,     .-v  ♦  ,-•  nrw?art  t.-n«,  vtcivne  -^ti'tc  £^  ap.  ta  cpea  tse  door,  to  sake  sere  wbal  it 

H     At  -w   T,\  v»n,  aM  <l.i  nr^t  any  ioajer  Vaa.    H  jwocuJi  he  te.1  \^3Sl  he  n-^bt  not 


^C/*'' ..^'^  M»  t'.e  »Ty;'*/:t,  He  bad  co  be  se-'zed  by  Mie  hair  oc  tJ:e  head  bv  socne 
*»/»fr,4  if*,  or '/%  !y  for  b:*  part.  He  r^as-y  apparidco,  and  d-aczed  'into  a 
//< ,  'J  •ffr'r^f**;*/^!  t-r^t  o«i^  woold  not  like   ciaiabcr  oc  horrors!     He  tried  to  fortify 


f//  %'"t  A  z  '/^t ;  and  b*  beVicrtd  in  j^bosts   himselt  with   Borc  wine,  bat  that  only 
'.ft  a  f,r,*,  f,*;i.:r.y,  vu.;{ar,  natarai  appa-   raadc  h's  tremor  worse.    Finally  the  panic 


f',*  '/f9f  Wi'o  ftf'^ZK'^K  C'»aift»  and  boviow  came  to  a  crisis,  when  Symin^oo,  paos- 
S(f' Mfff,  I'/jt  a»  Ujf  injtrr.tiz  else,  be  bad  in^,  knocked  at  the  library  door.  Under- 
fi^/^f  ^r,*^f*:f\  into  the  q'jc^tioti,  nor  had  wood  remembered  to  hare  beard  that  no 
h*!  ariy  fr.Mi^^fit  of  Aff\ti%  so  now.  How-  spirit  coald  enter  without  inriution,  and 
fif^f,  'A%  h^  sat  )fy  the  fire  with  all  these  he  shat  bis  month  firmly  that  no  habitual 
t  f,^ttiofUt„«i  ^Cf,t%%f}f\t%  round  him,  and  "come  in  "  might  lay  biro  open  to  the  as- 
h%\*>uft\  now  nnf\  then  to  hear  if  anyone  sault  of  the  enemy.  He  sat  breathless 
wn^  totf}Uii(,  and  sometimes  was  deceived  throagb  the  ensuing  moment  of  suspense, 
hv  tl)^w>n/Hn  the  chimneys,  or  the  sound  while  Symington  waited  outside.  The 
of  ih^  ifff^n  in  the  fresh  breeze  which  bad  ■  capuin's  hair  stood  up  on  bis  head;  his 
}»"'  ome  Ufener  and  sharper  since  he  came  ■  face  was  covered  with  a  profuse  dew ;  he 
UtthHtrnt  \i  happened,  how  he  could  not  |  held  by  the  Ubie  in  an  agony  of  appre- 
t^)l«  thiit  riuestlons  arose  in  the  captain's  ■  hension  when  he  saw  the  door  begin  to 
rninrt  sucli  as  he  had  never  known  be-  turn  slowly  upon  its  hinges. 
i*»f''*  "  My  lord  will  not  be  home  the  night," 

I  Uf  house  was  very  still,  the  servants*   said  Symington  slowly, 
flp^riments  were  at  a  considerable  di»-       The  sight  of  the  old  servant  scarcely 


THE  WIZARD  S  SON, 


339 


?uieted  the  perturbation  of  Underwood, 
t  had  been  a  terrible  day  for  Symington. 
He  was  ashy  pale  or  grey,  as  old  men  be- 
come when  the  blood  is  driven  from  their 
faces.  He  had  not  been  able  to  get  rid 
of  the  scared  and  terror-stricken  sensa- 
tion with  which  he  had  watched  the  Birk- 
enbraes  party  climbing  the  old  stairs, 
and  wandering  as  he  thought  at  the  peril 
of  their  lives  upon  the  unsafe  battlements. 
He  had  been  almost  violent  in  his  calls  to 
them  to  come  down ;  but  nobody  had 
taken  any  notice,  and  they  had  talked 
about  their  guide  and  about  the  gentle- 
man who  was  living  with  Lord  Erradeen, 
till  it  seemed  to  Symington  that  he  must 
go  distracted.  "  Were  there  ever  such 
fools  —  such  idiots !  since  there  is  no- 
body staying' with  Lord  Erradeen  but  me, 
his  body-servant,*'  the  old  man  had  said 
tremulously  to  himself.  At  Symin;;ton's 
voice  the' captain  gave  a  start  and  a  cry. 
Even  in  the  relief  of  discovering  who  it 
%vas,  he  could  not  quiet  the  excitement  of 
his  nerves. 

"It's  you,  old  Truepenny,"  he  cried, 
yet  looked  at  him  across  the  table  with  a 
tremor,  and  a  very  forced  and  uncomfort- 
able smile. 

"  That's  not  my  name,"  said  Syming- 
ton, with,  on  his  side,  the  irritation  of  a 
disturbed  mind,  '*  I'm  saying  that  it's 
getting  late,  and  my  lord  will  no  be  home 
to-night." 

•'  By  Jove  ! "  cried  Captain  Underwood, 
"when  I  heard  you  passing  from  one  end 
of  the  house  to  the  other,  I  thought  it 
might  be  —  the  old  fellow  over  there,  com- 
ing himself  —  '* 

"  I  cannot  tell,  sir,  what  you  are  mean- 
ing by  the  old  fellow  over  there.  There's 
no  old  fellow  I  know  of  but  old  Macal- 
ister;  and  it  was  not  for  him  you  took 


>} 


me. 

"  If  you  could  have  heard  how  your 
steps  sounded  through  the  house !  By 
Jove  !  I  could  fancy  I  hear  them  now.'* 

"Where?"  Symington  cried,  coming 
in  and  shutting  the  door,  which  he  held 
with  his  hand  behind  him,  as  if  to  bar  all 
possible  comers.  And  then  the  two  men 
looked  at  each  other,  both  breathless  and 
pale. 

"Sit  down,'*  said  Underwood.  "The 
house  feels  chilly  and  dreary,  nobody  liv- 
ing in  it  for  so  long.  Have  a  glass  of 
wine.  One  wants  company  in  a  damp, 
dreary  old  hole  like  this." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  captain,"  said  the 
old  man  ;  "  but  Auchnasheen,  though 
only  my  lord^s  shooting-box,  is  a  modern 
mansion,  and  full  of  every  convenience. 


It  would  ill  become  me  to  raise  an  ill 
name  on  it." 

"  I  wonder  what  Erradeen's  about," 
said  the  captain.  "  I  bet  he's  worse  off 
than  we  are.  How  he  must  wish  he  was 
off  with  me  on  the  other  side  of  the  Chan- 
nel ! " 

"Captain  I  you  will,  maybe,  think  little 
of  me,  being  nothing  but  a  servant;  but  it 
is  little  good  you  do  my  young  lord  on  the 
ither  side  of  the  Channel." 

Underwood  laughed,  but  not  with  his 
usual  vigor. 

"  What  can  I  do  with  your  young 
lord?"  he  said.  "He  takes  the  bit  in 
his  teeth,  and  goes  —  to  the  devil  his  own 
way." 

"  Captain,  there  are  some  that  think  the 
like  of  you  sore  to  blame." 

Underwood  said  nothing  for  a  moment. 
When  he  spoke  there  was  a  quiver  in  his 
voice. 

"  Let  me  see  the  way  to  my  room,  Sym- 
ington. Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  it  is  the  old 
room;  but  I've  forgotten.  I  was  there 
before?  well,  so  I  suppose;  but  I  have 
forgotten.  Take  the  candle,  as  I  tell  you, 
and  show  me  the  way." 

He  had  not  the  least  idea  what  he 
feared,  and  he  did  not  remember  ever 
having  feared  anything  before ;  but  to- 
night he  clung  close  to  Symington,  fol- 
lowing at  his  very  heels.  The  old  man 
was  anxious  and  alarmed,  but  not  in  this 
ignoble  way.  He  deposited  the  captain 
in  his  room  with  composure,  who  would 
but  for  very  shame  have  implored  him  to 
stay.  And  then  his  footsteps  sounded 
through  the  vacant  house,  going  further 
and  further  off  till  they  died  away  in  the 
distance.  Captain  Underwood  locked  his 
door,  though  he  felt  it  was  a  vain  precau- 
tion, and  hastened  to  hide  his  head  under 
the  bedclothes;  but  he  was  well  aware 
that  this  was  a  vain  precaution  too. 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  day  after 
Captain  Underwood's  arrival  that  Lord 
Erradeen  left  Kinloch-houran  for  Auch- 
nasheen. After  labor,  rest.  He  could 
not  but  compare  as  he  walked  along  in 
the  early  failing  autumnal  twilight  the 
difference  between  himself  now,  and  the 
same  self  a  year  ago,  when  he  had  fled 
from  the  place  of  torture  to  the  house  of 
peace,  a  man  nearly  frantic  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  all  the  new  bonds  upon 
him,  the  uncomprehended  powers  against 
which  he  had  to  struggle,  the  sense  of 
panic  and  impotence,  yet  of  mad  excite- 
ment and  resistance,  with  which  his  brain 


340 


THE  VnZARD  S   SON. 


was  on  flame.  The  recollection  of  the 
ensaingtimespeDtat  Auchnasheen,  when 
he  saw  do  one,  heard  oo  voice  but  his 
own,  yet  lived  through  day  after  day  of 
bewilaering  mental  conflict,  without  know- 
ing who  it  was  against  whom  he  con- 
tended, was  burned  in  upon  his  recollec- 
tion. All  through  that  time  he  had  been 
conscious  of  such  a  desire  to  flee  as  hur- 
ried the  pace  of  his  thoughts,  and  made 
the  intolerable  still  more  intolerable.  His 
heart  had  sickened  of  the  unbearable  fight 
into  which  he  was  compelled  like  an  un- 
willing soldier  with  death  behind  him.  To 
resist  had  always  been  Walter's  natural 
impulse;  but  the  impulse  of  flight  had  so 
mingled  with  it  that  his  soul  had  been  in 
a  fever,  counting  no  passage  of  days,  but 
feeling  the  whole  period  long  or  short,  he 
did  not  know  which,  as  one  monstrous  un- 
interrupted day  or  night,  in  which  the  proc- 
esses of  thought  were  never  intermitted. 
His  mind  was  in  a  very  different  condi- 
tion now.  He  had  got  over  the  early 
panic  of  nature.  The  blinding  mists  of 
terror  had  melted  away  from  his  eyes,  and 
the  novelty  and  horror  of  his  position, 
contending  with  unseen  dominations  and 
powers,  had  been  so  much  softened  by 
custom  and  familiarity  that  he  now 
scarcely  felt  its  peculiarity  at  all,  except 
in  a  certain  sense  of  contempt,  and  that 
subtle  consciousness  of  superiority  which 
the  more  enlightened  in  every  sphere  can 
with  difficulty  subdue,  tOwaras  those  who 
felt,  as  he  had  once  felt,  panic-stricken, 
and  overwhelmed  with  natural  fear.  His 
contempt  for  the  two  old  servants  of  the 
house,  who  recognized  with  a  tremor  of 
all  their  senses  the  presence  of  some  one 
whom  they  could  not  see,  had  a  certain 
compassion  and  kindness  mingled  with 
it;  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  describe 
the  sensation  of  profound  distance  and 
difference  between  himself,  informed  and 
enlightened  as  he  now  was,  and  those  cu- 
rious and  wondering  spectators  who  saw 
his  visitor,  and  crowded  round  to  gaze  at 
him,  yet  had  nothing  but  a  faint  thrill  of 
alarm  in  them  to  indicate  who  and  what 
he  was.  That  strange  visitor  smiled, 
with  an  almost  humorous  recognition  of 
this  obtuseness,  but  Walter  felt  a  certain 
an^er  with  the  fools  who  had  no  clearer 
perception.  All  this,  however,  was  over 
now,  and  he  walked  round  the  head  of 
the  loch  towards  Auchnasheen  with  a  con- 
scious pause  of  all  sensation  which  was 
due  to  the  exhaustion  of  his  mind.  The 
loch  was  veiled  in  mist,  through  which  it 
glimmered  faintly  with  broken  reflections, 
the  wooded  banks  presenting  on  every 


side  a  sort  of  ghostly  outline,  with  the 
color  no  more  than  indicated  against  the 
dreary  confusion  of  air  and  vapor.  At 
some  points  there  was  the  glimpse  of  a 
blurred  light,  looking  larger  and  more 
distant  than  it  really  was,  the  ruddy  spot 
made  by  the  open  door  of  the  little  inn, 
the  whiter  and  smaller  twinkle  of  the 
manse  window,  the  far-of{  point,  lookinor 
no  more  than  a  taper  light  in  the  dis- 
tance, that  shone  from  the  isle.  There 
was  in  Walter's  mind  a  darkness  and 
confusion  not  unlike  the  landscape.  He 
was  worn  out :  there  was  in  him  none  of 
that  vivid  feeling  which  had  separated  be- 
tween his  human  soul  in  its  despair  and 
the  keen  sweetness  of  the  morning.  Now 
all  was  night  within  him  and  around.  His 
arms  had  fallen  from  his  hands.  He 
moved  along,  scarcely  aware  that  he  was 
moving,  feeling  everything  blurred,  con- 
fused, indistinct  in  tne  earth  about  him 
and  in  the  secret  places  of  his  soul.  De* 
sire  for  flight  he  had  none;  he  had  come 
to  see  that  it  was  impossible  :  and  he  had 
not  energy  enough  to  wish  it.  And  fear 
had  died  out  of  him.  He  was  not  afraid. 
Had  he  been  joined  on  the  darkling  way 
by  the  personage  of  whom  he  had  of  late 
seen  so  much,  it  would  scarcely  have 
quickened  his  pulses.  AH  such  superfi- 
cial emotion  had  died  out  of  him  :  the  real 
Question  was  so  much  superior,  so  in- 
ftnitely  important  in  comparison  with  any 
such  transitory  tremors  as  these.  But  at 
the  present  moment  he  was  not  thinking 
at  all,  scarcely  living,  any  more  than  the 
world  around  him  was  living,  hushed  into 
a  cessation  of  all  energy  and  almost  of 
consciousness,  looking  forward  to  night 
and  darkness  and  repose. 

It  was  somewhat  surprising  to  him  to 
see  the  lighted  windows  at  Auchnasheen, 
and  the  air  of  inhabitation  about  the 
house  with  which  he  had  no  agreeable 
associations,  but  only  those  which  are  apt 
to  hang  about  a  place  in  which  one  has 
gone  through  a  fever,  full  of  miserable 
visions,  and  the  burning  restlessness  of 
disease.  But  when  he  stepped  into  the 
hall,  the  door  being  opened  to  him  by 
Symington  as  soon  as  his  foot  was  heard 
on  the  gravel,  and  turning  round  to  go 
into  the  library,  after  taking  off  his  coat, 
found  himself  suddenly  in  the  presence 
of  Captain  Underwood,  his  astonishment 
and  dismay  were  beyond  expression.  The 
dismay  came  even  before  the  flush  of  an- 
ger, which  was  the  first  emotion  that 
showed  itself.  Underwood  stood  holding 
open  the  library  door,  with  a  smile  that 
was  meant  to  be  ingratiating  and  concilia- 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


341 


tory.  He  held  out  his  hand,  as  Walter, 
with  a  start  and  exclamation,  recognized 
him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  **  Tra  here,  you  see. 
Not  so  easy  to  get  rid  of  when  once  I 
form  a  friendship.  Welcome  to  your  own 
house,  Erradeen." 

Walter  did  not  say  anything  till  he  had 
entered  the  room  and  shut  the  door.  He 
walked  to  the  fire,  which  was  blazing 
brightly,  and  placed  himself  with  his  back 
to  it,  in  that  attitude  in  which  the  master 
of  a  house  defies  all  comers. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  find  you  here,"  he 
said.  *'You  take  me  entirely  by  sur- 
prise." 

''  I  had  hoped  it  would  be  an  agreeable 
surprise,"  said  the  captain,  still  with  his 
roost  amiable  smile.  *'  I  thought  to  have 
a  friend's  face  waiting  for  you  when  you 
came  back  from  that  confounded  place 
would  be  a  relief." 

'*  What  do  you  call  a  confounded 
place  ?  "  said  Walter  testily.  "  You  know 
nothing  about  it,  as  far  as  I  am  aware. 
No,  Underwood,  it  is  as  well  to  speak 
plainly.  It  is  not  an  agreeable  surprise. 
I  am  sorry  you  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
come  so  far  for  me." 

"It  was  no  trouble.  If  you  are  a  little 
out  of  sorts,  never  mind.  I  am  not  a 
man  to  be  discouraged  for  a  hasty  word. 
You  want  a  little  cheerful  society  — " 

"  Is  that  what  you  call  yourself?  "  Wal- 
ter said  with  a  harsh  laugh.  He  was 
aware  that  there  was  a  certain  brutality  in 
what  he  said;  but  the  sudden  sight  of  the 
roan  who  had  disgusted  him  even  while 
he  had  most  influenced  him,  and  of  whom 
he  had  never  thought  but  with  a  move- 
ment of  resentment 
fected  him  to  a  sort 
could  have  seized  him  with  the  force  of 
passion  and  flung  him  into  the  loch  at  the 
door.  It  would  have  been  no  crime,  he 
thought,  to  destroy  such  vermin  off  the 
face  of  the  earth  —  to  make  an  end  of 
such  a  source  of  evil  woufd  be  no  crime. 
This  was  the  thought  in  his  mind  while 
he  stood  upon  his  own  hearth,  looking  at 
the  man  who  was  his  guest  and  therefore 
sacred.  As  for  Captain  Underwood,  he 
took  no  offence  ;  it  was  not  in  his  r6le  to 
do  so,  whatever  happened.  What  he  had 
to  do  was  to  regain,  if  possible,  his  posi- 
tion with  the  young  man  upon  whom  he 
bad  lived  and  enriched  himself  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  year,  to  render  himself 
indispensable  to  him  as  he  had  done  to 
his  predecessor.  For  this  object  he  was 
prepared  to  bear  everything,  and  laugh  at 
all  that  was  too  strong  to  be  ignored.    He 


and  secret  rage,  af- 
of  delirium.     He 


laughed  now,  and  did  his  best,  not  very 
gracefully,  to  carry  out  the  joke.  He'-ex- 
erted  himself  to  talk  and  please  through- 
out the  dinner,  which  Walter  went  through 
in  silence,  drinking  largely,  though  scarce- 
ly eating  at  all  — for  Kinloch-houran  was 
not  a  place  which  encouraged  an  appetite. 
After  dinner,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  Un- 
derwood's stories,  Walter  lighted  a  candle 
abruptly,  and,isaying  he  was  going  to  bed, 
left  his  companion  without  apologizing  or 
reason  given.  It  was  impossible  to  be 
more  rude.  The  captain  felt  the  check, 
for  he  had  a  considerable  development  of 
vanity,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  amusing 
the  people  whom  he  chose  to  make  him- 
self agreeable  to.  But  this  affront,  too, 
he  swallowed.  **  He  will  have  to  come  to 
himself  by  morning,"  he  said.  In  the 
morning,  however,  Walter  was  only  more 
gloomy  and  unwilling  to  listen,  and  de- 
termined not  to  respond.  It  was  only 
when  in  the  middle  of  the  breakfast  hs 
received  a  note  brought  by  a  mounted 
messenger  who  waited  for  an  answer,  that 
he  spoke.  He  flung  it  open  across  the 
table  to  Underwood  with  a  harsh  laugh. 

**  Is  this  your  doing,  too  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  My  doing,  Erradeen  I " 

Uncferwood  knew  very  well  what  it  was 
before  he  looked  at  it.  It  was  from  Lady 
Herbert,  explaining  that  she  had  only  just 
heard  that  Lord  Erradeen  was  so  near  a 
neighbor,  and  begging  him,  if  he  was  not, 
like  all  the  other  gentlemen,  on  the  hills, 
that  he  would  come  ('*and  your  friend 
Captain  Underwood  ")  to  luncheon  that 
day  to  cheer  two  forlorn  ladies  left  all  by 
themselves  in  this  wilderness.  **  And  you 
will  meet  an  old  friend,"  it  concluded 
playfully.  The  composition  was  Julia's, 
and  haa  not  been  produced  without  care- 
ful study. 

•*  My  doing ! "  said  Captain  Underwood. 
**Can  you  suppose  that  /  want  you  to 
marry,  Erradeen  ?  " 

It  was  a  case,  he  thought,  in  which  truth 
was  best. 

Walter  started  up  from  his  seat. 

**  Marry ! "  he  cried,  with  a  half  shout 
of  rage  and  dismay. 

**  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  I  don't  suppose 
you  are  such  a  fool ;  but,  of  course,  that 
is  what  she  means.    The  fair  Julia  — '—  " 

"  Oblige  me,"  cried  Lord  Erradeen, 
taking  up  once  more  his  position  on  the 
hearth,  "by  speaking  civilly  when  you 
speak  of  ladies  in  my  house." 

**  Why,  bless  me,  Erradeen,  you  gave 
me  the  note  —  " 

"  I  was  a  fool  — that  is  nothing  new.  I 
have  been  a  fool  since  the  first  day  whea 


33* 


SCOTLAND  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY  —  1 707. 


and  eighty  years  ago.  However  fair  "  the 
auld  clay  biggin* "  of  the  Lowland  peas- 
ant may  appear  in  "  The  Cottar's  Saturday 
Night,"  and  however  picturesque  the  huts 
of  the  western  crofters  on  the  painters' 
canvas,  they  lead  the  reflecting  mind  back 
to  a  quite  recent  past,  when  they  were 
always  the  haunts  of  dirt  and  disease,  and 
too  often  the  homes  of  idleness  and  in- 
digence. Quotations  enough  might  be 
given  in  proof  of  this  statement;  but  no 
Scotsman,  and  no  stranger  who  has  trav- 
elled in  Scotland  so  as  to  see  its  typical 
features  of  scenery  and  social  life  —  who 
has  not  hurried  on  with  the  annual  crowd 
but  has,  instead,  lingered  by  the  way  and 
sauntered  into  Highland  glen  and  Low- 
land'dale  where  the  old  fashions  still  con- 
tinue, will  need  any  written  authorities  to 
help  him  to  the  truth  on  this  subject. 

As  to  the  food,  we  see  from  the  illus- 
trations above,  that  Scotland  was  barely 
able  to  supply  her  children  with  the  mere 
necessaries  of  life.  Oats  and  barley  were 
the  only  grains  cultivated ;  and  if  we  add 
colewort  or  "  lang  kale,"  the  one  pot-herb 
in  the  cottagers*  croft,  or  "  kale  yaird," 
the  three  articles  of  food  have  been  named 
on  which  the  Scottish  people  subsisted, 
and  were  almost  entirely  dependent.  Oats, 
barley,  kale  !  Not  a  varied  stock  of  victual, 
truly.  The  oats,  ground  into  meal,  sup- 
plied the  porridge  and  brose  for  breakfast 
and  supper,  and  the  griddle  bread  or  oat- 
cake. The  kale  made  the  chief  article  of 
the  dinner;  and  was  used  either  as  a 
boiled  mess  without  beef  or  mutton,  or 
with  the  broth  or  water  of  it  thickened 
with  oat  or  pease  meal,  when  it  was  called 
"  kale  brose."  Neither  potatoes  nor  wheat 
were  grown.  Barley  and  pease  were  also 
ground,  and  made  into  "bannocks"  or 
"  scones ; "  and  these  with  the  "  kebbuck  " 
or  cheese,  which  was  of  a  poor  quality, 
made  the  peasant's  midday  meal.  Red  fish 
or  salmon  in  some  parts,  **  braxy  "  mutton 
and  the  "  mart  "  or  Martinmas  ox,  which 
lasted  through  the  winter  and  spring,  were, 
items  of  food  used  in  the  better  class 
of  cottages.  The  ordinary  drink  was  a 
mild  ale  called  "  two  penny ; "  claret  and  a 
little  brandy  were  used  by  the  gentry ;  tea 
and  coffee  were  unknown,  and  usquebagh 
or  whiskey  was  as  yet  the  special  bever- 
age of  the  Highlanders.  Any  other  com- 
modities, beyond  the  dairy  produce,  were 
only  to  be  had  for  money;  and  as  the 
greater  part  of  the  wages  were  then  paid 
in  kind,  they  were  not  within  the  reach  of 
the  majority  of  the  people. 

There  had  been  no  possibility  of  more 
than  this.    It  has  been  said  that  it  would 


have  been  infinitely  better  for  Scotland  If 
it  had  been  conquered  by  Edward  L  and 
become  English  territory,  as  it  would 
have  saved  centuries  of  feud  and  oppres- 
sion and  a  heavy  inheritance  of  poverty, 
suspiciousness,  and  prejudice ;  and  instead 
of  having  to  begin  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury to  undo  the  effects  of  those  years,  it 
would  have  been  as  fair  and  flourishing  as 
Yorkshire  and  Kent,  and  with  them  would 
have  been  further  advanced  in  the  social 
art  and  in  intellectual  range  and  serenity. 
Whether  these  would  have  been  the 
blessed  results  of  conquest  we  do  not 
know;  nor  does  it  matter  now.  The  bulk 
of  the  Scottish  people  enthusiastically 
preferred  a  royal  line  and  a  Church  of 
their  own  to  an  English  king  and  an  En- 
glish hierarchy;  and  were  willing—- in 
the  eyes  of  the  philosopher  were  fanati- 
cally willing  —  to  part  with  every  comfort 
and  present  opportunity  of  progress,  for 
the  dear  symbols  of  national  i  ndependence. 
They  secured  them  both ;  but  although 
the  character  of  the  people  must  have  ac- 
quired a  distinctive,  perhaps  an  imperish- 
able quality  in  these  struggles,  their  cost 
in  a  materia]  aspect  was  incalculable.  No 
matter.  It  was  enough  that  peace  was  in 
the  land,  and  that  the  oppressors  could 
oppress  no  more.  No  scantiness  of  fare, 
no  roughness  of  raiment,  no  meanness  of 
dwelling  weighed  for  a  moment  against 
these  blessings.  The  Norman  castle, 
with  its  fair,  broad  desmesnes,  and  its 
nestling  village  homes  hid  in  ivy  and 
honeysuckle,  had  no  existence  north  of 
the  Tweed,  and  had  not  created  the  mea 
and  manners  which  were  found  every- 
where, in  strictly  rural  districts,  south  of 
the  Palatine  palace  of  Durham.  Pastoral 
quiet,  with  kine  knee-deep  in  grass,  every 
landscape  with  its  ancient  towers  of  learn- 
ing, whither  the  tramp  of  armed  men  had 
seldom  or  never  come ;  the  rich  fairs  and 
richer  guilds  and  companies  which  had 
for  centuries  been  a  bright  and  notable 
feature  in  English  life,  were  all  unknown 
to  poor  and  barren  Scotland.  Her  people 
knew  nothing  of  these  things,  and  did  not 
care  for  them.  Their  desires  had  been 
whetted  on  less  material  objects ;  their 
traditions  and  fireside  legends  were  of 
simple  men  and  women  whom  persecution 
had  changed  into  heroes  and  heroines, 
and  whose  names  were  sacred  to  the 
nation.  For  many  weary  generations 
thevhad  been  face  to  face  with  a  declared 
and  powerful  enemy,  and  their  wits  had 
been  constantly  occupied  either  with  the 
means  of  defence  or  revenge.  The  price- 
less treasures  of  national  independence 


SCOTLAND  IN  THE  EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1707. 


335 


and  liberty  of  conscience  only  had  been 
preserved  to  them.  Every  energy  and 
every  pennv  had  been  spent  in  securing 
these,  the  n>undations  of  modern  national 
greatness,  —  and  so  Scotland,  in  1707, 
was  alike  without  commercial  spirit  and 
industrial  skill,  the  artist*s  creations  and 
the  philosopher's  triumphs;  known  only, 
like  some  other  mountain  lands,  as  the 
nurse  of  rugged,  uncompromising  natures. 

IV. 

One  other  aspect  of  the  physical  con- 
dition of  Scotland  at  this  time  remains  to 
be  shown ;  an  aspect,  the  special  force  of 
which  the  reader  will  feel  as  exhibiting 
the  state  of  its  agriculture  and  commerce, 
and  as  affecting  the  common  weal  of  its 
people. 

If  the  demands  of  the  commerce  of  the 
country  as  to  shipping  were  few,  its  de- 
mands as  to  roads  were  still  fewer. 
Roads  as  we  know  them,  and  as  the 
Romans  knew  them,  had  no  existence 
either  in  fact,  or  in  the  imagination  of  the 
people  in  any  portion  of  Great  Britain  in 
the  eighteenth  century.  Nothing,  in  the 
altered  state  of  things  in  which  we  live, 
would  more  astonish  the  men  of  those 
days  than  our  roads,  our  bridges,  and  our 
modes  of  travelling;  and  nothing  is  more 
likely  to  escape  us  when  trying  to  form  a 
correct  idea  of  olden  times,  than  the  few- 
ness of  roads  then  in  existence  and  the 
frightful  state  in  which  they  were  always 
kept.  They  were  roads  only  by  courtesy. 
They  were  in  no  instance  the  work  of  the 
surveyor,  the  engineer,  and  the  surface- 
man. They  had  no  regard  to  directness 
or  to  level.  Marked  out  in  most  cases 
from  the  forest  by  the  hoofs  of  the  cattle 
that  for  generations  had  tramped  over 
them,  and  worn  in  later  times  by  the  pack- 
horses  which  journeyed  painfully  through 
them,  and  left  to  the  drought  of  summer 
and  the  storms  of  winter,  they  were,  as 
they  could  not  but  be,  simply  abominable 
either  with  dust  or  mire.  Occasionally 
the  bed  of  a  river  was  the  only  road  be- 
tween two  places ;  most  of  the  roads, 
however,  were  cattle  tracks  and  nothing 
else.  A  week's  rain  in  summer  made 
them  miles  of  sloughs  which  no  foot-pas- 
senger could  wade  through  and  no  horse- 
roan  would  long  brave ;  while  a  wet  win- 
ter all  but  put  an  end  to  trafficking  and 
travelling.  If  such  was  the  general  con- 
dition of  the  roads  and  lanes  in  the  south 
down  till  the  middle  of  the  century,  and  if 
even  Kensington,  as  Lord  Harvey  tells  us, 
was  separated  sometimes  from  London  by 
an  impassable  gulf  of  mud,  in  Scotland 


they  must  have  been  a  good  deal  worse,  if 
that  was  possible.  The  roads  in  Perth- 
shire, says  Penny,  "were  in  a  miserable 
state.  Many  were  mere  hilly  tracts,  on 
which  carriages  could  not  venture,  and 
were  totally  unfit  for  foot-passengers."* 
That  is,  they  were  no  better  than  our 
worst  field  and  farm  roads,  ruts  and 
ditches  through  which  no  one  could  pass 
unless  on  horseback,  and  not  even  then 
without  discomfort  and  danger.  In 
Tweeddale  it  was  the  same.  Somerville 
assures  us  that  **  the  parish  roads  even  to 
the  church  and  to  the  market  towns  were 
unfit  for  wheel  carriages,  and  in  bad 
weather  were  altogether  unpracticable. 
There  were  few  bridges  over  the  rivers. 
The  Tweed  throughout  its  whole  length 
was  crossed  bv  only  two ; "  f  and  these, 
the  one  at  Peebles  and  the  other  at  Ber- 
wick, were  sixty  miles  apart.  There  were 
no  main,  well-kept  highways  piercing  the 
country  from  point  to  point  and  joining 
the  cross  lanes;  there  was  not  a  single 
turnpike  in  "broad  Scotland."  There 
were  no  carriage-ways  out  of  sight  of  the 
capital.  The  great  post-road  between 
Edinburgh  and  London  was  little  better 
than  a  track;  and  although  it  was  the 
main  communication  between  the  two 
kingdoms,  its  northern  half  was  notori- 
ously unfit  for  carriages,  for  in  1746,  while 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland  contrived  to 
reach  Durham  in  a  coach  and  six,  so  bad 
were  the  roads  north  of  it  he  was  com- 
pelled to  go  forward  on  horseback. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  no«one  knew 
how  to  make  roads  ;  and  mending  those 
which  did  exist  meant  filling  up  the 
biggest  ruts  with  stones  of  any  size  and 
shape,  and  the  smaller  ruts  with  mire  or 
clay.  Nor  was  there  any  right  system 
of  assuring  even  this  amount  of  repair. 
Statute  labor  was  the  legitimate  mode  of 
doing  this,  but  statute  laoor  was  disliked 
by  all  and  shirked  by  many.  Each  farmer 
was  bound  to  give  so  many  men,  and  each 
tenant  so  many  days,  to  the  repairing  of 
the  parish  roads.  But  there  was  no  uni- 
form and  convenient  system  of  employing 
this;  it  was  left  to  interest  and  caprice; 
and  in  many  cases  the  peasant  was  re- 
quired to  contribute  his  share  of  labor 
when  he  could  least  afford  to  give  it.  At 
the  best,  statute  labor,  like  some  other 
forms  of  direct  taxation,  was  an  objec- 
tionable arrangement,  and  amid  the  gen- 
eral indifference  of  town  and  country  to 
the  necessity  for  good  roads,  came  to  be 

*  Tradition!  of  Perth,  p,  131-3.    See  the  whole  pat- 
sage, 
t  Life  and  Timet,  p.  355* 


334 


SCOTLAND  IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1 707. 


looked  upon  as  a  vexation  and  a  thing  to 
be  evaded.  Roadmakinc^,  in  fact,  like 
agriculture,  was  both  unknown  and  un- 
heeded. Turnpikes  were  nearly  a  century 
distant.  Telford  and  Macadam,  like 
Watt  and  Stephenson,  belong  to  our  own 
day. 

How  unhappily  then  was  Scotland 
placed  as  to  agriculture,  and  how  com- 
pletely were  its  food  supplies  controlled 
by  circumstances !  The  country  was  one 
in  a  geographical  sense,  but  many  of  its 
parishes  were  quite  isolated,  and  in  win- 
ter almost  inaccessible.  Its  rural  popula- 
tion was  a  series  of  groups  or  families, 
many  of  which  had  only  intercourse  with 
one  another  in  the  open  months  of  the 
year.  1 1  could  not  be  otherwise.  Twenty 
miles  of  moor,  or  an  unbridged  river,  or 
a  considerable  range  of  hills  were  insur- 
mountable natural  barriers  to  intercourse. 
No  means  were  at  hand  of  overcoming 
them.  Consequently  there  were  towns  in 
the  same  county  far  more  widely  sun- 
dered for  all  practical  purposes  than  Lon- 
don and  Aberdeen  are  at  the  present  day. 
People  knew  little  outside  of  the  bounds 
of  their  own  glen  or  parish,  and  the  world 
beyond  their  narrow  horizon  was  alto- 
gether unknown.  From  the  same  cause, 
namely,  want  of  roads,  the  farmer  had  no 
means' of  improving  his  farm  and  had  no 
motive  to  do  so.  Shut  in  upon  himself 
and  with  no  opportunity  of  enlarging  his 
knowledge,  he  could  only  be  slovenly  in 
his  home,  and  slovenly  and  stationary  in 
his  mode  of  farming. 

The  inevitable  result  of  this  ignorance 
of  national  economics  was  dearths  and 
famines.  And  so  common  were  these,  so 
often  had  they  been  experienced  by  the 
people,  that  they  concluded,  as  people  in 
the  same  stage  of  knowledge  have  always 
concluded,  that  they  belonged  to  an  order 
of  things  in  nature  over  which  they  had 
no  control  or  influence,  an  order  which 
could  be  changed,  not  by  their  improved 
agricultural  practice  and  better  roads,  but 
by  their  prayers,  and  their  prayers  only. 
The  land  was  not  cultivated;  the  farming 
which  did  exist  was  simply  a  scratching 
of  the  surface  of  the  ground;  the  climate 
was  a  wet,  unkindly  one,  and  therefore  it 
was  always  very  likely  that  the  harvests 
would  be  late  and  light.  Dearths  did 
happen;  the  crops  did  occasionally  fail, 
and  famine  in  consequence  paralyzed  and 
blighted  the  land.  And  why  ?  Because, 
in  the  first  place,  all  the  conditions  neces- 
sary to  agricultural  prosperity  were  want- 
ing; and  in  the  second  place,  because 
there  was  no  free  trade  in  corn.    It  was 


impossible  to  better  the  climate,  but  it 
was  possible  to  improve  the  soil.  It  was 
impossible  to  prevent  late  and  bad  crops, 
but  it  was  possible  to  prevent  famines. 
And  if,  therefore,  in  times  of  scarcity  the 
situation  of  Scotland  was  deplorable,*  it 
was  chiefly  because  there  were  no  means 
of  reaching  the  distressed  districts,  and 
no  conveyances  to  carry  food  to  the  starv- 
ing and  dying. 

This  state  of  things  did  not  begin  to 
mend  until  1750,  in  which  year  the  first 
Turnpike  Act  for  Scotland  was  passed. 
From  that  moment  a  happy  change  crept 
over  the  face  of  everything;  the  stirrings 
of  a  new  life  thrilled  along  the  numbed 
frame  of  the  nation.  County  after  county 
looked  to  its  roads,  opened  up  hundreds 
of  miles  of  permanent  way,  and  spent 
tens  of  thousands  of  pounds  on  these  and 
new  bridges.  Road  reform,  in  fact,  as 
the  statute  book  abundantly  shows,  be- 
came the  question  of  the  day,  and  along 
with  agriculture,  then  pushed  on  with 
much  earnestness  by  the  Society  of  Im- 
provers, completely  aosorbed  the  attention 
of  the  landed  gentry  till  the  end  of  the 

century.t 

Such  was  the  outward  aspect  of  things 
in  town  and  country  in  Scotland  at  the 
Union.  If  such  homesteads  and  farm- 
steads —  if  such  a  mean  and  poor  condi- 
tion of  life  —  are  not  what  we  have  usually 
associated  with  the  last  heroic  period  of 
Scottish  history,  it  may  be  owing  to  our 
looking  at  everything  belonging  to  it  with 
the  exaltation  of  feeling  not  unnatural  to 
the  interested  spectator.  Touched  by  the 
spectacle  of  our  enduring  sires,  we  may 
never  have  felt  any  call  to  look  closely 
into  the  commonplace  of  their  lives,  and 
the  rude  details  of  their  daily  circum- 
stances. And  we  have  in  consequence 
been  fooled  by  the  enchantments  of  vague* 
ness,  and  blinded  by  the  glamor  and  fan- 
tasies of  romance.  An  acquaintance  with 
facts  like  those  here  given  should  do  much 
to  put  us  right.  They  ought  to  make  cer- 
tain to  us  the  particulars  in  which  the 
present  differs  from  the  past,  and  enable 
us  to  mark  the  immense,  the  almost  fab- 
ulous change  which  has  taken  place  since 
then.  Nor  can  there  be  in  any  but  a 
strangely  prejudiced  mind  a  doubt  as  to 
whether  the  Union  has  been  fruitful  of 
blessings,  and  whether  the  Scotland  o£ 

*  Somerville,  p.  305,  384.  This  writer  puts  the  mat- 
ter very  clearly ;  he  sees  the  causes  and  also  the  reok- 
edies^ 

t  As  an  example  of  what  was  done,  see  Douglases 
General  View  ot  the  Agriculture  in  the  Counties  ol 
Roxburgh  and  Selkirk.  179S,  pp.  19S,  aoo.  Also  Sla- 
tistical  Account,  toL  iz.,  pp.  530. 


THE  WIZARD  S   SON. 


335 


to-day  is  not  a  fairer  coantry,  and  life 
more  pleasant  now  than  in  "the  good  old 
times.*'  If  we  could  add  to  the  foregoing 
facts  the  characteristic  traits  of  the  inner 
life  of  the  town  and  country  —  if  we  could 
supplement  this  picture  of  the  country 
with  a  companion  picture  of  the  political 
and  intellectual  condition  of  the  people 
(and  this  we  may  attempt  on  another  oc- 
casion), we  should  be  tenfold  more  im- 
pressed with  both  the  chancre  and  the 
progress  which  our  fatherland  has  made 
since  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  and  should 
heartily  endorse  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Leclcy, 
that*' no  period  in  the  history  of  Scotland 
is  more  momentous  than  that  between  the 
Revolution  and  the  middle  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  —  for  in  no  other  period 
did  Scotland  take  so  many  steps  in  the 
path  which  leads  from  anarchy  to  civiliza- 
tion." • 

*  History  of  Eogland  in  the  i8th  CcDtury,  toL  iL, 
p>aa. 


From  Maciiiillan*8  Magasine. 
THE  WIZARD'S  SON. 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

This  was  not  the  only  danger  that  once 
more  overshadowed  the  path  of  Lord 
Erradeen.  Underwood  had  been  left 
alone  in  one  of  those  foreign  centres  of 
**  pleasure,"  so  called,  whither  he  had  led 
his  so  often  impatient  and  unruly  pupil. 
He  had  been  left,  without  notice,  by  a 
sudden  impulse,  such  as  he  was  now  suffi- 
ciently acquainted  with  in  Walter  —  who 
had  always  the  air  of  obeying  angrily  and 
against  his  will  the  temptations  with  which 
he  was  surrounded :  a  sort  of  moral  in- 
dignation against  himself  and  all  that 
aided  in  his  degradation  curiously  min- 
gling with  the  follies  and  vices  into  which 
he  was  led.  You  never  knew  when  you 
had  him,  was  Captain  Underwood*s  own 
description.  He  would  dart  aside  at  a 
tangent,  go  o£E  at  the  most  unlikely  mo- 
ment, dash  down  the  cup  when  it  was  at 
the  sweetest,  and  abandon  with  disgust 
the  things  that  had  seemed  to  please  him 
most.  And  Underwood  knew  that  the 
moment  was  coming  when  his  patron  and 
protii^i  must  return  home :  but  notwith- 
standing he  was  left,  without  warning,  as 
by  a  sudden  caprice ;  the  young  man  who 
scorned  while  he  yielded  to  his  influence, 
having  neither  respect  nor  regard  enough 
for  his  companion  to  leave  a  word  of  ex- 
planatioQ.      Underwood  was  astonished 


and  angry  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  his 
anger  soon  subsided,  and  his  sense  of 
Lord  Erradeen's  importance  to  him  was 
too  strong  to  leave  room  for  lasting  re- 
sentment, or  at  least  for  anything  in  the 
shape  of  relinquishment.  He  was  not  at 
all  disposed  to  give  the  young  victim  up. 
Already  he  had  tasted  many  of  what  to 
him  were  the  sweets  of  life  by  Walter's 
means,  and  there  were  endless  capabili- 
ties in  Lord  Erradeen's  fortune  and  in 
his  unsettled  mind,  which  made  a  com* 
panion  like  Underwood,  too  wise  ever  to 
take  offence,  necessary  to  him  —  which 
that  worthy  would  not  let  slip.  After  the 
shock  of  finding  himself  deserted,  he 
took  two  or  three  days  to  consider  the 
matter,  and  then  he  made  his  plan.  It 
was  bold,  yet  he  thought  not  too  bold. 
He  followed  in  the  very  track  of  his  young 
patron,  passing  through  Edinburgh  and 
reaching  Auchnasheen  on  the  same  mo- 
mentous day  which  had  witnessed  Julia- 
Herbert's  visit  to  the  isle.  Captain  Un- 
derwood was  very  well  known  at  Auchna- 
sheen. He  had  filled  in  many  ways  the 
position  of  manager  and  steward  to  the 
last  lord.  He  had  not  been  loved,  but 
yet  he  had  not  been  actively  disliked. 
If  there  was  some  surprise  and  a  little 
resistance  on  the  part  of  the  household 
there  was  at  least  no  open  revolt.  They 
received  him  coldly,  and  required  consia- 
erable  explanation  of  the  many  things 
which  he  required  to  be  done.  They  were 
all  aware,  as  well  as  he  was,  that  Lord 
Erradeen  was  to  be  expected  from  day  to 
day,  and  they  had  made  such  preparations 
for  his  arrival  as  suggested  themselves : 
but  these  were  not  many,  and  did  not  at 
all  please  the  zealous  captain.  His  affairs, 
he  felt,  were  at  a  critical  point.  It  was 
very  necessary  that  the  young  m.an  should 
feef  the  pleasure  of  being  expected,  the 
surprise  of  finding  everything  arranged 
according  to  his  tastes. 

"You  know  very  well  that  he  will  come 
here  exhausted,  that  he  will  want  to  have 
everything  comfortable,"  he  said  to  the 
housekeeper  and  the  servants.  "  No  one 
would  like  after  a  fatiguing  journey  to 
come  into  a  bare  sort  of  a  miserable  place 
like  this." 

"  My  lord  is  no  so  hard  to  please,"  said 
the  housekeeper,  standing  her  ground. 
"  Last  year  he  just  took  no  notice.  What- 
ever was  done  he  was  not  heeding." 

"  Because  he  was  unused  to  everything : 
now  it  is  different ;  and  I  mean  to  have 
things  comfortable  for  him." 

"  Well,  captain  !  I  am  sure  it's  none  of 
my  wish  to  keep  the  poor  young  gentle* 


334 


SCOTLAND   IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY— 1707. 


looked  upon  as  a  vexation  and  a  thing  to 
be  evaded.  Road-making,  in  fact,  like 
agriculture,  was  both  unknown  and  un- 
heeded. Turnpikes  were  nearly  a  century 
distant.  Telford  and  Macadam,  like 
Watt  and  Stephenson,  belong  to  our  own 
day. 

How  unhappily  then  was  Scotland 
placed  as  to  agriculture,  and  how  com- 
pletely were  its  food  supplies  controlled 
by  circumstances  I  The  country  was  one 
in  a  geographical  sense,  but  many  of  its 
parishes  were  quite  isolated,  and  in  win- 
ter almost  inaccessible.  Its  rural  popula- 
tion was  a  series  of  groups  or  families, 
many  of  which  had  only  intercourse  with 
one  another  in  the  open  months  of  the 
year.  It  could  not  be  otherwise.  Twenty 
miles  of  moor,  or  an  unbridged  river,  or 
a  considerable  range  of  hills  were  insur- 
mountable natural  barriers  to  intercourse. 
No  means  were  at  hand  of  overcoming 
them.  Consequently  there  were  towns  in 
the  same  county  far  more  widely  sun- 
dered for  all  practical  purposes  than  Lon- 
don and  Aberdeen  are  at  the  present  day. 
People  knew  little  outside  of  the  bounds 
of  their  own  glen  or  parish,  and  the  world 
beyond  their  narrow  horizon  was  alto- 
gether unknown.  From  the  same  cause, 
namely,  want  of  roads,  the  farmer  had  no 
means  of  improving  his  farm  and  had  no 
motive  to  do  so.  Shut  in  upon  himself 
and  with  no  opportunity  of  enlarging  his 
knowledge,  he  could  only  be  slovenly  in 
his  home,  and  slovenly  and  stationary  in 
his  mode  of  farming. 

The  inevitable  result  of  this  ignorance 
of  national  economics  was  dearths  and 
famines.  And  so  common  were  these,  so 
often  had  they  been  experienced  by  the 
people,  that  they  concluded,  as  people  in 
the  same  stage  of  knowledge  have  always 
concluded,  that  they  belonged  to  an  order 
of  things  in  nature  over  which  they  had 
no  control  or  influence,  an  order  which 
could  be  changed,  not  by  their  improved 
agricultural  practice  and  better  roads,  but 
by  their  prayers,  and  their  prayers  only. 
The  land  was  not  cultivated;  the  farming 
which  did  exist  was  simply  a  scratching 
of  the  surface  of  the  ground;  the  climate 
was  a  wet,  unkindly  one,  and  therefore  it 
was  always  very  likely  that  the  harvests 
would  be  late  and  light.  Dearths  did 
happen;  the  crops  did  occasionally  fail, 
and  famine  in  consequence  paralyzed  and 
blighted  the  land.  And  why  ?  Because, 
in  ihe  first  place,  all  the  conditions  neces- 
sary to  agricultural  prosperity  were  want- 
ing; and  in  the  second  place,  because 
there  was  no  free  trade  ia  corn.    It  was 


impossible  to  better  the  climate,  but  it 
was  possible  to  improve  the  soil.  It  was 
impossible  to  prevent  late  and  bad  crops, 
but  it  was  possible  to  prevent  famines. 
And  if,  therefore,  in  times  of  scarcity  the 
situation  of  Scotland  was  deplorable,*  it 
was  chiefly  because  there  were  no  means 
of  reaching  the  distressed  districts,  and 
no  conveyances  to  carry  food  to  the  starv- 
ing and  dying. 

This  state  of  things  did  not  begin  to 
mend  until  1750,  in  which  year  the  first 
Turnpike  Act  for  Scotland  was  passed. 
From  that  moment  a  happy  change  crept 
over  the  face  of  everything;  the  stirrings 
of  a  new  life  thrilled  along  the  numbed 
frame  of  the  nation.  County  after  county 
looked  to  its  roads,  opened  up  hundreds 
of  miles  of  permanent  way,  and  spent 
tens  of  thousands  of  pounds  on  these  and 
new  bridges.  Road  reform,  in  fact,  as 
the  statute  book  abundantly  shows,  be- 
came the  question  of  the  day,  and  along 
with  agriculture,  then  pushed  on  with 
much  earnestness  by  the  Society  of  Im- 
provers, completely  absorbed  the  attention 
of  the  landed  gentry  till  the  end  of  the 

century.f 

Such  was  the  outward  aspect  of  things 
in  town  and  country  in  Scotland  at  the 
Union.  If  such  homesteads  and  farm- 
steads —  if  such  a  mean  and  poor  condi- 
tion of  life  —  are  not  what  we  have  usually 
associated  with  the  last  heroic  period  of 
Scottish  history,  it  may  be  owing  to  our 
looking  at  everything  belonging  to  it  with 
the  exaltation  of  feeling  not  unnatural  to 
the  interested  spectator.  Touched  by  the 
spectacle  of  our  enduring  sires,  we  may 
never  have  felt  any  call  to  look  closely 
into  the  commonplace  of  their  lives,  and 
the  rude  details  of  their  daily  circum- 
stances. And  we  have  in  consequence 
been  fooled  by  the  enchantments  of  vague- 
ness, and  blinded  by  the  glamor  and  fan* 
tasies  of  romance.  An  acquaintance  with 
facts  like  those  here  given  should  do  much 
to  put  us  right.  They  ought  to  make  cer- 
tain to  us  the  particulars  in  which  the 
present  differs  from  the  past,  and  enable 
us  to  mark  the  immense,  the  almost  fab- 
ulous change  which  has  taken  place  since 
then.  Nor  can  there  be  in  any  but  a 
strangely  prejudiced  mind  a  doubt  as  to 
whether  the  Union  has  been  fruitful  of 
blessings,  and  whether  the  Scotland  of 

*  Soroerville,  p.  305,  3S4.  This  writer  puts  the  mat- 
ter very  clearly ;  he  aees  the  causes  and  also  the  rem- 
edies 

t  As  an  example  of  what  was  done,  see  Donglai^t 
General  View  ot  the  Agriculture  in  the  Counties  ol 
Roxburgh  and  Selkirk.  179^  pp.  198,  aoow  Also  Sta- 
I  tistical  Account,  toL  iz.,  pp.  530. 


THE  WIZARD  S   SON. 


335 


to<lay  is  not  a  fairer  country,  and  life 
more  pleasant  now  than  in  **  the  good  old 
times.*'  If  we  could  add  to  the  foregoing 
facts  the  characteristic  traits  of  the  inner 
life  of  the  town  and  country  —  if  we  could 
supplement  this  picture  of  the  country 
with  a  companion  picture  of  the  political 
and  intellectual  condition  of  the  people 
(and  this  we  may  attempt  on  another  oc- 
casionX  we  should  be  tenfold  more  im- 
pressed with  both  the  change  and  the 
progress  which  our  fatherland  has  made 
since  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  and  should 
heartily  endorse  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Lecky, 
that  "no  period  in  the  history  of  Scotland 
is  more  momentous  than  that  between  the 
Revolution  and  the  middle  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  —  for  in  no  other  period 
did  Scotland  take  so  many  steps  in  the 
path  which  leads  from  anarchy  to  civiliza- 
tion." • 

*  History  of  Eogland  in  the  i8th  Century,  toL  ii., 


From  Macmillan's  Magasine. 
THE  WIZARD'S  SON. 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

This  was  not  the  only  danger  that  once 
more  overshadowed  the  path  of  Lord 
Erradeen.  Underwood  had  been  left 
alone  in  one  of  those  foreign  centres  of 
**  pleasure,"  so  called,  whither  he  had  led 
his  so  often  impatient  and  unruly  pupil. 
He  had  been  left,  without  notice,  by  a 
sudden  impulse,  such  as  he  was  now  suffi- 
ciently acquainted  with  in  Walter  —  who 
had  always  the  air  of  obeying  angrily  and 
against  his  will  the  temptations  with  which 
he  was  surrounded:  a  sort  of  moral  in- 
dignation against  himself  and  all  that 
aided  in  his  degradation  curiously  min- 
gling with  the  follies  and  vices  into  which 
he  was  led.  You  never  knew  when  you 
had  him,  was  Captain  Underwood*s  own 
description.  He  would  dart  aside  at  a 
tangent,  go  off  at  the  most  unlikely  mo- 
ment, dash  down  the  cup  when  it  was  at 
the  sweetest,  and  abandon  with  disgust 
the  things  that  had  seemed  to  please  him 
most.  And  Underwood  knew  that  the 
moment  was  coming  when  his  patron  and 
protis^i  must  return  home :  but  notwith- 
stanoing  he  was  left,  without  warning,  as 
by  a  sudden  caprice  ;  the  young  man  who 
scorned  while  he  yielded  to  his  influence, 
having  neither  respect  nor  regard  enough 
for  his  companion  to  leave  a  word  of  ex- 
planation.     Underwood  was  astonished 


and  angry  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  his 
anger  soon  subsided,  and  his  sense  of 
Lord  Erradeen's  importance  to  him  was 
too  strong  to  leave  room  for  lasting  re- 
sentment, or  at  least  for  anything  in  the 
shape  of  relinquishment.  He  was  not  at 
all  disposed  to  give  the  young  victim  up. 
Already  he  had  tasted  many  of  what  to 
him  were  the  sweets  of  life  by  Walter's 
means,  and  there  were  endless  capabili- 
ties in  Lord  Erradeen's  fortune  and  in 
his  unsettled  mind,  which  made  a  com* 
panion  like  Underwood,  too  wise  ever  to 
take  offence,  necessary  to  him  —  which 
that  worthy  would  not  let  slip.  After  the 
shock  of  finding  himself  deserted,  he 
took  two  or  three  days  to  consider  the 
matter,  and  then  he  made  his  plan.  It 
was  bold,  yet  he  thought  not  too  bold. 
He  followed  in  the  very  track  of  his  young 
patron,  passing  through  Edinburgh  and 
reaching  Auchnasheen  on  the  same  mo* 
mentous  day  which  had  witnessed  Julia. 
Herbert's  visit  to  the  isle.  Captain  Un- 
derwood was  very  well  known  at  Auchna- 
sheen. He  had  filled  in  many  ways  the 
position  of  manager  and  steward  to  the 
last  lord.  He  had  not  been  loved,  but 
yet  he  had  not  been  actively  disliked. 
If  there  was  some  surprise  and  a  little 
resistance  on  the  part  of  the  household 
there  was  at  least  no  open  revolt.  They 
received  him  coldly,  and  required  consid- 
erable explanation  of  the  many  things 
which  he  required  to  be  done.  They  were 
all  aware,  as  well  as  he  was,  that  Lord 
Erradeen  was  to  be  expected  from  day  to 
day,  and  they  had  made  such  preparations 
for  his  arrival  as  suggested  themselves: 
but  these  were  not  many,  and  did  not  at 
all  please  the  zealous  captain.  His  affairs, 
he  felt,  were  at  a  critical  point.  It  was 
very  necessary  that  the  young  man  should 
feef  the  pleasure  of  being  expected,  the 
surprise  of  finding  everything  arranged 
according  to  his  tastes. 

"  You  know  very  well  that  he  will  come 
here  exhausted,  that  he  will  want  to  have 
everything  comfortable,"  he  said  to  the 
housekeeper  and  the  servants.  "  No  one 
would  like  after  a  fatiguing  journey  to 
come  into  a  bare  sort  of  a  miserable  place 
like  this." 

'*  My  lord  is  no  so  hard  to  please,"  said 
the  housekeeper,  standing  her  ground. 
**  Last  year  he  just  took  no  notice.  What- 
ever was  done  he  was  not  heeding." 

**  Because  he  was  unused  to  everything : 
now  it  is  different ;  and  1  mean  to  have 
things  comfortable  for  him." 

**  Well, captain!  I  am  sure  it's  none  of 
my  wish  to  keep  the  poor  young  gentle- 


33^ 

man  from  his  bits  of  little  comforts.  Ye*Il 
have  his  authority  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  yes,'  I  have  his  authority.  It  will 
be  for  your  advantage  to  miud  what  I  tell 
you ;  even  more  than  with  the  late  lord. 
I've  been  abroad  with  him.  He  left  me 
but  a  short  time  ago ;  I  was  to  follow  him, 
and  look  after  everything.'* 

At  this  the  housekeeper  looked  at  the 
tinder-factor,  Mr.  Shaw's  subordinate,  who 
had  come  to  intimate  to  her  her  master's 
return.  *<  Will  that  be  all  right,  Mr.  Ad- 
amson  ?  '*  Adamson  put  his  shaggy  head 
on  one  side  like  an  mteliigent  dog,  and 
looked  at  the  stranger.  But  they  all 
knew  Captain  Underwood  well  enough, 
and  no  one  was  courageous  enough  to 
contradict  him. 

**  It  will,  maybe,  be  as  ye  say,'*  said  the 
under-factor  cautiously.  **  Anyway  it  will 
do  us  no  harm  to  take  his  orders,"  he 
added,  in  an  undertone  to  the  woman. 
**  He  was  always  very  far  bea  with  the  old 
lord." 

"The  worse  for  him,"  said  that  impor- 
tant functionary  under  her  breath.  But 
she  agreed  with  Adamson  afterwards  that 
as  long  as  it  was  my  lord's  comfort  he 
was  looking  after  and  not  his  own,  his 
orders  should  be  obeyed.  As  with  every 
such  person,  the  household  distrusted  this 
confident  and  unpaid  major-domo.  But 
Underwood  had  not  been  tyrannical  in 
his  previous  reign,  and  young  Lord  Erra- 
deen  during  his  last  residence  at  Auchna- 
sheen  had  frightened  them  all.  He  had 
been  like  a  man  beside  himself.  If  the 
captain  could  manage  him  better,  they 
would  be  grateful  to  the  captain ;  and 
thus  Underwood,  though  by  no  means 
confident  of  a  good  reception,  had  no  seri- 
ous hindrances  to  encounter.  He  strolled 
forth  when  he  had  arranged  everything  to 
'*look  about  him."  He  saw  the  Birken- 
braes  boat  pass  in  the  evening  light,  re- 
turning from  the  castle,  with  a  surprise 
which  took  away  his  breath.  The  boat 
was  near  enough  to  the  shore  as  it  passed 
to  be  recognized  and  its  occupants ;  but 
not  even  Katie,  whose  eyesight  was  so 
keen,  recognized  the  observer  on  the 
beach.  He  remarked  that  the  party  were 
in  earnest  conversation,  consulting  with 
each  other  over  something  which  seemed 
to  secure  everybody's  attention,  so  that 
the  ordinary  quick  notice  of  a  stranger, 
which  is  common  to  country  people,  was 
not  called  forth  by  his  own  appearance. 
It  surprised  him  mightily  to  see  that  such 
visitors  had  ventured  to  Kinloch-houran. 
They  never  would  have  done  so  in  the 
time  of  the  last  lord.    Had  Walter  all  at 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


once  become  more  friendly,  more  opeo« 
hearted,  perhaps  feeling  in  the  company 
of  his  neighbors  a  certain  safety?  Un- 
derwood was  confounded  by  this  new 
suggestion.  It  did  not  please  him.  Noth- 
ing could  be  worse  for  himself  than  that 
Lord  Erradeen  should  find  amusement  in 
the  society  of  the  neighborhood.  There 
would  be  no  more  riot  if  this  was  the 
case,  no  *'  pleasure,"  no  play ;  but  perhaps 
a  wife  —  most  terrible  of  all  anticipations. 
Underwood  had  been  deeply  alarmed  be- 
fore by  Katie  Williamson's  ascendency; 
but  when  Lord  Erradeen  returned  to  his 
own  influence,  he  had  believed  that  risk 
to  be  over.  If,  however,  it  recurred  again^ 
and,  in  this  moment  while  undefended  by 
his,  Underwood's  protection,  if  the  young 
fellow  had  rushed  into  the  snare  once 
more,  the  captain  felt  that  the  incident 
would  acquire  new  significance.  He  felt 
even  that  something  of  the  kind  mast  be 
the  case,  or  that  the  Birkenbraes  party 
would  never  have  been  so  bold  as  to 
break  into  the  very  sanctuary,  into  the 
fated  precincts  of  Kinloch-houran.  This 
thought  brought  the  moisture  suddenly  to 
his  forehead.  There  were  women  whom 
he  might  have  tolerated  if  better  could 
not  be.  Julia  Herbert  was  one  whom  he 
could  perhaps  —  it  was  possible  —  have 
**got  on  with,"  though  possibly  she  would 
have  changed  after  her  marriage;  but 
with  Katie,  Underwood  knew  that  be 
never  would  get  on.  If  this  were  so  he 
would  have  at  once  to  disappear.  All  his 
hopes  would  be  over  —  his  prospect  of 
gain  or  pleasure  by  means  of  Lord  Erra- 
deen. And  he  had  **put  up  with"  so 
much  I  nobody  knew  how  much  he  had 
put  up  with.  He  had  humored  the  young 
fellow,  and  endured  his  fits  of  temper,  his 
changes  of  purpose,,  his  fantastic  incon- 
sistencies of  every  kind.  What  friend- 
ship it  was  on  his  part,  after  Erradeen 
had  deserted  him,  left  him  planted  there  — 

as  if  he  cared  for  the  d place  where  he 

had  gone  only  to  please  the  young  'un  I  — 
thus  to  put  all  his  grievances  in  his  pocket 
and  hurry  over  land  and  sea  to  make  sure 
that  all  was  comfortable  for  the  ungrate- 
ful young  man!  That  was  true  friend- 
ship, by  Jove ;  what  a  man  would  do  for  a 
man  I  not  like  a  woman  that  always  had 
to  be  waited  upon.  Captain  Underwood 
felt  that  his  vested  rights  were  being  as- 
sailed, and  that  if  it  came  to  this  it  would 
be  a  thing  to/be  resisted  with  might  and 
main.  A  wife !  what  did  Erradeen  want 
with  a  wife !  Surely  it  would  be  possible 
to  put  before  him  the  charms  of  liberty 
once  more  and  prevent  the  sacrifice.    He 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


337 


walked  along  the  side  of  the  loch  almost 
keeping  up  with  the  boat,  hot  with  right- 
eous indi$;nation,  in  spite  of  the  cold  wind 
which  had  driven  Mrs.  Forrester  into  the 
house.  Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of 
salutations  on  the  water,  of  oars  clanking 
upon  rowlocks  from  a  different  quarter, 
and  saw  the  boat  from  the  isle —  Hamish 
rowing  in  his  red  shirt  —  meet  with  the 
larc^e,  four-oared  boat  from  Birkenbraes 
and  pause  while  the  women's  voices  ex- 
changed a  few  sentences,  chorused  by 
Mr.  Williamson*s  bass.  Then  the  smaller 
boat  came  on  towards  the  shore,  towards 
the  point  near  which  a  carriage  was  wait- 
ing. Captain  Underwood  quickened  his 
steps  a  little,  and  he  it  was  who  presented 
himself  to  Julia  Herbert's  eyes  as  she 
approached  the  bit  of  rocky  beach,  and 
hurrying  down,  offered  his  hand  to  help 
her. 

'*  What  a  strange  meeting  I "  cried  Julia ; 
"  what  a  small  world,  as  everybody  says  ! 
Who  could  have  thought.  Captain  Under- 
wood, of  seeing  you  here?** 

"  I  might  reply,  if  the  surprise  were 
not  so  delightful,  who  could  have  thought. 
Miss  Herbert,  of  seeing  you  here?  for 
myself  it  is  a  second  home  to  me,  and  has 
been  for  years." 

*' My  reason  for  being  here  is  simple. 
Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  cousin,  Lady 
Herbert.  Sir  Thomas  has  got  the  shoot- 
ings lower  down.  I  suppose  you  are  with 
Lord  Erradeen." 

Lady  Herbert  had  given  the  captain  a 
verv  aistant  bow.  She  did  not  like  the 
looKs  of  him,  as  indeed  it  has  been  stated 
no  ladies  did,  whether  in  Sloebury  or  else- 
where ;  but  at  the  name  of  Erradeen  she 
paid  a  more  polite  attention,  though  the 
thought  of  her  horses  waiting  so  long  in 
the  cold  was  already  grievous  to  her.  "  I 
hope,**  she  said,  "that  Lord  Erradeen 
does  not  lodge  his  friends  in  that  old  ruin, 
as  he  does  himself,  people  say.** 

**  We  are  at  Auchnasheen,  a  house  you 
may  see  among  the  trees,**  said  the  cap- 
tain. **  Feudal  remains  are  captivating, 
but  not  to  live  in.  Does  our  friend  Wal- 
ter know,  Miss  Herbert,  what  happiness 
awaits  him  in  your  presence  here  ?** 

"What  a  pretty  speech  !**  Julia  cried; 
"far  prettier  than  anything  Walter  could 
muster  courage  to  say.  No,  Captain  Un- 
derwood, he  does  not.  It  was  all  settled 
quite  suddenly.  I  did  not  even  know 
that  he  was  here.'* 

"Julia,  the  horses  have  been  waiting  a 
long  time,**  said  Lady  Herbert.  "  I  have 
no  doubt  Lord  Erradeen  is  a  very  Inter- 
esting subject  —  but  I  don't  know  what 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2258 


Barber  (who  was  the  coachman)  will  say. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  see  your  friends  any  day 
at  luncheon.  Tell  Lord  Erradeen,  please. 
We  are  two  women  alone,  Sir  Thomas  is 
on  the  hills  all  day  ;  all  the  more  we  shall 
be  glad  to  see  him  —  I  mean  you  both  — 
if  you  will  take  pity  on  our  loneliness. 
Now,  Julia,  we  really  must  not  wait  any 
longer.'* 

"Tell  Walter  I  shall  look  for  him,** said 
Julia,  kissing  her  hand  as  they  drove 
away.  Underwood  stood  and  looked  after 
the  carriage  with  varied  emotions.  As 
against  Katie  Williamson,  he  was  over- 
joyed to  have  such  an  auxiliary  —  a  girl 
who  would  not  stand  upon  any  punctilio 
—  who  would  pursue  her  object  with  any 
assistance  she  could  pick  up,  and  would 
not  be  above  an  alliance  defensive  or  of- 
fensive, a  girl  who  knew  the  advantage  of 
an  influential  friend.  So  far  as  that  went 
he  was  glad ;  but,  heavens  !  what  a  neigh- 
borhood, bristling  with  women ;  a  girl  at 
every  corner  ready  to  decoy  his  prey  out 
of  his  hands.  He  was  rueful,  even  though 
he  was  in  a  measure  satisfied.  If  he  could 
play  his  cards  sufficiently  well  to  detach 
Walter  from  both  one  and  the  other,  to 
show  the  bondage  which  was  veiled  under 
Julia's  smiles  and  complacency,  as  well  as 
under  Katie's  uncompromising  code,  and 
to  carry  him  off  under  their  very  eyes, 
that  would  indeed  be  a  triumph  ;  but  fail- 
ing that,  it  was  better  for  him  to  make  an 
ally  of  Julia,  and  push  her  cause,  than  to 
suffer  himself  to  be  ousted  by  the  other, 
the  little  parvenue,  with  her  cool  imperti- 
nence, who  had  been  the  first,  he  thought, 
to  set  Walter  against  him. 

He  walked  back  to  Auchnasheen,  full 
of  these  thoughts,  and  of  plans  to  recover 
his  old  ascendency.  He  had  expedients 
for  doing  this  which  would  not  bear  re- 
cording, and  a  hundred  hopes  of  awaken- 
ing the  passions,  the  jealousies,  the  vanity 
of  the  young  man  whom  already  he  had 
been  able  to  sway  beyond  his  expectations. 
He  believed  that  he  had  led  Walter  by 
the  nose,  as  he  said,  and  had  a  mastery 
over  him  which  would  be  easily  recovered 
if  he  but  got  him  for  a  day  or  two  to  him- 
self. It  was  a  matter  of  fact  that  he  had 
done  him  much,  if  not  fatal  harm;  and  if 
the  captain  had  been  clever  enough  to 
know  that  he  had  no  mastery  whatever 
over  his  victim,  and  that  Walter  was  the 
slave  of  his  own  shifting  and  uneasy 
moods,  of  his  indolences  and  sudden  im- 
pulses, and  impatient  abandonment  of 
himself  to  the  moment,  but  not  of  Captain 
Underwood,  that  tempter  might  have  done 
him  still  more  barm.    But  he  did  not  pos- 


338 

sess  this  fiDer  perception,  and  thus  lost  a 
portion  of  his  power. 

He  went  back  to  Auchnasheen  to  find 
a  comfortable  dinner,  a  good  fire,  a  cheer- 
ful room,  full  of  light  and  comfort,  which 
reminded  him  of  '*old  days,*'  which  he 
gave  a  regretful  yet  comfortable  thought 
to  in  passing  —  the  time  when  he  had 
waited,  not  knowing  what  moment  the  old 
lord,  his  former  patron,  should  return 
from  Kinloch-houran.  And  now  he  was 
waiting  for  the  other  —  who  was  so  unlike 
the  old  lord  —  and  yet  had  already  been 
of  more  use  to  Underwood,  and  served 
him  better  in  his  own  way,  than  the  old 
lord  had  ever  done.  He  was  somewhat 
attendri^  even  perhaps  a  little  maudlin  in 
his  thoughts  of  Walter  as  he  sat  over  that 
comfortable  fire.  What  was  he  about, 
poor  boy?  Not  so  comfortable  as  his 
friend  and  retainer,  drinking  his  wine  and 
thinking  of  him.  But  he  should  find  some 
one  to  welcome  him  when  he  returned. 
He  should  find  a  comfortable  meal  and 
good  company,  which  was  more  than  the 
foolish  fellow  would  expect.  It  was  fool- 
ish of  him,  in  his  temper,  to  dart  away 
from  those  who  really  cared  for  him,  who 
really  could  be  of  use  to  him  ;  but  by  this 
time  the  young  lord  would  be  too  glad, 
after  his  loneliness,  to  come  back  and  find 
a  faithful  friend  ready  to  make  allowances 
for  him,  and  so  well  acquainted  with  his 
circumstances  here. 

So  well  acouainted  with  his  circum- 
stances! Uncferwood,  in  his  time,  had 
no  doubt  wondered  over  these  as  much  as 
any  one ;  but  that  was  long  ago,  and  he 
had,  in  the  mean. time,  become  quite  fa- 
miliar with  them,  and  did  not  any  longer 
speculate  on  the  subject.  He  had  no 
supernatural  curiosity  for  his  part.  He 
could  understand  that  one  would  not  like 
to  see  a  ghost :  and  he  believed  in  ghosts 
—  in  a  fine,  healthy,  vulgar,  natural  appa- 
rition, with  dragging  chains  and  hollow 
groans.  But  as  for  anything  else,  he  had 
never  entered  into  the  question,  nor  had 
he  any  thought  of  doing  so  now.  How- 
ever, as  he  sat  by  the  fire  with  all  these 
comfortable  accessories  round  him,  and 
listened  now  and  then  to  hear  if  any  one 
was  coming,  and  sometimes  was  deceived 
bv  the  wind  in  the  chimneys,  or  the  sound 
of  the  trees  in  the  fresh  breeze  which  had 
become  keener  and  sharper  since  he  came 
indoors,  it  happened,  how  he  could  not 
tell,  that  questions  arose  in  the  captain^s 
mind  such  as  he  had  never  known  be- 
fore. 

The  house  was  very  still,  the  servants' 
apartments  were  at  a  considerable  dis- 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


tance  from  the  sitting-rooms,  and  all  was 
quiet  Two  or  three  times  in  the  course 
of  the  evening,  old  Symington,  who  had 
also  come  to  see  that  everything  was  in 
order  for  his  master,  walked  all  the  way 
from  these  retired  regions  through  a  long 
passage  running  from  one  end  of  the 
house  to  the  other,  to  the  great  door, 
which  he  opened  cautiously,  then  shut 
again,  finding  nobody  in  sight,  and  retired 
the  same  way  as  he  came,  his  shoes 
creaking  all  the  way.  This  interruption 
occurring  at  intervals  had  a  remarkable 
e£Eect  upon  Underwood.  He  began  to 
wait  for  its  recurrence,  to  count  the  steps, 
to  feel  a  thrill  of  alarm  as  they  passed  the 
door  of  the  room  in  which  he  was  sitting. 
Oh,  yes,  no  doubt  it  was  Symington,  who 
always  wore  creaking  shoes,  confound 
him !  But  what  if  it  were  not  Symington  ? 
What  if  it  might  be  some  one  else,  some 
mysterious  being  who  might  suddenly 
open  the  door,  and  freeze  into  stone  the 
warm,  palpitating,  somewhat  unsteady 
person  of  a  man  who  had  eaten  a  very 
good  dinner  and  drunk  a  considerable 
quantity  of  wine  ?  This  thought  so  pene- 
trated his  mind,  that  gradually  all  his 
thoughts  were  concentrated  on  the  old 
servant's  perambulation,  watching  for  it 
before  it  came,  thinking  of  it  after  it  had 
passed.  The  steady  and  solemn  march  at 
intervals,  which  seemed  calculated  and 
regular,  was  enough  to  have  impressed 
the  imagination  of  any  solitary  person. 
And  the  captain  was  of  a  primitive  sim- 
plicity of  mind  in  some  respects.  His 
fears  paralyzed  him;  he  was  afraid  to  get 
up,  to  open  the  door,  to  make  sure  what  it 
was.  How  could  he  tell  that  he  might  not 
be  seized  by  the  hair  of  the  head  by  some 
ghastly  apparition,  and  dragged  into  a 
chamber  of  horrors  I  He  tried  to  fortify 
himself  with  more  wine,  but  that  only 
made  his  tremor  worse.  Finally  the  panic 
came  to  a  crisis,  when  Symington,  paus- 
ing, knocked  at  the  library  door.  Under- 
wood remembered  to  have  heard  that  no 
spirit  could  enter  without  invitation,  and 
he  shut  his  mouth  firmly  that  no  habitual 
**come  in  "  might  lay  him  open  to  the  as- 
sault of  the  enemy.  He  sat  breathless 
through  the  ensuing  moment  of  suspense, 
while  Symington  waited  outside.  The 
captain's  hair  stood  up  on  his  head;  his 
face  was  covered  with  a  profuse  dew;  he 
held  by  the  table  in  an  agony  of  appre- 
hension when  he  saw  the  door  begin  to 
turn  slowly  upon  its  hinges. 

"My  lord  will  not  be  home  the  night," 
said  Symington  slowly. 
I     The  sight  of  the  old  servant  scarcely 


THE  WIZARD  S  SON. 


339 


?uieted  the  perturbation  of  Underwood, 
t  had  been  a  terrible  day  for  Symington. 
He  was  ashy  pale  or  grey,  as  old  men  be- 
come when  the  blood  is  driven  from  their 
faces.  He  had  not  been  able  to  get  rid 
of  the  scared  and  terror-stricken  sensa- 
tion with  which  he  had  watched  the  Birk- 
enbraes  party  climbing  the  old  stairs, 
and  wandering  as  he  thought  at  the  peril 
of  their  lives  upon  the  unsafe  battlements. 
He  had  been  almost  violent  in  his  calls  to 
them  to  come  down ;  but  nobody  had 
taken  any  notice,  and  they  had  talked 
about  their  guide  and  about  the  gentle- 
man who  was  living  with  Lord  Erradeen, 
till  it  seemed  to  Symington  that  he  must 
go  distracted.  **  Were  there  ever  such 
fools  —  such  idiots  1  since  there  is  no- 
body staying' with  Lord  Erradeen  but  me, 
his  body-servant,"  the  old  man  had  said 
tremulously  to  himself.  At  Symington's 
voice  thecaptain  gave  a  start  and  a  cry. 
Even  in  the  relief  of  discovering  who  it 
was,  he  could  not  quiet  the  excitement  of 
his  nerves. 

"It's  you,  old  Truepenny,"  he  cried, 
yet  looked  at  him  across  the  table  with  a 
tremor,  and  a  very  forced  and  uncomfort- 
able smile. 

"That's  not  my  name,"  said  Syming- 
ton, with,  on  his  side,  the  irritation  of  a 
disturbed  mind.  **  Tm  saving  that  it's 
getting  late,  and  my  lord  will  no  be  home 
to-night." 

"  By  Jove  ! "  cried  Captain  Underwood, 
"  when  1  heard  you  passing  from  one  end 
of  the  house  to  the  other,  I  thought  it 
might  be  —  the  old  fellow  over  there,  com- 
ing himself  '* 

"  I  cannot  tell,  sir,  what  you  are  mean- 
ing by  the  old  fellow  over  there.  There's 
no  old  fellow  I  know  of  but  old  Macal- 
ister;  and  it  was  not  for  him  you  took 
me." 

"If  you  could  have  heard  how  your 
steps  sounded  through  the  house !  By 
Jove  !  I  could  fancy  1  hear  them  now." 

"Where?"  Symington  cried,  coming 
in  and  shutting  the  door,  which  lie  held 
with  his  hand  behind  him,  as  if  to  bar  all 
possible  comers.  And  then  the  two  men 
looked  at  each  other,  both  breathless  and 
pale. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Underwood.  "  The 
house  feels  chilly  and  dreary,  nobody  liv- 
ing in  it  for  so  long.  Have  a  glass  of 
wine.  One  wants  company  in  a  damp, 
dreary  old  hole  like  this." 

**  You  are  very  kind,  captain,"  said  the 
old  man  ;  "  but  Auchnasheen,  though 
only  my  lord's  shooting-box,  is  a  modern 
mansion,  and  full  of  every  convenience. 


It  would  ill  become  me  to  raise  an  ill 
name  on  it." 

"  I  wonder  what  Erradeen's  about," 
said  the  captain.  "  I  bet  he's  worse  off 
than  we  are.  How  he  must  wish  he  was 
off  with  me  on  the  other  side  of  the  Chan- 
nel I " 

"Captain  1  you  will,  maybe,  think  little 
of  me,  being  nothing  but  a  servant ;  but  it 
is  little  good  you  do  my  young  lord  on  the 
ither  side  of  the  Channel." 

Underwood  laughed,  but  not  with  his 
usual  vigor. 

"  What  can  I  do  with  your  young 
lord?"  he  said.  "He  takes  the  bit  in 
his  teeth,  and  goes—- to  the  devil  his  own 
way." 

"  Captain,  there  are  some  that  think  the 
like  of  you  sore  to  blame." 

Underwood  said  nothing  for  a  moment. 
When  he  spoke  there  was  a  quiver  in  his 
voice. 

"  Let  roe  see  the  way  to  my  room,  Sym- 
ington. Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  it  is  the  old 
room;  but  I've  forgotten.  I  was  there 
before  ?  well,  so  I  suppose ;  but  I  have 
forgotten.  Take  the  candle,  as  I  tell  you, 
and  show  me  the  way." 

He  had  not  the  least  idea  what  he 
feared,  and  he  did  not  remember  ever 
having  feared  anything  before;  but  to- 
night he  clung  close  to  Symington,  fol- 
lowing at  his  very  heels.  The  old  man 
was  anxious  and  alarmed,  but  not  in  this 
ignoble  way.  He  deposited  the  captain 
in  his  room  with  composure,  who  would 
but  for  very  shame  have  implored  him  to 
stay.  And  then  his  footsteps  sounded 
through  the  vacant  house,  going  further 
and  further  off  till  they  died  away  in  the 
distance.  Captain  Underwood  locked  his 
door,  though  he  felt  it  was  a  vain  precau- 
tion, and  hastened  to  hide  his  head  under 
the  bedclothes;  but  he  was  well  aware 
that  this  was  a  vain  precaution  too. 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  day  after 
Captain  Underwood's  arrival  that  Lord 
Erradeen  left  Kinloch-houran  for  Auch- 
nasheen. After  labor,  rest.  He  could 
not  but  compare  as  he  walked  along  in 
the  early  falling  autumnal  twilight  the 
difference  between  himself  now,  and  the 
same  self  a  year  ago,  when  he  had  fled 
from  the  place  of  torture  to  the  house  of 
peace,  a  man  nearly  frantic  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  all  the  new  bonds  upon 
him,  the  uncomprehended  powers  against 
which  he  had  to  struggle,  the  sense  of 
panic  and  impotence,  yet  of  mad  excite- 
ment and  resistance,  with  which  his  brain 


340 


THE  WIZARDS  SOX. 


en  ikume^    Tbe  recnCecnoa  of  the 
ensain^  lime  spent  3Lt  Aachcustieeo^  vhea 
he  saw  ooooe,  heard  no  Toioe  but  h.s 
own,  yet  i:>ed  throui^h  daj  afrer  da^  ot 
bewii/ierio^  mental  coii:!i<x  w:*jiout  Icnow- 
snx  who  ic   was  a^cist  whom  he  omi- 
tended,  was  bamcd  ia  apoa  h'S  reco* sec- 
tion.    Ail  ::irr>u«jn  that  ntie  he  had  been 
consdoos  ot  s'jc^i  a  desire  to  fi*e  as  h'lr- 
red  the  pace  of  his  thoas^^irs,  and  made 
the  in'oicrable  sti.i  more  inro'entie.    H»$ 
heart  had  sicicened  of  the  aabeankjlefcjnt 
intowSich  ne  was  compelled  ri&e  an  an- 
wii.in^  soldier  with  deatn  beSind  h:m-   To 
re^rst  had  always  been  Walter's  natural 
imDuIse;  hot  the  impotse  of  fi:?ht  had  so 
min^.ed  with  it  that  his  soai  had  been  in 
a  itrtr,  coantiag  no  passage  of  days,  bat 
feeling  Che  whole  period  lon^  or  short,  he 
did  not  know  which,  as  one  moostroos  an- 
interrupted  day  or  ni;;ht»  in  which  the  proc- 
esses of  thought  were  nerer  intermitted. 
His  mind  was  in  a  very  different  condi- 
tion  now.     He  had  got  orer  the  early . 
panic  of  nature.    The  blinding  mists  oi 
terror  bad  melted  away  from  his  eyes,  and 
the  novelty  and   horror  of  his   position,  [ 
contending  with  nnseen  dominations  and  , 
powers,  had  been  so  ranch  softened  by 
custom    and     familiarity    that     he    now . 
scarcely  felt  its  peculiarity  at  all,  except 
in  a  certain  sense  of  contempt,  and  that 
subtle  consciousness  of  superiority  which 
the  more  enlightened  in  every  sphere  can 
with  difficulty  subdue,  towards  those  who 
felt,  as  he  had  once  felt,  panic-stricken, , 
and  overwhelmed  with  natural  fear.     His 
contempt  for  the  two  old  servants  of  the 
house,  who  recognized  with  a  tremor  of 
all  their  senses  the  presence  of  some  one 
whom  they  could  not  see,  had  a  certain 
compassion  and  kindness  mingled  with 
it;  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  describe 
the  sensation  of  profound  distance  and 
difference  between  himself,  informed  and 
enlightened  as  he  now  was,  and  those  cu- 
rious and  wondering  spectators  who  saw 
his  visitor,  and  crowded  round  to  gaze  at 
him,  yet  had  nothing  but  a  faint  thrill  of 
alarm  in  them  to  indicate  who  and  what 
he    was.    That    strange    visitor   smiled, 
with  an  almost  humorous  recognition  of 
this  obtuseness,  but  Walter  felt  a  certain 
anger  with  the  fools  who  had  no  clearer 
perception.     All  this,  however,  was  over 
now,  and  he  walked  round  the  head  of 
the  loch  towards  Auchnasheen  with  a  con- 
scious pause  of  all  sensation  which  was 
due  to  the  exhaustion  of  his  mind.    The 
loch  was  veiled  in  mist,  through  which  it 
glimmered  faintly  with  broken  reflections, 
the  wooded  banks  presenting  on  every 


Side  a  sort  of  gbcstlj  oocSae,  with  the 
cxMor  ao  more  than  mrfrcatrd  a^inst  the 
dreary  coat*jsioa  of  air  and  Tapor.  At 
some  poi33  tnere  was  the  glimpse  of  a 
■Diarred  I^-xhc,  iookio^  larger  and  more 
distant  than  ;t  really  was,  the  ruddy  spot 
made  by  the  opes  door  ci  the  little  inn, 
tne  wh  ter  and  smaller  twinkle  of  the 
nanse  window,  the  fcar-oS  point,  looking 
no  Bore  than  a  taper  light  in  the  dis- 
rancr,  that  snooe  frooi  the  isle.  There 
was  in  Walter's  mi  ad  a  darkness  and 
coafos'oa  noC  nnliiLe  the  landscape.  He 
was  worn  oot:  tnere  was  in  him  none  of 
that  TTT:d  feelrns  wh'ch  had  separated  be- 
tween his  human  soul  in  its  despair  and 
the  keen  sweetness  of  the  morning.  Now 
all  was  n:  ▼hr  wrthin  him  and  around.  His 
arms  had  fallen  from  his  hands.  He 
moved  alon?.  scarcely  aware  that  he  was 
moring,  feeiia^  everything  blurred,  coo- 
fused,  iodist'oct  in  the  earth  about  him 
and  in  the  secret  places  of  his  soul.  De- 
sire for  flight  he  bad  none;  he  had  come 
to  see  thaf  it  was  impossible  :  and  be  had 
not  energy  enough  to  wish  it.  And  fear 
had  died  out  of  him.  He  was  not  afraid. 
Had  he  been  joined  on  the  darkling  way 
by  the  personage  of  whom  he  had  of  late 
seen  so  much,  it  would  scarcely  have 
quickened  his  pulses.  All  such  superfi- 
cial emotion  bad  died  out  of  him :  the  real 
Question  was  so  much  superior,  so  in- 
nitely  important  in  comparison  with  any 
such  transitory  tremors  as  these.  But  at 
the  present  moment  be  was  not  thinking 
at  all,  scarcely  living,  any  more  than  the 
world  around  him  was  living,  hushed  into 
a  cessation  of  all  energy  and  almost  of 
consciousness,  looking  forward  to  night 
and  darkness  and  repose. 

It  was  somewhat  surprising  to  him  to 
see  the  lighted  windows  at  Auchnasheen, 
and  the  air  of  inhabitation  about  the 
house  with  which  he  had  no  agreeable 
associations,  but  only  those  which  are  apt 
to  hang  about  a  place  in  which  one  has 
gone  through  a  fever,  full  of  miserable 
visions,  and  the  burning  restlessness  of 
disease.  But  when  he  stepped  into  the 
hall,  the  door  being  opened  to  him  by 
Symington  as  soon  as  his  foot  was  heard 
on  the  gravel,  and  turning  round  to  go 
into  the  librarv,  after  taking  off  his  coat, 
found  himself  suddenly  in  the  presence 
of  Captain  Underwood,  his  astonishment 
and  dismay  were  beyond  expression.  The 
dismay  came  even  before  the  flush  of  an- 
ger, which  was  the  first  emotion  that 
showed  itself.  Underwood  stood  holdinj; 
open  the  library  door,  with  a  smile  th.at 
was  meant  to  be  ingratiating  and  concilia- 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


341 


tory.  He  held  out  his  hand,  as  Walter, 
with  a  start  and  exclamation,  recognized 
him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "  Tra  here,  you  see. 
Not  so  easy  to  get  rid  of  when  once  1 
form  a  friendship.  Welcome  to  your  own 
bouse,  Erradeen.*' 

Walter  did  not  say  anything  till  he  had 
entered  the  room  ana  shut  the  door.  He 
walked  to  the  fire,  which  was  blazing 
brightly,  and  placed  himself  with  his  back 
to  it,  in  that  attitude  in  which  the  master 
of  a  house  defies  all  comers. 

**  I  did  not  expect  to  find  you  here,"  he 
said.  **You  take  me  entirely  by  sur- 
prise." 

**  I  had  hoped  it  would  be  an  agreeable 
surprise,"  said  the  captain,  still  with  his 
most  amiable  smile.  '*  I  thought  to  have 
a  friend's  face  waiting  for  you  when  you 
came  back  from  that  confounded  place 
would  be  a  relief." 

**  What  do  you  call  a  confounded 
place  ?  "  said  Walter  testily.  "  You  know 
nothing  about  it,  as  far  as  I  am  aware. 
No,  Underwood,  it  is  as  well  to  speak 
plainly.  It  is  not  an  agreeable  surprise. 
I  am  sorry  you  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
come  so  far  for  me." 

'*  It  was  no  trouble.  If  you  are  a  little 
out  of  sorts,  never  mind.  I  am  not  a 
man  to  be  discouraged  for  a  hasty  word. 
You  want  a  little  cheerful  society  " 

"  Is  that  what  you  call  yourself? "  Wal- 
ter said  with  a  harsh  laugh.  He  was 
aware  that  there  was  a  certain  brutality  in 
what  he  said;  but  the  sudden  sight  of  the 
man  who  had  disgusted  him  even  while 
he  had  most  influenced  him,  and  of  whom 
be  had  never  thought  but  with  a  move- 
ment of  resentment  and  secret  rage,  af- 
fected him  to  a  sort  of  delirium.  He 
could  have  seized  him  with  the  force  of 
passion  and  flung  him  into  the  loch  at  the 
door.  It  would  have  been  no  crime,  he 
thought,  to  destroy  such  vermin  off  the 
face  of  the  earth  —  to  make  an  end  of 
such  a  source  of  evil  woufd  be  no  crime. 
This  was  the  thought  in  his  mind  while 
he  stood  upon  his  own  hearth,  looking  at 
the  man  who  was  his  guest  and  therefore 
sacred.  As  for  Captain  Underwood,  he 
took  no  offence  ;  it  was  not  in  his  r6le  to 
do  so,  whatever  happened.  What  he  had 
to  do  was  to  regain,  if  possible,  his  posi- 
tion with  the  young  man  upon  whom  he 
had  lived  and  enriched  himself  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  year,  to  render  himself 
indispensable  to  him  as  he  had  done  to 
his  predecessor.  For  this  object  he  was 
prepared  to  bear  everything,  and  laugh  at 
all  that  was  too  strong  to  be  ignored.    He 


laughed  now,  and  did  his  best,  not  very 
gracefully,  to  carry  out  the  joke.  He'ex- 
erted  himself  to  talk  and  please  through- 
out the  dinner,  which  Walter  went  through 
in  silence,  drinking  largely,  though  scarce- 
ly eating  at  all  — for  Kinloch-houran  was 
not  a  place  which  encouraged  an  appetite. 
After  dinner,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  Un- 
derwood's stories,  Walter  lighted  a  candle 
abruptly,  and,isaying  he  was  going  to  bed, 
left  his  companion  without  apologizing  or 
reason  given.  It  was  impossible  to  be 
more  rude.  The  captain  felt  the  check, 
for  he  had  a  considerable  development  of 
vanity,  and  was  in  the  habit  of 


amusing 


the  people  whom  he  chose  to  make  him- 
self  agreeable  to.  But  this  affront,  too, 
he  swallowed.  '*  He  will  have  to  come  to 
himself  by  morning,"  he  said.  In  the 
morning,  however,  Walter  was  only  more 
gloomy  and  unwilling  to  listen,  and  de- 
termined not  to  respond.  It  was  only 
when  in  the  middle  of  the  breakfast  h? 
received  a  note  brought  by  a  mounted 
messenger  who  waited  for  an  answer,  that 
he  spoke.  He  flung  it  open  across  the 
table  to  Underwood  with  a  harsh  laugh. 

•*  Is  this  your  doing,  too .? "  he  cried. 

"  My  doing,  Erradeen  1 " 

Underwood  knew  very  well  what  it  was 
before  he  looked  at  it.  It  was  from  Lady 
Herbert,  explaining  that  she  had  only  just 
heard  that  Lord  Erradeen  was  so  near  a 
neighbor,  and  begging  him,  if  he  was  not, 
like  all  the  other  gentlemen,  on  the  hills, 
that  he  would  come  ('*and  your  friend 
Captain  Underwood  ")  to  luncheon  that 
day  to  cheer  two  forlorn  ladies  left  all  by 
themselves  in  this  wilderness.  **  And  you 
will  meet  an  old  friend,"  it  concluded 
playfullv.  The  composition  was  Julia's, 
and  haa  not  been  produced  without  care- 
ful study. 

"  My  doing ! "  said  Captain  Underwood. 
"Can  you  suppose  that  /  want  you  to 
marry,  Erradeen  ?  " 

It  was  a  case,  he  thought,  in  which  truth 
was  best. 

Walter  started  up  from  his  seat. 

"  Marry ! "  he  cried,  with  a  half  shout 
of  rage  and  dismay. 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  I  don't  suppose 
vou  are  such  a  fool ;  but,  of  course,  that 
IS  what  she  means.    The  fair  Julia  — ^" 

"  Oblige  me,"  cried  Lord  Erradeen, 
taking  up  once  more  his  position  on  the 
hearth,  "by  speaking  civilly  when  you 
speak  of  ladies  in  my  house." 

"  Why,  bless  me,  Erradeen,  you  gave 
me  the  note " 

"  I  was  a  fool  —  that  is  nothing  new.  I 
have  been  a  fool  since  the  first  day  when 


342 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


I  met  yoa  and  took  you  for  something 
more  than  mortal.  Oh,  and  before  that  I '' 
cried  Walter  bitterly.  **Do  not  flatter 
yourself  that  you  did  it.  It  is  of  older 
date  than  you.*' 

**  The  fair  Julia  "  —  Underwood  began  ; 
but  he  stopped  when  his  companion  ad- 
vanced upon  him  threatening,  with  so 
gloomy  a  look  and  so  tightly  strained  an 
arm  that  the  captain  judged  it  wise  to 
change  his  tone.  **  I  should  have  said, 
since  we  are  on  punctilio,  that  Miss  Her- 
bert and  you  are  older  acquaintances  than 
you  and  I,  Erradeen." 

•*  Fortunately  you  have  nothing  to  do 
with  that,"  Walter  said,  perceiving  the 
absurdity  of  bis  rage. 

Then  he  walked  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  so  long  and  silently  that  the 
anxious  watcher  began  to  think  the  inci- 
dent over.  But  it  was  not  till  Walter, 
after  this  period  of  reflection,  had  written 
a  note  and  sent  it  to  the  messenger,  that 
he  ventured  to  speak. 

*'  You  have  accepted,  of  course.  In  the 
circumstances  it  would  be  uncivil " 

Walter  looked  at  him  for  a  moment, 
breaking  ofiE  his  sentence  as  if  be  bad 
spoken. 

'*  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  he  said. 
'*  My  mother  is  coming  to  Auchnasheen." 

**Your  mother!"  Underwood's  voice 
ran  into  a  quaver  of  dismay. 

"  You  will  see  that  in  the  circumstances, 
as  you  say,  I  am  forced  to  be  uncivil. 
When  my  mother  is  here  she  will,  of 
course,  be  the  mistress  of  the  house ;  and 
she,  as  you  know " 

"  Will  not  ask  me  to  prolong  my  visit," 
said  the  captain,  with  an  attempt  at  rue- 
ful humor.  **  I  think  we  may  say  as  much 
as  that,  Erradeen." 

"  I  fear  it  is  not  likel}*,"  Walter  said. 

Captain  Underwood  gave  vent  to  bis 
feelings  in  a  prolonged  whistle. 

**You  will  be  bored  to  death.  Mark 
my  words,  I  know  you  well  enough.  You 
will  never  be  able  to  put  up  with  it.  You 
will  be  ready  to  hang  yourself  in  a  week. 
You  will  come  off  to  me.  It  is  the  best 
thing  that  could  happen  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned  —  wishing  to  preserve  3'our 
friendship  as  I  do " 

*'  Is  it  friendship,  then,  that  has  bound 
us  together  ?  "  said  Lord  Erradeen. 

**  What  else  ?  Disinterested  friendship 
on  my  part.  I  take  your  laugh  rather  ill, 
Erradeen.  What  have  I  gained  by  it,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?  IVe  liked  you,  and 
I  liked  the  last  roan  before  you.  I  have 
put  up  with  a  great  deal  from  you  —  tem- 
pers like  a  silly  woman,  vagaries  of  all 


sorts,  discontent  and  abuse.    Why  have 
I  put  up  with  all  that?" 

"  Why  indeed  ?  I  wish  you  had  not," 
said  the  young  man  scornfully.  "Yes, 
you  have  put  up  with  it,  and  made  your 
pupil  think  the  worse  of  you  with  every 
fresh  exercise  of  patience.  I  should  like 
to  pay  you  for  all  that  dirty  work." 

"  Pay  me  1 "  the  captain  said,  faltering 
a  little.  He  was  not  a  very  brave  man, 
though  he  could  hold  his  own ;  and  there 
was  a  force  of  passion  and  youth  in  his 
"  pupil  "  —  with  what  bitterness  that  word 
was  said!  —  that  alarmed  him  a  little. 
Besides,  Walter  had  a  household  of  ser- 
vants behind  him  —  grooms,  keepers,  all 
sorts  of  people  —  who  held  Captain  Un- 
derwood in  no  favor.  **  Pay  me  !  I  don't 
know  how  you  could  pay  me,"  he  said. 

*'  I  should  like  to  do  it  —  in  one  way; 
and  I  shall  do  it  —  in  another,"  said  Wal- 
ter still  somewhat  fiercely.  Then  once 
more  he  laughed.  He  took  out  a  pocket- 
book  from  his  coat,  and  out  of  that  a 
cheque.  **  You  have  been  at  some  ex- 
pense on  my  account,"  he  said;  "your 
journey  has  been  long  and  rapid.  I  con- 
sider myself  your  debtor  for  that,  and 
for  the  —  good  intention.  Will  this' be 
enough  ?  " 

In  the  bitter  force  of  his  ridicule  and 
dislike,  Walter  held  out  the  piece  of  pa- 
per as  one  holds  a  sweetmeat  to  a  child. 
The  other  gave  a  succession  of  rapid 
glances  at  it  to  make  out  what  it  was. 
When  he  succeeded  in  doing  so  a  flush  of 
excitement  and  eagerness  covered  his 
face.  He  put  out  his  hand  nervously  to 
clutch  it  with  the  excited  look  of  the  child 
before  whom  a  prize  is  held  out,  and  who 
catches  at  it  before  it  is  snatched  away. 
But  he  would  not  acknowledge  this  feel- 
ing. 

**  My  lord,"  he  said,  with  an  appearance 
of  dignity  offended,  "you  are  generous  ; 
but  to  pay  me,  as  you  say,  and  offer  moAey 
in  place  of  your  friendships^" 

"It  is  an  excellent  exchange.  Under- 
wood. This  is  worth  something,  if  not 
very  much  —  the  other,"  said  Walter  with 
a  laugh,  "  nothing  at  all." 

Perhaps  this  was  something  like  what 
Captain  Underwood  himself  thought,  as 
he  found  himself,  a  few  hours  later,  driv- 
ing along  the  country  roads  towards  the 
railway  station,  retracing  the  path  which 
he  had  travelled  two  days  before  with 
many  hopes  and  yet  a  tremor.  His  hopes 
were  now  over,  and  the  tremor  too ;  but 
there  was  something  in  his  breast  pocket 
better,  for  the  moment  at  least,  than  any 
hopes,  which  kept  him  warm,  even  though 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


343 


the  wind  was  cold.  He  had  failed  in  his 
attempt  to  fix  himself  once  more  perma- 
nently on  Lord  Erradeen's  shoulders  — 
an  attempt  in  which  he  had  not  been  very 
sangaine.  It  was  a  desperate  venture,  he 
knew,  and  it  had  failed ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  circumstances  mi^ht  arise  which 
would  justify  another  attempt,  and  that 
one  might  not  fail :  and,  in  the  mean  time, 
his  heart  rose  with  a  certain  elation  when 
he  thought  of  that  signature  in  his  breast 
pocket.  That  was  worth  an  efiEort,  and 
nothing  could  diminish  its  value.  Friend- 
.ship  might  fail,  but  a  cheque  is  substan- 
tial. He  had  something  of  the  dizzy  feel- 
ing of  one  who  has  fallen  from  a  great 
height,  and  has  not  yet  got  the  giddiness 
of  the  movement  out  of  his  head.  And 
yet  he  was  not  altogether  discouraged. 
Who  could  tell  what  turn  the  wheel  of 
fortune  might  take?  and,  in  the  mean 
time,  there  was  that  bit  of  paper.  The 
horse  was  fresh,  and  flew  along  the  road, 
up  and  down,  at  a  pace  very  different  from 
that  of  big  John's  steeds,  which  had 
brought  Captain  Underwood  to  Auchna- 
sheen.  About  half-way  along  he  came 
up  to  th*e  wagonette  from  Birkenbraes, 
in  which  was  Mr.  Braithwaite  and  his 
luggage,  along  with  two  other  guests,  la- 
dies, bound  for  the  station,  and  escorted 
by  Mr.  Williamson  and  Katie,  as  was 
their  way. 

"  Dear  me,  is  that  Underwood  ?  "  cried 
Mr.  Williamson  with  the  lively  and  simple 
curiosity  of  rural  use  and  wont.  **So 
youVe  there,  captain,"  he  said,  as  the 
dog-cart  came  up  behind  the  heavier  car- 
riage. 

"No,  Tm  not  here  —  I'm  going,"  said 
Underwood  quickly,  "hurrying  to  catch 
the  train." 

"Oh,  there  is  plenty  of  time;  we  are 
going  too.  (Bless  me,"  he  said  aside, 
"how  many  visitors  think  you  they  can 
have  had  in  yon  old  place  ?)  I  am  think- 
ing ye  have  been  with  our  young  neigh- 
bor,'Lord  Erradeen." 

"  That  is  an  easy  guess.  I  am  leaving 
him,  you  mean.  Erradeen  is  a  reformed 
character.  He  is  turning  over  a  new  leaf 
—  and  full  time  too,"  Captain  Underwood 
cried,  raising  his  voice  that  he  might  be 
heard  over  the  rattle  of  the  two  carriages. 
Notwithstanding  the  cheque  which  kept 
him  so  warm,  he  had  various  grudges 
against  Walter,  and  did  not  choose  to 
lose  the  opportunity  for  making  a  little 
mischief. 

"  It  is  always  a  good  thing,"  said  Mr. 
Williamson,  "to  turn  over  a  new  leaf. 
We  have  all  great  occasion  to  do  that" 


"  Especially  when  there  are  so  many  of 
them,"  the  captain  cried,  as  his  light  cart 
passed  the  other.  He  met  the  party  again 
at  the  station,  where  they  had  to  wait  for 
the  train.  Katie  stood  by  herself  in  a 
thoughtful  mood  while  the  departing 
guests  consulted  over  their  several  boxes, 
and  Captain  Underwood  seized  the  mo- 
ment :  "  I  am  sorry  to  lose  the  fun,"  he 
said,  in  a  confidential  tone,  "  but  I  must 
tell  you.  Miss  Williamson,  what  is  going 
to  happen.  Erradeen  has  been  pursued 
up  here  into  his  stronghold  by  one  of  the 
many  ladies  —  I  expect  to  hear  she  has 
clutched  hold  of  him  before  long,  and 
then  you'll  have  a  wedding." 

"  Is  that  why  you  are  going  away.  Cap- 
tain Underwood?" 

"  He  has  gone  a  little  too  far,  you  know, 
that  is  the  truth,"  said  the  captain.  "I 
am  glad  he  is  not  going  to  take  in  any 
nice  girl.  I  couldn't  have  stood  by  and 
seen  that.  I  should  have  had  to  warn  her 
people.  Even  Miss  Julia,  by  Jove!  I'm 
sorry  for  Miss  Julia,  if  she  gets  him. 
Blit  she  is  an  old  campaigner;  she  will 
know  how  to  take  care  of  herself." 

"  Is  it  because  Lord  Erradeen  is  so  bad 
that  you  are  leaving  him,  or  because  he  is 
going  to  be  good?"  Katie  asked.  Cap- 
tain Underwood  on  ordinary  occasions 
was  a  little  afraid  of  her;  but  his  virtu- 
ous object  fortified  him  now. 

"Oh,  by  Jove!  he  goes  too  far,"  said 
Underwood.  "  I  am  not  squeamish, 
heaven  knows,  but  he  goes  too  far.  I  can 
speak  now  that  it*s  all  over  between  him 
and  me.  I  never  could  bear  to  see  him 
with  nice  girls;  but  he's  got  his  match  in 
Miss  Julia.  The  fair  Juna  —  that  is  an- 
other pair  of  shoes." 

"  Who  was  he  meaning  with  his  fair 
Julias?"  said  Mr.  Williamson  as  they 
drove  away.  "  Yon's  a  scoundrel,  if  there 
ever  was  one,  and  young  Erradeen  is  well 
rid  of  him.  But  when  thieves  cast  out, 
honest  folk  get  their  ain.  Would  yon  be 
true  ?  " 

Katie  was  in  what  her  father  called  "a 
brown  study,"  and  did  not  care  to  talk. 
She  only  shook  her  head  —  a  gesture 
which  could  be  interpreted  as  any  one 
pleased. 

"  1  am  not  sure,"  said  Mr.  Williamson, 
in  reply.  "  He  knows  more  about  Lord 
Erradeen  than  any  person  on  the  loch. 
But  who  is  the  fair  Julia,  and  is  he  really 
to  be  married  to  her?  I  would  like  fine 
to  hear  all  about  it.  I  will  call  at  Auch- 
nasheen  in  the  afternoon  and  see  what  he 
has  to  say." 

But  Katie  remained  in  her  brown  study, 


344 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


*i 


letting  her  father  talk.  She  knew  very 
well  who  the  fair  Julia  was.  She  remem- 
bered distinctly  the  scene  at  Burlington 
House.  She  saw  with  the  clearest  per- 
ception what  the  tactics  were  of  the  ladies 
at  the  Lodge.  Katie  had  been  somewhat 
excited  by  the  prospect  of  being  Oona's 
rival,  which  was  like  something  in  a  book. 
It  was  like  the  universal  story  of  the 
young  man's  choice,  not  between  Venus 
and  Minerva,  or  between  good  and  evil, 
but  perhaps,  Katie  thought,  between 
poetry  and  prose,  between  the  ideal  and 
the  practical.  She  was  interested  in  that 
conflict,  and  not  unwilling  in  all  kindness 
and  honor  to  play  her  part  in  it.  Oona 
would  be  the  ideal  bride  for  him,  but  she 
herself,  Katie  felt,  would  be  better  in  a 
great  many  ways,  and  she  did  not  feel 
that  she  woulcf  have  any  objection  to 
marry  Lord  Erradeen.  But  here  was  an- 
other rival  with  whom  she  did  not  choose 
to  enter  the  lists.  It  is  to  be  feared  that 
Katie  in  her  heart  classified  Miss  Herbert 
as  Vice,  as  the  sinner  against  whom  everv 
man  is  to  be  warned,  and  turned  wiMi 
some  scorn  from  any  comparison  with  her 
meretricious  attractions.  But  she  was 
fair  and  just,  and  her  heart  had  nothing 
particular  to  do  with  the  matter;  so  that 
she  was  able  calmly  to  wait  for  informa- 
tion, which  was  not  Oona's  case. 

It  had  been  entirely  at  random  that 
Lord  Erradeen  had  announced  his  moth- 
er's approaching  arrival  to  Underwood. 
The  idea  had  come  into  his  mind  the  mo- 
ment before  he  made  use  of  it,  and  he 
had  felt  a  certain  amusement  in  the  com- 
plete success  of  this  hastily  assumed 
weapon.  It  had  been  so  effectual  that  he 
began  to  think  it  might  be  available  in 
other  conflicts  as  well  as  this ;  and  in  any 
case  he  felt  himself  pledged  to  make  it  a 
matter  of  fact.  He  walked  to  the  village 
when  Underwood  had  gone,  to  carry  at 
once  his  intention  into  effect.  Though 
it  was  only  a  cluster  of  some  half-dozen 
houses,  it  had  a  telegraph-oflice  —  as  is 
so  general  in  the  Highlands  — and  Walter 
sent  a  brief,  emphatic  message,  which  he 
felt  would  carry  wild  excitement  into 
Sloebury.  "  You  will  do  me  a  great  favor 
if  you  will  come  at  once,  alone,*'  was  Wal- 
ter's message.  He  was  himself  slightly 
excited  by  it.  He  began  to  think  over  all 
those  primitive  relationships  of  his  youth 
as  he  walked  along  the  quiet  road.  There 
was  sweetness  in  them,  but  how  much 
conflict,  trouble,  embarrassment !  —  claims 
on  one  side  to  which  the  other  could  not 
respond  —  a  sort  of  authority,  which  was 
no  authority  —  a  duty  which  did  nothing 


but  establish  grievances  and  mutual  re* 
proach.  His  mind  was  still  in  the  state 
of  exhaustion  which  Captain  Underwood 
had  only  temporarily  disturbed ;  and  a 
certain  softening  was  in  the  weakened 
faculties,  which  were  worn  out  with  too 
much  conflict.  Poor  mother,  after  all  { 
He  could  remember,  looking  back,  whea 
it  was  his  s^reatest  pleasure  to  go  home  to 
her,  to  talk  to  her,  pouring  every  sort  of 
revelation  into  her  never-wearied  ears ;  all 
his  school  successes  and  tribulations,  all 
about  the  other  fellows,  the  injustices  that 
were  done,  the  triumphs  that  were  gained. 
Could  women  interest  themselves  in  all 
that  as  she  had  seemed  to  interest  herself? 
or  had  she  sometimes  found  it  a  bore  to 
have  all  these  schoolboy  experiences 
poured  forth  upon  her.^  Miss  Merivale 
had  very  plainly  thought  it  a  bore;  his 
voice  had  given  her  a  headache.  But 
Mrs.  Methven  never  had  any  headaches, 
nor  anything  that  could  cloud  her  atten- 
tion. He  remembered  now  that  his  moth- 
er was  not  a  mere  nursery  woman  —  that 
she  read  a  great  deal  more  than  he  him- 
.self  did,  knew  many  things  he  did  not 
know,  w*as  not  silly,  or  a  fool,  or  narrow- 
minded,  as  so  many  women  are.  Was  it 
not  a  little  hard,  after  all,  that  she  should 
have  nothing  of  her  son  but  the  schoolboy 
prattle  ?  She  had  been  everything  to  him 
when  he  was  a  boy,  and  now  she  was 
nothing  to  him;  perhaps  all  the  time  she 
might  have  been  looking  forward  to  the 
period  when  he  should  be  a  man,  and 
have  something  more  .interesting  to  talk 
over  with  her  than  a  cricket-match  — for, 
to  be  sure,  when  one  came  to  think  of  it, 
she  could  have  no  personal  interest  in  a 
cricket-match.  A  momentary  serrement 
of  compunction  came  to  Walter's  heart. 
Poor  mother!  he  said  to  himself;  perhaps 
it  was  a  little  hard  upon  her.  And  she 
must  have  the  feeling,  to  make  it  worse, 
that  she  had  a  right  to  something  better. 
He  could  not  even  now  get  his  mind  clear 
about  that  right. 

As  he  returned  from  the  telegraph-oflice 
he  too  met  the  wagonette  from  Birken- 
braes,  which  was  stopped  at  sight  of  him 
with  much  energy  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Wil- 
liamson. 

••  We've  just  met  your  friend  Captain 
Underwood.  If  you'll  not  take  it  amiss. 
Lord  Erradeen,  I  will  say  that  I'm  very 
glad  you're  not  keeping  a  man  like  that 
about  you.  But  what  is  this  about  —  a 
lady  ?  I  hear  there's  a  lady  —  the  fair  - 
What  did  he  call  her,  Katie  ?  I  am  not 
good  at  remembering  names." 

*Mt  is  of  no  consequence,"  said  Katie^ 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON. 


345 


with  a  little  rising  color,  '*what  such  a 
man  said.*' 

"  Thai's  true,  that's  true,"  said  her  fa- 
ther ;  '*  but  still,  Erradeen,  you  must  mind 
we  are  old  friends  now,  and  let  us  know 
what's  coming.    The  fair  Toots,  I 

thought  of  it  a  minute  ago!  It's  ridicu- 
lous to  forget  names." 

"  You  may  be  sure  I  shall  let  you  know 
what's  coming.  My  mother  is  coming," 
Walter  said. 

And  this  piece  of  news  was  so  unex* 
pected  and  startling  that  the  Williamsons 
drove  off  with  energy  to  spread  it  far  and 
near.  Mr.  Williamson  himself  was  as 
much  excited  as  if  it  had  been  of  personal 
importance  to  him. 

**  Now  that  will  settle  the  young  man," 
he  said ;  "that  will  put  many  things  right. 
There  has  not  been  a  lady  at  Auchna- 
sheen  since  ever  I  have  been  here.  A 
mother  is  the  next  best  thing  to  a  wife, 
and  very  likely  the  one  is  in  preparation 
for  the  other,  and  ye  will  all  have  to  put 
GO  your  prettiest  frocks  for  her  approval." 
He  followed  this  with  one  of  his  big 
laughs,  looking  round  upon  a  circle  in 
which  there  were  various  young  persons 
who  were  very  marriageable.  '*  But  I  put 
DO  faith  in  Underwood's  fair— what  was 
it  he  called  her?"  Mr.  Williamson  said. 


From  The  Contemporary  Review. 
SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 

Among  all  the  emblems  of  change  and 
reminders  of  mortality  with  which  the 
world  is  full,  there  are  few  perhaps  more 
pathetic  than  the  faded  flowers  of  ro- 
mance literature.  The  picture  which  has 
ceased  to  please  seems  still  to  preserve  a 
certain  life  of  its  own ;  and  the  death  of 
an  "acting"  play  is,  after  all,  only  like 
the  disappearance  of  the  companion  of  a 
few  amusing  or  exciting  hours.  Hut  the 
popular  novel  —  and  more  especially  the 
popular  novel  of  emotion  and  sentiment 
—  has  been  the  close,  the  constant,  the 
confidential  friend  of  so  many  readers ;  it 
has  awakened  so  many  imaginations,  en- 
grossed so  many  minds,  and  perhaps,  if  a 
work  of  real  genius,  entered  into  and 
afifected  so  many  intellectual  lives,  that 
there  is  something  peculiarly  strange  and 
sad  about  its  literary  death.  I  suppose 
that  there  are  few  real  lovers  of  literature 
who  cannot,  after  Jacques's  fashion, "  suck 
melancholy  "  of  this  sort  out  of  a  survey 
of  the  shelves  of  any  well-found  library; 
and  assuredly  there  is  ao  shelf  more  likely 


to  yield  it  than  that  which  bears — very 
likely  along  its  whole  length  —  the  ser- 
ried line  of  Samuel  Richardson's  works. 
Nineteen  volumes  —  nineteen  "mortal" 
volumes,  as  the  observer  of  to-day  is  but 
too  likely  to  put  it  —  contain,  in  one  of 
the  best  of  the  older  editions,  the  three 
romances  which  complete  the  sum  of  this 
author's  literary  performances;  and  not  a 
volume,  he  will  notice,  is  out  of  its  place. 
Not  a  soldier  in  that  regiment  is  missing, 
or  for  years  past  has  been  missing  from 
morning  parade,  though  a  century  or  more 
ago  there  would  have  been  deserters  to  be 
found  in  half  the  rooms  in  the  house  — 
above  stairs,  and  even  surreptitiously 
perhaps  below.  No  one  in  the  lifetime  of 
the  oldest  inmate  has  imitated  Pamela's 
wicked  master  by  disturbing  her  repose. 
Sir  Charles  Grandison  is  no  more  called 
upon  to  display  his  courtly  graces  in  any 
new  ceremonies  of  introduction.  There 
is  dust  on  the  edges  of  "  Clarissa  Har- 
lowe,"  instead  of  tears  upon  her  page. 
And  now  one  cannot  help  wondering  what 
fate  awaits  the  praiseworthy  attempt  of 
the  Messrs.  Sotheran  to  revive  the  long- 
departed  popularity  of  these  once  ad- 
mired, beloved,  be  wept  romances.  There 
lie  the  first  fruits  of  the  new  enterprise  — 
eight  out  of  the  twelve  volumes  of  which 
the  new  edition  is  to  consist ;  "  Pamela  " 
carried  to  its  conclusion  in  the  6rst  three, 
and  "  Clarissa  Harlowe  "  in  the  five  fol- 
lowing. Stout,  handsome  volumes  they 
are,  printed  in  excellent  type  on  toned 
paper,  with  Richardson's  portrait  for  fron- 
tispiece, and  the  suggestive  essay  from  Mr. 
Leslie  Stephen's  **  Hours  in  a  Library," 
for  introduction.  But  all  these  attrac- 
tions, material  and  immaterial,  serve  only 
to  add  curiosity  to  concern.  We  find  our- 
selves wondering  whether  those  fair,  neat 
pages  will  or  will  not  be  as  unsoiled  a 
decade  hence  as  they  are  today,  and 
whether  back  and  boards  will  be  worn  by 
the  touch  of  any  other,  or  of  no  other 
hand  than  that  of  the  only  really  omniv- 
orous helluo  librornm^  Time  himself. 

To  not  a  few  careless  critics  it  would 
seem  sufficient  to  dispose  of  that  question 
by  a  sneering  reference  to  Richardson's 
inordinate  length.  Yet  we  must  learn  to 
distinguish  between  des  longueurs  in  one 
sense  and  des  longueurs  in  another.  There 
is  a  prolixity  which  is  compatible  with 
art,  and  is  even  an  essential  condition  of 
a  pure  artistic  form  ;  and  there  is  a  pro- 
lixity which  is  of  itself  a  fault  in  art,  and 
as  such  always  and  everywhere  to  be  con- 
demned.  To  say  that  \\\fi  genre ennuyeux 
is  of  its  own  nature  anathema  is,  from  the 


346 

historic  point  of  view,  to  be^r  the  ques- 
tion. If  a  man's  contemporaries  find  him 
tiresome,  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter  so 
far  as  contemporary  criticism  goes ;  but  if? 
be  is  only  found  tiresome  by  posterity,  the* 
question  of  course  arises  whether  it  be  hf . 
or  posterity  that  is  to  blame.  We  all  know 
that  the  genre  ennuyeux  of  one  age  is 
often  very  far  from  having  been  tht  genre 
ennuyeux  of  another;  and  it  being  once 
ascertained  that  an  author  was  read  with 
untiring  interest  by  the  public  of  his  own 
day,  the  fact  that  he  is  a  weariness  to  the 
flesh  of  a  later  generation  becomes  almost 
irrelevant  to  the  question  of  his  real  merit. 
The  word  **  almost  '*  is,  no  doubt,  a  neces- 
sary qualification,  because  the  fact  last 
mentioned  is  to  this  extent  relevant  that 
it  does  unquestionably  exclude  such  a 
writer  from  that  small  oand  of  the  immor- 
tals who  have  delighted  all  ages  and  bored 
none.  But  no  romancist's  manes  —  at 
least  no  reasonable  manes  of  any  such 
departed  writer  —  need  chafe  at  his  exclu- 
sion from  so  very  select  a  circle.  The 
question  as  to  the  number  of  "  classics  '' 
who  neither  bore  nor  ought  to  bore  the 
reader  of  to  day,  is  one  upon  which  I 
share  many  of  Mr.  James  Payn*s  suspi- 
cions without  sharing  his  intrepidity  in 
specifying  them.  But  as  to  the  mere 
number  of  great  ones  of  the  earth  who, 
whether  rightly  or  not,  are  as  a  matter  of 
fact  found  tedious  when  taken  in  large 
doses,  one  can  speak  with  more  freedom 
perhaps;  and  nothing,  therefore,  need 
hinder  me  from  saying  that  Richardson 
in  the  shades  must  have  improved  upon 
the  quite  sufficient  complacency  of  Rich- 
ardson among  the  living  if  he  regards 
himself  as  too  good  for  his  company. 
After  all,  he  only  adds  another  to  a  group 
which,  if  at  one  end  it  is  typified  by  the 
authors  of  "The  Grave"  and  "The 
Course  of  Time,"  includes  at  the  other 
end  the  poets  of  "The  Excursion**  and 
"  Paradise  Lost." 

The  yawns  of  posterity  prove  no  more 
than  this.  They  remit  Richardson  to  the 
class  who  by  reason  of  their  matter  or 
their  manner,  or  both,  have  failed  to  sus- 
tain their  appeal  to  the  unflagging  atten- 
tion of  mankind.  But  from  the  point  of 
view  of  retrospective  criticism,  this  of 
course  is  immaterial.  Except  for  the  am- 
bitious purpose  of  fixing  a  departed  writ- 
er's place  in  the  literature  of  all  time,  his 
unbounded  and  unabated  vogue  in  his 
own  day  is  the  only  fact  needed  in  order 
"to  found,'*  as  the  lawyers  put  it,  "the 
jurisdiction  "  of  the  critic.  This  alone  is 
enough  to   make  any  author  a  pbenom- 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


enon  to  be  explained  and  if  possible  ana 
Ivzed  by  the  literary  student  of  a  late* 
(fay.  Fleeting  and  capricious  successes 
in  the  past  may  no  doubt  be  passed  by: 
there  have  been  Master  Bettys  in  litera- 
ture as  well  as  on  the  stage.  But  if  an 
author's  contemporaries,  critical  and  un- 
critical, consent  in  admiration  of  his  writ- 
ings, if  the  public  of  his  day  continue  to 
admire  these  writings  after  their  noveltv 
has  entirely  disappeared,  and  indeea, 
throughout  his  lifetime  and  after  his 
death,  the  maxim  securus  judicat  orbis 
terrarum  may  be  taken  to  apply.  We 
may  confidently  expect  to  6nd  in  such  a 
writer's  works  an  imperishable  something, 
some  breath  of  an  immortal  spirit,  surviv- 
ing the  death  and  decay  of  its  embodying 
forms.  That  no  very  minute  search  is 
needed  to  reveal  to  us  this  element  in 
Richardson,  is  a  point  upon  which  it  would 
be  an  impertinence  to  spend  many  words. 
Ample  acknowledgment  and  exposition 
of  this  fact  is  to  be  found  in  Mr.  Leslie 
Stephen's  valuable  preface  to  the  new 
edition  of  Richardson,  and  my  own  im- 
pressions on  the  same  subject  I  may  for 
the  moment  defer. 

A  matter  of  more  immediate  interest  is 
the  examination  of  the  dead  and  decayed 
form  in  which  this  imperishable  some* 
thing  was  contained.  And  here  a  ques- 
tion of  much  curiosity,  though  not  very 
easy  perhaps  to  determine,  confronts  us 
at  the  outset.  How  much  of  the  form 
was  essential  to  the  life  of  these  books,  in 
the  days  when  they  possessed  what  may 
be  called  a  corporeal,  instead  of,  as  at 
present,  only  a  spiritual  existence  —  in 
the  days  when  "  Clarissa  Harlowe  "  was  to 
thousands  of  Englishmen  what"\Vaver- 
ley  "  was  to  the  novel-reader  of  the  early 
nineteenth  century,  or  "  Adam  Bede"  to 
the  novel-reader  of  twenty  years  ago? 
How  much  of  the  form,  on  (he  other  hand, 
was  mere  dead  weight  and  surplusage  — 
not  helping  but  hindering  —  a  thing  iq 
spite,  and  not  in  right,  of  which  these 
books  were  impatiently  awaited  and  ea- 
gerly read  ?  For  the  hasty  opinion  which 
treats  everything  distasteful  to  the  mod- 
ern reader  in  their  form  as  something 
which  the  contemporary  reader  prized,  is 
of  course  a  more  or  less  gratuitous  as- 
sumption. We  ourselves  tolerate  many 
things  in  our  favorite  authors  which  we 
wish  away.  Many  of  us  would  like  Dick- 
ens better  without  his  often  forced  and 
artificial  sentiment.  Still  more  of  us 
would  be  well  content  —  in  her  later 
books,  at  any  rate  —  with  less  of  the 
waterlogging  ballast  of    George    pilot's 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


347 


physiologico-psychology.  Our  posterity, 
therefore,  will  have  no  right  to  argue 
from  Dickens's  fame  that  his  sentiment 
was  as  generally  valued  as  his  humor,  or 
from  George  Eliot's  fame,  that  her  con- 
temporaries  thought  as  highly  of  her  sci- 
entitic  acquirements  as  they  did  of  her 
satiric  insight  into  character,  and  her 
original  gift  of  creative  imagination.  And 
we  ourselves  have  equally  no  right  to  as- 
sume that  what  may  have  been  deduc- 
tions from  the  sum  of  Richardson's  claim 
upon  his  readers  were  actually  additions 
thereto.  All  we  know  for  certain  on  the 
matter  is,  that  our  great-grandfathers  read 
and  delighted  in  certain  desperately  pro- 
lix novels;  it  is  too  much  to  assume  that 
they  delighted  in  the  prolixity  for  its  own 
sake.  We  are  often  reminded,  it  is  true, 
that  our  great-grandfathers  lived  in  a 
leisurely  age ;  but  this  is  an  explanation, 
which  accounts  rather  for  their  capacities 
as  readers  than  for  their  tastes.  It  may 
well  be  that  inordinately  long-winded 
books  could  only  be  tolerable  in  a  lei- 
surely age.  This,  however,  is  equally 
true  of  long  dinners,  long  whist,  and 
other  forms  of  indulgence  or  recreation ; 
and  it  explains  merely  the  possibility,  and 
not  the  popularity,  of  one  particular  form 
of  slow-moving  amusement.  Again,  the 
more  leisurely  the  age  the  greater,  we 
should  imas;ine,  the  tendency  to  sleep. 
Yet,  if  there  is  a  well-authenticated  fact 
connected  with  **  Clarissa  Harlowe,"  it  is 
that  the  novel  put  to  flight,  instead  of 
provoking,  slumber.  "  Right  reason,"  in 
short,  and  **  the  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion in  mankind,"  as  Mr.  Matthew  Ar- 
nold would  say,  revolt  from  the  hypothe- 
sis that  any  race  of  men  can  have  pre- 
ferred to  have  a  story  in  which  they  were 
deeply  interested  related  to  them  at  exces- 
sive length.  For  it  is  to  be  specially 
remembered  that  the  most  popular  of 
Richardson^s  romances  was  popular  in 
respect  of  its  story.  It  was  not,  or  not 
mainly,  by  its  moral  lessons,  by  its  pic- 
tures of  manners,  or  by  its  analysis  of 
character,  that  "  Clarissa  Harlowe"  held 
the  public  spell-bound :  it  was  by  its  plot. 
The  "town"  was  in  a  fever  —  a  slow 
fever,  of  course,  but  still  a  fever  —  of  ex- 
citement to  know  whether  the  infamous 
Lovelace  would  succeed  in  his  plot,  and 
uhat  would  be  the  end  of  the  unfortunate 
Clarissa  ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  believed  that 
mere  dilTuseness  of  narrative,  mere  ex- 
penditure of  many  words  in  relating 
events  which  might  have  been  told  in  few 
words,  would  have  been  found  endurable, 
or  would,  in  fact,  have  been  endured.   The 


delay  must  have  been  in  some  sense  or 
other  artistic;  the  prolixity  must  have 
been  felt  to  contribute  something  to  the 
artistic  result,  in  order  not  to  have  wholly 
destroyed  the  popularity  of  the  story. 
The  sense  in  which  it  was  artistic  may,  to 
our  present  conceptions  of  art,  be  weJl- 
nigh  unintelligible  ;  the  something  which 
it  contributed  to  the  result,  may  to  us  be 
nothing,  or  worse  than  nothing.  But  it 
is  surely  irrational  to  suppose  that  the 
exterior  form  of  Richardson's  novel  —  in 
which  I  include  not  only  the  mere  length 
of  the  book  from  cover  to  cover,  but  its 
epistolary  structure  and  whatever  other 
drawbacks  that  structure  to  our  present 
ways  of  thinking  involves  —  could  have 
seemed  to  its  own  public  what  it  seems  to 
us :  viz.,  simply  so  much  handicapping  of 
the  tale.  There  must  have  been  some 
reason  other  than  the  mere  amount  of  his 
spare  time  which  compelled  the  eigh- 
teenth-century reader  to  listen  so  patiently 
to  a  story  of  which  he  was  so  devouringly 
anxious  to  hear  the  end ;  there  must  have 
been  some  reason  why  he  did  not  resent 
the  author's  unusual,  fidgetting,  and  in 
many,  though  not  in  all  respects,  undra- 
matic  method  of  telling  his  story  in  the 
form  of  correspondence.  Such  is  the  con- 
clusion which  ought  to  suggest  itself  on 
a  priori  gvQMnd^  of  probability,  to  all  who 
have  ever  considered  the  matter  with 
any  degree  of  care;  and  it  is,  I  may  add, 
a  conclusion  which  subsequent  inquiry 
abundantly  confirms.  There  is  a  reason 
and  a  good  one  for  Richardson's  prolix- 
ity; it  was  in  many  respects  the  very  se- 
cret of  his  power.  But,  unfortunately,  it 
is  a  secret  to  the  discovery  of  which  there 
is  no  royal  road ;  for  it  would  be  uncandid 
to  give  so  attractive  a  title  to  the  only 
method  of  ascertaining  it  with  which  I  am 
acquainted  —  that,  namely,  of  reading  the 
romances  straight  through  from  beginning 
to  end. 

Richardson  was  not  the  first,  as  he  will 
not  be  the  last,  man  to  discover  his  lit- 
erary powers  in  the  use  of  them.  When 
Sterne  began  "Tristram  Shandy  "  he  had 
assuredly  but  little  idea  of  the  artistic 
lengths  to  which  his  work  was  destined 
to  carry  him;  and  though  the  germ  of 
"  Clarissa  "  may  have  been,  and  of  course 
in  a  certain  sense  must  have  been,  latent 
in  "  Pamela,"  it  was  for  all  that  appears 
as  completely  hidden  from  the  author  of 
the  two  works  as  from  any  of  his  readers. 
No  one,  it  may  safely  be  said,  could  have 
seen  in  the  earlier  book  the  promise  of 
the  later.  When  Rivington  and  Osborne, 
the  booksellers,  asked  him  —  to  quote  Mr. 


348 

Stephen's  account  of  the  fortuitous  com- 
mencement of  a  great  literary  career  —  *•  to 
write  a  volume  of  letters  to  suit  the  taste 
of  country  readers."  it  was  in  the  spirit 
of  the  moralist,  and  not  at  all  in  that  of 
the  artist,  that  he  responded  to  the  invi- 
tation. Half-way  through  the  second  vol- 
ume of  "  Pamela,"  he  takes  advantage  of 
the  disappearance  of  the  heroine's  father 
and  mother  from  the  scene  —  at  least  as 
the  sole  correspondents  of  their  daughter 
—  to  review  his  work  and  its  objects;  and 
we  then  see  what  are  the  qualities  in  it 
upon  which  he  congratulates  himself.  It 
contains,  he  proudly  assures  us,  morality, 
and  excellent  morality,  for  all.  The  fash- 
ionable libertine  "may  learn  from  it  to 
prefer  vice  to  virtue;"  the  proud  and 
highborn  may  see  "the  deformity  of  un- 
reasonable passion  ; "  "  good  clergymen  " 
will  perceive  from  it  that  if  they  do  their 
duty  in  despite  of  their  "proud  patrons," 
Providence  will  at  last  reward  their  piety  ; 
the  poor  will  learn  that "  Providence  never 
fails  to  reward  their  honesty  and  integ- 
rity;" while  the  virtues  inculcated  by  the 
example  of  the  heroine  herself,  require  a 
complete  inventory  divided  into  separate 
paragraphs  for  their  examination.  There 
is  an  encouraging  moral  for  the  "poor 
deluded  female  "  who  has  the  strength  of 
mind  to  "stop  at  her  first  fault,"  and  a 
warning  moral  for  her  who  pursues  "  the 
wicked  courses  into  which  she  was  at  first 
inadvertently  drawn."  There  are  even 
lessons  for  "the  upper  servants  of  great 
families"  in  the  behavior  of  three  of  the 
characters,  and  for  the  "lower  servants" 
of  the  same  families  in  that  of  a  fourth. 
In  short,  we  are  as  good  as  told  that  the 
merit  of  the  book  is  to  be  measured  by 
the  closeness  of  its  resemblance  to  the 
didactics  of  the  nursery.  Nobody  who 
reads  it,  says  Richardson  in  effect,  can 
afterwards  plead  ignorance  of  what  hap- 
pened to  "  Don't  Care."  If  he  remains 
incorrigible  in  his  naughtiness,  and  comes 
to  a  bad  end  in  consequence,  he  will  have 
himself  alone  to  blame  for  it;  the  author 
of  "Pamela"  has  at  least  done  his  best 
to  reclaim  him.  He  has  said  to  him  in 
many  volumes,  "  Be  good,  for  the  good 
are  always  rewarded  in  this  life;  do  not 
be  wicked,  for  the  wicked  are  always  pun- 
ished here  as  well  as  hereafter."  What 
more  could  he  do  ? 

That  the  facts  of  life  decline  to  confirm 
this  comfortable  gos^pel  was  apparently 
no  more  an  objection  from  Richardson's 
point  of  view  than  it  is  from  that  of  the 
nurse ;  but  to  say  this  is,  of  course, 
enough  to  dispose  of  the  artistic  claims 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON. 


of  the  book.  The  good  sometimes  pros- 
per of  course  in  this  life :  but  you  cannot 
write  a  story  in  which  they  are  always, 
and  all  of  them,  to  prosper,  without  con- 
stantly offending  against  truth  and  prob- 
ability. Add  to  this,  that  the  continual 
effort  to  find  illustrations  of  morality 
everywhere,  and  to  make  the  fortunes  of 
all  the  characters  in  a  novel  subserve  a 
didactic  end,  is  pretty  sure  to  end  in  throw- 
ing some  of  those  characters  into  violent 
contradiction  with  themselves.  This  is 
notably  exemplified  in  the  case  of  Pame- 
la's master,  whose  sudden  conversion 
from  a  most  uncompromising  profligate 
into  a  consistent  paragon  of  propriety  — 
for  we  need  not  attach  serious  importance 
to  the  Platonic  flirtation  with  the  countess 
in  his  later  married  life  —  is  hardly  at- 
tempted to  be  made  credible.  These, 
however,  though  the  most  obvious,  are 
far  from  being  the  only  artistic  faults  of 
"  Pamela."  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say 
that  it  scarcely  rises,  in  the  working  out 
of  its  plot  any  more  than  in  its  main  con- 
ception, above  the  level  of  the  nursery 
story.  A  romance  of  greater  posthumous 
popularity  has  indirectly  preserved  the 
name  of  Pamela  Andrews  from  oblivion, 
and  few  perhaps,  even  of  those  who  have 
never  opened  a  volume  of  Richardson, 
will  need  to  be  told  that  Pamela  is  a  vir* 
tuous  maidservant  (as  her  brother  Joseph 
was  a  virtuous  footman),  who  successfully 
resists  a  series  of  the  most  determined, 
and  at  last  even  violent,  attempts  upon 
her  virtue  on  the  part  of  her  master,  and 
who,  at  last,  so  impresses  him  by  her 
courage  and  constancy  that  he  marries 
her,  and,  with  the  exception  of  one  pass- 
ing cloud  of  jealousy,  "  they  live  happily 
ever  afterwards."  In  such  a  story,  with 
such  a  conclusion,  there  is  nothing  essen- 
tially ludicrous :  it  was  reserved  for  Field- 
ing to  perceive  by  the  instantaneous  light 
of  humor,  that  it  might  be  made  exqui- 
sitely ludicrous  by  merely  transposing  the 
sexes  of  the  tempter  and  the  tempted. 
Why  this  should  be  so  is  a  point  in  the 
psychology  of  ethics  which  does  not  im- 
mediately yield  up  its  explanation;  but 
the  fact  is  unquestionable,  as  the  reader 
may  satisfy  himself  by  comparing  the 
famous  scene  between  Joseph  Andrews 
and  Lady  Booby  with  any  of  the  scenes 
between  Pamela  and  Mr.  B.  To  speak 
the  honest  truth,  however,  it  would  have 
been  difficult  for  Fielding  to  outdo  Rich- 
ardson in  absurdity;  and  "Joseph  An- 
drews," as  we  all  know,  though  commenced 
as  a  caricature  of "  Pamela,"  departed  very 
soon,  and  very  widely,  from  the  lines  of 


r 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON. 


349 


its  model.  But,  while  the  story  of  *'  Pa- 
mela "  suffers  as  a  story,  from  the  slow- 
ness of  movement  which,  in  a  less  degree 
(though  the  slowness  is  even  greater), 
injures  that  of  Clarissa,  the  former  hero- 
ine, unlike  the  latter,  is  herself  as  severe 
a  sufferer  as  a  heroine  from  the  delay. 
Her  figure,  to  begin  with,  is  one  which 
will  not  stand  much  de-romanticizing. 
Mrs.  Pamela's  virtue,  though  no  doubt 
quite  sincere  and  genuine,  is  (as  of  course 
it  should  be)  of  a  very  soubrettish  type, 
exceedingly,  not  to  say  pharisaically,  self- 
conscious,  not  refined  or  elevated  by  the 
slightest  admixture  of  delicacy,  and  obvi- 
ously associated  with  a  very  shrewd  eye 
to  the  main  chance.  All  this,  of  course, 
is  true  enough  to  nature ;  but  truth  to 
nature  becomes  useless  unless  it  falls  into 
the  impartial  hands  of  art.  These  human 
touches  in  Pamela's  character  would  have 
been  invaluable  to  Richardson  if  he  had 
cared  to  treat  his  heroine  like  an  artist; 
but  he  wanted  to  treat  her  exclusively  as 
a  moralist.  Her  affinities  with  the  wait- 
ing-maid of  real  life  make  her  a  more  real 
and,  therefore,  a  more  interesting,  if  less 
heroic,  fi<;ure;  but  Richardson,  in  order 
to  make  his  moral  lesson  as  impressive  as 
possible,  was  in  pursuit  not  of  the  inter- 
esting so  much  as  the  heroic.  He  wanted 
an  ideal  waiting-maid,  and  not  a  real  one, 
for  his  purpose;  and  these  marks  of  very 
commonplace,  and  even  rather  vulgar, 
realism,  only  serve  therefore  to  make  the 
ideal  figure,  on  its  lofty  moral  pedestal,  a 
little  ridiculous.  Above  all,  they  combine 
with  the  inartistic  slowness  of  movement 
in  the  story,  and  its  weak  invention  of 
incident,  to  destroy  a  great  part  of  the 
reader*s  sympathy  with  the  heroine,  and 
even  to  suggest  the  suspicion  which  Rich- 
ardson undoubtedly  never  intended  to 
arouse,  that  she  is  a  person  of  rather  a 
designing  disposition.  "How  is  this?'* 
the  reader  feels  tempted  to  ask.  '*Here 
is  a  young  woman  who  is  evidently  per- 
fectly well  able  to  take  care  of  herself, 
and  who  remains  under  circumstances  of 
the  most  dangerous  character  for  her 
chastity,  exposed  to  the  constant  solicita- 
tions and  even  assaults  of  her  master. 
Of  course  we  are  given  to  understand 
that  she  is  under  physical  duress ;  but  as 
a  matter  of  fact  the  restraint  is  very  often 
of  the  feeblest  and  most  inefficient  kind. 
On  one  occasion  Pamela,  by  her  own  ad- 
mission, might  have  walked  straight  out 
of  the  house  and  away,  and  was  only  re- 
strained from  doing  so  by  the  fact  that 
there  was  a  bull  (who  had  injured  the 
cook-maid  under  circumstances  unstated) 


in  a  paddock  which  she  would  have  to 
cross  to  make  her  escape.  On  another 
occasion  there  is  absolutely  no  impedi- 
ment to  her  flight,  and  though  she  is  in- 
deed followed  and  seized  in  the  act  of 
getting  over  a  stile  which  alone  divides 
her  from  liberty,  the  unexplained  deliber- 
ation of  her  movements  is  solely  account- 
able for  her  capture."  In  short,  upon  a 
careful  review  of  the  whole  circumstances, 
the  reader  finds  it  hard  to  avoid  the  sus- 
picion that  it  is  calculation,  and  not  timid- 
ity, which  keeps  Pamela  a  prisoner;  that 
she  sees  a  chance  of  inducing  the  infatu- 
ated Mr.  B.  to  marry  her,  and  that  gam- 
bling for  a  stake  so  high  she  is  prepared 
to  make  some  very  dangerous  ventures 
indeed. 

This  idea  was  of  course  very  far  from 
Richardson's  intention  to  suggest,  and  it 
is  a  fault  in  his  characterization  and  story- 
telling that  the  reader  feels  persuaded 
that  it  is  just  the  idea  which  would  pos- 
sess all  but  the  exceptionally  charitable 
spectators  of  Pamela's  trials  in  actual  life. 
But  there  is  also  little  merit-  in  the  delin- 
eation of  the  other  characters  in  the  story. 
Lady  Davers,  with  whom  most  care  has 
apparently  been  taken,  is  a  coarsely  and 
crudely  executed  portrait ;  and  there  is  a 
want  of  reality  about  both  the  good  Mrs. 
Jervis  and  the  infamous  Mrs.  Jewkes. 
Mr.  B.'s  return  to  virtue,  again,  is  cele- 
brated with  an  exaggeration  which  was 
due  in  part  to  Richardson's  bourgeois  rev- 
erence for*' the  quality,"  a  characteristic 
which  sometimes  amusingly,  and  some- 
times irritatingly,  deranges  both  the  bal- 
ance of  his  ethical  judgment  and  his  sense 
of  artistic  propriety.  In  the  case  of  Mr. 
B.  it  is  most  comically  displayed.  It  is 
quite  obviously  felt  by  all  the  characters 
in  the  story,  and  by  the  author  himself, 
that  repentance  is  very  condescending  on 
the  part  of  a  '*  gentleman  of  good  estate ; " 
and  that  with  a  *'  place  "  in  two  counties, 
the  ambition  to  secure  a  third  in  heaven 
is  highly  creditable  to  an  English  squire. 
Mr.  H.  is  greatly  praised  for  having  aban- 
doned a  course  of  profligacy  which  most 
other  men  of  equal  rank  and  fortune,  we 
are  given  to  understand,  would  have  pur- 
sued consistently  throughout  life;  and 
those  who  surround  him  are  unwearied  in 
their  laudations  of  his  new-found  virtue. 
No  doubt  the  accumulation  of  all  these 
honors  on  the  repentant  libertine's  head 
is  due  not  wholly  to  social  servility  but  in 
part  to  moral  purpose;  but  for  the  merits 
of  the  romance  from  this  point  of  view 
there  is  not  much  to  be  said.  Coleridge, 
who  speaks  on  such  a  point  with  evea 


350 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


more  than  his  wonted  critical  authority, 
has  expressed  his  opinion  on  a  compar- 
ison between  ''Joseph  Andrews"  and 
"Pamela'*  that  the  former  is  the  more 
moral  work  of  the  two.  It  would  be 
difficult,  I  think,  for  any  candid  modern 
reader  of  the  two  romances  to  contest  this 
judgment.  Excellent  as  Richardson's  in- 
tentions were  both  towards  servant  maids 
and  country  squires  in  composing  the 
story,  it  seems  to  me  quite  certain  that  a 
careful  and  sympathetic  study  of  it  would, 
in  the  vast  majority  of  cases,  prove  most 
unedifyinor  to  either.   " 

"  Clarissa  Harlowe  "  has  more  preten- 
sions to  plot,  in  the  sense  of  invented 
incident  and  situation,  than  "Pamela;'* 
but  its  central  motive  is  of  a  no  less  sim- 
ple kind.  1 1  is,  in  fact,  the  story  of  Pamela 
reversed.  **  Pamela's  '*  alternative  title  is 
"Virtue  Rewarded,"  and  virtue  in  "Cla- 
rissa Harlowe "  is  not,  except  in  the 
spiritual  sense,  rewarded,  but  defeated, 
outwitted,  betrayed.  The  virtuous  hero- 
ine is  not  permitted,  as  in  the  earlier 
romance,  to  escape  the  wiles  of  the  se- 
ducer, and  reap  the  moral  rewafd  of  her 
firmness  in  his  conversion  to  the  paths 
of  virtue,  and  its  material  recompense 
in  a  splendid  establishment  and  a  coach- 
and-six.  On  the  contrary,  she  is  con- 
demned to  fall  a  victim  to  his  vile  mach- 
inations, and  proudly  rejecting  all  his  of- 
fers of  atonement,  to  sink  broken-hearted 
into  an  early  grave.  The  superior  dra- 
matic possibilities  of  this  story  compared 
with  that  of  "  Pamela  '*  are  evident,  and 
Richardson  owed  much  to  their  stimulus. 
They  brought  out  his  powers  as  an  artist 
by  compelling  him  in  a  great  measure  to 
drop  the  rdle  of  the  moralist.  He  was  as 
anxious  to  preach  as  ever;  but  the  exi- 
gencies of  his  narrative  do  not  permit 
him  to  ascend  the  pulpit  so  often  or 
to  remain  there  so  long.  "Be  virtuous 
and  you  will  be  happy,"  is  in  a  certain 
sense  the  preacher's  text  in  both  cases; 
but  in  ''Clarissa"  the  virtuous  have  to 
wear  their  happiness  "with  a  difference  " 
which  it  is  difficult  to  explain  without 
frequently  descending  the  pulpit-stairs. 
Happiness  in  "Clarissa"  has  to  do  with- 
out its  coach-and-six  and  its  splendid  es- 
tablishment ;  nay,  it  has  to  part  company, 
one  by  one,  with  all  the  external  condi- 
tions of  human  well-being  —  home,  par- 
ents, family,  friends,  material  comforts, 
reputation,  and,  finally,  life  itself;  and 
yet,  in  the  strength  of  a  pure  heart  and 
a  quiet  conscience,  to  maintain  itself  un- 
conquered  to  the  end.  This  demands  a 
far  more  difficult  and  subtle  exposition  of 


the  be-virtuousand-you-will-be  happy  text 
than  it  receives  or  needs  in  "Pamela;" 
and  it  is  one  which  the  moralist  requires 
the  artist's  assistance  to  enforce.  Any- 
body can  see  why  Pamela  should  be  hap- 
py; her  contentment  is  as  comprehensible 
to  the  simplest  reader  as  was  virtue  upon 
;£5,ooo  a  year  to  Becky  Sharp.  But  Cla- 
rissa's happiness  under  her  misfortunes 
is  not  to  be  taken  on  trust  from  the  pulpit^ 
or  to  be  made  credible  to  the  congrega* 
tion  by  even  the  most  earnest  thumping 
of  the  velvet  cushion.  It  lies  deeper  than 
the  superficial  blessedness  of  Pamela,  and 
the  preacher  must  go  deeper  to  find  it  for 
us  and  to  show  it  to  us.  It  is  an  inward 
peace  of  the  heart  and  to  exhibit  it  the 
heart  must  be  laid  bare.  In  other  words 
the  romancist  must  here  cease  to  preach, 
and  begin  to  dissect.  He  must  desist 
from  mere  reiteration  in  various  forms  of 
pulpit  rhetoric  that  virtue  alone  is  true 
happiness,  and  attempt  to  convince  us  of 
the  fact  by  furnishing  as  with  the  expla* 
nation.  He  must  endeavor  by  minute 
analysis  of  his  hapless-happy  heroine's 
emotions  to  show  us  that  they  are  the 
natural  outcome  of  causes  whose  presence 
and  potency  in  the  minds  of  human  beings 
our  own  moral  consciousness  will  attest. 

It  would,  of  course,  be  far  too  much  to 
say  that  Richardson  is  uniformly  success- 
ful in  the  endeavor.  Neither  his  genius 
nor  his  method  were  fitted  for  the  achieve- 
ment of  such  uniform  success.  Being 
before  all  things  a  preacher  of  morals,  he 
cannot  refrain  from  making  his  characters 
preach  to  us  in  their  own  persons,  when 
they  should  be  simply  revealing  to  us 
their  own  thoughts  and  feelings,  and  leav- 
ing us  to  draw  the  moral  for  ourselves. 
And  while  the  bent  of  Richardson's  genius 
thus  militates  against  his  complete  artistic 
success,  the  peculiar  vices  of  his  method 
exercise  an  even  more  injurious  effect 
upon  his  work.  His  letter-writers  are  so 
terribly  long-winded,  so  mercilessly  prolix, 
that  they  cannot  be  expected  to  confine 
themselves  solely  to  their  proper  work  of 
self-disclosure  and  self-portraiture.  Like 
garrulous  witnesses,  theyiavor  their  jury 
of  readers  with  a  vast  amount  of  matter 
which  is  in  no  sense  evidence.  When 
Clarissa,  for  example,  should  be  telling  us 
minutely  what  she  feels,  and  specifically 
why  she  feels  it,  she  is  continually  lapsing 
into  mere  general  allegations  that  her 
mind  is  at  peace,  with  the  addition  of  the 
pulpit  platitude  that  the  minds  of  the  vir- 
tuous always  are.  The  thing  is  so,  she 
tells  us,  because  it  must  be  so.  But  m 
any  well-conducted  trial  of  the  issue,  does 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON. 


351 


virtue  insure  happiness,  ay  or  no?  Miss 
Harlowe  would  have  found  herself  being 
perpetually  "stopped  by  the  court."  She 
may  say,  "  I  feel  happy,"  and  that  is  evi- 
dence as  far  as  it  goes,  though  it  does  not 
go  far.  She  may  add:  "I  feel  proud  of 
my  fortitude  and  of  my  superiority  to  my 
betrayer,  —  conscious  that  the  outrage 
inflicted  upon  my  body  has  left  my  soul 
unsullied — awed  and  impressed  by  per- 
ceiving that  the  victor  is  more  abashed 
and  perturbed  by  his  triumph  than  I,  the 
vanquished,  by  my  defeat;  and  it  is  in  the 
sum  of  these  emotions  (which  obviously 
only  the  virtuous  could  feel)  that  my  hap- 
piness consists."  All  that  is  evidence, 
too,  and  of  a  very  important  kind.  But 
when  the  witness  persists  in  repeating  the 
formula,  "  1  am  happy  because  I  am  vir- 
tuous," the  presiding  judge  would  be 
bound  to  check  her  with  tlie  polite  but 
firm  correction,  "That,  madam,  is  for  the 
jury.  It  is  for  them  to  decide  whether 
your  happiness  is  the  result  of  virtue,  or 
of  conceit,  callousness,  insanity,  I  know 
not  what."  But  though  Clarissa  is  un- 
doubtedly too  apt  to  encroach  in  this 
manner  on  the  jurisdiction  of  the  reader, 
it  must  be  admitted  that  she  makes  out 
her  case  at  last  to  his  complete  satisfac- 
tion. We  end  by  believing  as  thoroughly 
in  her  happiness  as  in  her  virtue,  and  by 
feeling  that  it  fully  responds  to  our  own 
conceptions  of  the  natural  and  the  true. 

She  starts,  however,  with  considerable 
personal  advantages  over  Pamela.  She 
is  altogether  a  more  sympathetic  and  at- 
tractive figure,  to  begin  with,  simpler  and 
more  refined,  of  a  higher  dignity  and  del- 
icacy, of  a  far  more  unconscious  purity  — 
a  "lady  "  by  nature,  in  fact,  which  "  Mrs. 
Pamela"  neither  is  nor  of  course  was 
intended  to  be,  nor  could,  without  injury 
to  the  story,  have  been  made.  And  Cla- 
rissa also  is  morally  of  a  far  more  sin- 
cere and  genuine  stuff  than  her  predeces- 
sor 'iQ  fiction.  Both,  to  be  sure,  are 
prigst  they  have  to  be  made  so,  in  order 
thatchey  may  deliver  Richardson's  moral 
reflections  in  Richardson's  language.  But 
Clarissa,  far  more  often  than  Pamela, 
tal^s  the  pen  from  Richardson's  hand, 
an4  writes,  not  what  the  preacher  would 
ba^e  her  utter,  but  what  it  is  given  her  to 
ut^r  out  of  the  deepest  depths  of  a  hu- 
m;n  heart.  We  get  to  recognize  in  her 
caie,  as  we  never  do  in  that  of  the  self- 
conscious  waiting-maid,  that  she  is  sel- 
doci,  if  ever,  a  prig  on  her  own  account. 
We,  learn  to  regard  her  in  a  double  aspect, 
and  mentally  to  dissociate  the  living, 
breathing,  suffering  woman  from  the  mere 


mouthpiece  of  moral  commonplaces.  But 
as  the  story  draws  towards  its  tragic 
close,  the  need  of  any  such  mental  act  of 
dissociation  less  frequently  occurs.  We 
have  more  and  more  of  the  natural  wom- 
an and  less  and  less  of  the  sermonizing 
automaton,  more  and  more  of  Clarissa 
Harlowe  and  less  and  less  of  Clarissa 
Richardson.  The  presence  of  her  cre- 
ator's hand  is  still,  indeed,  too  plainlv 
perceived;  the  faults  of  his  method  still 
too  intrusively  assert  themselves.  The 
"linked  sweetness  "  of  the  tale  of  woe  is 
decidedly  too  "long  drawn  out;"  the 
sorrows  of  the  death-stricken  heroine  are 
dwelt  upon  and  elaborated  beyond  all 
measure,  and  their  portrayal  is  marred  in 
one  instance  —  that  of  her  preparation  of 
her  coffin  —  by  an  artistic  blunder  of  a 
truly  lamentable  kind.  But  by  many  a 
touch  of  authentic  human  pathos,  of  true 
womanly  gentleness  and  heroism,  the  fig- 
ure of  the  slowly  dying  maiden  —  napdivoq 
hnapGevog  —  wins  its  way  to  our  hearts ;  and 
though  time  and  change  may  have  decreed 
that  it  shall  never  again  so  deeply  stir  the 
emotions  of  mankind  as  it  once  was  wont 
to  stir  them,  yet  we  shall,  I  think,  even  the 
coldest  of  us,  find  sufficient  excuse  for 
the  freely  flowing  tears  of  a  past  gener- 
ation in  the  moistened  eyes  of  our  own. 

Still  it  would  be  scarcely  true  to  say 
that  the  power  of  the  romance  over  our 
sympathies  Is  wholly  or  perhaps  even 
mainly  due  to  the  isolated  realization  of 
the  heroine.  It  is  largely  by  force  of 
contrast  that  the  individuality  and  the 
career  of  Clarissa  are  made  impressive. 
She  owes  much,  very  much,  to  her  foil  in 
the  person  of  Lovelace.  He  is  her  mak- 
ing in  the  novel,  as  in  life  he  was  her  un- 
doing; and  even  if  the  victim  were  a  far 
less  winning  and  sympathetic  figure  than 
she  is,  she  would  derive  a  sufficiency  by 
reflected  interest  from  her  association 
with  a  character  which  has  been  set  be- 
fore us  with  such  masterly  vigor  of  por- 
traiture as  Richardson  has  bestowed  upon 
the  lineaments  of  her  betrayer.  But  be- 
fore entering  upon  the  analysis  of  this,  so 
immeasurably  the  highest  achievement  of 
the  author's  genius,  it  is  necessary  to  give 
a  brief  outline  of  the  plot  of  this  once 
famous  story. 

Clarissa  Harlowe  is  the  daughter  of  an 
English  country  gentleman  of  good  for- 
tune and  repute,  but  of  a  cold,  hard,  des- 
potic temperament,  a  man  not  altogether 
destitute,  perhaps,  of  paternal  affection, 
but  possessed  with  the  most  extravagant 
notions  —  extravagant,  surely,  even  for 
those  days  —  of  the  rights   of   paternal 


352 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON. 


authority.  His  wife  is  a  kind-hearted  and 
affeetionate,  but  contemptibly  weak  and 
submissive,  woman,  too  fond  of  her 
daugiiter  to  join  without  remorse  in  op- 
pressing her,  and  too  much  afraid  of  her 
husband  to  make  any  effective  protest 
against  it.  The  couple,  in  short,  form  a 
pretty  exact  replica  of  the  father  and 
mother  of  the  heroine  of  "Aylmer*s 
Field."  Add  to  these  a  surly,  ill-condi- 
tioned brother,  and  an  envious  and  spite- 
ful sister,  the  willing  accomplices  of  the 
parental  design  against  Clarissa's  peace, 
together  with  two  uncles,  the  indifferent 
spectators  of  its  execution,  and  the  do- 
mestic circle  is  complete.  Circumstances 
combine  with  the  characters  of  Clarissa's 
family  to  prepare  her  unhappy  fate.  Her 
grandfather  has  earned  for  her  the  ill-will 
of  her  kindred  by  passing  over  them  in 
his  will,  and  constituting  her  the  heiress 
of  a  small  property  which  would  have 
made  her  independent  of  them,  but  of 
which,  from  exaggerated  notions  of  filial 
respect,  she  declines  to  take  possession 
except  with  the  willing  assent  of  her 
parents.  Her  sister,  Arabella,  bears  a 
special  grudge  against  her  as  the  involun- 
tarily successful  rival,  to  whom  Lovelace, 
for  a  time  the  pretended  suitor  of  Ara- 
bella, had  always  meant  to  transfer,  and 
at  the  beginning  of  the  story  does  in  fact 
transfer,  his  addresses.  These  conditions 
given,  we  manifestly  need  nothing  more 
than  the  appearance  on  the  scene  of  a 
suitor  whom  Clarissa  detests,  and  whom 
her  father  is  resolved  to  force  upon  her,  in 
order  to  establish  the  groundwork  of  the 
domestic  tragedy  which  is  to  follow.  Pro- 
found as  is  Clarissa's  filial  piety,  it  is 
unequal  to  the  sacrifice  which  her  parents 
demand  of  her.  She  persists  in  her  re- 
jection of  the  odious  De  Solmes,  although 
the  harshest  measures  are  resorted  to  by 
her  father  to  compel  her  submission.  She 
is  degraded  from  her  position  as  house- 
keeper to  the  family;  her  keys  are  taken 
away  from  her;  she  is  confined  to  her 
room  a  close  prisoner;  and  a  tender- 
hearted maidservant,  who  had  assisted 
her  mistress  to  maintain  a  clandestine  cor- 
respondence with  the  only  female  friend 
she  possesses,  having  been  detected  and 
dismissed,  she  is  for  a  time  cut  off  from 
all  communication  with  the  outer  world. 
Lovelace,  however,  finds  means  of  re- 
opening a  correspondence  with  her;  and 
as  her  persecutions  verge  upon  the  intol- 
erable, his  solicitations  naturally  approach 
the  irresistible.  Driven  at  last  to  des- 
peration by  the  near  approach  of  the  day 
fixed  for  the  detested  marriage,  Clarissa 


agrees  to  accept  Lovelace's  pretended 
offer  of  escort  to  the  house  of  one  of  his 
female  relatives,  who  he  had  declared 
would  give  her  refuge.  With  this  one 
false  step  begins  that  series  of  misfor- 
tunes and  indignities  to  which  the  un* 
happy  girl  at  last  succumbs.  Lovelace's 
promise  was,  of  course,  a  mere  trick  to 
get  Clarissa  into  his  power.  Instead  of 
taking  her  to  her  supposed  destination,  he 
conveys  her  to  the  house  of  a  certain  in- 
famous Mrs.  Sinclair,  where  she  remains 
at  first  willingly  and  in  ignorance  of  the 
character  of  the  place,  afterwards  under 
duress.  She  once  makes  her  escape,  but 
only  to  be  followed  and  recaptured  ;  and  at 
last  the  crime  which  her  villanous  lover 
has  striven  with  such  merciless  determina- 
tion to  commit  is,  by  force,  accomplished. 
His  triumph,  however,  is  fatal  alike  to 
his  victim  and  to  himself.  Smitten  wiih 
remorse,  or  with  as  near  an  approach  to 
that  emotion  as  his  nature  is  capable  o£ 
feeling,  Clarissa's  betrayer  entreats  her  to 
forgive  him  and  become  his  wife;  but  it 
is  then  too  late.  She  too  deeply  '*  de- 
spises the  wretch  who  could  rob  himself 
of  his  wife's  virtue,"  and  as  soon  as  she 
is  freed  from  her  captivity  she  secludes 
herself  altogether  from  the  world.  But 
her  sufferings  have  broken  her  heart,  and 
she  pines  slowly  away  and  dies,  unrecon- 
ciled to  her  family,  and  attended  in  her 
last  moments  only  by  a  repentant  friend  of 
Lovelace's,  John  Belford,  and  her  cousin. 
Colonel  Morden,  bv  whose  hand  her  per- 
secutor ultimately  tails. 

The  imperfections    of   this    story  are 
plain  enough  upon  its  face,  and  they  are 
made  yet  more  conspicuous  by  the  man- 
ner ot  its  telling.     To   begin   with,   the 
plot  is  exposed  to  the  capital  objection, 
that  while  it  professes  to  be  thoroughly 
realistic,  it  is  from  the  point  of  view  of 
real  life  preposterous.     It  is  not  so  much 
an  improbable  as  an  impossible  one;  the 
sufferings  of  Clarissa  are  as  those  of  aa 
imprisoned  princess  in  a  fairy  tale;  the 
cruelty  and  power  of  Lovelace  is  as  that 
of  the  giant  or  ogre  of  the  same  order  of 
fable.    Young  "bloods"  may  have  b>ea 
very  masterful  and  daring  in  mid-eigh- 
teenth century;  wrongful  acts  may  hive 
been  less  easily  and  quickly  brought  to 
light  in  those  days  than  in  these  of  ttie 
penny  press;  wealth  and  wickedness  rnay 
have  been  less  hopelessly  overmatchet 
a  contest  with  the  law  than  they  are  n< 
But  after  all,  the  liberty  of  the  subi 
could  not  have  been  quite  so  much  at/ 
mercy  even  of  an  equally  determined 
far  more  ingenious  plotter  than  Lovej 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON. 


353 


as  was  Clarissa's.  Even  for  women  of 
humbler  rank,  the  law  was  not  of  a  pres- 
ence so  inaccessible  as  it  seems  to  be  in 
this  romance ;  even  for  them  there  were 
courts  and  attorneys,  and  a  Habeas  Cop 
pus  Act;  but  that  Miss  Harlowe,  a  "per- 
son of  condition,"  a  young  lady  well 
known  in  the  county  society  among  which 
she  lived,  with  at  least  one  fast  friend  in 
Miss  Howe,  and  through  her  a  male  ally  in 
Mr.  Hickman,  should  have  remained  so 
long  a  helpless  captive,  is  simply  incredi- 
ble. Her  gaoler,  it  is  to  be  observed,  takes 
no  pains  to  conceal  himself  from  the  world. 
He  moves  freely  enough  in  society  during 
the  progress  of  his  vile  conspiracy ;  and 
Richardson  even  invents  the  monstrous 
incident  of  bis  meeting  and  conversing 
(in  no  very  amiable  spirit,  it  is  true)  with 
the  very  family  of  his  victim  at  the  house 
of  a  common  friend.  The  notion  of  bis 
going  about  for  weeks  and  months  in  this 
way  unmolested,  is  surely  too  gross  an 
excess  of  a  realistic  romancer's  privi- 
leges of  invention.  It  is  perfectly  cer- 
tain that  in  real  life  a  piece  of  paper  would 
have  been  very  promptly  handed  to  this 
all-subduing  gentleman,  on  which  he  would 
have  found  **  Robert  Lovelace "  com- 
manded by  George  H.  to  *Miave  in  our 
court  before  us  at  Westminster  immedi- 
ately on  receipt  of  this  our  writ,  the  body 
of  Clarissa  Harlowe  being  detained  under 
jour  custody,  with  the  day  and  cause  of 
her  being  taken  and  detained."  This, 
however,  is  of  course  the  least  of  the 
consequences  with  which  Clarissa's  perse- 
cutor would  have  been  threatened.  Love- 
lace, as  Mr.  Stephen  points  out,  **has 
every  conceivable  motive,  including  the 
desire  to  avoid  hanging,"  for  wishing  to 
obtain  his  victim's  forgiveness.  He  had, 
in  fact,  been  guilty  of  a  capital  crime, 
and,  what  is  more,  against  no  obscure 
and  powerless  person.  Indeed,  it  is  more 
than  probable  that  in  actual  life  both 
** Captain"  Lovelace  and  his  lieutenants, 
Mowbray,  De  Tourville,  and  the  other 
scoundrels,  would  have  swung  together 
on  Tyburn  tree. 

There  is  another  improbability,  how- 
ever, in  the  story,  besides  that  of  plot; 
there  is  in  the  realistic  sense  of  the  word 
an  improbability  of  character  also  in  the 
person  of  Lovelace.  Considered  as  a  se- 
rious picture  of  the  fashionable  libertine, 
the  thoroughly  abandoned  '*fine  gentle- 
man" of  his  day,  the  character  is,  of 
course,  a  monstrosity.  The  truth  is  that 
Richardson  had  as  little  actual  knowledge 
of  the  class  whom  he  thus  caricatured,  as 
the  modern  lady  novelist  has  of  the  dear, 

UVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2259 


delightful,  wicked  Guardsman,  whose 
prowess  in  the  fields  of  love  and  war  she 
similarly  exaggerates.  Men  are  of  course 
aware  that  no  flesh-and  blood  ofHcer  of 
the  Household  Brigade  is  at  once  so  prof- 
ligate, so  strong,  so  handsome,  so  daring 
a  rider  to  hounds,  so  masterly  a  whist- 
player,  and  the  wearer  of  such  costly 
dressing-gowns,  as  are  the  irresistible  he- 
roes of  the  lady's  novel;  and  many  of 
Richardson's  contemporaries  must  doubt- 
less have  felt  the  same  about  Lovelace. 
The  quiet  little  bookseller  evidently  took 
^  sort  of  trembling,  delicious  pleasure  in 
the  elaboration  and  contemplation  of  the 
superhuman  wickedness  of  his  fine  gen- 
tleman. His  heartlessness,  his  cynicism, 
his  brutality  and  audacity,  are  individually 
worked  up  to  an  almost  incredible  pitch, 
and  are  quite  incredible  in  combination. 
We  may  be  perfectly  assured,  and  may 
congratulate  human  nature  on  the  assur- 
ance, that  no  such  man  as  Lovelace  ever 
existed.  But  this  is  no  objection  to  the 
story  from  the  imaginative  point  of  view.. 
It  is  not  less  certain,  I  should  think,  that 
no  such  man  as  lago  ever  existed ;  con- 
sidered  from  the  point  of  view  of  actual- 
ity, we  cannot  accept  him  as  a  faithful' 
picture  of  an  **  ancient  "  in  the  Venetiaa 
army.  But  lago,  though  beyond  the 
range  of  the  actual,  is  a  masterpiece  of 
imaginative  truth,  and  so,  and  in  a  scarcely- 
less  degree,  is  Lovelace.  The  reason 
why  the  **  monster,"  "  faultless  "  or  the 
reverse,  of  the  inferior  artist  offends  us 
is,  not  because  his  vices  and  virtues  are 
idealized  to  excess,  but  because  they  do- 
not  seem  to  be  the  vices  and  virtues  o£ 
humanity  at  all.  It  is  not  that  they  shock 
us  in  degree,  but  that  we  do  not  recognize 
them  in  kind.  It  is  far  otherwise,  how- 
ever, with  Richardson's  Lovelace.  Vil- 
lain as  he  is,  we  see  how  he  has  become 
so,  and  we  perceive  that  it  has  been 
through  the  morbid  hypertrophy  of  very 
common,  and  in  most  men  very  venial, 
foibles.  Hardly  an  act  of  treachery,  how- 
ever black,  or  of  cruelty,  however  brutal, 
is  wrought  by  him ;  hardly  a  sally  of  dia- 
bolical cynicism,  or  a  cry  of  heartless 
triumph  escapes  him,  which  cannot  be 
traced  to  the  simple  passion  of  egotism, 
in  one  or  other  of  its  two  forms  of  selfish- 
ness and  vanity.  His  attractive  and  re- 
pulsive qualities  are  all  of  a  piece,  and 
are  all  woven  of  the  stuff  of  bis  self-love. 
His  good-humor,  his  gaietv,  his  savoir 
faire^  his  fascination  even  for  the  people 
who  dislike  him,  are  all  born  of  his  desire 
to  gratify  himself ;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  we  see  that  bis  egotism  is  doubly 


354 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON. 


the  parent  of  his  crimes,  in  prompting 
htm  to  their  commission,  and  in  partially 
blinding  him,  cynic  though  he  is,  to  their 
full  enormity.  There  is  an  admirable 
subtlety  in  the  way  in  which  Richardson 
shows  the  secret  workings  of  Lovelace's 
ever-active  selfishness  and  his  unsleeping 
vanity  even  in  his  momentary  outbursts 
of  remorse.  His  letters  are  full  of 
touches  of  perfectly  natural,  yet  perfectly 
unconscious,  self-disclosure;  and  from 
end  to  end,  in  fact,  his  imaginative  realitv, 
to  use  a  phrase  which  is  only  apparently 
self-contradictory,  is  consistently  an4 
roost  skilfuUv  sustained. 

It  would  oe  allowing  too  much,  how- 
ever, to  the  third  of  Richardson's  ro- 
mances, '*  Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  to  say 
that  it  reaches  the  same  level  of  ideal 
portraiture  as  "  Clarissa  Harlowe."  In 
delineating,  at  the  request  of  his  friends, 
as  he  tells  us,  **  the  man  of  true  honor," 
in  the  person  of  this  irreproachable  bar- 
onet, Richardson  had  no  such  dramatic 
contrast  to  inspire  him  as  in  his  second 
and  greatest  romance.  Sir  Hargrave  Pol- 
lexfen  is  but  a  commonplace  and  vulgar 
foil  to  the  virtues  of  the  hero,  and  there 
is  no  thread  of  pathos  or  of  tragedy  run- 
ning through  the  story,  or  indeed  appear- 
ing in  it,  except  episodically,  to  give  play 
to  the  author's  strongest  powers.  Sir 
Charles  Grandison  shows  himself  a  man 
of  true  honor  in  eight  volumes;  and  that 
is  about  all  that  can  be  said  of  the  ro- 
mance. Unlike  '*  Clarissa,"  its  narrative 
cannot  be  said  to  hang  fire  through  the 
diffuseness  of  the  narrator's  method  ;  for 
in  strictness  of  language  it  contains  no 
narrative  at  all.  "  Why,  sir,"  once  ex- 
claimed Dr.  Johnson,  "if  you  were  to 
read  Richardson  for  the  story,  you  would 
hangf  vourseif ; "  and  "Sir  Charles  Gran- 
dison," far  more  avowedly  than  its  prede- 
cessors, dispenses  with  plot  and  relies 
upon  the  analysis  and  exhibition  of  char- 
acter alone.  But  it  illustrates,  though  in 
a  less  degree  than  "Clarissa  Harlowe," 
the  points  insisted  upon  at  the  outset  of 
these  remarks.  The  diligent  reader  of 
either,  and  especially  of  "  Clarissa,"  can 
hardly  fail  to  be  enlightened  as  to  the  true 
import  and  value  of  Richardson's  relent- 
less prolixity.  He  will  no  longer  suppose 
it  to  be  a  mere  accident  of  the  author's 
literary  manner  or  mental  constitution. 
His  public  may  have  only  tolerated  it  out 
of  regard  for  certain  other  qualities  of 


Richardson*s  which  were  not  to  be  en- 
joyed except  in  its  company;  but  uncon- 
sciously they  profited  by  it.  The  faithful 
but  exhausted  reader,  as  he  closes  one  of 
these  long-drawn  romances,  and  reflects 
upon  it,  will  undoubtedly  be  forced  to  ac- 
knowledge that  their  length  is  of  their 
essence;  that  extraordinarily  diffuse  as 
they  are,  thev  contain  comparatively  little 
matter  which  could  be  fairlv  rejected  as 
surplusage,  and  that  Richardson  and  his 
art  being  what  they  were,  his  romances 
would  not  have  been  the  better,  but  the 
worse,  for  any  abridgement  of  their  length* 
This  is  not  to  say,  of  coarse,  that  the  art 
is  of  the  highest  kind.  Undoubtedly 
there  would  be  higher  creative  genius  and 
greater  delineative  skill  in  achievins:,  by 
half  a-dozen  masterly  touches,  what  Rich- 
ardson only  contrives  to  accomplish  by 
the  patient  multiplications  of  thousands 
of  minute  strokes.  But  to  only  a  few  of 
the  great  creators  and  great  literary  crafts- 
men of  the  world  has  it  been  given  to 
produce  great  work  by  the  former  method ; 
and  it  would  be  irrational  to  complain  of 
any  lesser  artist  that  he  possesses  it  not. 
It  is  only  when  a  Diderot's  extravagance 
forces  us  to  the  comparison  that  we  need 
remind  ourselves  or  others  that  Richard- 
son is  not  Shakespeare.  At  other  times 
it  should  be  enough  for  us  that  he  uses 
his  own  literary  instruments  to  the  best 
advantage,  and  gets  the  utmost  out  of  his 
method  that  it  will  yield ;  and  no  one,  I 
think,  who  steadily  and  manfully  submits 
himself  to  a  course  of  Richardson  will 
question  that  he  does.  He  has  no  "mo- 
ments," as  the  slang  of  dramatic  criticism 
has  it;  there  are  no  flashes  of  inspiration 
in  his  work ;  no  sudden  and  happy  strokes 
of  descriptive  genius  which  seem  to  do 
the  work  of  a  chapter  in  a  line.  There 
is  hardly  any  sensible  exertion  of  power, 
and  at  any  given  instant  no  visible  growth 
of  result.  But  by  dint  of  sheer  iteration, 
he  succeeds  in  producing  the  effect  he 
desires. 

Gutta  cavat  lapidem  non  vi  sed  saepe  cadendo. 

And  though  the  drip-drip  of  that  inter- 
minable correspondence  is  to  some  meii 
soporific,  to  others  maddening,  and  tedi- 
ous, it  must  be  admitted,  to  all,  the  reader 
will  nevertheless  find,  when  the  drops 
have  at  last  ceased  to  fall,  that  they  have 
channelled  sharp  and  deep  impressions 
on  the  tablet  of  the  mind. 

H.  D.  Traill. 


A   RECOLLECTION  OF  THE   RIVIERA. 


355 


From  Temple  Bar. 
A  RECOLLECTION  OF  THE  RIVIERA. 

I  FIRST  saw  Mrs.  WJener  at  the  table 
d'hdte  of  the  H6tel  des  lies  Britanniques 
at  Cannes.  Mrs.  Wiener,  though  the 
name  is  now  so  familiar  to  me,  still  sounds 
queer  —  Wiener  being  a  foreign  appella- 
tion, seems  in  my  un-German  ears  to  go 
more  comfortably  with  madame.  Ma- 
dame Wiener  runs  so  much  more  easily. 
But  she  never  would  allow  that — if 
••  Frau "  was  withheld  by  her  English 
friends,  **then  please  call  me  like  one  of 
yourselves,"  she  would  sav,  "and  not  as 
if  I  were  a  Frenchwoman." 

We  were  about  sixty  at  dinner  that 
evening;  just  the  mixed  company  that 
one  sees  at  those  Cannes  hotels  —  a  few 
nice  people  and  a  great  many  nasty  ones 
—  a  sprinkling  of  many  nationalities,  but 
the  English  heavily  preponderating.  Mrs. 
Wiener  sat  next  to  me,  and  on  her  other 
side  was  her  husband.  Greasy  soup  and 
that  disgrace  to  the  6nny  tribe,  loup  de 
fner,  had  not  taken  the  edge  off  my  ap- 
petite, and  I  was  looking  forward  with 
interest  to  the  entree,  which,  under  the 
promising  title  of  pdtS  de  pigeons^  bade 
fair  to  be  an  improvement  on  the  previous 
dishes.  I  was  however  the  last  to  be 
served,  and  presently  glancing  past  Mrs. 
Wiener  I  discovered  that  my  chance  of 
obtaining  any  of  the  delicacy  had  van- 
ished.  Its  dimensions,  rapidly  decreasing, 
had  reached  Mr,  Wiener,  and  he  calmly 
put  upon  his  plate  all  that  remained  — 
just  enough  for  three  people,  as  our  host 
had  apparently  calculated.  His  wife 
seemed  to  consider  this  a  most  proper 
and  natural  proceeding;  but  catching  a 
disgusted  glance  from  me,  "Ach,"  she 
said,  "you  must  excuse  that  Dummie 
takes  all  the  pigeon  pie ;  it  is  so  good  for 
him!"  So  it  might  have  been;  but  I 
thought  that  a  little  of  it  would  have  been 
good  for  me  too  after  my  long  journey.  I 
was  speedily  consoled,  however;  a  low 
roar  of  disappointment  from  **  Dummie  *' 
fixed  all  eyes  upon  him.  Heedless  of  the 
public  attention,  he  engaged  in  a  loud  and 
animated  altercation  with  the  German 
head  waiter;  one  long,  thin  hand  held  a 
fork  aloft  in  the  air,  upon  which  was 
poised  not  a  limb  of  savory  pigeon,  but  a 
thick  slice  of  cold  mutton  —  and  the  other 
hand  pointed  to  his  plate,  upon  which 
companion  slices  reposed.  I  did  not 
understand  the  idiomatic  German  which 
ensued,  but  what  had  happened  was  only 
too  plain.  The  pigeon  had  fallen  short, 
and  cold  mutton  had  been  hastily  substi- 
tuted to  eke  it  out. 


In  a  few  weeks  the  mixed  society  in 
the  hotel  had  broken  itself  up  into  little 
cliques.  We,  "the  nice  people,"  as  we 
fondly  and  exclusively  called  ourselves, 
had  made  the  "nasty"  people  understand 
that  we  did  not  want  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  them;  that  we  did  not  desire  con- 
versations with  them  in  the  garden,  where, 
for  the  sake  of  the  air  and  the  glorious 
sunshine,  we  often  established  ourselves 
with  our  work  and  books ;  that  we  did 
not  care  to  drive  with  the  wealthier  of 
them  in  the  smart  carriages,  of  which, 
with  Delpiano's  permission,  they  were  the 
possessors  for  the  season ;  in  fact,  that 
even  salutations  on  the  staircase  were  not 
agreeable  to  us. 

But  Mrs.  Wiener  set  these  unspoken 
rules  at  defiance.  We  all  adored  her,  and, 
making  much  of  her,  would  have  kept  her 
to  ourselves.  "  But  I  am  not  Sevres  por- 
celaine  like  you  are,"  she  said  to  me  one 
day ;  "  I  am  only  a  homely  little  bit  of 
Delft."  And  she  was  just  as  sweet  and 
civil  to  Mrs.  Lehmann,  the  fat  Jewish 
wife  of  a  New  York  hatter,  as  she  was  to 
me,  the  daughter  of  an  Irish  peer. 

We  used  to  have  little  tea-parties  in  one 
another's  salons  in  those  days.  I  am  told 
that  Cannes  has  now  greatly  altered,  and 
the  society  having  become  like  that  of  a 
large  city,  has  affected  even  the  hotels ; 
but  in  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking  it 
was  a  sociable,  countrified  sort  of  a  place, 
and  a  little  scandal  at  afternoon  tea,  or  at 
a  quiet  luncheon  party,  was  our  principal 
excitement. 

One  afternoon  a  few  friends  were  sip- 
ping my  orange-pekoe,  "Dummie"  and 
Mrs.  Wiener  among  the  number.  By  the 
way,  I  have  never  to  this  day  discovered 
why  she  called  him  Dummie;  Wilhelm 
was  his  name.  He  was  a  tall,  slight,  dark 
man,  very  delicate,  rather  good-looking, 
and  entirely  absorbed  in  taking  care  of 
himself. 

Miss  Reynolds  —  a  stout,  solemn  girl 
of  eighteen  who  seemed  to  look  upon  life 
as  made  for  practising,  and  who  for  eight 
hours  a  day  steadily  plodded  through 
right-hand  scales,  left-hand  scales,  scales 
with  both  hands  together,  five-finger  ex- 
ercises and  shakes,  to  the  torture  and 
despair  of  her  neighbors —  had  just  risen 
from  the  piano  where  she  had  accom- 
panied our  conversation  for  the  last  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  with  a  dreary  sonata. 
There  was  a  pause  for  a  moment  —  one^s 
little  Iremarks  always  seem  to  flow  so 
much  more  comfortably  under  the  shelter 
of  music  —  when  Dummie  turned  to  me 
and  said,  — 


A   RECOLLECTION   OF  THE   RIVIERA. 


35^ 

'*  Yoa  should  ask  my  wife  to  sing.'^ 

"  I  shall  be  deUghted,**  I  cried,  "  and  I 
would  have  asked  her  long  ago,  but  I  had 
no  idea  that  Mrs.  Wiener  sang.'* 

"Oh  yes,"  she  answered,  •*  I  sing  very 
well  indeed  —  but  not  much  now,  for 
Dummie  does  not  always  like  it  I  will 
fetch  my  music."  And  oflE  she  ran,  re- 
turning in  a  few  moments  with  an  armful. 
**  I  will  sing  you  a  Swedish  love-song," 
she  said. 

The  other  day  I  saw  that  Madame 
Nilsson  was  to  sing  that  same  song  at  St. 
James*s  Hall ;  and  for  the  sake  of  old  rec- 
ollections I  went  to  hear  it  The  great 
prima-donna  held  her  audience  enthralled, 
and  was  compelled  by  a  unanimous  encore 
to  repeat  it.  But  I  ao  not  think  she  sang 
that  little  song  more  artistically  than  when 
I  first  heard  it  in  my  tiny,  bright,  amber 
satin  salon  at  the  Hdtel  des  lies  Britan- 
niques ;  and  the  lovely  voice,  though  per- 
haps more  powerful,  was  not  sweeter  or 
more  perfect  in  its  timbre  than  my  dear 
Mrs.  Wiener's.  I  can  see  her  now  as  she 
rose  from  the  piano  and  stood  smiling  at 
our  astonishment. 

She  was  a  little  above  the  middle  height, 
with  a  fairly  good  figure,  and  a  face  which, 
insignificant  at  the  first  glance,  grew  upon 
one  in  the  most  wonderful  manner.  The 
jaws  and  chin  were  square,  the  mouth 
large,  the  nose  straight  but  too  short,  the 
intelligent  blue  eyes  spoilt  by  light,  almost 
white,  eyelashes,  the  fair  hair  plentiful 
and  growing  well  upon  her  forehead.  But 
such  a  beautiful  .xpression  —  calm  and 
bright  I  will  tell  her  story  as  she  told  it 
to  me  one  day  as  we  sat  chatting  under 
the  orange-trees  of  the  hotel  garden. 

"  I  was  quite  a  young  girl  when  Dum- 
mie saw  me  first,"  said  she.  By  the  way, 
have  I  mentioned  that  she  was  a  Swede 
and  he  a  German?  "I  bad  led  a  auiet 
life  with  my  dear  parents,  always  working 
very  hard  to  make  the  most  of  the  lessons 
they  could  give  me,  for  they  were  very 
poor.  It  was  a  great  thing  when  I  was 
allowed  to  have  twelve  English  lessons. 
Ach  !  how  I  did  work !  I  thought  of  noth- 
ing but  English,  when  I  walked,  when  I 
ate,  when  I   dressed  myself.    And  how 

?;lad  I  am  now !  for  so  many  of  my  good 
riends  all  over  the  world  have  been  En- 
glish. My  singing  —  that  went  on  always. 
And  one  day,  Dummie,  who  had  come  to 
Sweden  for  a  visit  in  the  summer,  heard 
me  sing;  and  he  said  to  the  friend  who 
was  with  him, 'That  is  my  wife!*  And 
how  happy  we  were  when  we  were  mar- 
ried and  went  home  to  settle  in  Dresden, 
where  his  dear  mother  and  all  his  rela- 


tions live !  But  we  had  not  been  in  oar 
little  house  three  months  when  Dummie 
was  taken  ill  with  the  smallpox.  O,  but 
it  was  terrible !  He  was  so  ill.  I  nursed 
him  very  carefully;  but  as  he  was  getting 
better  a  little  cold  settled  on  his  lungs. 
That  is  now  eight  years  ago,  and  he  has 
been  an  invalid  ever  since.  With  care  he 
may  live  years  and  years ;  but  any  day  21 
chill  may  take  him  from  me,  who  love  him 
so  dearly.  Every  summer  we  go  home  to 
a  little  apartment  in  Dresden  ;  and  every 
autumn  when  the  leaves  begin  to  fall  we 
come  south  like  the  swallows :  sometimes 
to  Algiers,  sometimes  to  Madeira,  some- 
times to  Nice  —  wherever  Dummie  fan- 


cies. 


fi 


<• 


And  you,**  I  asked,  '*  how  do  yoa  like 
such  a  wandering  life  ?  " 

"  Oh,  for  myself  there  is  nothing  I 
should  like  so  much  as  to  live  quietly  in 
one  place  with  Dummie,  and  to  have  kind 
friends  about  us.  I  should  love  to  have 
a  house  of  my  own,  and  I  would  take  such 
pride  in  having  everything  so  neat  and 
nice !  I  am  a  regular  old  housewife  at 
heart.  But  that  can  never  be.  All  I 
think  of  is  how  to  keep  my  dear  husband 
with  me ;  and  it  is  always  before  my  eyes 
that  one  day  I  shall  be  left  alone.  But  I 
never  let  him  see  that,  for  the  doctors 
say  everything  must  be  bright  for  him; 
bright  sunshine,  change  of  scene,  and  al- 
ways a  bright  companion.** 

And  so  she  always  was  a  bright  com- 
panion; it  was  not  often  that  she  spoke 
as  she  did  to  me  that  afternoon.  She 
was  generally  occupied  in  amusing  Dum- 
mie, in  one  way  or  another.  It  was  very 
funny  to  see  them  together;  he  made  me 
really  cross  with  him,  he  was  so  ungrate- 
ful ;  but  one  could  not  help  laughing,  all 
the  same. 

**  And  I  like  yoa  when  you  laugh,*'  he 
remarked  to  me  one  day,  **  you  make  nice 
big  eyes.  You  are  not  like  Maia ;  she 
screws  hers  up  when  she  laughs,  and  with 
her  white  eyelashes  they  look  such  ugly 
little  slits."  Which  comparison  Maia  did 
not  in  the  least  resent,  but  looked  upon  it 
as  an  excellent  joke. 

At  Easter  I  had  a  great  pleasure.  My 
nephew  arrived  in  Cannes  to  spend  a 
month  of  his  leave  with  me ;  I  was  then, 
as  now,  so  proud  and  fond  of  him.  I 
don't  think  I  have  ever  seen  a  handsomer 
young  fellow  ;  perfectly  made,  with  regu- 
lar features,  bright  china-blue  eyes  and 
yellow  hair  and  moustache.  His  adoring 
aunt  and  godmother  took  leave  of  het 
senses  where  he  was  concerned.  Glad 
though  I  was  to  have  him  with  me,  I  wa4 


A   RECOLLECTION   OF  THE   RIVIERA. 


3s; 


mach  exercised  in  my  mind  as  to  how  to 
arouse  him.  Young  men  from  a  crack 
cavalry  regiment  were  rare  in  that  man- 
less  region  ;  and  so  were  their  pet  occupa- 
tions too.  Little  excursions  to  Nice  and 
in  among  the  Alpes  Maritimes  seemed 
very  small  excitements  to  ofiEer  Charlie ; 
andf  I  did  not  urge  him  to  frequent  Monte 
Carlo,  having  an  old  maid's  horror  of 
gambling.  But  to  my  intense  delight  the 
dear  bov  took  most  kindly  to  all  my  little 
ways  ox  passing  the  time;  he  declared 
that  the  mere  transition  from  bitter  east' 
winds  and  frosts  —  for  Easter  fell  early 
that  year  —  to  blue  sky  and  steady  sun- 
shine, made  existence  a  pleasure;  that 
my  little  donkey  trips  among  the  pine- 
clad  hills  were  the  jolliest  picnics  at 
which  he  had  ever  assisted;  and  that  the 
quiet  evenings  in  my  comfortable  salon, 
to  which  my  friends  were  welcome,  were 
all  that  he  cared  for  after  a  day  spent  in 
the  open  air. 

I  had  frightful  misgivings  when  he  had 
been  with  me  a  few  days  about  a  young 
Dutch  countess,. staying  with  her  mother 
ia  the  hotel.  She  was  a  very  handsome 
girl,  and  most  amusing;  she  and  Charlie 
struck  up  a  desperate  flirtation  from  the 
moment  they  set  eyes  upon  one  another. 
My  first  thought  was  one  of  delight. 
**  She  will  help  me  to  make  Charlie*s 
visit  a  pleasant  one,"  I  said  to  myself; 
and  accordingly  invited  Mademoiselle 
van  Baerle  to  join  our  little  party  upon 
all  occasions.  But  I  soon  repented  me  of 
my  rashness.  The  fair  countess  was 
clever  and  most  accomplished ;  a  perfect 
linguist  like  all  her  nation,  and  a  jolly, 
good-tempered  girl ;  but  her  fastness,  and 
her  truly  awful  knowledge  of  the  wicked- 
nesses of  the  wicked  world,  and  her  mad 
love  of  excitement  at  any  cost  I  I  shud- 
dered as  I  thought  what  might  be  the 
consequence  of  my  carelessness,  and  pic- 
tured my  sister's  aistress  if  such  a  daugh- 
ter-in-law were  presented  her.  Then  I 
tried  mv  best  to  drop  her  out  of  our  plans ; 
but  witn  no  success.  I  had  been  too  gush- 
ing at  first  to  be  able  to  disengage  myself 
all  at  once. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Wiener,  however,  con- 
soled me. 

**  It  is  nothing,'* she  said.  **  It  is  much 
too  noisy  a  flirtation  to  be  serious.  Why, 
yesterday  evening  he  ran  all  along  the 
corridor  with  her  in  his  arms,  because 
she  said  she  did  not  believe  he  could  lift 
her.  They  are  two  great  romps,  and  if 
your  nephew  were  really  in  love  he  would 
be  more  serious." 

^  I  doo't  know,"  I  sighed  despondingly. 


"  Charlie  is  never  very  serious  about  any- 
thing.   Just  look  at  them  now." 

They  made  a  pretty,  if  to  me  a  provok- 
ing picture.  We  had  been  picnic-making 
on  the  Croix  des  Gardes,  and  now,  after 
luncheon,  were  sitting  about  on  the  big 
stones  under  the  pines,  luxuriating  in  the 
air  and  magnificent  view.  Mademoiselle 
van  Baerle  and  Charlie  were  a  foreground 
worthy  of  the  landscape  behind  them; 
they  were  coquetting  about  a  bunch  of 
violets  that  she  had  been  wearing  at  her 
neck  all  the  morning.  He,  half-kneeling, 
half-sitting  on  a  boulder  of  rock  at  the 
edge  of  the  slope,  was  stretching  up  his 
hand  for  them ;  she,  standing  ab^ve,  was 
holding  them  over  his  head. 

Suddenly  the  rock  against  which  he 
was  leaning  gave  way,  and  poor  Charlie 
turned  a  complete  somersault  before  my 
startled  eyes. 

"  No  bones  broken,"  he  laughed,  as  he 
picked  himself  up;  but  his  foot  had  had 
a  nasty  wrench,  and  he  had  to  endure  all 
the  unpleasant  consequences  of  a  sprained 
ankle. 

I  think  It  was  only  then  that  I  realized 
Mrs.  Wiener's  wonderful  tact  and  sweet- 
ness, much  as  I  had  liked  her  before. 
She  was  so  good  to  my  poor  boy.  Of 
course  one  may  say  that  it  does  not  re- 
quire much  virtue  or  self-sacrifice  to  be 
kind  to  a  good-looking  young  fellow  laid 
up  on  the  sofa ;  but  it  was  the  way  in 
which  she  helped  to  make  his  imprison- 
ment bright  that  struck  me.  A  long  ap- 
prenticeship to  Dummie  had  taught  her  a 
thousand  little  arts  to  while  away  the 
time;  she  never  went  out  even  for  a 
solitary  walk  without  bringing  home 
some  amusing  story  of  what  she  had 
seen  or  heard ;  all  the  jokes  and  riddles 
of  Europe  seemed  at  her  fingers'  ends ; 
and  yet  there  never  was  such  a  sympa- 
thetic listener  —  the  most  halting  story 
appeared  witty  and  pointed  when  told  to 
her.  Her  charming  singing  too  was  a 
constant  pleasure ;  and  Schumann's  love- 
songs,  Grieg's  strange  melodies,  and  Gou- 
nod's wonderful  harmonies  brightened 
many  an  hour.  Our  favorites  were  those 
lovely  ones  of  Schumann's  in  which  he 
tells  the  story  of  a  woman's  life  from  the 
moment  when  she  first  sees  her  lover, 
through  her  courtship  and  marriage,  until 
the  day  when  her  husband  lies  dead  be- 
fore her.  But  this  last  one  Mrs.  Wiener 
never  sang.  Dummie,  strange  to  say,  did 
not  at  all  appreciate  his  wife  s  music. 

i*  I  have  too  much  of  it,"  he  remarked 
upon  one  occasion  when  she,  on  being 
asked  to  sing,  looked  to  him  for  permis* 


A  RECOLLECTION   OF  THE   RIVIERA. 


3S8 

sion.  A  most  Qnjust  observation  of  Duin- 
inie's;  for  it  was  only  in  his  absence  that 
she  f^ave  us  our  musical  treats. 

Mademoiselle  van  BaSrle  was  also  un- 
remitting in  her  attentions  to  Charlie,  and 
my  anxiety  on  that  score  was  not  allayed. 
Since  he  was  no  longer  able  to  romp  with 
her,  she  changed  her  tone  a  little  and 
plied  him  with  sentiment. 

"  I  think  there  are  no  men  like  English- 
men," I  heard  her  murmur  to  him  one 
day;  "the  Dutchmen  are  so  heavy  and 
slow  —  one  has  always  to  bestirring  them 
up;  and  Frenchmen  are  just  the  other 
way —  they  stir  one  up  a  little  too  much  ; 
but  an  Englishman  is  just  right.'* 

There  was  something  too  about  Char- 
Iie*s  look  and  manner  that  made  me  un- 
easy ;  he  was  so  restless  and  cross.  Nat- 
urally a  sprained  ankle  and  consequent 
confinement  for  a  month  upon  the  sola  do 
not  tend  to  sweeten  a  man*s  temper.  But 
there  was  something  more  than  this ;  he 
took  to  saying  nasty,  bitter  things  to  us  his 
devoted  women  slaves,  and  then  was  pro- 
portionately remorseful  afterwards.  He 
snapped  equally  at  Mrs.  Wiener,  Made- 
moiselle van  BaSrle,  and  me;  he  grum- 
bled at  everything,  the  climate  and  hotel 
life,  and  then  in  the  same  breath  declared 
that  he  should  apply  for  extension  of 
leave  so  as  to  remain  longer.  In  fact,  to 
my  watchful  eyes  the  young  gentleman 
showed  all  the  symptoms  of  being  in 
love ;  and  I  gave  Mademoiselle  van  Baerle 
the  credit  of  it.  But  one  day  he  burst 
out, — 

"  It*s  a  shame,  a  beastly,  wicked  shame ! 
He  makes  a  regular  drudge  of  her.*' 

"  He  ?  Her  ?  Who  do  you  mean  ?  "  I 
gasped  out,  very  astonished,  for  Charlie 
had  risen  from  his  sofa  and  standing  on 
one  leg,  turned  red  and  white  by  turns.  I 
reflected  hastily  that  Mademoiselle  van 
Baerle  had  no  gentleman  in  her  party, 
and  could  not,  even  by  a  fond  lover,  be 
considered  a  drudge  to  any  one. 

**  That  brute  Wiener  I  He  makes  her 
fetch  and  carry  for  him,  and  treats  her  in 
a  manner  that  I  call  scandalous  !  Selfish 
beast  I  Because,  ages  ago,  he  had  some 
illness  or  other,  he  takes  advantage  of  it 
to  make  her  life  a  burden  to  her.  There's 
nothing  the  matter  with  him  now,  except 
laziness." 

'*  Good  heavens,  Charlie  I  What  has 
made  you  so  cross?  What  has  Mr.  Wie- 
ner been  doing?*' 

** Doing?  Nothing  particular  for  him 
indeed ;  onlv  bullying  her  as  usual.  What 
do  you  think  I  heard  him  say  to  her  just 
DOW  as  they  were  passing  the  open  win- 


dow ?  '  Go,  Maia  *  (Charlie,  in  his  wrath« 
mimicked  the  foreign  accent), '  go  and  sing 
to  that  boy  and  amuse  him,  ana  make  the 
old  woman  to  ask  us  to  come  into  her 
salon  this  evening  after  dinner.  I  would 
like  a  rubber  of  whist.'  Did  you  ever 
hear  anything  like  his  impudence  ?  " 

"It  was  very  impertinent  of  him,"  I 
replied,  suddenly  sympathetic,  for  at  what 
age  does  one  like  to  be  called  an  old 
woman  ?  "  and  if  she  does  come  in  here 
this  afternoon  I  shall  let  her  see  that  I 
will  not  have  my  salon  used  as  a  public 
sitting-room." 

"Now,  auntie,  you  will  do  no  such 
thing."  cried  Charlie;  "I  will  not  have 
you  rude  to  her  because  he  is  a  beast ;  she 
never  said  anything  nasty.  She  is  only 
too  good  to  every  one ;  and  if  I  could  only 
see  her  taken  care  of  and  made  much  of, 
as  she  deserves,  instead  of  being  a  regular 
slave  to  that  lazy  brute,  I  should  go  away 
with  a  lighter  heart." 

"  Go  away,  Charlie  1  '*  I  exclaimed. 
"What  do  you  mean?  When  are  you 
thinking  of  going?" 

"  To-morrow,"  answered  Charlie  firmly. 

"But  your  foot?" 

"  Oh,  my  foot  is  all  right ;  right  enough 
to  travel,  at  least.  And  it  is  quite  time 
for  me  to  go.  You've  been  awfully  good 
to  me,  auntie,  but  the  sooner  I  get  away 
from  here  the  better." 

Any  further  remonstrances  of  mine 
were  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  Mrs.  Wiener  entered.  She  did  the 
only  thing  that  could  have  made  me  quite 
forgive  her  the  innocent  share  she  had  had 
in  Dummie's  remark.  She  went  straight 
to  the  point  and  proposed  a  rubber  of 
whist  that  evening,  "for  Dummie  would 
like  it  so  much." 

"  Delighted  !  "  cried  Charlie.  "  And  you 
must  give  us  a  song  afterwards,  for  this  is 
my  last  evening;  I'm  o£f  to-morrow." 

"  Are  you  really  ?  So  soon  ?  We  shall 
be  so  sorry  to  lose  you,"  she  answered 
sweetly,  but  to  my  attentive  ear  a  little 
indi£Eerently.  It  jarred  on  me,  for  I  saw 
the  wistful  look  in  my  poor  boy*s  blue 
eyes.  But  indeed  I  had  often  noticed  that 
feature  in  het  character ;  that  while  charm- 
ing to  all,  she  really  did  not  care  for  any 
one  much  except  her  husband.  Her  love 
for  him  seemed  to  absorb  all  the  affection 
of  her  nature ;  and  her  wandering  life,  full 
of  short  friendships  and  quick  partings, 
had  perhaps  intensified  this,  her  natural 
disposition. 

And  so  our  pleasant  little  party  was 
broken  up.  I  did  not  stay  long  after 
Charlie's   departure,  but  said  good-bye 


THROUGH   PORTUGAL. 


3S9 


with  great  regret  to  sunny  Canoes,  then 
looking:  so  lovely  in  its  spring  garb,  the 
air  laden  with  the  scent  of  the  oran<^e 
blossoms,  and  every  garden  and  meadow 
bright  with  flowers* 

I  did  not  at  all  like  parting  with  Mrs. 
Wiener ;  I  had  grown  very  fond  of  her 
during  our  winter  sojourn  together,  and 
the  uncertainty  of  ever  seeing  her  again 
made  me  doubly  sorry  to  leave  her.  She 
promised  to  write  to  me,  **Not  often 
though;  you  will  not  expect  it?  for  you 
know  how  difficult  it  is  for  me  to  write  an 
English  letter,  and  what  a  long  time  it 
takes  me.  But  just  now  and  then,  to  let 
3*ou  know  how  Dummie  is  and  where  we 
are  spending  the  winter.'*  And  exactly 
as  she  made  the  promise  she  kept  it.  For 
seven  years  I  heard  from  her ;  then  one 
winter  there  came  no  letter;  and  towards 
the  spring  I  saw  in  the  paper  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  death  at  Mentone  of 
Wilhelm  Wiener,  aged  forty  years. 

I  wrote  immediately  to  her  Dresden 
address  to  express  my  sympathy,  and 
after  some  months  received  an  answer,  in 
which  she  told  me  briefly  about  his  last 
days.  The  end  had  been  quite  painless. 
Then  she  said,  **  I  had  talked  it  over  with 
him  many  times  that  it  one  day  would 
come  to  that  and  I  was  prepared ;  but  vou 
can  understand  it  is  always  too  soon  when 
we  have  to  part  with  the  dearest  we  pos- 
sess. I  have  much  to  be  thankful  for, 
and  yet  the  best  of  all  is  missing.  But  I 
try  not  to  get  gloomy,  and  I  lead  a  very 
nice,  quiet,  homelike  life  here  with  his 
dear  relations,  who  are  all  so  good  and 
kind  to  me." 

Charlie,  who  in  these  eight  years  has 
wonderfully  altered,  changing  from  a 
bright  boy  to  a  quiet,  reserved  man  — 
talks  about  making  a  German  tour  next 
summer.  He  asked  me  the  other  day,  in 
the  most  casual  manner,  for  Mrs.  Wiener's 
address,  as  he  thought  he  would  call  on 
her  if  he  happened  to  pass  through  Dres- 
den. I  gave  it  to  my  poor  boy  —  but  I 
know  full  well  that  it  is  no  use  his  going 
to  Dresden.  She  will  cling  all  her  life  to 
her  dead  husband's  memory,  and  will  end 
her  days  in  his  birthplace  and  among  his 
people. 


From  The  Fortnightly  Review. 
THROUGH    PORTUGAL. 

The  passage  from  Southampton  to  Lis- 
bon, by  Royal  Mail  steamer  "  Elbe,"  oc- 


cupied three  flne  days  and  one  rough 
night.  My  ideas  of  the  Portuguese  capi- 
tal had  been  chiefly  founded  on  a  picture 
I  used  to  look  at  as  a  child,  representing 
it  during  the  famous  earthquake,  of  the 
houses  falling  asunder,  and  a  great  wave 
rising  to  swallow  up  the  panic-stricken 
inhabitants.  They  were  effectually  dis- 
sipated by  the  sight  of  the  pleasant, 
cheerful  city,  with  its  steep,  picturesque 
streets,  its  good-humored,  sauntering  peo- 
ple, its  gay  hanging  gardens,  and,  above 
everything,  its  tile-faced  houses,  a  tradi- 
tion from  the  time  of  the  Moors.  Most 
charming  of  all  is  the  garden  planted  by 
Lord  Lytton  and  bequeathed  by  him  to 
his  official  successors.  A  *' sentinel  cy- 
press "  at  its  entrance  keeps  watch  over  a 
wilderness  of  roses,  geraniums,  mesem- 
brianthemums,  and  pansies,  covering  the 
bare  earth  as  completely  as  a  Turkey 
carpet  would  do,  but  in  all  their  disorder 
subordinate  still  to  the  hand  that  flrst  laid 
down  their  limits.  Here,  also,  from  an 
ivy-trellised  walk,  one  may  look  down 
upon  the  broad  river  and  its  shipping. 

Sight-seeing  at  Lisbon  is  not  a  hard 
task.  Except  the  beautiful  ruined  Carmo, 
there  is  no  church  that  makes  much  im- 
pression on  the  mind  in  the  city.  Out  of 
it,  some  miles  away,  is  the  great  memorial 
church  of  Belem.  All  the  purists  And 
fault  with  it,  but  none  of  them  can  help 
being  struck  by  its  beauty.  The  original 
white  stone  of  the  exterior  is  stained  by 
time  and  weather  to  such  rich  tints  of 
buff,  and  brown,  and  black,  that  the  eye 
rests  on  it  with  constant  pleasure;  and 
inside  the  high,  slender  shafts  make  one 
look  up  beyond  all  the  redundancy  of  dec- 
oration to  the  beautiful  vaulted  roof. .  The 
cloisters,  even  among  Portuguese  clois- 
ters, are  exquisite.  In  them  we  found  a 
laughing,  shrieking,  tumbling  mass  of 
little  black-eyed  boys  rushing  after  a 
miniature  paper  kite.  They  are  orphan 
children  kept  in  the  old  convent  buildings, 
and  apparently  well  cared  for  by  the  State. 

Cintra  has  always  been  favored  by  the 
poets.  Byron  indexed  its  beauties ;  South- 
ey  celebrated  it.  When  we  left  London, 
only  a  week  before,  the  trees  were  still 
bare  and  flowers  at  an  impossible  price. 
Here  we  suddenlv  found  ourselves,  after 
the  long,  bleak  drive  from  Lisbon,  in  the 
midst  of  the  cork  woods,  and  on  all  sides 
such  a  mass  of  flowers  as  1  had  never 
seen  growing  together  —  cistus,  and  prim- 
rose, and  iris,  and  gentian,  and  honey- 
suckle, and  may,  and  broom,  and  cactus, 
and  bramble,  u>rming  a  tangled  hedge. 
At  Monseratt,  where  we  stayed  with  the 


3^0 

kindest  of  hosts,  the  plants  of  Brazil, 
Mexico,  Australia,  and  the  Pacific  have 
also  been  naturalized,  and  palms  and  tree- 
ferns  grow  and  flourish  as  if  in  their  old 
homes.  None  of  us  speaking  Portuguese, 
we  engau:ed  as  guide  a  benevolent-looking 
old  gentleman,  a  native  of  Gibraltar,  war- 
ranted to  speak  all  languages  and  to  know 
the  country  well.  We  afterwards  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  whatever  languages 
he  may  have  spoken  he  understood  none, 
and  that  he  may  have  been  acquainted 
with  his  native  rock,  but  knew  very  little 
of  any  Portuguese  town.  Even  his  name 
we  never  arrived  at  knowing.  One  of  our 
number  said  at  last  in  despair,  **  Is  it  An- 
tonio?" and  he  said,  '*No,  it  is  not;  but 
you  may  call  me  so  if  you  like.'*  So  we 
adopted  it.  He  was  very  "'umble,"  how- 
ever, and  very  anxious  to  please,  and  was 
only  a  little  stupid  and  very  deaf.  Some- 
times we  vowed  never  to  ask  him  another 
question,  and  then  one  of  us  would  forget 
past  sufferings  and  come  to  the  attack 
again,  as  at  Alcoba^a,  wishing  to  know  if 
a  cast  had  ever  been  taken  of  the  beauti- 
ful tomb  of  Inez.  **  Has  a  cast  been 
made  from  it?"  "Oh,  yes,  plenty  of 
photograph  to  buy.**  "No,"  very  dis- 
tinctly; **  but  I  want  to  know  if  a  cast  of 
It  has  been  taken  in  plaster  of  Paris." 
"No,  no,  it  has  never  been  to  Paris." 
And  the  same  night,  when  we  were  going 
to  bed  and  wanted  to  order  early  break- 
fast for  next  morning,  "  You  will  order 
bread  and  eggs."  "Oh,  yes;  I  will  go 
down  for  them  at  oncet"  "And  can  we 
have  coffee  and  boiled  milk?"  "Boiled 
milk?  Oh,  yes,  or  fried,  if  you  likel" 
He  began  by  paying  our  way  and  giving 
gratuities  in  a  magnificent  style ;  and  on 
our  giving  a  hint  that  we  expected  him  to 
consider  our  interests,  he  caused  us  to  be 
held  up  to  public  odium  before  the  inn- 
door  at  Batalha,  with  over-zeal  refusing 
to  pay  the  moderate  sum  of  one  shilling 
charged  for  milk,  sugar,  use  of  sitting- 
room,  and  tea-things.  We  remember  the 
short-lived  burst  of  economy  when,  a  day 
or  two  later,  instead  of  calling  a  fly  to  take 
us  to  the  station,  we  found  he  had  ordered 
a  carriage  driven  by  a  liveried  coachman 
and  drawn  by  a.pairof  piebald  horses,  for 
which  magnificence  we  had  to  pay  six 
shillings. 

We  had  a  very  pleasant  three-days' 
journey  to  Coimbra.  We  first  went  by 
rail  to  Azambuja,  where  a  carriage  drawn 
by  mules  met  us,  and  we  drove  on  to 
Circal.  The  day  was  bright  and  fine.  As 
we  left  Azambuja  we  looked  down  on  the 
soft  green  pillowy  tops  of  a  forest  of  stooe- 


TH  ROUGH   PORTUGAL. 


pines  a  little  beneath  us.  The  road  was 
made  cheerful  by  banks  of  mesembrian- 
themums,  pink  and  yellow,  and  vineyards 
in  which  laborers  were  busily  working  in 
gangs.  We  lunched  at  Circal,  then  and 
henceforward  finding  the  provisions  we 
had  been  advised  to  bring  with  us,  potted 
tongue  and  salmon,  a  superfluity,  for  it 
was  easy  to  make  a  choice  from  excellent 
chicken-broth  and  boiled  chicken,  boiled 
beef,  bacon,  sausages,  veal,  little  white 
cheeses  tasting  like  curds,  oranges,  good 
bread,  and  good  wine.  The  last,  as  well 
as  good  beef,  we  found  everywhere.  Mut- 
ton we  never  saw.  I  walked  on  some 
way  while  the  mules  were  resting,  and 
found  the  country  on  the  other  side  of  the 
village  of  a  different  type  :  mountain  land 
covered  with  heath,  and  furze,  and  coarse 
grass  —  a  deserted,  lonely  road.  Pres- 
ently we  heard  a  distant  wail,  which  rose 
to  a  shriek  and  died  away,  and  then  be- 
gan again  nearer,  a  prolonged  sound  of 
agony,  reminding  me  of  one  stormy  night 
in  my  childhood  when  we  had  lost  our 
way  coming  home  from  G.,  and  meeting  a 
funeral  in  the  darkness  I  had  heard  for 
the  first  time  the  weird  "  Irish  cry."  This, 
however,  was  only  one  of  the  wooden 
carts  used  by  the  peasants,  forbidden  in 
the  towns,  and  to  be  avoided  even  in  the 
country.  The  unearthly  sound  produced 
by  them  is  prosaically  accounted  for  by 
the  slipping  of  the  wheels  along  the  woocf- 
en  axle  ;  though  I  hold  to  the  belief  that 
these  carts  are  made  of  the  very  trees  in 
which  Dante  saw  the  spirits  of  the  con- 
demned imprisoned,  and  that  the  shrieks 
and  wails  proceeding  from  this  vehicle 
turned  towards  Coimbra  come  in  reality 
from  one  of  the  tortured  murderers  of 
Inez  de  Castro. 

The  bare  heath  was  varied  as  we  drove 
on  by  olive-groves  and  gardens,  the  bar- 
ren and  the  cultivated  patches  close  one 
to  the  other.  No  country  houses,  no 
parks  or  preserves  are  to  be  seen,  save  in 
one  place,  where  some  nobleman  —  "  the 
duke  "  they  called  him  —  had  built  a  high 
and  solid  wall  round  an  apparently  value- 
less and  unprofitable  piece  of  land,  about 
nine  miles  in  circumference.  Such  a  wall, 
1 1  remember,  was  built  by  a  Galway  land- 
I  lord  round  his  equally  unprofitable  terri- 
tory, "  as  if  he  was  afraid  the  estate  would 
run  away  from  him,"  our  old  huntsman 
observed.  We  found  a  lodging  at  Caldas, 
No.  9,  in  the  main  street,  as  there  was  no 
inn  open  —  a  clean,  comfortable  set  of 
rooms.  We  were  surprised  on  exploring 
the  village  to  find  it  (though  the  season 
had  not  yet  begun)  a  fashionable  health 


THROUGH   PORTUGAL. 


resort.  Hot  sulphur  water  bubbles  up, 
and  over  and  around  the  spring  have  been 
built  assembly  and  music  rooms,  and  a 
library  and  tong  corridors;  and,  what  I 
was  most  impressed  by,  an  hospital  which 
holds  four  hundred  beds,  and  in  which 
the  poor  from  all  parts  of  the  country 
seeking  healing  in  the  waters  are  lodged 
and  provided  for  by  the  government  while 
they  go  through  the  cure.  This,  like 
most  other  Portuguese  hospitals,  is  said 
to  be  very  well  managed.  Caldas  is  also 
famous  for  its  pottery;  animals  and  fish 
and  cabbage-heads  are  represented  with 
much  spirit  and  accuracy,  and  some  of 
the  ware  is  extremely  pretty.  Our  space 
for  luggage  was  unfortunately  very  limit- 
ed, and  1  only  ventured  to  buy  a  scarlet- 
and-green  tomato,  on  the  express  under- 
standing that  I  was  to  carry  it  in  my 
hand  all  the  way  to  Oporto.  I  rejoice  to 
say  it  has  survived  the  journey  in  spite  of 
many  gloomy  prophecies.  The  village 
had  a  deserted  look,  though  after  dark 
strains  of  revelry  were  heard ;  and  our 
landlady  told  us  a  ball  was  being  given  by 
the  doctor  in  honor  of  his  infant's  bap- 
tism. The  entertainment  being  particu- 
lare^  she  regretted  not  being  able  to 
procure  us  invitations,  but  she  would  be 
happy,  if  we  wished  to  look  on,  to  provide 
us  with  a  favorable  position  at  the  win- 
dows. She  was  a  most  charming  hostess, 
anxious  to  make  her  meal  agreeable,  both 
by  variety  of  dishes  and  an  uninterrupted 
flow  of  talk,  but  little  of  which  we  under- 
stood. After  the  usual  soup,  and  beef, 
and  chicken,  she  brought  in  quince 
cheese,  looking  like  sliced  golosh,  but 
very  good  to  eat,  and  little  sweet  light 
cakes  peculiar  to  the  town.  For  food, 
lodging,  wine,  service,  and  all  extras  the 
usual  charge  was  from  four  shillings  to 
four  shillings  and  sixpence  each  person 
—  a  country  to  be  kept  in  mind  by  Irish 
landlords  and  Us  rois  en  cxiL 

The  roads  were  gay  early  next  morning 
when  we  started,  for  it  was  market-day, 
and  the  country  people  were  flocking  into 
the  town,  some  driving  their  pigs,  some 
riding  donkeys  with  calfskin  saddles 
adorned  with  little  red  tassels ;  the  women 
wearing  high-crowned  hats  with  bright 
handkerchiefs  tied  on  underneath,  and 
bright  cotton  shawls ;  the  men  brown-and- 
white  striped  blankets  gracefully  thrown 
over  the  shoulder,  and  in  their  hands  long, 
brass-tipped  staves.  Most  of  the  women 
had  large  gold  earrings,  and  some  of  them, 
in  addition,  gold  chains  and  crosses  and 
filigree  heart-shaped  pendants.  We  met 
presently  a  troop  of  fish  women  running 


361 

at  full  speed  to  catch  the  market,  their 
baskets  balanced  on  their  heads.  Their 
earrings  were  hoop-shaped,  and  their 
skirts  short  and  tucked  up,  and  they  had 
embroidered  purses  hanging  at  the  side. 
The  fishermen  we  overtook  a  little  later, 
going  back  towards  the  sea  with  their 
nets.  All  had  time  to  touch  their  caps 
and  say  *'Good  day,"  for  civility  to 
strangers  is  the  rule  in  Portugal.  Here 
and  there  were  children  minding  goats 
under  the  shade  of  the  olives.  No  idlers, 
no  beggars  were  to  be  seen.  At  noon  we 
came  to  Alcobai^a,  and  walked  through  the 
town  to  the  great  abbey  church  of  the 
Cistercians.  The  market  was  going  on 
outside  it.  Gaily-dressed  women  presided 
over  heaps  of  maize,  and  oranges,  and 
eggs.  Strings  of  donkeys  were  tied  up  by 
the  wall.  A  scarlet-robed  acolyte  walked 
about  amongst  the  people  collecting  alms. 
A  broad  flight  of  steps  leads  up  to  the 
grea^  door.  Inside  all  is  very  simple 
and  grand  —  a  vaulted  roof,  rows  of  slen- 
der  columns,  no  pictures  or  tawdry  deco- 
rations to  be  seen.  Now  and  then,  not 
very  often,  a  woman  would  come  in  from 
the  busy  market-place  and  kneel  to  say  a 
silent  prayer.  In  a  side  chapel  are  the 
beautiful  tombs  of  King  Pedro  and  Inez, 
his  unhappy  bride,  placed  foot  to  foot, 
that  her  face  may  be  the  first  to  greet 
him  on  the  Resurrection  morn.  Both 
.tombs  are  sculptured  with  great  beauty, 
especially  that  of  the  queen.  Three  an- 
gels kneeling  on  either  side  support  her 
recumbent  form,  laying  down  her  head 
gently,  as  it  were,  on  the  stone  pillow. 
The  tomb  is  covered  with  carvings  —  an- 
gels playing  on  various  musical  instru- 
ments are  framed  in  delicate  shrines ;  at 
the  head  and  foot  are  represented  the 
Crucifixion  and  the  Day  of  Judgment. 
Other  tombs  in  the  chapel  have  suffered 
by  the  all-destroying  hands  of  the  French. 
We  visited  the  convent  where  Deckford 
had  lived,  and  saw  its  great  tiled  kitchen 
and  its  beautiful  cloisters,  and  then  went 
back  to  the  inn  to  lunch,  where  we  en- 
joyed above  all  a  liberal  dish  of  green 
peas  —  green  still  in  our  memories. 

We  drove  on  through  pleasant  fields 
and  vineyards,  catching  sight  now  and 
then  of  the  distant  sea,  and,  suddenly 
coming  to  an  open  space  through  the 
trees,  we  saw  before  us  the  great  memo- 
rial church  of  Batalh^,  the  Battle  Abbey 
of  Portugal,  its  pinnacles  and  the  delicate 
lace-work  of  its  roof  standing  out  against 
the  clear  blue  sky.  It  stands  quite  alone, 
except  for  the  handful  of  red-tiled  houses 
that  form  the  village,  and  from  its  roof 


362 

yoa  look  down,  not  on  the  smoke  and  tur- 
moil of  human  habitations,  but  on  green 
fields,  and  slopes,  and  olive-trees ;  and 
under  its  walls  no  troops  of  beggars,  or 
pleasure-seekers,  or  chattering  merchants 
disturb  the  stillness.  One  woman  only  I 
saw  there,  sitting  near  the  door  under  the 
shade  of  a  bright-colored  umbrella,  a  heap 
of  pottery  at  her  feet  for  sale,  and  a  don- 
key tied  up  close  by,  but  her  child  had 
fallen  asleep  in  her  arms,  and  she  did  not 
move  or  speak.  Inside,  also,  all  was 
quiet,  and  we  could  enjoy  its  beauty  —  the 
long  aisles,  the  endless  columns,  the  ex- 
quisite cloisters,  where  the  fantastic  and 
varied  stone  traceries  contrast  with  the 
quaint,  formal  garden  with  its  box-edged 
beds,  in  which  are  set  roses,  and  peonies, 
and  columbines.  One  beautiful  chapel, 
the  Imperfeita,  has  been  left  unfinished 
because  no  hand  could  be  found  to  com- 
plete the  work  in  the  spirit  of  its  first 
designer.  Where  all  is  beautiful  it  is  hard 
to  dwell  on  details,  but  for  its  own  beauty, 
and  for  its  association  with  England,  the 
chapel  of  the  Fondadores,  where  King 
Joao  and  his  queen,  Philippa  of  Lancas- 
ter, rest,  is*  perhaps  most  full  of  interest. 
The  form  of  the  chapel  is  a  square;  the 
roof  high  and  vaulted.  In  the  centre 
stands  a  high,  sculptured  tomb,  on  which 
are  represented  the  recumbent  figures  of 
the  king  and  queen,  hand  clasped  in  hand. 
The  arms  of  England  and  of  Portugal  are 
carved  underneath.  In  deep  niches  in 
the  chapel-wall  lie  the  remains  of  their 
four  younger  sons,  and  Englishmen  may 
please  themselves  in  tracing  in  the  life  of 
at  least  two  of  them  the  marks  of  their 
English  blood  —  in  Prince  Henrv,  who 
loved  the  sea  and  taught  others  to  love  it, 
and  sent  out  sailors  to  all  parts  of  the  globe 
seeking  for  new  worlds,  and  thus  laid  the 
foundation  of  the  great  colonial  empire  of 
Portugal;  and  in  Prince  Ferdinand,  who 
died  in  a  dungeon  after  many  years*  cap- 
tivity amongst  the  Moors,  refusing  to  ttie 
last  all  offers  of  freedom  and  reward  if  he 
would  but  abjure  the  Christian  faith.  On 
the  first  of  these  tombs  is  sculptured  the 
Order  of  the  Garter,  surrounded  by  a 
wreath  of  ilex  and  the  motto,  **  Talent  de 
bien  faire;"  on  the  other  a  cross,  with 
foliage  of  the  ground-ivy  and  the  words, 
"Le  bien  me  plait.'*  The  French  have 
been  here  also  burning  and  destroying, 
and  doing  as  much  harm  as  they  could 
during  the  short  time  of  their  occupation. 
We  learn  that  the  church  was  founded  in 
1387  by  the  great  king  Joao  soon  after 
the  fighting  o?  the  decisive  victory  which 
it  commemorates,  and  that  there  is  a  doubt 


THROUGH   PORTUGAL. 


as  to  the  architect  employed,  whether  he 
was  an  Irishman  named  Backet  or  an- 
other. I  am  all  for  the  Irishman,  but 
hope  he  was  not  also  respon«ible  for  the 
idea  of  laying  the  foundations  in  this  hol- 
low, where  the  water  lies  when  the  winter 
floods  begin.  We  tried  to  find  out,  through 
Antonio,  how  high  the  water  actually 
rises,  but  he  would  only  wave  his  hand 
deferentially  and  say,  as  though  he  had 
been  one  of  Canute's  courtiers,  **  As  high 
as  you  please,  sir."  That  night  we  slept 
at  Leiria.  The  inn  is  over  a  stable,  and 
one  room  looks  out  on  a  piggery  and  an- 
other on  a  fowl  yard. 

We  said  farewell  to  our  mules,  and 
took  the  train  again  at  Pombal,  interest- 
ing chiefly  from  its  association  with  the 
great  last-century  statesman  of  the  same 
name.  We  look  out  from  the  railway  car- 
riage on  level  meadows,  purple  with  vi- 
pers' bugloss,  bordering  the  Mondego, 
and  then  across  a  bend  of  the  river  where 
it  is  broadest  we  see  Coimbra,  the  Oxford 
of  Portugal,  an  ancient  and  beautiful  city, 
beautifully  set  on  a  hillside.  Bare-headed, 
black-robed  students  fill  the  streets  and 
swarm  in  and  out  of  the  doors  of  the  uni- 
versity. The  streets  are  steep  and  nar- 
row, and  here  and  there  are  unexpected 
gardens  and  blossoming  Judas  trees.  lo 
the  old  cathedral  the  walls  are  covered 
with  exquisite  oval  tiles  of  Moorish  de- 
sign, but  the  Church  of  the  Santa  Cruz, 
built  in  the  somewhat  elaborate  Flamboy- 
ant style,  contains  even  greater  treasures 
—  the  wonderful  pulpit,  a  sermon  in  stone, 
with  its  canopied  saints  and  delicate 
traceries  perfect  and  uninjured ;  and  the 
carved  wooden  stalls  in  the  coro  alto^  a 
wilderness  of  wild  fancies,  where  birds, 
and  beasts,  and  fruit,  and  flowers,  and 
armed  men,  and  prisoners  in  chains,  and 
a  bear  playing  the  bagpipes  have  been 
called  into  being.  It  is  not  often  that  one 
finds  so  many  artistic  treasures  in  a  Por- 
tuguese church  as  here,  but  even  in  the 
barest  are  generally  to  be  seen  some 
quaint  old  tiles  or  carving,  and  in  the 
sacristy  chests  adorned  with  fine  brass- 
work.  This  church  is  still  more  remark- 
able as  having  been  the  scene  of  one  of 
the  most  singular,  one  might  even  say 
ghastlv,  incidents  in  Portuguese  history. 
The  site  of  the  building  was  occupied  by 
the  ancient  church  which  contained  the 
tomb  of  that  great  Christian  hero,  AfTonso 
Henriquez,  the  real  founder  of  Portugal 
as  a  kingdom,  and  perhaps  on  the  whole 
the  most  extraordinary  man  that  the  Pe- 
ninsula has  ever  produced.  We  made  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  Garden  of  Inez  outaile 


THROUGH   PORTUGAL. 


the  town,  aod  the  blood-stained  (or  at  least 
blood-red)  stones  bordering  the  Fountain 
oC  Tears,  close  by  which  she  met  with  her 
death.  The  grand  old  *Goa.cedars  which 
shade  it  are  better  worth  seeing.  Our 
guide  wished  us  also  to  visit  the  house  in 
which  Donna  Maria  Telles  was  murdered, 
but  the  spots  wiiere  murders  have  been 
committed  are  not  now  so  rare  near  our 
own  home  that  we  cared  to  look  for  them 
here. 

One  of  our  party  had  been  so  impressed 
on  his  last  visit  by  the  Gran  Vasco  pic- 
tures  at  Vizeu  that  we  determined  to  see 
them.  We  took  the  train  to  Nellas,  the 
nearest  point  to  which  the  railway  goes. 
We  had  no  more  definite  idea  of  the 
length  of  road  we  should  have  to  drive 
than  a  vague  assertion  of  Antonio  that  it 
was  *'  about  two  Portuguese  legs."  It 
turned  out  to  be  a  three  hours'  drive 
through  a  country  more  bleak  and  dreary 
than  any  we  had  yet  seen.  The  rare 
houses  along  the  road  were  dark  and 
gloomy,  built  of  solid  blocl<s  of  granite, 
the  vines  gnarled  and  distorted,  the  trees 
dwarfed  and  mutilated,  even  the  flowers, 
heather,  and  broom,  and  cabbage  had  lost 
their  color,  and  looked  wan  and  white. 
Nor  did  the  outlook  seem  less  weird  and 

fhostly  when  next  morning  before  day- 
reak,  and  in  drizzling  rain,  we  drove 
through  the  country  again,  and  when  the 
only  sign  of  life  to  be  seen  was  here  and 
there  a  peasant  shuffling  along  under  a 
thatch  of  sodden  straw,  the  fashionable 
mackintosh  of  the  district.  But  once  at 
Vizeu  we  were  rewarded.  Vizeu  stands 
at  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea-level, 
in  the  bleak,  upland  country  we  had 
passed  through,  a  spur  of  the  grandest  of 
the  many  highland  regions  in  Portugal, 
the  Estrella  Mountains.  The  city  is 
granite-built,  and  dates  from  very  ancient 
days.  The  people  in  these  fastnesses 
preserved  their  independence  and  their 
customs  through  Roman  times,  and  in 
more  modern  ones  the  changes  of  fashion 
in  dress,  in  manners,  and  in  architecture 
are  by  no  means  as  great  as  in  places 
nearer  to  the  heart  of  civilized  movement. 
The  peasants  of  these  hills  still  wear  the 
very  primitive  brown  woollen  garb  in 
which  their  ancestors,  the  shepherd  war- 
riors who  resisted  the  Roman  legion- 
aries, lived  and  fought.  In  later  times 
the  Moors  left  traces  of  their  habits  and 
ways,  which  are  still  curiously  impressive. 
Many  of  the  windows  in  Vizeu  houses 
are  purely  Moorish  in  design,  and  still 
show  the  single,  slender,  graceful  column 
dividing  the  lights  into  two,  and  many  are 


3^1 

still  latticed  as  in  the  days  of  guarded 
harems.  From  behind  the  prison  bars 
the  prisoners  look  out  as  in  the  days  of 
Gil  Bias,  and  talk  to  their  friends  in  the 
market-place,  and  let  down  baskets  to  be 
filled  with  contributions  of  money,  food, 
and  cigarettes,  for  the  Kilmainham  sys- 
tem prevails,  and  the  friends  of  the  incar- 
cerated are  allowed  to  supply  them  with 
what  delicacies  they  can  a£Eord.  When 
at  last  we  gained  admission  to  the  sacristy 
we  recognized  at  once  the  great  picture 
ascribed  to  the,  perhaps,  mythical  Portu- 
guese painter,  Gran  Vasco.  It  represents 
St.  Peter'seated  in  a  chair  of  state,  robed 
and  mitred.  His  right  hand  is  uplifted 
as  in  the  act  of  blessing;  the  other,  in 
which  he  holds  the  keys  of  the  kingdom 
of  heaven,  rests  on  an  open  book ;  gor- 
geous drapery  falls  about  his  feet,  and  on 
his  outer  robe  are  pictured  embroideries 
of  exquisite  angel  figures.  In  the  back- 
ground on  one  side  the  saint  is  seen 
kneeling  at  the  feet  of  Jesus,  with  the 
words,  •*  Lord,  whither  goest  thou  ?  "  On 
the  other  is  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  sea  of 
Galilee  and  the  boat  from  which  he  is 
throwing  himself  to  meet  his  Master. 
There  is  no  allusion  to  the  flight  or  the 
denial.  We  see  him  only  as  the  rock, 
the  head  of  the  Church.  The  expression 
of  his  face  is  solemn  and  grand  —  the 
whole  picture  full  of  dignity.  We  turned 
from  it  at  last  to  look  at  others  said  to  be 
by  the  same  hand  —  the  *'  Baptism  in  the 
Garden "  and  a  "  St.  Sebastian.*'  This 
last  looked  suspiciously  fresh  and  bright*; 
and  an  old  gentleman,  who  was  very  po- 
litely acting  aS  cicerone,  explained  with 
pride  that  being  an  artist,  and  some  of  the 
pictures. out  of  repair,  he  had  touched 
them  up  and  effectually  settled  them ; 
which,  indeed,  we  thought  he  had.  Three 
smaller  pictures,  of  Flemish  design,  in 
the  Misericordia,  he  had  completely  re- 
painted. Some  miracle  has  up  to  the 
present  saved  the  "St.  Peter"  from  his 
hands.  In  a  side  chapel  is  another  flne 
picture  of  the  Crucifixion,  still  untouched. 
Another  of  the  very  few  flne  paintings 
in  the  country  we  saw  a  day  or  two  later 
in  the  Misericordia  Hospital  at  Oporto. 
It  represents  our  Saviour  on  the  cross. 
The  blood  flowing  from  his  side  typifies 
Christian  charity,  and  is  caught  in  a  mar- 
ble font  inscribed.  Fans  Misericordia. 
On  either  side  of  the  Saviour  are  noble 
figures  of  the  Virgin  and  St.  John  grandly 
draped.  In  the  foreground  is  a  group  of 
adorers;  in  the  forefront  of  all  the  kneel- 
ing figure  of  the  king  Emmanuel,  founder 
of  this    important  and  still  flouishing 


3^4 

charitable  institutioo,  the  Misericordia 
Hospital.  To  the  right  and  left  are  the 
princes  and  princesses.  A  very  curious 
incident  of  the  picture  curiously  enables 
us  to  fix  its  date  to  a  year  or  so.  On  the 
pavement  before  one  of  the  princes,  a  boy 
of  ten  or  eleven,  is  painted  a  cardinal's 
hat.  As  the  boy  was  actuallv  elevated  to 
this  dij^nity  at  the  a<;e  of  nine,  we  have 
but  to  add  these  years  to  the  date  of  his 
birth  to  arrive  at  the  date  of  the  picture 
—  it  could  have  been  no  other  than  1519 
or  1520.  The  learned  quarrel  over  this 
painting,  some  attributing  it  to  an  un- 
known Flemish  artist,  some  to  the  myste- 
rious Gran  Vasco.  If  it  was  painted  by 
a  native  artist  I  fancy  he  expired  with  the 
efiEort,  like  the  aloe/in  blossoming,  for  he 
has  left  no  other  work  resembling  it. 

But  at  Oporto  one  hears  less  of  pictures 
than  of  port  wine,  in  which  every  one  is 
more  or  less  interested.  It  is  drunk  uni- 
versally, and  in  its  favor  be  it  said  that 
gout  is  unknown.  We  visited  a  great 
warehouse,  and  saw  white  and  red  port 
pumped  into  vats  and  casks,  saw  inter- 
minable rows  of  pipes  and  hogsheads  in 
the  dim  half-lights  of  the  cellars,  admired 
many  curious  Rembrantesque  effects  of 
light  and  shade,  and  gained  miscellaneous 
items  of  information,  such  as  that  the 
white  port  goes  to  Russia,  and  some  very 
expensive  port  to  Manchester,  and  that 
the  army  and  navy  stores  have  been  buy- 
ing a  light  and  excellent  port  wine,  which 
they  ought  to  be  able  to  sell  at  a  moderate 
price.  The  crook  in  the  lot  of  Oporto  is 
the  dreadful  harbor-bar.  A  ship  canal 
four  miles  long  to  avoid  it  has  been 
planned,  and  is  to  be  begun  at  once.  No 
sooner,  indeed,  than  it  is  wanted.  We 
saw  a  steamer  lying  outside,  where  it  had 
been  for  three  days  already,  unable  to  get 
in.  A  bride  and  bridegroom  were  on 
board,  and  it  must  have  been  a  trying  be- 
ginning of  their  married  life,  tossing  up 
and  down  just  within  sight  of  the  calm 
river  and  the  picturesque  terraced  town. 

From  Oporto  we  made  our  last  excur 
sion,  and  also  our  pleasantest,  for  we  had 
put  ourselves  in  the  hands  of  **  Mr.  John 
Latouche,"  whose  charming  book  on  Por- 
tuguese life  leaves  little  to  be  said  about 
the  country.  Mr.  Baring,  of  the  Legation 
at  Lisbon,  was  also  of  the  party.  We 
went  by  rail  to  Braga,  a  fine  old  town, 
showing  everywhere  its  proud  double 
cross,  implying  the  supremacy  of  its  arch- 
bishop over  the  other  archbishops  of  the 
land.  The  artist  might  be  happy  there 
for  weeks,  the  old  buildings  and  bits  of 
architecture    are    so   beautiful   and   the 


THROUGH   PORTUGAL. 


streets  so  picturesque.  One  little  old 
church  I  remember  especially,  with  cor^ 
vus  and  a  raven  over  the  door,  and  roses 
growing  against  the  wall.  In  the  cathe- 
dral we  saw  the  wonderful  church  plate,  a 
goblet  of  exquisite  workmanship  hung 
with  bells;  and  in  a  worm  eaten  ivory 
case,  dark  from  age,  covered  with  curious 
carvings  of  leaves  and  animals,  and  with 
a  Cufic  inscription  round  it,  a  small  plati- 
num cup,  heavy  and  massive,  used,  they 
say,  at  the  christening  (in  1109)  of  the 
great  king  Alfonso  Henriquez.  The  tomb 
of  Count  Henriquez,  his  father,  is  in  the 
cathedral,  and  has  been  made  grotesque 
by  the  brilliant  flash  of  economy  which 
led  his  survivors  to  cut  off  the  legs  of  the 
effigy  rather  than  lengthen  the  niche  pre- 
pared for  it.  But  we  must  not  speak  of 
that  while  our  own  great  duke's  monu- 
ment remains  in  its  present  incomplete 
condition  in  St.  PauFs. 

Here  at  Braga  we  tasted  the  national 
hacalhao  (dried  cod)  and  green  wine,  the 
taste  for  both  which  may  no  doubt  be 
acquired  with  time^  patience,  and  per- 
severance. 

We  had  arranged  to  sleep  at  Bom  Jesus, 
a  sanctuary  we  had  vaguely  heard  of  as 
being  on  a  height,  and  greatly  resorted  to 
by  pilgrims.  The  tram,  or  Americano, 
took  us  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  which  rises 
suddenly  from  the  plain,  and  getting  out 
we  saw  what  appeared  to  be  a  railroad 
going  straight  up  into  the  air  and  disap- 
pearing in  the  clouds.  The  ascent  by  the 
old  road,  Mr.  Crawfurd  told  us,  would 
have  taken  an  hour  to  drive,  and  though 
there  is  a  staircase  up  to  the  top  of  the 
mountain,  it  is  a  tiring  climb  even  for  a 
strong  man,  but  by  this  new  invention, 
carried  out  by  a  Portuguese  engineer,  we 
could  reach  the  top  in  four  minutes.  The 
process  was  verv  simple :  there  were  two 
wagons  on  the  line,  going  on  cog  wheels 
and  connected  by  a  wire  rope,  and  in  each 
wagon  is  a  cistern.  When  the  wagon  at 
the  bottom  is  to  ascend,  that  at  the  top  is 
filled  with  water  and  rolls  slowly  down  as 
the  other,  being  freed  of  its  water,  mounts. 
We  all  privately  felt  a  little  uncomfortable, 
though  no  one  would  confess  it,  as  we  got 
into  the  wagon,  which  was  worked  by  a 
ragged  man  with  a  horn.  My  chief  hope 
of  safety  lay  in  the  fact  of  his  coming  up 
with  us  and  so  sharing  our  danger.  A 
few  minutes  (very  long  ones)  —  in  which 
we  felt  what  balloon-travelling  must  be 
like  and  saw  the  lower  earth  receding  — 
and  then  we  stepped  out  prepared  for  any- 
I  thing,  or  we  should  have  been  startled  by 
i  the  fairy-like  beauty  of  the  scene.    Jack, 


RUTH   HAYES. 


36s 


arriviDg  at  the  topmost  branch  of  his 
bean-stalk,  may  have  felt  similar  sensa- 
tions. We  were  in  a  garden  exquisitely 
kept,  and  laid  out  with  groups  of  flowering 
shrubs  and  trees  and  ornamental  water 
in  which  floated  pleasure-boats,  and  we 
saw  endless  labyrinthine  walks,  and  here 
and  there  open  chapels  filled  with  motion- 
less wooden  figures,  and  oak  woods  on  all 
sides ;  and  wherever  there  was  an  opening 
through  the  trees  we  saw  the  earth  beneath 
and  the  distant  mountains,  and  far,  far 
below  us  the  town  we  had  left  an  hour 
before,  looking  like  a  boy's  kite  full  at  the 
far  end,  and  with  its  long,  narrow  tail 
stretching  towards  our  hill.  All  was  silent 
and  deserted,  for  the  month  of  pilgrimage 
had  not  begun.  And  our  last  surprise 
was  a  good  hotel,  spacious  and  airy,  where 
we  found  an  excellent  dinner  and  luxu- 
rious beds.  Our  spirits  were  sobered 
next  morning  when  we  made  the  descent 
in  teeming  rain,  and  drove  into  Guimaraes, 
famed  for  plums  and  cutlery.  It  was 
May-day,  and  the  houses  and  some  of  the 
bullock-carts  we  passed  were  adorned 
with  sprigs  of  broom,  for  the  confusion  of 
witches.  The  rain  was  not  so  heavy  when 
we  reached  Guimaraes,  and  we  were  able 
to  admire  the  beautiful  door  of  the  cathe- 
dral, and  the  canopied  market  cross.  The 
organ  was  being  played  inside  the  cathe- 
dral, and  a  first  glance  into  it  was  dazzling, 
for  the  aisles  were  filled  with  kneeling 
women,  their  heads  covered  with  handker- 
chiefs of  every  hue  and  pattern,  and  as 
they  turned  slightly  to  look  at  the  stran- 
gers the  e£fect  was  that  of  a  bed  of  anem- 
ones when  the  wind  passes  over  it.  We 
conscientiously  picked  our  way  through 
the  mud  to  the  convent  cloisters.  We 
found  them  a  little  disappointing,  for 
though  the  slender  shafts  and  capitals  are 
finely  carved  and  quite  uninjured,  there  is 
DO  covered  walk  around,  and  no  garden 
inside.  They  stand  quite  by  themselves, 
like  little  model  cloisters  placed  on  an  ex- 
hibition table.  The  old  castle  of  King 
Afifonso  Henriquez  was  also  visited,  and 
we  stood  at  its  door  under  our  umbrellas 
while  we  invoked  its  guardian  through  the 
keyhole.  She  appeared  at  last  and  let  us 
in  after  much  demur.  She  might  have 
been  the  aunt  of  Affonso,  so  old  she  was 
and  wrinkled,  and  mumbling  an  unknown 
tongue. 

We  forgot  the  rain  and  remembered 
only  the  pleasure  of  our  expedition  when 
we  were  in  the  train  for  Oporto  again,  and 
from  thence  we  came  back  to  Lisbon,  to 
wait  for  the  steamer  which  was  to  take 
us  home.  AUGUSTA  Gregory. 


From  Belsravia. 


RUTH  HAYES. 


CHAPTER  I. 


The  evening  sun  touched  the  earth 
tenderly  with  its  golden  beams  as  it  sank 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  blue  stretch  of 
sea.  The  haymakers  were  busy  on  the 
cliff,  making  the  most  of  the  sunshine  to 
load  the  last  wagons  and  carry  the  sweet- 
smelling  hay  to  the  rick  in  the  farmyard. 

Not  more  than  five  minutes'  walk  from 
the  clifif  where  the  haymakers  were  work- 
ing, though  it  was  hidden  from  the  sea  by 
the  slope  of  the  hill,  stood  old  Peter  Mar- 
tyn*s  farmhouse  —  a  quaint,  old-fashioned 
house  with  a  few  trees  around  it,  and  an 
irregular  block  of  outhouses,  half  smoth- 
ered in  ivy,  behind.  The  setting  sun  shed 
a  soft,  mellow  light  in  the  farmyard,  where 
Ruth  Hayes,  old  Peter  Martyn's  grand- 
daughter,  stood  feeding  her  pigeons.  The 
old  sheep-dog,  lying  in  a  corner  of  the 
yard,  watched  her  with  sleepy,  blinking 
eyes  while  the  pigeons  fluttered  about 
her,  picking  up  the  corn  which  she  scat- 
tered to  them.  Suddenly  the  dog  gave  a 
short,  angry  bark,  and  the  pigeons  with 
one  accord  fluttered  up  to  the  roof.  Ruth 
looked  around  her  to  see  who  could  have 
startled  them.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
house,  and  there  was  no  one  at  the  door, 
and  no  one  in  the  yard.  She  called  the 
dog,  still  growling  and  angry,  to  her  side, 
and  looking  round  again,  she  saw  that 
there  was  some  one  leaning  over  a  gate 
that  led  from  the  yard  into  a  field — a 
youn?  man,  with  a  fresh,  boyish  face,  that 
would  have  been  handsome  but  for  some 
undefined  fault  in  outline  or  expression, 
or  both.  He  had  had  time  while  he  stood 
there  to  take  in  Ruth*s  whole  figure  from 
the  top  of  her  bead  to  her  neat,  well-shod 
feet ;  he  had  admired  her  attitude  as  she 
scattered  the  corn,  and  be  had  admired 
her  simple  stuff  dress  with  the  white 
handkerchief  folded  round  the  neck. 

Ruth  looked  at  him  in  her  turn,  and  he 
slowly  took  his  arms  from  the  top  of  the 
gate,  and  unfastening  it,  came  through 
into  the  yard. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  raising 
his  hat;  **  I  am  afraid  I  am  trespassing, 
but  since  I  am  here,  can  I  find  my  way 
through  into  the  road?" 

**Yes,  that  is  the  way,"  Ruth  said, 
pointing  to  a  gate  which  hung  on  two 
massive  granite  pillars,  and  which  was 
evidently  the  chief  entrance  to  the  farm. 
**  You  will  easily  find  your  way  into  the 
road.'' 

'*  Thank  you,"  he  said,  but  he  made  no 


366 


RUTH   HAYES. 


mo\eraent  to  go  in  the  direction  she  indi- 
cated. He  stood  idly  swinging  his  cane, 
and  looking  first  at  Ruth,  then  at  the 
pigeons,  then  up  at  the  bright  sunset 
clouds,  then  back  at  Ruth  a^ain. 

**  What  a  perfect  sunset  there  will  be  ! " 
be  said  at  last. 

**  You  will  have  a  beautiful  view  of  it 
from  the  road  along  the  cliff,"  Ruth  said, 
without  looking;  at  him. 

A  slight  shade  of  annoyance  passed 
ever  his  face,  but  he  did  not  go;  he 
stooped  to  pat  the  rough  old  sheep-dog. 
»*Foor  old  fellow!"  he  said.  Ruih  did 
not  speak,  and  he  began  again. 

**  What  a  fine  old  house  this  is  I  It  is 
very  old,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  it  is,"  Ruth  said. 

•*  Don't  you  think  it  very  picturesque  ?  " 
he  went  on.  *'  I  had  no  idea  there  was 
such  a  house  in  the  neighborhood  —  and 
I  have  been  here  some  while  too." 

Ruth  smiled.  What  a  strange  young 
man,  she  thought.  What  was  he  staying 
for? 

He  lingered  a  moment  or  so  longer, 
and  then,  as  if  he  recognized  that  it  was 
time  to  go,  said, — 

**  Do  I  keep  straight  on  when  I  have 
passed  through  the  gate  ?  " 

**  Yes,  you  cannot  miss  the  way  because 
there  is  no  other  road." 

**  Thank  you  very  much,"  he  said,  lift- 
ing his  hat  again,  and  beginning  to  walk 
slowly  towards  the  gate.  He  looked  back 
when  he  opened  it.  Ruth  was  standing 
with  her  back  to  him,  gazing  up  at  the 
clouds  as  if  she  had  forgotten  his  exis- 
tence. He  gave  the  latch  a  sharp  click, 
and  she  looked  round. 

*•  Good-night,"  he  said.  But  there  was 
some  distance  between  them,  and  perhaps 
she  did  not  hear,  for  she  turned  and 
walked  into  the  house.  He  strode  away, 
and  was  soon  on  the  cliff  with  the  sea- 
breeze  blowing  in  his  face.  Then  he 
threw  himself  down  on  the  turf,  and  lay 
enjoying  the  sunset  and  the  silence,  which 
was  broken  only  once  by  the  sound  of  the 
haymakers'  voices  as  they  passed  him  on 
their  way  homewards. 

CHAPTER  II. 

Ruth  was  in  her  room  one  morning 
when  she  heard  her  grandfather  calling 
her. 

**  I'm  coming  in  a  minute,"  she  called 
back.  She  had  heard  another  voice  be- 
sides hergrandfather's,apparently  a  stran- 
ger's, and  now  she  heard  the  old  man 
politely  asking  his  visitor  to  take  a  seat. 

*^My  gran'daughter  'all  be  here  ia  a 


I 


minut';  she'll  show  you  round,"  he  went 
on,  '*  she  knows  the  pleace  so  well  as  I 
do,  though  she  ain't  lived  here  half  nor 
quarter  the  time  —  only  since  my  old 
woman  was  took  of  her  last  illness." 

**  Indeed?  "  said  the  stranger. 

*•  Yes,  she've  been  a  great  comfort  to 
me  ever  since  —  and  that's  two  years 
come  Martinmas.  I  was  never  one  of 
them  that  can  do  without  women-folk,  I 
feel  lost  like  without  'em.  I  was  brought 
up  to't,  I  s'pose,  an' you  get  used  to  any- 
thing whatever  'tis  if  you'm  brought  to  it. 
You'd  never  believe  'ow  I've  missed  the 
missis  since  she  was  took.  Ruth's  a  dif* 
ferent  sort,  quieter  like.  Why,  bless  the 
maid  !  where  s  she  to  ?    Ruth ! " 

Ruth  hurried  down  the  stairs  that  led 
into  a  corner  of  the  old  kitchen,  which 
was  the  sitting-room  of  the  family  —  a 
large,  pleasant  room,  panelled  half-way  to 
the  ceiling;  there  was  an  ancient  oak 
dresser  and  settle,  and  the  long,  low  win- 
dow had  a  cushioned  seat  in  it  from  which 
rou  could  see  the  garden  and  the  fields 
e)'ond. 

As  soon  as  Ruth  came  into  the  kitchen, 
she  saw  that  the  stranger  her  grandfather 
was  entertaining  was  the  same  young  man 
who  had  come  through  the  farmyard  a 
night  or  two  before. 

**  Ruth,"  said  her  grandfather,  in  his 
broad,  loud  tones,  moving  his  thumb  back- 
wards towards  the  visitor,  "'ere's  a  young 
gentleman  —  Mister  Jeames  —  'e  wants  to 
see  the  pleace.  I  met  'im  in  the  field  an' 
brought  'im  in,  thinkin',  as  I  was  busy, 
you  could  show'im  round  so  well  's  me; 
'e'd  like  to  meake  a  pictur'  of  the  house, 
'e  says,  an'  I  s'pose  'twon't  'urt  it." 

'*6ood-morning,"  Mr.  James  said,  ad- 
vancing a  step  towards  Ruth,  **  your  grand- 
father was  kind  enough  to  ask  me  to  come 
in  and  look  round,  I  was  so  struck  with 
the  place  the  other  night.  But  I  won't 
trouble  you.  Miss  Martyn." 

••'Tisn't  no  trouble,  I'm  sure,  and  'cr 
neame  ain't  Martyn  but  Hayes,"  the  old 
man  said,  answering  for  her.  •*  We've 
'ad  folk  'ere  afore  now  lookin'  round,  'tis 
the  oldest  'ouse  in  these  parts  by  a  long 
way.  Norman  was  the  name  of  'e  that 
built  it  I've  been  told,  but  if  'e  did  'e 
never  lived  'ere,  for  our  family  'ave  been 
'ere  time  out  of  mind,  'underds  of  years  I 
shouldn't  wonder." 

The  young  man  smiled. 

**  It  is  a  very  interesting  place,"  he  said 
leasantly.    **  I  should  think  that  it  was 
uilt  in  the  Tudor  period,  though  I  don't 
know  much  of  these  things." 

**Nor  I,  no  more  than  I've  been  told. 


C 


RUTH   HAYES. 


I  dare  say  'tis  all  one.  Perhaps  you*d 
like  to  step  out  an*  look  at  the  front.  Just 
show  the  gentleman  the  way,  Ruth.** 

Ruth  led  the  way  throug[h  a  stone  pas- 
sag^e  to  the  open  aoor.  The  young  man 
stood  a  moment  lookins;  at  the  stonework 
of  the  porch,  but  when  they  were  outside 
he  looked  more  at  Ruth  than  at  the  house 

—  the  strange  creatures  carved  over  the 
windows  and  doors  stretched  their  claws 
and  opened  their  ugly  stone  mouths  to  no 
purpose  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  and 
to  Ruth  it  was  all  familiar. 

As  they  stood  there  the  old  man  came 

OQt. 

••  I  must  be  goin'  back  to  the  field,"  he 
said  to  the  visitor,  **  but  Ruth  'ull  show 
*ee  what  you  want  to  see,  and  if  you  want 
for  to  make  a  pictur*,  there's  nobody  won't 
interfere  —  you  can  take  a  seat  there  'pon 
the  bench  an'  welcome." 

**  Thank  you,  I'm  sure,  I  shall  take  ad- 
vantage of  your  kindness,"  the  young  man 
said,  holding  out  his  hand. 

Peter  Martyn  shook  it  heartily. 
*'  You'm  more  than  welcome,"  he  said  as 
he  went  away. 

*•  Don't  let  me  keep  you,  1  expect  you 
are  busy,"  Mr.  James  said  to  Ruth  when 
they  were  left  alone. 

'*  Oh  no.  I  have  plenty  of  time  to  spare, 
if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you,"  Ruth  said, 
standing  with  her  hands  clasped  behind 
her,  looking  up  at  the  ugly  stone  creatures 
on  the  wall.    "There  is  not  much  to  see 

—  only  the  back  kitchen,  and  the  dairy, 
and  the  parlors  that  aren't  used,  and  the 
wishing-well." 

•*  Where  is  the  wishing-well  ?  I  should 
like  to  see  that,"  he  said.  And  Ruth  at 
once  led  the  way  through  the  shady,  over- 
grown garden  to  a  piece  of  ivy-covered 
wall  at  the  end,  underneath  which  was  a 
deep  rock  basin,  always  full  of  cold,  clear 
water. 

Herbert  James  looked  into  it  thought- 
fully. 

"  What  do  you  do  when  you  wish  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"You  drop  in  a  pin,  and  you  must  wish 
before  it  sinks  to  the  bottom,  then  you  are 
quite  sure  to  have  your  wish.  Lots  of 
people  come  here  from  the  village  on  Sun- 
day afternoons  on  purpose  to  wish.  It  is 
the  proper  thing  to  do,"  Ruth  said. 

"  Have  you  got  a  pin  ?"  be  asked. 

Ruth  handed  him  one. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to 
wish,"  he  said,  holding  the  pin  over  the 
well. 

"If  you  do  the  spell  \s  broken,"  Ruth 
said«  turning  to  go  back  to  the  house. 


367 

"  Then  I  shan't  wish  at  all,"  the  young 
man  said,  sticking  the  pin  into  his  coat, 
and  following  her. 

The  conversation  flagged  after  this, 
while  Ruth  was  showing  him  the  house. 
She  spoke  very  little,  and  he  began  to 
think  that  she  was  proud  and  stiff,  but  he 
could  not  be  sure.  He  wanted  to  see  her 
again,  he  was  sure  of  that. 

"  I  think  I  could  make  a  little  sketch  of 
the  house  if  I  might,"  he  said,  when  he 
was  about  to  leave.  "  I  don't  do  very 
much  in  that  line,  but  I  should  like  to  try 
this.  May  I  bring  my  things  to-morrow 
or  next  day?" 

"Oh  certainly,"  Ruth  said,  looking  at 
him  with  her  steady  blue  eyes,  apparently 
not  noticing  his  outstretched  hand. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  come  froni  this 
part  of  the  world  any  more  than  I  do,"  he 
said,  still  lingering  on.  "  You  don't  talk 
like  the  people  here." 

"  I  have  only  lived  here  a  year  or  so, 
but  I  used  to  be  here  very  often  when  I 
was  a  child.  I  thought  it  was  the  most 
beautiful  place  in  the  world  then,"  Ruth 
said,  losing  a  little  of  her  reserve. 

"  I  hope  you  think  so  still  ?  "  the  young 
man  saia  quickly. 

"  I  am  not  a  child  now,"  she  said. 

"  It  must  be  very  lonely  for  you  1  should 
think  — isn't  it?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so,"  Ruth  said. 

But  as  he  walked  away  Herbert  James 
felt  sure  that  it  was  lonely.  He  was 
lonely  himself  sometimes.  He  had  come 
to  read  with  a  clergyman  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, because  he  had  a  longing  for  nature 
and  solitude  and  a  quiet  country  life ;  but 
he  had  had  a  great  deal  of  this  lately,  and 
his  interest  in  human  nature  was  growing 
keen,  he  was  quite  ready  to  make  the 
most  of  that  which  was  near  at  hand. 


CHAPTER  III.- 


« 


That's  a  civil-spoken  young  gentle- 
man as  was  'ere  this  mornin',"  Peter 
Martyn  said  to  his  granddaughter  in  the 
evening  as  they  sat  in  the  kitchen  — 
Ruth  with  a  book  at  the  table  in  the  win* 
dow,  the  old  man  with  his  pipe  in  his  chair 
on  the  hearth. 

Ruth  looked  up. 

"  What  did  you  say,  grandfather  ?  " 

He  raised  his  voice,  and  he  always 
spoke  in  a  loud  tone,  because  his  wife  had 
been  deaf,  as  he  said,  — 

"  Bless  the  maid  I  why  can't  'ee  listen 
to  what's  said  'stead  of  pokin'  yer  eyes 
out  over  a  book  this  time  of  night?  I 
says  'twas  a  pleasant-spoken  gentleman  af 
was  'ere  this  mornin'.'* 


368 

«Ycs,"  said  Ruth. 

**  He's  livin*  over  to  Passon  CassePs 
-— study! n\  I  s*pose;  Vs  a  gentleman  of 
property,  I  b*lieve,  or  will  be  when  *e'8  of 
age." 

"  Who  ? '»  said  Ruth. 

"  Why,  you*m  dazed  to-night,  Ruth. 
Young  Jeames  I  mean,  any  one  could  a' 
told  that." 

Ruth  smiled. 

**  Did  he  tell  you  all  this  ?  "  she  asked. 

*'No,  I  'eared  most  of  it,  but  'e  told  me 
'e  was  bidin'  over  to  Passon  CassePs,  an* 
!t*s  a  dull  place  for  Mm,  I  should  think. 
He's  comin'  over  'ere  again,  I  s'pose?  " 

*'He  said  he  should.  You  seem  to 
have  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  him,  grand- 
father.'* 

"I  'aven't  got  no  fancy  for  'im.  All 
I  says  is  that  he's  a  civil-spoken  chap,  an* 
when  any  one  speaks  civil  to  me,  I  speaks 
to  'em  civil  back  again." 

"  You  couldn't  do  any  other,'*  Ruth  said, 
beginning  to  read  again. 

•*  I  wish  you'd  drop  that  ole  book,"  her 
grandfather  said,  after  a  few  minutes*  si- 
lence. **You'm  as  much  company  as  a 
millstone." 

*'  I  thought  you  wanted  to  be  quiet,'* 
Ruth  said,  getting  up  and  coming  to  sit 
opposite  him  in  her  grandmother's  chair. 

'*  I  may  'ave  said  so,  but  I  didn't  mean 
80  much  of  it.  Yer  gran' mother  used  to 
be  chatter-chatter  all  the  time.  If  I  tell 
you  to  be  quiet  you'm  as  dumb  as  a  fish 
—  she  never  took  no  notice,  poor  soul ! " 

Ruth  was  silent,  thinking  of  her  grand- 
mother. 

"The  'ay  'arvest 'ull  bring  in  a  good 
penny  this  year,"  the  old  man  began 
again.  **l'm  thinkin'  of  makin'  a  few 
improvements  in  the  farm.  John  Mason 
is  goin'  to  to  'is  pleace,  so  why  shouldn't 
I  ?  Speakingof 'im, 'ow  do'ee  like  young 
John,  Ruth?" 

"1  like  him  very  well,  but  I  like  Ms 
father  better,"  Ruth  said,  smiling  at  the 
question. 

"  Like  'is  father  better,  do  'ee?  Well, 
that's  the  best  thing  I've  'eard  this  long 
time!"  the  old  man  said,  rubbing  bis 
hands  and  chuckling. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  at  the 
same  moment. 

"  Why,  'ere's  'is  father  comin',  I  do 
believe  !  Come  in,  John  Mason,  we  was 
just  talkin'  about  you  —  talk  of  the  divil 
an' you'll  see  'is  foot,  I've  'eared.  Come 
in,  John ! " 

John  Mason  stood  at  the  door,  rubbing 
his  shoes,  with  a  broad  smile  on  his  face. 
He  was  a  tall,  spare  man,  with  shaggy 


RUTH   HAYES. 


grey  hair  and  whiskers  standing  out  ronnd 
his  cheerful,  sun-browned  face. 

**I  ain't  'ardly  fit  for  to  come  in,"  he 
said  apologetically,  looking  down  at  his 
muddy  shoes  and  rough  worsted  stock- 
ings. "I've  jest  dropped  in  from  field, 
but  if  the  young  lady  'ull  excuse  it  —  my 
clothes  I  mane  —  I  will  step  in  for  a  min* 
ut'." 

"  Yes,  dp  come  in,"  Ruth  said,  going  to 
shake  hands  with  him. 

"  She've  just  said  she  likes  you  better 
nor  your  son,"  Peter  Martyn  said,  begin* 
ning  to  laugh  again. 

**  Well,  I  niver ! "  said  the  other,  sitting 
down  and  holding  his  sides  while  he  gave 
vent  to  a  noiseless,  shaking  laugh.  "  Joha 
'ud  'ardly  say  thank  'ee  fur  that,  would  'e, 
Peter  ?'^ 

"'Tisn't  likelv  'e  would.  *Ow's  the 
missus  to-day  ? '' 

"Middlin',  thank  'ee,  middlin'  —  an* 
John,  'e  wouldn't  thank  'ee  for  that.  Miss 
Ruth!" 

"  Grandfather  shouldn't  repeat  what  I 
say,"  Ruth  said,  laughing,  as  she  took  up 
her  knitting,  and  went  back  to  her  seat  in 
the  window. 

"  No  wonder  the  lads  is  took  with  'er 
manners!"  Mason  said,  in  a  loud  aside. 
"  I  'most  wish  I  was  a  youngster  when  I 
look  at  *er  purty  face." 

"  She  likes  you  better  as  you  be  1  '*  Pe- 
ter Martyn  said ;  and  thev  both  laughed 
again,  winking  at  each  other  across  the 
hearth. 

"I've  been  to  Stony-field," John  Mason 
said  abruptly,  after  a  pause. 

"How's  it  doin'  now.^"  Ruth's  grand- 
father inquired. 

"  Bad,  dreadful  bad !  couldn't  be  worse.'* 
John  paused  and  shook  his  head.  "  I've 
a'  tried  an  with  whate,  an'  I've  a'  tried  un 
with  oats  —  'twasn't  no  good.  I  might  so 
well  'ave  tried  to  grow  blossoms  on  the 
door-mat  1  Then  I  tried  un  with  taters, 
an'  the  craws  ate  'em  all  up,  'cept  what 
g:ot  the  blight.  An'  now  I've  put  turmits 
in  that  there  field,  an'  there's  'ardly  a  tur- 
mit  there  but  what  a  pig  'ud  turn  up  his 
nose  at." 

"'Twould  be  a  poor  look-out  for  young 
John  if  all  your  land  was  like  that,  eh  ?  " 

"  'Twould,  sure  enough ;  as  'tis,  that 
there  bit  is  more  trouble  to  me  than  all 
me  money  I " 

"Try  un  for  'ay,"  Peter  Martyn  sug- 
gested. 

"  It's  no  good.  Nothin'  'ull  thrive  but 
stones  an'  craws.  I  shall  let  'em  be  now, 
shan't  do  no  more  to  'em." 

John  Mason  relapsed  into  silence  after 


RUTH   HAYES. 


this.  He  sat  with  his  empty  pipe  in  his 
mouthy  looking  at  Ruth  and  lau«;hinfif  si- 
lently at  intervals.  After  a  while  Ruth 
got  up  and  wandered  out  into  the  garden. 

When  she  had  gone  John  Mason  sud- 
denly began, — 

**  That's  a  fine  upstanuin'  maid  of 
your*n,  Peter." 

"*Tis,"  said  Peter,  ••an*  no  nonsense 
neither.'* 

••Takes  after  you,  shouldn't  wonder," 
John  ^^gs^ested  ;  •*  but  any'ow  'tis  plain  to 
me  that  my  John  *ave  got  a  fancy  for  *er. 
An'  I  thinks  to  myself,  I'll  jest  speak  to 
Peter,  an'  if  heVe  no  objection,  an'  the 
maid  'ave  no  objection,  'twill  be  a  matter 
of  matrimony  after  a  bit.  No  'urry,  mind 
you.     What  do  'ee  think,  Peter?" 

••  I  dunno,"  Peter  said  shortly. 

••  We've  always  been  friends,"  John 
went  on  cautiously  —  "an*  'twould  seem 
natural  enough  tike  if  the  young  uns  was 
to  settle  it  up  that  way.  Young  John's 
a  good  lad,  an'  'e'll  'ave  the  bit  of  land 
when  I'm  gone.  He's  goin'  away  to  'is 
uncle's  to  improve  'isself  now  when  the 
autumn  comes.  A  good  son  'ull  make  a 
g^ood  'usband,  I've  'eared,  an*  e's  proper 
fond  of  Ruth  a'ready.  Now  I've  'ad  my 
say,  just  you  spake  your  mind,  Peter." 

••  I  dunno  I'm  sure,"  Peter  said  thought- 
fully, leaning  forward  in  his  chair  with  his 
hands  on  his  knees,  "maids  is  ticklish 
articles  to  deal  with,  an'  Ruth  mayn't  take 
to  John,  there's  no  tellin'  —  with  'er  eddi- 
cation  an' good  looks  an' all,  she  might  do 
better  perhaps.  I'm  a  bit  proud  of  'er 
myself." 

" No  wonder  you  be,"  said  John ;  ''but 
she  ain't  stuck  up  with  it  all,  she  ain't  one 
as  wouldn't  make  a  good  wife  for  such  as 
my  John." 

*  ••  1  don't  say  she  wouldn't,  but  as  I've 
said  afore,  maids  is  difficult  to  please.  If 
she  takes  a  fancy  to  young  John,  well  an' 
good,  I  shan't  gainsay  *er  —  there's  no 
accountin'  for  taste,  an'  John's  a  good  lad 
—  she  shall  choose  for  'erself,  'er  mother 
did  before  'er,  an'  if  she  went  an'  made  a 
bad  match  it's  no  reason  for  Ruth's  doin' 
the  same." 

••  No,  not  if  she  takes  after  you,"  Mason 
said  slowly.  ••  There's  no  offence,  I  'ope," 
be  added  after  a  minute.  "  I  just  spoke 
what  was  in  my  mind — if  there's  any- 
thing there  'tis  bound  to  come  out.  I'm 
a  plain  sort,  I  am." 

••You  be,  so'm  I,  thank  the  Lord," said 
Peter ;  ••  no  offence  at  all,  but  I  says  as 
'ow  young  folks  must  take  their  chance, 
it's  no  use  for  us  ole  ones  to  interfere." 

••  I  believe  you'm  right,"  John  Mason 

UVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  226o 


said,  and  both  were  silent,  partly  because 
Peter  Martyn  had  fallen  asleep  in  his 
chair  directly  he  had  finished  speaking. 

His  loud  breathing,  and  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  in  the  corner  of  the  kitchen, 
were  the  only  sounds  to  be  heard  in  the 
house  when  Ruth  came  in  from  the  garden. 

•*'S'pose  I  must  be  goin*  'ome  to  the 
missus,"  Mason  said,  rising.  ••Good- 
night, Miss  Ruth,  pleasant  drames.  I 
expect  now  you've  been  down  to  the  well 
a-wishin*  for  a  lover,  that's  what  you've 
been  doin'!" 

"No,  I  haven't;  I  went  to  see  if  the 
pigeons  were  gone  to  bed.  I  hope  you 
won*t  get  a  scolding  for  being  out  so  late," 
she  said  as  he  was  going  away. 

"There  now!  'ark  at  *er!  I'll  tell  my 
missus  what  you  say,"  he  said  laughing. 

When  he  was  gone  Ruth  sat  down  with 
her  knitting  until  it  was  too  dark  to  see 
any  longer,  then  she  woke  her  grandfather 
and  went  to  bed. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

It  was  a  quiet,  uneventful  life  that  Ruth 
Hayes  livecl  in  her  grandfather's  house. 
She  had  very  few  friends  of  her  own  age, 
and  her  grandfather's  friends  —  chieHy 
farmers  and  their  wives  —  were  perhaps 
rather  difficult  to  get  on  with.  The  only 
people  with  whom  she  felt  really  at  home 
were  the  Masons.  They  were  their  near- 
est neighbors,  and  homely,  good-natured 
folk,  whose  persistent,  plodding  good- 
temper  was  only  saved  from  monotony 
by  the  more  fitful  and  fretful  temperament 
of  the  wife  and  mother. 

John  Mason,  as  his  father  had  said,  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  Ruth  directly  she  came 
to  live  at  the  farm ;  and  he  had  formed  a 
habit  of  dropping  in  pretty  often  to  sit  an 
hour  with  her  grandfather,  when  he  might 
have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  Ruth  as 
welF. 

One  evening  —  some  weeks  after  Ruth's 
grandfather  and  his  father  had  talked 
about  him — John  Mason  came  to  the 
farm.  He  knocked  at  the  door,  but  no 
one  answered.  The  maids  were  milking 
the  cows  in  the  shed,  and  the  men  were 
not  in  from  the  fields.  John  knocked 
again,  and  then  walked  into  the  kitchen. 
There  was  no  one  there,  and  he  was  just 
going  away  when  he  looked  through  the 
open  window,  and  saw  Ruth  sitting  in  the 
garden  with  her  knitting.  At  her  side 
was  a  strange  gentleman  with  an  easel, 
sketching,  and  the  old  man  was  standing 
in  an  admiring  attitude  behind  them. 

John  Mason  hesitated  a  moment  before 
he  went  out. 


370 


RUTH   HAYES. 


**  Gooa-evenin',  Miss  Ruth,  seein'  yoa 
out  here  I  made  bold  to  come  out,"  he 
said,  as  he  joined  the  group. 

"Good-evening,"  Ruth  said,  looking  up 
from  her  knitting. 

The  young  man  looked  up  from  his 
work  at  the  same  time. 

"  Good-evenin',  sir,"  said  John. 

"  Well,  John,  and  how  ^.rtyou  f  "  Peter 
Martyn  said  in  his  loud,  cheerful  way, 
**  it*s  some  time'  since  you've  paid  us  a 
call." 

**  Yes,  'tis,"  said  John,  edging  round  to 
look  at  the  picture. 

**  I  am  making  a  little  sketch  of  the 
bouse,"  Herbert  James  said  in  explana- 
tion.    '*  Do  you  think  it  is  like  ?  " 

"Well,  it's  like  an  'tisn't  like,"  Tohn 
said,  when  he  had  looked  at  it  carefully. 
"  You've  got  too  many  chimneys  seems 
to  me,  and  them  trees  ain't  in  the  right 
place  exactly  —  but  perhaps  'tiso't  fin- 
ished." 

<'  I'm  just  putting  the  last  stroke  to  it. 
Miss  Ruth  thinks  it  is  like  —  don't  you  ?  " 
the  artist  said,  turning  to  Ruth  with  a 
smile. 

Ruth  colored  slightly. 

"It  looks  very  like  to  me,"  she  said. 

••  It's  a  marvel  to  me  'ow  'tis  done," 
her  grandfather  broke  in ;  "  'e  just  dabs 
in  the  paint  any'ow  an'  it  makes  it  a  pic- 
tur'.  Look  at  'im  !  did  'ee  ever  see  sich 
thing,  John  ?  " 

John  made  no  answer.  He  was  not  a 
person  of  keen  perception,  but  at  this  mo- 
ment he  was  sadly  alive  to  the  notion  that 
this  strange  younc^  gentleman  had  made 
an  impression  on  Ruth,  which  he  himself 
had  failed  to  do.  He  looked  down  at  his 
large,  rough  hands,  and  wondered  if  he 
could  paint  pictures  if  he  tried.  Then  he 
sizhed  heavily  and  went  and  sat  down  on 
a  oench  a  little  way  off,  with  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  and  began  to  pick  pieces  of 
grass,  biting  them  between  his  teeth  and 
throwing  them  away  again. 

It  was  little  wonder  that  he  struck 
Herbert  James  as  rather  a  moody,  ill-na- 
tured youth,  though  at  more  favorable 
moments  be  looked  honest  and  pleasant 
enough. 

Little  conversation  passed  between 
them  after  this,  and  John  had  the  uncom- 
fortable feeling  that  his  coming  had  put  a 
stop  to  it. 

The  old  man  had  strolled  away  into  the 
yard ;  Ruth  was  busy  with  her  needle- 
work, and  the  artist  with  his  sketch  ;  only 
John  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  chew  the 
end  of  a  long  blade  of  grass,  and  look  fur- 
tively at  Ruth  every  now  and  then. 


"  There  will  be  a  fine  sunset  to-night," 
Herbert  James  said  at  last,  turning  bis 
head  round  towards  the  west.  **  You  can- 
not see  it  from  the  house,  can  you  ?  " 

«  No,"  said  John. 

"  But  you  can  just  from  the  field  there," 
Ruth  said,  pointing  to  a  little  hillock  oq 
which  the  sun  was  shining  still,  though 
the  garden,  in  which  they  sat,  was  in 
shadow. 

John  Mason  looked  round  at  the  hill 
and  at  the  bench  on  the  top.  He  remem- 
bered having  found  Ruth  sitting 'there 
watching  the  sun  set,  more  than  a  year 
ago,  when  he  had  onlv  seen  her  a  few 
times;  he  rememberea  the  soft,  vague 
light  in  her  eyes  when  she  turned  them 
on  him,  as  if  she  hardly  saw  him  ;  and  he 
remembered  too  how  kindly  she  had 
spoken  to  him.  His  life  haa  been  dull 
indeed  till  then  I  He  looked  up  now, 
hoping  that  Ruth  might  go  so  far  with 
him  as  he  went  home ;  but  his  eyes  fell  oq 
the  stranger  and  he  frowned,  resuming 
his  occupation  of  biting  grass  until  Peter 
Martyn  came  back ;  then  he  rose. 

**  I  must  be  goin'  now,  Mester  Martyn^" 
he  said  shortly. 

"  What,  a'ready  ?  this  is  a  poor  sort  of 
call  — stop  an'  'ave  a  bit  of  supper  with 
Ruth  an'  me^  come  now!"  said  the  old 
man. 

"  No,  thank  vou,  I  only  dropped  In  as 
I  was  passin',"  John  said,  and  with  a 
good'Uight  to  Ruth  and  the  stranger,  be 
left  them  and  went  away. 

Herbert  James  smiled,  and  turning  to 
Ruth,  said  lightly,  "  Is  that  one  of  your 
admirers  ?  " 

Ruth  blushed  angrily. 

"  He  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  she  said,  be- 
ginning to  fold  up  her  work  as  if  she  were 
going  indoors.  * 

"  f  didn't  say  anything  against  him;  it 
seemed  to  me  quite  natural  that  you 
should  have  admirers,  and  not  unnatural 
that  he  should  be  one ! "  the  young  man 
said.  And  Ruth  still  stood  there  with  her 
knitting  in  her  hands. 

"  1  shall  ask  your  grandfather  to  keep 
this  little  sketch,"  he  said  after  a  minute 
or  so. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  but  hadn't  yoa 
better  keep  it  yourself?  Grandfather 
can  see  the  house  every  day  of  his  life." 

"  But  I  think  he  will  like  to  have  it  all 
the  same,  and  I  shall  make  a  copy  for 
myself,"  the  young  man  said,  looking  at 
the  picture  critically  before  he  gathered 
up  his  sketching  materials. 

Ruth's  grandfather  wandered  back  to 
them. 


RUTH   HAYES. 


371 


"  I  was  just  telling  your  granddaughter 
that  I  have  finished  my  sketch,"  he  said 
to  him,  **and  1  need  not  trouble  you  any 
longer  —  it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  have 
allowed  roe  to  spend  so  much  time  here." 

*'  Lor\  now,  don't  mintion  it,  it*s  been 
a  pleasure  Vm  sure  to  all  parties ;  an'  if 
you  ain't  goin'  away  I  'ope  youMl  give  us 
a  call  now  an'  again.  We  shall  miss  'ee 
fine  when  you'm  gone,"  the  old  man  said 
cordially. 

"TIpank  you  again,"  Mr.  James  said. 
"  Were  you  going  up  to  the  clifiE  to  see  the 
sun  set.' "  he  asked  Ruth. 

"  Presently,"  said  Ruth. 

**  Then  I  will  walk  so  far  with  you  if  I 
may." 

"  I  am  not  quite  ready." 

*'  I  will  wait  a  few  minutes  then,"  he 
said,  and  Ruth  went  indoors  to  get  her 
hat. 

She  lingered  a  little  while  in  the  house, 
she  did  not  want  him  to  go  with  her, 
though  she  could  think  of  no  objection  to 
make.  Her  pride  and  reserve  were  grad- 
ually giving  way,  and  young  Mr.  James 
had  managed  at  last  to  place  himself  on  a 
footing  of  familiarity  with  her  and  her 
grandfather.  With  her  grandfather  there 
had  never  been  any  difficulty,  but  Ruth 
had  taken  very  little  notice  of  the  young 
man  when  he  had  come  first  —  it  mat- 
tered little  to  her  whether  he  came  or 
not  —  but  now  it  had  become  rather  an 
important  event  in  her  monotonous  life. 
He  talked  to  her  in  his  clever,  interested 
way,  as  if  she  were  bis  equal,  or  indeed 
his  superior,  and  he  could  not  fail  to  in- 
terest her.  Her  sympathies  were  very 
active,  and  her  education  had  in  a  great 
measure  cut  her  ofiE  from  the  people 
around  her. 

The  young  man  had  begun  with  an  ad- 
miration for  he[^  pretty  face,  but  he  soon 
began  to  admire  her  strong,  passionate 
nature  —  he  was  quick  to  recognize  her 
real  capability,  and  at  this  period  he  was 
very  nearly,  if  not  quite,  in  love  with  her. 

When  Ruth  reappeared,  Herbert  James 
said  good-night  to  her  grandfather,  and 
the  two  walked  through  the  garden  and 
the  field  together.  When  they  reached 
the  top  of  the  hill,  and  saw  the  sea 
stretched  out  in  front  of  them,  and  the 
sun  like  a  great  red  ball,  below  a  belt  of 
golden  cloud,  Ruth  gave  a  sigh  of  pleas- 
ure and  sat  down  on  the  bench  that  had 
been  a  favorite  seat  of  her  grandfather's 
and  grandmother's  in  their  courting  days, 
and  was  now  a  favorite  resort  of  her  own. 
For  a  moment  she  looked  away  at  the 
sea,  then  she  turned  to  say  good-night  to 


her  companion.  But  be  had  no  intention 
of  going  yet,  he  sat  down  at  a  little  dis- 
tance. 

"  How  calm  and  blue  the  sea  is ! "  he 
began,  after  a  few  moments'  silence,  in  a 
voice  that  was  hardly  more  than  a  mur- 
mur. **  One  would  think  that  one  could 
never  weary  of  it,  yet  how  terribly  tired 
of  it  all  the  poor  fishermen  at  the  village 
there  must  be !  They  have  to  go  out  day 
after  day,  year  after  year,  till  they  must 
be  almost  glad  when  their  turn  comes  to 
sink  into  its  cruel  depths." 

Ruth  shuddered. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  turning  to  her  with 
a  smile,  '*it  is  not  such  a  hard  fate.  One 
can  imagine  many  worse  things  than  sink- 
ing into  that  blue  stillness." 

"Yes,"  Ruth  said,  fixing  her  eyes  ab- 
sently on  the  blue  line  of  the  horizon. 
"  But  I  love  the  sea,  I  should  never  weary 
of  it  or  think  it  cruel,  even  if  I  were  a 
fisherman." 

"  But  supposing  you  were  a  fisherman's 
wife,  or  a  sailor's  wife,  and  it  separated 
you  from  the  person  you  loved  best  in 
the  w^orld,  think  how  you  would  hate  it 
then ! " 

"  Even  then  I  should  know  that  it  would 
be  the  means  of   bringing  us  together 


again. 


f> 


"  What  a  very  cheerful  person  you  are  I " 
the  young  man  exclaimed,  glancing  up 
into  her  face.  **  And  yet  I  dare  say  you 
have  known  more  actual  trouble  than  I 
have.  I  suppose,  now  I  think  of  it,  that 
my  life  has  been  rather  a  happy  one.  I 
have  almost  always  been  able  to  do  what 
I  like  —  though  1  have  often  found  when 
I  tried  it  that  I  didn't  like  it  at  all."  He 
smiled,  and  Ruth  smiled  too. 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  better  to  have 
to  do  what  one  doesn't  like,  and  get  used 
to  doing  it,"  she  said. 

"One  never  can!"  he  said  warmly. 
"  You  think  so  really,  only  you  are  too 
cheerful,  too  resigned,  to  say  so.  Just 
grumble  a  little  —  say  that  you  don't  like 
your  present  life,  that  you  are  made  for 
something  better  than  to  vegetate  in  a 
place  like  this,  mixing  with  farmers  and 
laborers,  all  the  best  part  of  your  life  I 
You  don't  talk  about  yourself,  but  you 
don't  like  it,  you  can't  get  used  to  it ! 
Just  say  so  for  once.    1 1  will  do  you  good." 

Ruth's  face  became  very  grave. 

"  I  should  be  very  ungrateful  to  say 
that,  and  indeed  it  wouldn't  be  true ! " 
she  said  simply.  "  When  my  father  and 
mother  were  both  dead,  and  my  grand- 
father wanted  me  to  come  here  to  live,  it 
seemed  to  me  like  a  haven  of  rest,  and  I 


372 


RUTrt    HAYES. 


came  willingly.  I  may  be  a  coward  —  I 
know  1  am  —  but  it  is  a  bitter  thing  to 
stand  alone  in  the  world.  I  would  rather 
—  far  rather  —  be  tied  as  I  am,  than  be 
free  to  do  as  I  like  alone.  And  now  my 
grandfather  is  the  only  relation  I  have. in 
the  world  ! ''  She  ended  with  a  little  break 
in  her  voice. 

The  young  man  was  touched  by  her 
earnestness.  "  You  have  a  much  oetter 
way  of  looking  at  things  than  I/'  he  said 
humbly. 

After  this  they  sat  in  silence  until  the 
sun  had  sunk.  Then  Ruth  shivered  and 
rose,  Herbert  James  rose  too. 

"Good-night,"  she  said — and  there 
was  something  in  her  tone  that  made  him 
alter  his  intention  of  walking  back  to  the 
house  with  her. 

"  Good-night.  I  shall  come  and  bring 
the  picture  for  your  grandfather  when  it  is 
framed,''  he  said.  Ruth  did  not  speak, 
and  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
pulled  out  a  little  note-book. 

"  I  wrote  some  verses  last  night  that 
you  might  perhaps  like  to  see,"  he  i^aid. 

**  Thank  you.  May  I  take  them  home 
with  me  ?  "  she  askeci. 

**  Yes,  and  keep  them  if  you  will." 

Ruth  took  the  little  book,  and  he  held 
her  hand  in  his  a  moment,  before  she 
turned  to  walk  away.  He  watched  her 
till  her  tall,  light  figure  had  vanished  in 
the  gathering  dusk,  then  he  too  began  his 
lonely  walk  homewards. 

•        .••••• 

"  Whatever  do  *ee  bide  out  so  late  for  ?  " 
Ruth's  grandfather  said  to  her  when  she 
came  in.  "It's  time  to  shut  'ome  the 
door,  an'  it's  a  wonder  I  'adn't  shut  'ee 
out  altogether." 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  late,  grandfather," 
Ruth  said. 

**  Dedn't  know  it  was  late ! "  he  re- 
peated scornfully.  "Anyone  but  a  scat- 
terbrained maid  'ud  know  that  it's  time 
for  Christian  folk  to  be  abed,  but  they'm 
all  the  same,  maids  is !  " 

"  And  you  couldn't  do  without  them 
possibly,    Ruth  put  in. 

"If  you  think  I  couldn't  do  without 
you,  you'm  much  mistook,"  the  old  man 
retorted,  as  he  kissed  her  and  told  her  to 
make  haste  to  bed. 

Ruth  took  her  candle  and  went  up-stairs, 
but  she  did  not  go  to  bed.  She  put  the 
candle  on  the  window-ledge,  and  sat  down 
to  read  the  little  book  that  Herbert  James 
had  given  her.  When  she  opened  it,  she 
saw  that  it  contained  not  only  one  set  of 
verses,  but  a  whole  series,  neatly  written 
out  with  the  dates  attached.    Slie  began 


at  the  beginning  and  read  straight  through 
She  had  never  known  any  one  who  made 
poetry  before,  and  it  seemed  to  her  very 
wonderful  and  very  touching.  When  she 
came  to  the  last  poem  of  all,  and  found 
that  it  was  addressed  "To  Ruth,"  she 
blushed,  and  just  glanced  through  it.  It 
was  perhaps  the  best  in  the  book,  but  she 
turned  the  page  quickly,  and  shut  the 
book  with  a  sharp  little  snap.  Then  she 
sat  with  it  in  her  clasped  hands,  looking 
out  into  the  darkness,  without  noticing 
how  late  it  grew,  and  how  the  candle 
burnt  lower  and  lower,  and  the  old  clock 
in  the  kitchen  below  began  the  tedious 
operation  of  striking  twelve. 

CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  harvest-time,  and  Ruth  had  goae 
out  to  the  field  one  evening  to  give  the 
men  their  tea.  She  laughed  and  talked 
with  them  as  they  sat  round,  eating  the 
home-made  cakes  and  drinking  the  tea 
with  startling  rapidity.  A  cool  wind  was 
blowing  from  the  sea  and  clouds  were 
gathering  overhead,  but  to-night  was  the 
great  supper  at  the  ifarm,  and  the  harvest- 
ers* spirits  were  high. 

"  'Tisn't  such  a  bad  year,  Miss  Ruth  — 
not  by  a  long  way  so  bad  as  some,  with 
the  weather  we've  'ad  for  savin'  I  call  it 
very  passable  —  proper  passable,"  one  of 
the  men  said.  "If  they  goes  an'  'as  a 
Thanksgivin'  service  to  the  church  this 
year,  well  an'  good  !  I  shan't  gainsay  it. 
But  last  year!  well,  it  'most  made  me 
sick !  I  says  to  rov  missus,  says  I,  *  I 
don't  call  it  gratitoode  a-givin'  thanks  for 
what  you  'aven't  got.  I  don't  call  it  no 
compliment  to  the  Almighty.'  An'  she 
says,  says  she,  *'Ow  can  you  say  such 
things,  Jim;  ef  us  don't  thank  for  what 
us  \ive  got,  'ow  can  us  expect  to  get  no 
more  another  year?'  But  I  didn't  go  to 
the  service,  for  all  that!  ne  woman's  talk 
'ull  bring  me  round." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  your  missis, 
Jim,"  Ruth  said,  smiling. 

"D'ye  hear  what  she  says?"  another 
man  said,  driving  his  elbow  into  Jim's 
ribs. 

"  I  hear  'er  fast  enough,  an'  ef  she  was 
my  missus  I  might  sing  to  another  toon,*' 
Jim  said  gallantly.  "  We'd  a'  drink  your 
'ealth,  Miss  Ruth  —  long  life  and  a  good 
'usband  to  'ee  —  if  this  'ere  was  cider 
'stead  of  tay,"  he  went  on,  holding  up  his 
mug  and  looking  at  the  contents  a  little 
sadly. 

"  So  us  would,  so  us  would  !  though 
we've  drunk  to  'er  an'  the  master  afore 
today,"  said  his  neighbor. 


RUTH   HAYES. 


373 


"Thank  you,  and  you  will  drink  it  again 
at  supper,  I  dare  say,''  Ruth  said. 

**ShouIdn*t  wonder  but  what  we  shall. 
In  the  mane  time  us  must  get  to  work, 
thankin'  you  kindly,'*  Jim  said,  setting  his 
mug  dowo  on  the  grass,  and  rising  with  a 
heavy  sigh. 

The  others  followed  his  example,  and 
Ruth  was  left  to  go  home  with  her  empty 
basket.  Her  path  led  through  a  little 
green  lane  with  a  tall  hed(;e  on  each  side, 
at  this  time  of  the  year  bright  with  moun- 
tain-ash berries  and  colored  bramble- 
leaves.  Ruth  walked  on  with  a  smile  on 
her  face,  thinking  of  Jim  and  the  harvest 
festival.  But  when  she  came  to  the  stile 
that  led  into  this  little  lane,  the  smile  died 
out  of  her  face,  for  she  saw  that  Herbert 
James  was  standing:  there,  leaning  on 
the  stile,  with  his  back  towards  her.  For 
a  moment  she  hesitated,  and  then  she 
walked  resolutely  forward.  H erbert  James 
saw  her  before  she  came  close,  and  stood 
waiting  for  her. 

**  Ruth,"  he  said  softly,  taking  her  hand 
to  help  her  over  the  stile. 

Ruth  did  not  look  at  his  face  as  she 
gave  him  a  short  good  evening. 

He  still  held  her  hand  in  his,  and  she 
tried  to  draw  it  away. 

''Ruth!  Ruth!"  he  said  passionately, 
"  why  arc  you  so  cold  ?  why  do  you  try  to 
shun  me  ?  Do  you  hate  me  ? —  I  am  sure 
you  don't !  —  If  you  did,  I  would  go  away 
and  never  try  to  speak  to  you  again,  but 
it  would  break  my  heart,  it  would  in- 
deed ! » 

Ruth  did  not  trust  herself  to  speak, 
and  the  young  man  went  on  eagerly. 

'*  You  don't  hate  roe,  Ruth,  say  you 
don't!  I  can't  live  without  you,  I  love 
you!  Listen  to  me  a  moment  —  I've 
loved  you  from  the  very  first  time  1  saw 
you " 

**  I  won't  listen  !  "  Ruth  said,  drawing 
her  band  away  from  his,  and  setting  her 
lips,  from  which  all  the  color  had  gone, 
tight.  "You've  no  right  to  say  such 
things  to  a  girl  like  me.  You're  taking 
advantage  of  roe,  and  I've  showed  as 
plain  as  plain  could  be,  that  I  wouldn't 
have  anything  of  the  kind." 

"  1  know  you  have,"  he  said  with  some 
bitterness;  ''it's  weeks  since  I  have  had 
a  sight  of  you.  You  have  avoided  me  as 
if  I  were  absolutely  venomous,  and  I  can't 
bear  it  any  longer.  1  am  going  away  in  a 
day  or  two  and  1  must  speak  —  1  can't  go 
on  like  this!  If  you  will  only  promise  to 
marry  me  when  1  come  back,  I  can  go 
away  happy." 

He  spoke  very  earnestly,  bending  over 


her  and  taking  her  hand  again.    "  Will 
you  promise  ?  "  he  added  gently. 

Ruth  looked  at  him.  "No,  I  can't 
promise,"  she  said. 

"  Why  is  it,  Ruth  ?  what  are  you  afraid 
of?"  he  asked  half  angrily.  "You  are  a 
thousand  times  better  than  I  am  in  every 
way.  Even  if  my  father  should  oppose  it, 
what  does  it  matter?  In  two  or  three 
days  I  shall  be  of  age,  and  I  can  do  what 
I  like.  Trust  me,  Ruth  —  promise  me! 
I  shall  only  be  away  a  year  —  and  a  year 
is  gone  so  soon  !  I  wish  I  had  never  said 
I  would  go,  but  it  will  make  it  so  much 
easier  if  you  give  me  your  promise  first." 

Ruth  looked  at  him  with  her  clear  blue 
eyes.  "  No,  I  will  make  no  promises,  I 
will  wait  till  you  come,"  she  said. 

"  You  don  t  care  for  me  —  if  you  did, 
you  would  do  this  little  thing  for  me ! " 
the  young  man  said. 

"  I  said  1  would  wait,"  Ruth  answered 
gently.  They  had  walked  to  the  end  of 
the  little  overgrown  lane,  and  were  stand* 
ing  at  the  other  stile. 

"  I  will  come  once  more  to  say  good- 
bye," he  said.  Ruth  suddenly  felt  herself 
growing  weak  when  she  realized  that  her 
lover  was  really  going  away,  and  she  might 
never  see  him  again.  She  did  not  speak, 
but  stared  blankly  at  the  scarlet  berries  in 
in  the  hedge. 

"To-morrow  evening  then,"  he  said 
softly. 

"  I  must  go  now,  you  must  not  keep 
me,"  Ruth  said  in  answer. 

"  I  will  not  keep  you,"  he  said,  moving 
so  that  he  could  look  into  her  face.  "  You 
do  love  me,  Ruth,  a  little,"  he  said  after  a 
moment,  taking  her  into  his  arms  and 
kissing  her. 

As  soon  as  she  was  free,  Ruth  clam- 
bered over  the  stile  and  ran  towards 
home.  Her  heart  was  throbbing  wildly, 
and  she  kept  saying  to  herself  as  she  ran, 
"I  can't  help  it!  1  can't  help  it!  —  why 
will  he  come  ?  " 

That  evening,  at  the  harvest  supper, 
John  Mason  was  particularly  attentive  to 
Ruth,  so  that  when  her  health  was  drunk 
in  due  course,  old  Jim  had  a  sly  wink  and 
a  nud$;e  for  his  neighbor. 

"'E'd  make  'er  a  tidy  'usband,"  he 
whispered ;  "  'e's  the  right  sort  of  chap  — 
steady  an'  quiet." 

"  She  couldn't  'ave  no  fault  to  find  with 
'e  —  nor  'e  with  she  for  that  matter ! " 
said  the  other,  setting  down  his  empty 
glass  and  looking  round  at  the  company 
with  great  satisfaction. 

Ruth  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  long 


374 


UNIVERSITY   LIFE   IN   THE    EARLY   PART 


table,  with  John  Mason  at  her  side  listen- 
ing to  her  every  word  with  rapt  attention, 
and  her  laugh  was  heard  every  now  and 
then,  between  the  bursts  of  conversation 
and  the  clinking  of  glasses  all  round  the 
table. 

John  Mason  and  his  father  were  the 
last  of  all  the  company  to  leave. 

"1  shall  bp  goin*  away  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  Miss  Ruth,'*  John  said  as  they 
stood  in  the  porch  before  he  left. 

"  Every  one  seems  to  be  going  away," 
Ruth  said  quickly,  without  thinking  of 
what  she  said. 

"  1  don't  know  of  no  one  else,"  John 
said,  **but  shall  1  see  you  again  to  say 
good-bye  ?  " 

**  I  dare  say,**  Ruth  said,  holding  out 
her  hand.  **0h  yes,  we  shall  see  you 
again,  of  course." 

'*  I  will  come  in  to  morrow  as  Vm 
passinV  John  pressed  her  hand.  He 
liad  a  secret  hope  that  to-morrow  he 
might  be  able  to  tell  her  something  that 
was  on  his  mind,  and  he  smiled  nervously. 

"Good-night;  I  won't  say  good-bye, 
then,"  Ruth  said  kindly. 

John's  father  had  been  standing  by, 
looking  into  the  crown  of  his  hat  with  a 
knowing  smile,  while  they  were  speaking, 
waiting  for  his  son. 

"  It's  a  good  thing  I  bain't  goin'  too, 
ain't  it.  Miss  Ruth? "  he  said,  when  John 
had  said  good-night. 

"Yes,  we  couldn't  do  without  jfoUf"*^ 
Ruth  said,  laughing. 

"You  like  me  better  nor  young  John 
now^  'tis  my  belief,"  he  said,  with  evident 
appreciation  of  the  joke,  though  John  did 
not  seem  to  see  it,  nor  could  he  tell  why 
his  father  laughed  silently  all  the  way 
home,  unless  it  was  that  the  cider  had  got 
into  his  head. 

When  they  were  gone,  Ruth  was  left  to 
her  own  thoughts,  in  which  John  Mason 
and  his  father  had  little  share.  She  had 
given  way  at  last  to  her  lover,  and  there 
was  a -certain  joy  in  the  knowledge.  Her 
cheeks  grew  hot  as  she  went  over  in  im- 
agination the  little  scene  in  the  lane. 

But  beneath  this  feeling  of  satisfaction, 
deep  down  in  her  heart,  she  had  a  con- 
sciousness of  something  like  wrong-doing. 
She  had  fallen  away  from  her  own  stand- 
ard of  what  was  fitting  in  a  girl  in  her 
position,  and  she  had  all  her  life  shrunk 
from  any  course  which  would  alienate  her 
from  her  relatives.  But  she  would  not 
think  of  this  now,  she  would  have  perfect 
faith  in  her  lover.  At  least  she  would 
wait  until  he  came  back.  She  had  given 
him  no  promise  except  that. 


From  The  Geutleman*s  Magasine. 
UNIVERSITY  LIFE  IN   THE   EARLY  PART 
OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 

Sitting  beneath  the  limes  in  the  pleas- 
ant grounds  of  St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, on  the  occasion  of  a  garden  party 
given  by  the  master  and  fellows,  I  over- 
heard the  following  conversation.  The 
speakers  had  left  the  crowd  of  brightly- 
dressed  lawn-tennis  players,  and  were  rest- 
ing till  ready  to  begin  again. 

She  {contemplatinff  his  gaily-striped 
blazer  with  approbation) :  "  Awfully  nice 
stuflF." 

He  ijnratified) :  "  Ah,  awf  lly  nice." 

She  {with  an  air  of  economy) :  "  What 
did  it  cost?" 

He  :  "  Really  don't  know ;  oh,  yes  !  the 
man  said  it  would  be  a  guinea;  very 
cheap ! " 

She  {as  one  struck  with  amazement) : 
"  Thai's  awfully  cheap !  " 

He  {taking  up  the  chorus):  "  Oh  yes  ! 
awflly  cheap ! " 

She  {bent  on  fully  appreciating  this 
marvellous  phenomenon):  "It  must  cut 
into  a  great  deal  of  stuff,  you  know." 

He  {rather  more  languidly) :  "  Yes ; 
awful  deal  stuff." 

He  and  She  {recurring  instinctively 
to  the  original  proposition) :  "  Oh  I  very 
cheap ;  yes !  awfully  cheap  ! " 

This  set  me  wondering  whether  an  un- 
dergraduate two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago  would  have  looked  at  things  in  such 
an  airy  manner;  and  the  incident  may 
serve  as  a  peg  on  which  to  hang  a  few  de- 
tails of  University  life  in  the  days  when 
living  and  education  at  Cambridge  really 
were  "  awfully  cheap." 

When  we  read  in  the  Paston  Letters 
that  Walter  Paston's  half-year's  expenses 
at  Oxford,  about  the  year  1478,  were  some 
£fi.  $s,  5}//.,  we  are  apt  to  dismiss  the  fact 
from  our  minds  as  relating  to  a  period  so 
remote  that  it  can  hardly  be  brought  into 
comparison  with  our  own  times.  Th<tt, 
we  say,  was  before  Columbus  sailed  for 
America;  before  English  printing  had 
spread  further  than  Caxton's  press-room; 
in  short,  before  the  dissolution  of  the 
monasteries,  the  rise  of  trading  communi- 
ties to  power  and  the  development  of 
sheep-farming  had  revolutionized  English 
notions  of  prices.  Only  some  three-quar- 
ters of  a  century  had  passed  since  the 
death  of  Chaucer  —  the  Chaucer  who 
could  truthfully  depict  his  two  Cambridge 
scholars,  Alayn  and  Johan,  as  riding  to 
Trumpington  Mill  with  the  sack  of  Col- 
lege grain  for  the  gristing.    It  was  in  fact 


OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


37S 


a  primitive  time,  when  the  whip  was  still 
a  valued  academical  instrument,  not  only 
of  discipline,  but  of  direct  tuition.  For 
did  not  Agnes  Paston  desire  her  son 
Clement's  tutor,  in  1458,  to  'Mrewly  be- 
lassch  hym  "Padding,  "  for  so  did  the  last 
maystr  and  the  best  that  ever  he  bad  att 
Caumbrege."  * 

Leaving  such  remote  times,  we  shall 
find  that  although  the  great  movements 
above  referred  to,  and  which  marked  the 
close  of  the  feudal  period,  had  a  great 
e£Eect  on  the  value  of  money,  especially  in 
large  centres  such  as  London,  vet  com- 
paratively cheap  rates  obtained  in  the 
country  even  after  Drake  and  Raleigh  had 
made  the  Spanish  Indies  an  old  tale  in 
men's  mouths.  Prices  rose  erratically 
and  by  fits  in  London  itself.  This  ap- 
pears from  a  curious  complaint  of  the 
Garden  of  the  Fleet  Prison  about  the  year 

i62i.t 

In  defending  himself  from  the  charge 
of  extortion  brought  against  him  by  some 
of  his  unruly  collegiates,  he  instances  the 
dietary  rules  fixed  some  sixty  vears  pre- 
viously, by  which  he  was  bouna  to  supply 
gentlemen  prisoners  with  their  diet  (in- 
cluding a  gallon  of  wine)  at  the  rate  of  los, 

a  week  4 

When  this  rate  was  fixed,  he  says,  gen- 
tlemen of  the  Inns  of  Court  paid  but  20//. 
or  2J.  for  their  commons,  whereas  their 
prices  are  now  (1621)  raised  to  7J>.  or  Ss,  a 
week.  Although  this  latter  sum  is  far 
from  extortionate,  we  shall  find  that  those 
bent  on  economy  could  do  considerably 
better  at  Cambridge  a  few  years  later. 

Let  us  commence  with  an  instance  not 
falling  into  the  very  cheapest  category. 
Id  161 1,  Sir  Thomas  Kny  vet,  of  Ash  well 
Thorp  in  Norfolk,  sent  his  grandson 
Thomas  to  Emanuel  College,  Cambridge; 
and  we  may  suppose  that  the  young 
man's  dignity  would  require  to  be  kept 
up  at  a  little  more  expense  than  that  of  a 
plain  country  squire's  son.  Yet  from  the 
correspondence  that  passed  between  Lady 
Knyvet  and  the  tutor,  Mr.  Elias  Travers, 
which  has  been  preserved  for  us  in  the 
hitherto  unpublished  Gawdy  MSSm§  it 
appears  that  ;^40  was  his  yearly  allow- 
ance, and  that  this  sum  was  expected  to 
cover  everything.  It  is  true  that  the 
*' bouse  of  pure  Emanuel  "  (which  is  not 

*  Paston  Letters  (Gairdner's  edition),  No.  3x1,  vol. 
i.,  p.  422. 

t  The  Economy  of  the  Fleete.  Camden  Society's 
Publications,  p.  03. 

t  Kni|;hts  paid  iSj.  6</.,  and  yeomen  (who  got  but  a 
pott  of  wine)  u.  ttL  a  week. 

$  Gawdy  MSS.  /enes  Mr.  Walter  Rye,  voL  ill, 
Noa.470-4S6. 


now  considered  a  particularly  fast  college) 
was  noted  in  those  days  for  its  Puritan 
doctrine  and  precise  discipline.* 

The  tutor  rejoices  that  young  Knyvet 
will  find  no  example  of  gaming  set  him 
there,  and  the  statutes  expressly  forbade 
hunting  and  the  wearing  of  great  ruffs,t 
both  symptoms  of  what  Mr.  Travers  calls 
*'the  humorous  lust  of  boastfull  expence.*' 

From  these  letters  we  gather  the  fol- 
lowing miscellaneous  facts.  Winter  quar- 
ters were  more  expensive  than  others,  and 
the  "excessive  rate  of  things"  made  it 
difficult  for  the  youth,  though  studiously 
inclined,  to  keep  within  his  "stint"  or  al- 
lowance. The  rent  of  his  chamber,  to  be 
divided  between  himself  and  his  chamber- 
fellow,  was  only  .12s.  a  year,  and  ys,  4//. 
supplied  him  with  coal  and  candles  from 
the  end  of  long  vacation  till  the  beginning 
of  March  (1614-5).  But  perhaps  the  most 
interesting  document  is  a  more  or  less 
complete  half-yearly  account  of  young 
Kny  vet's  outgoings,  ordinary  and  extraor- 
dinary. Of  this  I  will  now  give  an  analy- 
sis, and  wish  I  could  print  side  by  side 
with  it  as  perfect  a  statement  of  some 
other  undergraduates'  bills,  let  us  say  for 
the  years  I7i5and  1815. 

"  Commons  "  for  sixrinontBs  amount  to 
£2.  los, ;  "Sising"  J  for  the  same  period, 
]^3.  95*.  Gd.;  light  and  firing  (as  already 
mentioned),  ys,  4//. ;  and,  among  minor 
items,  we  have  cash  advanced  to  him  by 
his  tutor  on  two  separate  occasions,  j^i. 
If. ;  his  hatter's  bill  zr.  6d, ;  two  pairs  of 
cuffs,  I  J.  2ti.\  incidental  expenses,  £1; 
and  a  contribution  towards  the  entertain- 
ment of  King  James  1.,  on  his  visit  to  the 
University  that  year,  of  seven  shillings ! 
The  one  act  of  extravagance  appears  in 
the  following  six  items,  which  are  marked 
in  the  margin  as  Mr.  Cradock's  little  bill 
for  things  got  at  Sturbridge  fair, — 


8  8 

1  3 
I 

2  4 


Four  dozen  of  long  buttons  . 
Black  galoun  lace   . 

3  dozen  of  black  buttons  • 
Coloured  silk  (half-ounce) 

A  sattin  Coller        .        •  • 

A  yeard  of  green  Cotton  • 

With   his   chamber  rent   the   total   only 
amounts  to  the  modest  sum  of  £g,  ^s, 

*  As  late  aa  1669  the  College  records  show  that 
offenders  were  "w^ipt  in  the  bqttry." 

t  Fourth  Report  Historical  MSS.  Commissioners, 
p.  430. 

t  "  Sising"  is  now  said  to  be  confined  to  extras  got 
from  the  buttery,  such  as  cream,  eg^s,  etc  For  an  in- 
stance of  the  older,  wider  acceptation  of  the  word  see 
King  Lear,  act.  iL,  sc.  4:  **'Ti8  not  in  thee  ...  to 
scant  my  sizes." 


UNIVERSITY   LIFE   IN   THE   EARLY   PART 


How  was  this  economy  rendered  prac- 
ticable? The  key  to  the  enigma  lies  in 
the  large  power  which  was  reposed  in  the 
tutor  by  tiie  home  authorities.  All  remit- 
tances piissed  through  his  hands,  he  was 
informed  of  the  rate  at  which  his  pupil 
was  to  live,  and  expected  to  see  that  the 
allowance  was  not  exceeded.  The  hat- 
ter's bill  of  half-a-crown  is  entered  as 
having  been  paid  by  the  tutor,  and  Mr. 
Elias  Travers  did  not  think  it  beneath  him 
to  guard  against  the  tailor's  perennial  pro- 
pensities towards  overcharging  and  "cab- 
baging." Poor  and  irregular  as  were  the 
modes  of  conveyance  in  those  days,  anx- 
ious mothers  did  not  omit  to  keep  their 
absent  sons  supplied  with  parcels  from 
home.  Lady  Knyvet,  on  one  occasion, 
sent  Tom  a  piece  of  cloth  for  a  gown,  of 
the  same  stuff  as  his  grandfather's  new 
gown,  and  did  not  fail  to  apprise  the  tutor 
what  ought  to  be  paid  for  the  making. 
Several  letters  must  have  passed  on  this 
momentous  subject,  the  pedagogue  finally 
agreeing  with  her  ladyship's  wonder  that 
the  Cambridge  "snip"  should  make  so 
little  difference  in  price  between  the  old 
gentleman's  ample  robe  and  the  (presum- 
ably) scanter  gown  of  the  undergraduate : 
"wherefor  Inhinck  it  were  not  amiss  if 
you  willed  him  to  deferr  ye  making  up  of 
It  till  his  comming  home,  wch  may  hap- 
pily save  yt  wch  ye  Taylor  here  made  a 
reckoning  to  have  had  for  his  share." 

That  this  overseeing  of  the  clothes 
formed  part  of  a  recognized  system  is 
clear  from  the  fact  that  they  fell  under  the 
tutor's  immediate  charge  at  Oxford  as 
well  as  at  Cambridge.  Lady  Brilliana 
Harley,  in  1639,  wrote  to  her  son  Edward 
at  Magdalen  Hall, "  I  like  it  well  that  your 
tutor  has  made  you  hamsome  clothes ; " 
and,  again,  "  I  like  the  stufe  for  your 
cloths  well;  but  the  cullor  of  thos  for 
euery  day  I  doo  not  like  so  well ;  the 
silke  chamlet  I  like  very  well,  both  cullor 
and  stufiE.  Let  your  stokens  be  allways 
of  the  same  culler  of  your  cloths,  and  1 
hope  you  now  weare  Spanisch  leather 
shouwes.  If  your  tutor  does  not  intend 
to  bye  your  sitke  stokens  to  wear  with  your 
silk  shute  ...  I  will  bestow  a  peare  on 
you."*  The  interesting  correspondence 
in  which  this  occurs  also  supplies  us  with 
examples  of  the  hampers  from  home,  now 
mostly  confined  to  scholars  of  tenderer 
vears.  Lady  Harley  sends  Ned  a  kid  pie, 
believing  that  "you  have  not  that  meat 
ordinarily  at  Oxford,"  and  adding  appetiz- 

*  Lady  B.    Harley* s   Letters.     Camden    Society's 
Publications,  1854,  pp.  22  and  50. 


ingly,  "On  haife  of  the  pye  is  seasned 
with  one  kinde  of  seasening  and  the  other 
with  another."*  A  baked  loin  of  veal, 
and  a  "turky  pye  with  two  turkys  in  it," 
also  come  his  way,  but  they  are  sent  at 
first  with  some  diffidence,  one  Mrs.  Ptrsoa 
(apparently  a  local  Mrs.  Grundy)  having 
informed  Lady  Harley  that  when  she  sent 
such  things  to  ^/r  son  at  Oxford  be  prayed 
her  she  would  not.f 

Considerable  trust  being  thus  reposed 
in  the  tutor,  we  find  that  parents  kept  a 
close  eye  on  him,  often  writing,  and  em- 
bracing convenient  opportunities  to  have 
him  visit  them  during  vacation  time,  when 
they  could  become  personally  acquainted. 
In  one  letter  Mr.  Elias  Travers  becomes 
quite  apologetic  over  certain  faults  and 
shortcomings  for  which  Lady  Knyvet  had 
reprimanded  him.  He  winds  up:  "Hthe 
tobacco  I  have  sometimes  taken  be  a  iust 
grievance  to  any,  I  desire  them  to  know 
yt  if  ye  forbearance  or  utter  avoidance  of 
it  will  give  vm  content,  1  shall  quickly 
quite  ridd  myself  of  it."  X 

Let  us  now  read  a  similar  series  of  let- 
ters from  another  tutor,  Nathanael  Dod, 
of  Gonville  and  Caius  College,  to  Frara- 
lingham  Gawdy,  of  Norfolk,  in  the  years 
1626-7,  concerning  the  latier's  kinsman 
Anthony.  They  will  be  found  to  confirm 
our  views  of  the  position  of  a  tutor,  and 
the  responsibility,  financial  and  otherwise, 
which  he  undertook  for  his  pupil.  The 
first  we  cite  runs  as  follows  :  §  — 

May  it  please  you  Sir,  I  receyvcd  your  let- 
ters by  your  kinsman  Anthony  Gau^y  dated 
Septemb.  17th,  Your  and  his  request  for  the 
discharging  of  his  expenses  to  the  CoUedge  I 
am  ready  to  pforme,  And  if  there  were  any 
other  thing  wherein  I  might  doe  him  any 
freindly  omce,  he  shoulde  not  find  me  back- 
ward, for  his  orderly  behaivour  in  the  house 
and  loving  affection  to  me  challenge  moore  at 
my  handes.  According  to  your  desire  I  have 
and  will  further  advise  him  to  all  frugality, 
wishing  that  he  may  be  no  lesse  pleasing  to 
you,  then  (as  I  understand)  you  are  loving  and 
helping  to  him  This  inclosed  note)}  showes 
you  his  expences  for  this  last  halfe  yeare  from 
our  lady  to  Michaelmas.  I  desire  you  would 
be  pleased  to  send  up  these  monies'soe  soone 
as  may  be  for  I  am  already  called  upon  by 
the  Colledge  officers.  There  is  due  to  Mr. 
Michells  of  ould  reckonings  ili  5s  od  wch  he  re- 
quested me  to  receive  for  him.  Vour  kinsman 
(as  he  tells  me)  hath  certifyed  you  of  the  par- 
ticulars   I  desire  (if  it  please  you)  to  receive 

•  Lady    B.    Harley's   Letters.     Camden    Society's 
Publications,  1854,  p.  53. 
t  Ibid.,  p.  13. 

X  Gawdy  MSS.  ubisu^.  No.  474. 
{  Ibid  (509). 
D  Not  extant. 


OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


377 


all  together  &  even  thus  wth  my  best  love  I 
comtait  you  to  god 

Your  unknowne  freind 

Nathanael  Doo 

Ciias  Coll  : 
Novemb.  8 
i6a6 

The  next  news  that  Mr.  Dod  has  to 
send  is  not  so  pleasant,  and  probably 
caused  some  heartache  at  Harling  Hall : 

Worthy  Sir,  I  am  now  necessarily  enforced 
in  regard  of  my  relation  to  acquaint  you  with 
a  buisnes  that  concerns  your  kinsman  and  my 
Pupill  Anthony  Gaudy.  1  could  wish  it  lay 
tipon  an  oiher  man's  tounge  or  penn,  not  mine. 
The  story  is  this.  Not  long  since  your  kins- 
man beeing  in  the.Colledge  Buttry  at  Beaver* 
at  the  pmitted  hower  betweene  8  and  9  of 
ye  clock  at  night,  the  Deane  came  in,  chargd 
him  to  be  gone,  he  tould  him  he  would  8c  was 
presently  depting.  The  Deane  teils»him,  un- 
lesse  Sr  Gaudy  you  had  forthwith  gone  I  should 
have  sett  you  out :  upon  that  your  kinsman  not 
brooking  those  speaches,  turnes  back,  and  pulls 
one  his  hatt  &  tells  him,  seeings  (xzV,  collo- 
quially  for  *' seeing  ax'')  he  used  him  soe,  he 
would  not  yet  out,  upon  that  the  Deane  strikes 
him  with  his  fist  in  the  face.  Hee  beeing  a 
man  and  of  a  spirit  could  not  forbeare,  but 
repaies  the  Deane  with  interest ;  for  this  he 
was  convented  before  the  Master  &  fellowes, 
and  a  severe  Censure  passed  one  him,  he  was 
deprived  of  his  scollershipp  and  warned  wthin 
a  monthes  space  to^provide  for  'himselfe  els- 
where.  He  is  now  therefore  come  to  you  his 
best  father,  wth  whom  I  doubt  not  he  shall  find 
wellcome,  and  I  hope  you  will  passe  a  milder 
censure  one  him  then  others  have  done.  I 
assure  you  I  find  him  to  be  one  of  such  a  Na- 
ture and  disposition  as  I  highly  approve  of. 
And  I  hope  hee  himselfe  will  be  able  to  give  a 
testimony  of  his  time  well  spent.  I  pray  you 
entertaine  not  a  thought  of  blaming  me  for 
what  is  done,  after  the  fact  it  lay  not  in  my 
power  to  remedie  the  successe;  and  who  can 
tell  how  to  prevent  such  a  fact  as  ariseth  from 
a  sudden  passion  ?  And  thus  having  made  way 
in  his  behalfe  by  a  true  narration  of  that  acci- 
dent, I  must  present  you  wth  a  bill  of  all  his 
exi>ences,  wch  you  shall  receive  herein  inclosed. 
I  pray  you  (Sir)  be  pleased  to  helpe  me  with 
these  monies  soe  soone  as  with  conveniencie 
you  can.  Much  whereof  is  out  of  my  purse 
already,  &  ye  rest  very  suddenly  to  be  paid.  I 
make  noe  benefitt  by  your  kinsman,  I  pray  you 
let  me  sustain  noe  damage.  And  thus  wth 
ye  kind  remembrance  of  my  love  unto  you,  I 
take  my  leave  and  rest 

Your  very  loving  freind  to  his  power 

Nath:  Dod. 
Caius  ColL 

ApriliA  r7,  1627 1 

Then  occurs  the  cheapest  instance  of 
living  which  I  have  yet  come  across,  and 


•  The  evening  meal. 
t  Gawdy  MSS.  m6is 


sm/.  Nol  517. 


it  will  be  allowed  that  Mr.  Dod  really  did 
his  best  for  his  country  patrons  in  pro- 
curinor  their  relation  such  extremely  rea- 
sonable quarters :  — 

May  it  please  you  Sir  I  rec  your  letter  by 
your  kinsman  Anthony  Gaudy  whom  I  have 
now  placed  in  an  honest  private  house,  where 
he  hath  his  Dyet^  his  Chamber  <&*  washing  for 
^*y*  weeke  In  wch  place  I  my  selfe  one  lived 
a  little  before  I  was  a  fellow  of  the  Colledge. 
I  truly  conceive  good  hopes  of  his  well  fare, 
neither  am  I  wanting  to  him  in  my  advice  for 
his  Studdiea.  They  with  whom  he  boards  de- 
sire to  be  payd  weckely.  I  pray  you  therefore 
to  send  up  his  quarteridge  beforehand  that  I 
may  pay  it  accordingly.  The  bearer  hereof, 
Peter  Aspinal,  is  one  whom  I  thinke  you  will 
trust  with  those  monies  I  should  receive  from 
you,  if  it  please  you  to  send  them  to  me  by  him 
at  his  next  returne  they  will  be  wellco.ne.  And 
even  soe  in  great  hast  I  take  my  leave  and 
rest 

Your  loving  freind 
Nath.  Dod 

Caius  Coll : 
May  2do  1627  * 

The  next  letter  acknowledges  the  re- 
ceipt of  certain  gold  pieces  and  quarter 
pieces  by  the  carrier,  with  a  note  of  the 
number  of  grains  they  were  found  defi- 
cient in  weight.  The  carrier  is  also  to  be 
paid  by  the  person  remitting  the  money 
for  his  trouble.  We  will  pass  over  this 
and  give  one  more  letter  bearing  on  our 
main  subject. 

Sir,  A  quarter  of  a  yeare  is  now  expired 
since  your  kinsman  entered  into  Commons  in 
ye  towne,  for  whom  according  to  your  desire  I 
stand  ingaged.  My  desire  now  is  that  you 
would  be  pleased  to  send  unto  me  ye  monies 
due  at  yr  next  conveniencv,  for  i  am  called 
upon  for  them.  Besides  the  3li  due  for  his 
board.  He  hath  runn  some  few  necessarie  ex- 
pences  upon  other  occasions,  viz.  for  new  shoes 
&. mending  4s  8d  the  Taylor  fo«  mending  his 
ould  apparrell  2*  4d  Barber  is  —  the  whole 
summe  of  all  is  3li  8s  wch  surame  I  expect  at 
ye  carriers  next  returne.  In  your  kinsman's 
behalf e  I  can  say  that  I  have  scene  him  often 
at  or  religious  exercises.  I  have  mett  him 
sometimes  walking  alone  into  ye  fields  wch  I  can 
noe  otherwise  interprett  but  wth  an  intent  to 
his  studdies  and  meditations  I  have  likewise 
observed  that  he  is  out  of  apparell  notwth. 
standing  his  care  &  thriftines  in  the  pservation 
of  those  clothes  you  have  already  bestowed 
upon  him,  I  conceive  good  hopes  for  his 
ree-enterance  into  ye  Colledge  soone  after 
Michaelmas 

In  hast  I  take  my  leave  &  rest 

In  all  due  respect 
Nathan  :  Dod 

Caius  Coll. 
Aug.  8.  1627.1 

•  Gawdv  MSS.  ^isup.  No.  519. 
t  Ibid.  No.  52a. 


UNIVERSITY   LIFE   IN   THE   EARLY   PART 


The  above  rate  of  livine  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  exceptional,  as  in  his  next 
letter  (Aprilp,  1628)  Mr.  Dod  asks  for 
£T.  iij.  for  young  Gawdy's  expenses  for 
the  half-year  from  Michaelmas  to  Lady- 
day.  Beyond  this  I  am  not  able  at  pres- 
ent to  trace  the  course  of  Anthony's 
fortunes  at  Cambridge. 

What  was  the  style  of  living  at  Gon- 
ville  and  Caius  College  from  which  "  Sir 
Gawdy"  was  thus  harshly  expelled? 
The  following  jottings  from  the  bursar's 
books  of  the  period,  which  have  never 
been  published,  will  give  us  some  idea-of 
the  manners  of  the  time.* 

The  fellows  drank  out  of  silver  "potts," 
each  man  having  his  own.  In  1622  "  Mr. 
Cruso's  pott"  was  mended  at  a  cost  of 
two  shillings,  and  several  entries  of  old 
cups -changed  for  new  ones(the  fellow  who 
had  the  use  of  it  contributing  out  of  his 
private  means  so  as  to  get  a  larger  or  finer 
goblet)  show  how  it  is  that  old  silverware 
IS  so  hard  to  find  nowadays.  But  they 
did  not  always  drink  out  of  the  nobler 
metal,  "a  little  iugg  and  pott  for  the  fel- 
lows in  ye  halle  and  parlour  "  being  bought 
for  \^d,  in  1644.  Silver  spoons,  got  ten 
years  previously  from  London  (a  shilling 
being  given  to  the  person  that  brought 
them),  must  also  have  been  meant  for  the 
upper  table.  In  1612  there  was  a  regular 
overhauling  of  the  college  sideboard,  and 
371.  5^/.  had  to  be  paid  the  goldsmith  for 
mending  the  plate  that  was  found  to  be 
**  spoyled  and  battered  at  the  going  out  of 
Sir  Utting  out  of  his  buttlership."  But  if 
it  is  bad  to  have  plate  battered,  it  is  worse 
to  have  it  stolen,  and  in  1658  we  find  that 
this  has  happened,  and  fifteen  shillings  is 
paid  Mr.  Marsh  for  **  putting  the  lost  plate 
into  the  Z?/Vr;i^//," and  "other charges  in 
pursuance  of  the  stoll'n  plate''  come  to 
£\,  \os:  6d. 

The  undergraduates  drank  and  ate  out 
of  pewter,  an  arrangement  which  saved 
breakage,  and  had  the  additional  advan- 
tage that  when  the  mugs  and  platters  got 
bent  out  of  all  shape,  the  pewterer  took 
them  back  as  old  metal,  and  a  new  stock 
of  ** dishes,  sawces,  and  porringers"  was 
laid  in,  the  cost  being  ninepence-halfpenny 
a  pound.  The  duty  of  looking  after  the 
pewter,  and  collecting  and  counting  it 
after  each  meal,  fell  on  '*  young  Ablinson,'* 
the  cook's  son,  who  got  a  trifle  every 
quarter  for  his  pains.  He  could  not  ex- 
pect much,  seeing  that  his  father  (shades 

*  MSS.  Books  695  and  692,  Gonville  and  Caius  Col- 
lege Library,  1609-1661.  My  thanks  are  due  to  R.  C 
Ben&ly,  Lsq.,  M.A.,  the  libranan,  for  permission  to 
make  ihe»e  extracts. 


of  Soyer  forgive  us  for  exposing  the  ho* 
miliating  fact!)  only  got  ten  shillings  a 
half-year  for  his  salary,  and  the  *'sub- 
coquo  "  a  miserable  y.  4^/. 

What  Abllnson  and  his  sculleryman 
cooked  is  not  so  clear,  for  the  details  of 
the  viands  are  not  given  in  the  accounts, 
except  an  item  of  exceptional  ''cheere" 
in  which  the  fellows  indulged  in  the  treas- 
ury "  the  same  night  the  counts  were  made 
up."  Two  shillings*  worth  of  pigeon  pies, 
eight  pennyworth  of  puddings,  cheese  to 
the  extent  of  fourpence,  and  a  **  pottle  of 
clarret  wine,"  which  cost  sixteen  pence, 
formed  the  solace  after  that  evening's 
reckoning.  Entries  of  gratuities  to  the 
messenger  who  brought  the  brawn  at 
Christmas  (at  Emanuel  College  they  were 
careful  to  call  it  "  Christ-tide  ")  from  one 
of  the  college  tenants,  and  of  a  special 
payment  for  fuel  for  boiling  that  delicacy, 
remind  us  to  note. that  the  rents  were  still 
paid,  partly  at  least,  in  kind.  Out  of  a 
rent  of  ^20,  for  instance,  thirty-three 
shillings  and  fourpence  would  be  taken  ia 
wheat  and  malt,  while  wethers,  capons, 
and  hens  were  not  unfrequently  received 
as  well. 

Porridge  was  eaten,  as  appears  by  the 
charge  of  twenty  pence  for  an  **  oatemeale 
box."  One  dozen  fruit  dishes,  got  in 
1618,  were  probably  reserved  for  the 
dons,  who  also  indulged  in  oysters.  The 
succulent  bivalve  when  it  arrived  at  Cam- 
bridge was  cried  through  the  streets,  and 
an  occasional  fourpence  to  the  ^'oyster 
crier  "  was  evidently  not  grudged.  What 
they  drank  with  their  natives  is  not  re- 
corded, but  that  they  took  care  of  their 
cellar  is  clear  from  the  entry  in  1647  of 
the  purchase  of  a  lock  *'of  the  Hart  of 
Oake,  and  some  iron  to  it,  for  Steuea 
Burt's  wvnes." 

Good  food  deserves  to  be  neatly  served, 
and  the  college  was  extravagant  in  the 
matter  ofi.table-napery,  if  in  nothing  else. 
"Three  dossen  of  diaper  according  to  8^ 
6// the  dossen"  made  up  into  two  dozen 
napkins  and  three  towels,  and  they  cannot 
have  been  reserved  for  the  seniors,  as  at 
the  same  time  no  less  than  seven  dozea 
more  napkins  were  bought  at  prices  vary- 
ing from  7s,  to  8j.  4^/.  That  the  purchas- 
ers were  particular  appears  from  their 
paying  2J.%d.  for  the  carriage  to  and  fro 
of  the  stun**  upon  the  liking  or  not  lik- 
ing." When  they  bought  damask  nap- 
kins in  1629,  the  price  was  22s,  a  dozen; 
white  tablecloths,  of  "elbroad  cloath," 
for  the  upper  table,  cost  17//.  a  yard  ;  and 
**schollers"  tablecloths,  10^/.  and  ii//. 
From  Curiosity  I  picked  out  all  the  items 


OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


379 


relating  to  table  linen  for  four  years  (1634- 
1638),  and  found  in  that  space  of  time 
one  hundred  and  ninety-two  yards  of  table- 
cloth, and  twentv-seven  dozen  and  ten 
napkins  were  laid  in.  Linen  was  bought 
at  Sturbridge  fair,  and  in  1649  they  went 
as  far  afield  as  Lancashire  to  purchase  it, 
for  which  I  can  suggest  no  reason.  There 
is  a  pleasant,  clean,  homely  scent  about 
the  entry  of  twelvepence  paid  to  *'  Good- 
wyfe  Lavender  for  heroing  and  double- 
marking  the  table-cloths,  and  darning  up 
some  small  holes  in  them,'*  with  which  we 
will  close  the  door  of  the  linen-closet. 

Let  us  pass  on  to  the  library,  lest,  like 
Master  Anthony  Gawdy,  we  should  be 
accused  of  loitering  over-long  about  the 
buttery  hatch.  In  the  half-year  endinor 
Michaelmas  1620,  "Grauer  the  Smith'' 
got  half-a-crown  for  taking  off  the  chains 
that  were  fastened  to  the  books,  and  a 
scholar  was  paid  dd,  for  helping  him  — 
no  doubt  a  labor  of  love.  The  next  year 
we  trace  the  **chaines  and  the  iron  barres 
yt  were  taken  from  the  bookes  and  of(f) 
the  deskes"  being  carried  up  into  the 
treasury,  and  the  new  order  of  things 
marked  by  a  "figuring"  of  the  printed 
books  in  the  library  to  the  number  of 
1742.  In  1631  the  MSS.  were  first  cata- 
logued; in  1650  the  College  contributed 
/20  towards  the  University  Library  then 
being  established.  The  last  entry  relat- 
ing to  the  library  is  the  purchase  in  1661 
of  an  Anglo-Saxon  dictionary  for  two 
pounds,  which  the  librarian  has  still  to 
show  for  the  money. 

The  parlor  was  refurnished  in  1657 
with  a  dozen  russian  leather  chairs  at  7J. 
6/.  each,  and  three  great  chairs,  £z.  8j.  ; 
six  "  tulip  velure  "  cushions,  ^1.41.;  and 
three  leather  carpets  containing  forty-two 
skins,  which  cost  j£3.  3^. ;  besides  izr. 
for  packing.  When  Simkins  the  "  scau 
ioger"  had  finished  his  sanitary  work 
bard  by,  sedge  and  frankincense  were 
burnt  in  the  parlor  to  correct  the  result- 
ing evil  odors.  The  fuel  burnt  there  in 
the  winter  of  1608-9  came  to  three  pounds, 
and  it  was  probably  in  that  room  that  Dr. 
Caius*s  portrait  hung,  which  was  repaired 
at  a  charge  of  13J.  4^.  in  1636.  As  late 
as  1642  there  were  certain  cushions  ex- 
tant (and  in  need  of  mending),  which  were 
known  by  the  name  of  that  worthy  bene- 
factor. 

Perhaps  the  best  known  of  the  archi- 
tectural works  of  Dr.  Caius  is  the  **  honor 
gate,"  which  was  built,  according  to  Fer- 
gusson,  in  1 574,  from  the  designs  of  The- 
odore Havre,  of  Cleves.  It  has  been 
figured  and  described  many  times  as  the 


earliest  specimen  of  so-called  Greek 
architecture  in  England.  In  sober  verity 
it  is  a  picturesque  milanf^e  of  debased 
Tudor  style  and  prettily  applied  classical 
pillars  and  ornaments.  I  am  able  to  trace 
some  curious  incidents  of  its  early  career, 
which,  so  far  as  I  know,  have  not  found 
their  way  into  print  hitherto.  Its  toy-like 
mouldings  and  delicate  detail  were  evi- 
dently singularly  liable  to  fracture,  as  ap- 
pears by  several  items  of  account. 

But  we  must  tirst  notice  an  additional 
beauty  it  then  possessed  of  which  no 
traces  are  now  left.  In  1615  the  College 
paid  *'  for  coloring  all  the  stone  worke  of 
Porta  Honoris  and  gilting  ye  armes  and 
•  roses  there."  At  the  same  time  a  Pega- 
sus, possibly  an  appendage  to  a  sun-dial, 
had  four  pounds '  of  lead  expended  to 
"  fasten  his  basis,"  and  was  also  gilt.  la 
1624  a  new  pillar  at  Honoris  Gate  cost 
eight  shillings  for  stone  and  workman- 
ship, which  got  broken  again  in  163 1,  and 
had  to  be  set  up  afresh.  The  very  next 
year  one  of  the  **  pyramides  "  of  the  gate 
had  to  be  mended ;  unless  one  of  the  ped- 
iments is  meant  I  do  not  understand  this, 
as  there  are  no  pyramids  to  be  seen  on 
any  part  of  the  structure  now.  It  thea 
enjoyed  a  rest  till  1646,  when  Thomas 
Grombold,  a  freemason,  had  the  job  of 
new  making  and  setting  up  one  of  its  pil- 
lars. He  also  did  some  "  playster  of  par- 
is  "  work  in  the  chapel,  and  his  moderate 
charge  for  his  time  and  another^  three 
days,  was  only  \os,  6d.  The  lessons  to 
be  deduced  seem  to  be  that  from  the  very 
first  immoral  Renaissance  work  (as  a  dis- 
ciple of  Mr.  Ruskin  would  doubtless  con- 
sider it)  did  not  prosper,  and  that  the 
students,  who  tnust  have  made  the  gate 
their  clambering  thoroughfare  to  sur- 
mount the  walls  by  when  locked  out, 
were  the  unwitting  instruments  of  this 
judgment. 

In  1609  four  pennyworth  of  frankin- 
cense was  got  for  the  chapel,  perhaps  for 
disinfecting  purposes,  as  I  do  not  lind  the 
entry  repeated.  The  communion  cloths 
were  made  of  diaper  in  1619,  and  cost 
fifteen  shillings  each;  in  1632  the  "cop- 
webbs  "  were  swept  out  of  the  chapel,  and 
Woodrofife,  the  joiner,  did  carving  work 
there  in  1634,  and  again  in  1661,  the  last 
time  to  the  amount  of  Ay.  lox.  In  1642 
a  much  more  expensive  dtamask  covering 
for  the  communion  table  was  got,  two 
yards  coming  to  2\s»  Finally,  we  notice 
in  1637  an  expenditure  of  eighteen  shil- 
lings for  twelve  brass  candlesticks  for  the 
chapel. 

In  conclusion,  let  us  see  bow  the  col- 


38o 

lege  practised  what  they  learned  in  their 
chapel,  for  the  duties  of  charitable  hospi- 
tality had  not  then  entirely  lapsed  into 
disuse.  Indeed,  I  should  presume  that 
the  steward  dispensed  refreshment  to 
poor  wayfarers  pretty  much  as  a  matter  of 
course,  so  that  no  special  entry  appears 
of  these  acts  of  kindness.  At  least  this 
is  the  construction  I  put  upon  the  item  of 
five  shillings  given  to  "a  distress'd  Lady 
in  the  Steward's  absence,"  which  occurs 
in  1660.  The  next  year  a  blind  scholar, 
by  the  master's  order,  received  lox.,  and 
the  same  sum  was  given  in  1649  ^^  "  Bar- 
nabee  Ame,  heretofore  a  lining-draper, 
now  growne  very  poore,  by  consent."  The 
entry  in  1621  of  two  shillings  to  "two 
poore  women  that  weeded  ye  garden  two 
dayes"  will  prove  that  the  authorities 
were  not  unduly  lavish  in  this  branch  of 
their  expenditure. 

Here  we  will  close  the  bursar's  books 
of  Gonville  and  Caius  College,  not  refus- 
ing our  admiration  for  the  simple  tastes 
and  inexpensive  habits  of  our  forefathers 
as  we  find  them  recorded  in  those  pages. 

Francis  Rye. 


ALPINE   GOSSIP. 


From  Tlie  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 
ALPINE  GOSSIP. 

The  changes  of  the  atmosphere  in  our 
Western  clime  chase  all  monotony  from 
the  aspects  of  nature.  In  the  Alps  this 
is  specially  the  case,  for  here  the  atmo* 
spheric  contrasts  reach  their  maximum. 
Dull  fog  or  drifting  rain  habitually  forms 
the  background  to  indescribable  splen- 
dors. This  holds  good  in  a  great  meas- 
ure from  day  to  day ;  but  the  present 
year,  as  a  whole,  offers  a  striking  contrast 
to  its  predecessor.  On  the  morning  of 
the  13th  of  September,  1882,  a  snowstorm 
of  unexampled  severity  had  set  in.  In  a 
single  night  a  cold  rain  had  been  con- 
gealed, and  in  its  new  state  of  aggregation 
had  covered  the  mountains  to  a  depth  of 
eighteen  inches.  With  slight  interrup- 
ruptions  the  snowfall  continued  for  many 
days,  reaching  finally  a  depth  of  several 
feet.  Flocks  were  overtaken,  and  in  part 
overwhelmed,  though  hundreds  were  res- 
cued alive  after  weeks  of  entombment. 
Those  favorably  placed  were  enabled  to 
ward  off  starvation  by  eating  the  wool  of 
their  neighbors,  but  many  of  the  sheep 
thus  fleeced  escaped  with  apparently  as 
little  damage  as  their  well-clothed  com- 
panions. The  wreck  of  fences  around  us 
was  produced  by  this  heavy  snow.    Bars 


of  pine  twelve  feet  long,  thfee  inches 
wide,  and  four  and  a  half  inches  deep 
were  smashed,  while  railings,  brought 
down  by  the  thrust  of  the  snow,  were 
found  prostrate  everywhere  when  it  had 
disappeared.  Our  kitchen  chimney,  which 
issued  from  the  roof  near  the  eave,  and 
which  had  therefore  the  snow  above  it, 
was  snapped  across  at  the  root.  It  fell 
upon  a  snowdrift  only  a  little  lower  thaa 
itself,  and  was  found  coherent  after  the 
snow  had  melted  away.  On  the  13th  of 
September,  1883,  we  opened  our  shutters 
at  4  A.M.  and  looked  out.  The  air  belov 
was  dead  calm,  the  firmament  studded 
with  stars  of  many  glories ;  no  cloud  was 
visible  anywhere,  while  a  belt  of  daffodil 
in  the  east  announced  the  approach  of 
dawn.  No  contrast  could  have  been 
greater  with  the  corresponding  day  of 
last  year.  At  6  a.m.  vapor  had  already 
risen,  the  precipitation  of  which  had  pro- 
duced soft  clouds  which,  teased  by  the 
motion  of  the  upper  air,  broke  incessantly 
into  iridescent  tinges.  Low  down,  grey 
streaks  and  patches  were  seen  over  the 
valley  of  the  Rhone.  These  gradually 
augmented  till  they  choked  the  valley, 
rose  above  its  bounding  ridge,  and  poured 
themselves  in  cascades  down  upon  the 
great  Aletsch  Glacier.  From  the  sides 
of  the  mountain,  in  clear  air,  spurted  in- 
cipient clouds,  resembling  the  puff  of  a 
gun  or  the  smoke  of  a  suddenly  lighted 
Sre.  Later  on  Italy  sent  us  over  the 
southern  heights  vast  scrolls  and  many- 
tufted  ridges  of  cloud,  the  **  tufts  "  gleam- 
ing with  a  lustre  more  dazzling  than  that 
of  the  whitest  snow.  The  Laureate  is  a 
close  observer  and  a  sound  interpreter  of 
nature.  Instead  of  being  cribbed,  cab- 
ined, and  confined,  as  he  now  is,  in  a  mis- 
erable yacht,  he  ought  to  be  here  setting 
these  splendors  to  music.  A  bright  mooa 
gives  the  scenes  around  us  an  aspect  of 
weird  magnificence.  Much  has  been  writ- 
ten about  the  nocturnal  phosphorescence 
of  snow  and  ice,  and  not  without  reason. 
North  of  us,  for  example,  and  just  under 
the  Fusshorn,  lies  a  white  secondary  gla- 
cier ;  and  when  covered  with  fresh  snow, 
under  a  bright  moon,  it  is  difficult  to  be- 
lieve that  it  is  not  self-luminous.  The 
effect  is  due  to  the  extraordinary  sensi- 
tiveness attained  by  the  retina  when  the 
paralyzing  influence  of  daylight  is  with- 
drawn. It  is  then  in  the  highest  degree 
alive  to  differences  of  luminous  intensity. 
Hence  the  singular  brilliancy  of  fresh 
snow  when  shone  upon  by  the  moon.  The 
effect  is  related  to  the  process  by  which 
in  the  darkness  of  a  coal  mine  the  feeble 


A  PILGRIMAGE   TO  ADAMS   PEAK. 


Davy  lamp    is  converted  into  a  useful 
source  of  illumination. 

Upwards,  for  many  miles,  stretches  the 
Great  Aletsch,  with  its  flexile  moraines, 
its  fissures,  and  its  frozen  waves.  Down 
it  rush  the  streams,  sometimes  in  deep- 
cut  channels;  and  over  it  sounds  the  hum 
ol  those  **  mills"  into  which  the  streams 
for  the  most  part  eventually  fall.  The 
sound  of  water  is  sin^larly  sensitive  to 
an  intervening  obstacle.  It  seems  to  lack 
more  than  other  sounds  the  power  of  dif- 
fusing itself  in  the  acoustic  shadow  be- 
hind the  obstacle,  so  that  as  one  dips  into 
the  shadow  the  sound  is  rapidly  hushed. 
Close  to  us  is  a  cascade  which  illustrates 
this  point.  A  singular  effect  was  noticed 
an  evening  or  two  ago.  On  approaching 
our  cottage  after  an  excursion  up  the 
mountain,  the  sound  of  falling  water  be- 
came suddenly  audible.  The  direction  of 
the  sound  was  not  at  all  that  of  the  cas- 
cade, still  its  character  proved  the  cascade 
to  be  its  origin.  The  riddle  was  soon 
solved.  A  large  outer  door,  put  on  for 
extra  protection  during  the  winter,  stood 
ajar.  Upon  it  the  sonorous  waves  from 
the  cascade  impinged,  and  by  it  they  were 
thrown  into  the  sound  shadow  where  we 
stood,  the  direct  sound  there  being  in- 
audible. When  the  door  was  opened,  and 
closed  intentionally,  it  was  in  the  highest 
degree  curious  to  hear,  at  a  particular 
angle,  the  babble  of  the  cascade  suddenly 
arise,  as  if  it  had,  for  the  moment,  quitted 
its  true  position  and  established  itself  be- 
hind the  door. 

As  regards  the  mountain  hotels,  this 
3rear  also  contrasts  favorably  with  its  fore- 
runner. In  1882  the  maximum  number 
of  visitors  at  one  time  in  the  Bel  Alp 
Hotel  was  seventy-five ;  in  1883  it  was  one 
hundred  and  fifteen.  The  former  maxi- 
mum occurred  on  the  23d,  and  the  latter 
on  the  14th  of  August.  The  increased 
accommodation  provided  bv  a  new  and 
comfortable  dipendance^  ana  the  addition 
of  a  number  of  attic  bedrooms,  enabled 
the  Bel  Alp  to  house  so  many.  The  grass 
of  the  higher  regions  is  now  browsed  to 
Its  roots,  and  the  peasants  have  in  part 
driven  their  cows  to  the  sapid  pastures  of 
Aletsch,  or  in  the  direction  of  Naters,  the 
chief  village  of  the  commune.  They  have 
huts  at  each  halting-place.  The  sheep 
are  the  last  to  come  down.  They  are  the 
most  daring  climbers,  and  find  herbage  in 
/laces  unattainable  by  larger  quadrupeds. 
The  descent  of  the  sheep  is  in  the  highest 
degree  picturesque.  On  the  evening  prior 
to  the  descent  the  peasants  come  together 
en  the  Lusgen  Alp,  and  with  songs  and 


381 

schnaps  await  the  morning.  They  then 
mount  and  scour  the  hills,  collect  the 
sheep,  and  with  wild  cries  mingling  with 
loud  **  bahs  "  urge  them  at  a  gallop  down 
the  mountain.  They  are  then  collected 
in  pens,  and  claimed  by  their  owners. 
The  grass  above  us  and  around  us  here 
belongs  to  the  commune  as  a  whole ;  but 
lower  down  the  rights  of  property  come 
into  play,  and  the  peasant  feeds  his  beasts 
and  cultivates  his  crops  upon  his  own 
scrap  of  Boden, 

On  the  Bel  Alp  is  now  being  built  a 
new  English  church,  which  will  probably 
augment  the  number  of  visitors.  The 
builders  of  the  church  are  all  Italians ;  for 
the  Swiss,  at  ail  events  in  this  region, 
know  nothing  of  the  art  of  masonry. 
Italians  also  built  the  new  dipendance  al- 
ready referred  to.  The  timber  for  this 
edifice  was  carried  up  on  men's  backs 
from  pine  woods  two  thousand  feet  lower 
down.  The  loads  thus  borne,  consisting 
in  great  part  of  long  planks,  were  enor- 
mous. Each  man  carried  a  long  pole,  and 
when  rest  was  needed  the  pole  was  planted 
in  front  to  support  one  end  of  the  sheaf 
of  planks,  the  other  end  resting  on  the 
ground.  The  carrier  was  thus  entirely 
relieved  from  the  weight  of  his  load.  The 
men  were  singularly  robust.  Here  and 
there  might  be  noticed  a  wan  cheek  and  a 
panting  breast,  but  the  burdens,  for  the 
most  part,  were  borne  steadily  and  stur- 
dily, without  apparent  exhaustion.  The 
food  of  the  men  who  did  these  things,  and 
who  seemed  to  thrive  in  doing  them,  was 
polenta  and  cheese.  Their  drink  was 
water.  Sir  Wilfrid  Lawson  would  be  jus- 
tified in  pointing  to  them  as  a  triumphant 
vindication  of  total  abstinence;  but  the 
vegetarian  might  also  put  in  a  claim. 

J.  T. 

Alp  Lusgtnt  Britgi  SwitzerlantL 


From  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 
A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  ADAM'S  PEAK. 

Among  the  celebrated  mountain  peaks 
to  ascend  which  is  the  ambition  of  daring 
travellers  and  tourists,  the  Adam's  Peak 
of  Ceylon  may  perhaps  be  mentioned  as 
one  of  the  most  remarkable.  Not  be- 
cause of  its  great  height,  for  in  that  re- 
spect it  stands  far  behind  many  others, 
nor  of  its  steepness  or  difficulty  of  ascent, 
but  partly  because  of  its  unrivalled  natu- 
ral beauties,  and  chiefly  because  of  the 
multitude  of  fanciful  legends  which  cling 
round   the  mountain  from  foot  to  peak 


3*2 

"To  go  to  Ceylon  and  not  to  ascend  the 
Adam's  Peak,"  says  Dr.  Haeckel  in  his 
interesting  description  of  the  mountain, 
which  appears  in  the  current  number  of 
the  Deutsche  Rundschau,  "is  worse  than 
to  go  to  Rome  and  not  see  the  pope."  The 
name  of  Adam's  Peak  has  its  origin  in 
the  old  legend  that  when  Adam  was  driv- 
en out  of  Paradise  an  angel  led  him  to 
the  mountain  top  as  a  place  of  repentance. 
As  he  stood  there  in  deep  despair,  see- 
ing from  those  heights  all  the  evil  and 
misery  which  his  fail  would  bring  to  man- 
kind, his  foot  left  an  impression  in  the 
stone  on  which  he  stood,  which  is  still 
shown  to  the  curious  traveller,  while  his 
tears  of  penitence  formed  the  little  lake 
from  which  to  this  day  pilgrims  drink  with 
unshaken  faith.  The  Buddhists  likewise 
have  their  legend  of  the  Sripada  or  foot- 
print on  the  sacred  summit.  It  sounds 
almost  like  a  far-away  echo  of  modern 
pessimism,  says  Dr.  Haeckel,  to  hear  of 
Buddha  coming  down  in  clouds  and  light- 
ning to  preach  the  gospel  of  self-denial ; 
to  live  without  a  wish,  to  die  without  fear. 
Whether  it  was  difficult  to  persuade  the 
Singhalese,  living  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
tropical  beauty  of  Ceylon,  to  accept  this 
doctrine  we  know  not,  but  persuaded  they 
were,  and  two-thirds  of  the  population  of 
Ceylon  adhere  to  Buddhism  to  this  day. 
Buddha,  ascending  again  to  his  celestial 
regions,  left  the  impression  of  his  foot 
where  last  he  touched  the  earth  on  the 
highest  point  of  Samanala,  under  which 
name  Adam's  Peak  was  first  known.  The 
Brahmans  also,  the  Mahommedans,  the 
Chinese,  and  Portuguese  have  all  their 
sacred  history  about  this  mountain-top, 
but  no  religious  controversy  has  ever  been 
heard  of.  For  more  than  two  thousand 
years  all  have  prayed  and  worshipped 
peaceably  around  the  gigantic  footprint, 
each  in  his  own  way  and  to  his  own  God 
in  remarkable  contrast  to  the  practice  of 
Christians  in  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  Those 
not  gified  with  a  lively  imagination  would 
find  it  difficult  to  recognize  the  impression 
of  a  human  foot  in  the  flat,  rocky  basin, 
measuring  five  and  a  quarter  feet  by  two 
and  a  half  feet,  but  faith  overcomes  all 
obstacles,  especially  when  that  faith  is 
aided  by  the  priests  of  Buddha,  who  some- 
times try  their  skill  in  plaster-modelling 
to  reproduce  the  original  shape,  which 
they  say  has  suffered  from  the  touch  of 
the  lips  and  hands  of  multitudes  of  pil- 
grims. The  reddish  rock  is  surrounded 
by  sweet  sacred  flowers,  areca-nuts,  and 
little  heaps  of  rice,  the  offerings  of  the 
faithful.    The  tiled  roof  rests  on  twelve 


A   PILGRIMAGE  TO   ADAMS   PEAK. 


small  green  pillars,  and  is  surmounted  by 
two  gold  cupolas. 

The  devotions  of  the  pilgrims  are  for  the 
most  part  simple  and  quiet,  consisting  of  low 
bowing  and  prayers  before  Sripada,  gifts  of 
flowers  and  incense,  burning  of  candles,  and 
ringing  of  small  bells,  presents  to  the  priests* 
consistin|r  of  rice  and  other  articles  of  food, 
silver  and  copper  coins.      It  is  curious  that 
rags  of  old  clothes  are  also  considered  a  worthy 
sacrifice  ;  of  such  we  saw  a  good  many  on  the 
railings.    The  words  "  Sadu  1  Sadu  ! "  (Holy, 
holy !  Amen,  amen)  were  often  repeated.    The 
majority  of  those  who  arrived  while  we  were 
in  the  temple  remained  only  a  short  time,  and 
returned  as  soon  as  they  had  finished  their  de- 
votions.    But  far  more  interesting  and  edifying 
than  the  devotions  of  the  pilgrims  and  the 
ceremonies  of  the  priests  was  to  us  the  grand 
panorama,  for  from  this  isolated  summit  we 
could  survey  almost  in  its  whole  extent   the 
evergreen  island,  which  in  many  respects  is 
among  the  most  beautiful  and  remarkable  on 
earth.     The  very  grandeur  of  the  scene  is 
heightened  by  the  thought  of  this  and  the  re- 
membrance of  the  thousands  of  glorious  and 
interesting  pictures  which  we  have  gathered  in 
our  tours  through  this  earthly  paradise. 

What  is  chiefly  interesting  in  Dr. 
Haeckel's  papers  is  his  account  of  the 
ascent.  It  is  made  for  many  miles  under 
the  green  roof  of  a  palm  forest,  round 
whose  high  pillared  stems  the  most  beauti- 
ful creepers  climb  to  the  top,  there  to 
unfold  their  gigantic  brilliant  blossoms, 
around  which  butterflies  and  humming 
beetles  flit  incessantly.  Squirrels  and 
monkeys  gambol  among  the  branches, 
through  wbich  dart  birds  of  glittering 
plumage,  while  below,  beside  the  spark- 
ling water  of  the  half-hidden  brook,  the 
blue  kingfisher  watches  for  his  prey. 
Nearer  the  summit  the  pilgrim  enters 
myrtle  and  laurel  woods,  where  the 
rhododendron  and  magnolia  have  their 
home.  Elephants,  leopards,  bears,  and 
elks  haunt  these  regions,  but  fortunately 
for  the  peace  of  the  pilgrims,  whether 
religious  or  scientific,  they  are  rarely  seen. 
At  a  turn  of  the  road  the  traveller  sud- 
denly comes  upon  a  picturesque  pilgrim's 
bazaar,  which  a  speculative  Arab  has 
started  in  this  solitary  place;  the  few  cot- 
tages lie  well  sheltered  under  a  hillside, 
surrounded  by  high  tree  ferns,  so  dense 
that  no  sunbeam  pierces  their  matted 
fronds.  The  last  part  of  the  road  is  the 
most  difiicult,  being  a  high  staircase 
roughly  cut  into  the  almost  perpendicular 
rock.  Heavy  iron  chains  serve  as  banis- 
ters, by  which  the  weary  climber  supports 
himself  on  the  slippery  steps.  When  this 
last  difficulty  is  overcome  the  summit  is 


A   RIVER   PARADE   IN   THE   BRITISH    ARMY. 


reached,  and  in  the  deep  silence  of  the 
sacred  spot,  looking  on  all  the  awe-inspir- 
ing beauty  far  below,  it  is  easy  to  under- 
stand why  this  isolated  mountain  has  for 
ages  been  rea:arded  as  a  fitting  altar  on 
which  to  offer  sacrifices  to  the  Highest. 
The  scene  on  which  the  eye  rests  when 
looking  at  Ceylon  from  Adam*s  Peak  is 
not  sublime  so  much  as  beautiful.  Yet 
the  ranges  of  hills,  one  rising  behind  the 
other,  all  clothed  in  everlasting  verdure, 
and  only  here  and  there  broken  by  a  streak 
of  silver  where  a  stream  shows  bright 
through  the  trees,  the  paradisiacal  peace 
around,  and  the  majestic  blue  vault  above, 
impress  Dr.  Haeckel  as  thev  have  im- 
pressed innumerable  generations  before 
with  their  quiet  grandeur,  and  far  more 
than  all  the  religious  rites  of  warring 
creeds  lift  the  mind  above  the  busy  world 
below.  Dr.  Haeckel  concludes  his  article 
as  follows :  — 

Before  leaving  we  also,  in  deep  devotion, 
offered  up  a  sacrifice.  It  was  the  12th  of 
February,  the  day  on  which,  seventy-three 
years  ago,  Charles  Darwin  first  saw  the  light ; 
It  was  the  last  birthday  of  the  great  reformer 
of  natural  science;  two  months  later  he  had 
ceased  to  exist.  Standing  before  the  holy 
footprint,  I  made  a  short  speech  to  my  trav- 
elling companions,  pointing  out  to  them  the 
significance  of  the  day ;  a  bottle  of  Rhine  wine, 
the  last  which  we  had  taken  with  us,  was 
emptied  to  the  health  of  Darwin.  The  letter 
in  which  I  told  this  to  my  honored  friend  was 
the  last  he  ever  received  from  me.  Thus  my 
pilgrimage  to  the  Adam*s  Peak  was  conse- 
crated by  an  act  of  sacred  homage. 


From  The  Pall  Mall  Gaxette. 
A  RIVER  PARADE  IN  THE  BRITISH  ARMY. 

The  following  extraordinary  story  of 
some  attempted  cavalry  exercises,  said  to 
have  been  ordered  recentlv  on  the  banks 
of  some  unnamed  river  in  England, 
reaches  us  from  a  soldier  signing  himself 
a  "Captain  of  Cavalry.*'  We  give  his  tale 
as  it  reaches  us  with  all  reserve,  for  it 
surely  is  a  libel  upon  the  British  army  to 
suppose  that  there  is  even  one  cavalry 
regiment  that  would  display  such  inepti- 
tude as  that  to  which  "  Captain  A.**  bears 
such  sympathetic  testimony :  — 

I  suppose  that  no  one  will  deny  that  the 
regimental  officers  are  the  backbone  of 
the  British  army,  and  especially  of  the 
cavalry  to  which  I  have  the  honor  to  be- 
long.   My  regiment  is  a  crack  one  in  the 


383 

finest  of  all  services,  and  we  have  always 
done  our  best  to  keep  up  those  traditions 
which  are  the  backbone  of  the  army.  We 
have  succeeded  in  keeping  out  of  our 
mess  all  but  a  very  small  proportion  of 
bookworms,  and  most  of  our  fellows  are 
able  to  boast  that  they  came  in  through 
the  militia.  There  is  hardly  a  tinge  of 
Sandhurst  in  the  whole  regiment.  But, 
sir,  the  new-fangled  doctrinaires  will  soon 
make  our  service  unendurable  if  they 
have  their  way  much  longer.  For  in- 
stance, my  troop  was  ordered  the  other  day 
to  swim  a  river.  Our  new  colonel,  pro- 
moted if  you  please  by  selection,  is  for- 
ever reading  about  foreign  armies,  and 
thinks  that  their  outlandish  ways  can  be 
made  to  apply  to  the  British  service,  and 
that  we  must  spend  our  time  in  practising 
things  which  we  could  of  course  do  easily 
enough  in  war,  but  which  are  not  suitable 
for  peace  time  and  not  laid  down  in  the 
drill-book.  Well,  we  were  ordered  to  pa- 
rade in  stable  dress,  but  with  saddles  and 
bridles  as  in  drill  order,  an  order  in  itself 
calculated  to  destroy  all  military  eiBciency. 
The  smartness  of  the  men  is  the  backbone 
of  the  British  service ;  and  how  can  they 
be  smart  if  turned  out  like  this  ? 

Well,  sir,  we  paraded  as  ordered,  and 
marched  dow^n  to  the  river,  which  I  won't 
name,  as  I  should  be  found  out  by  it  and 
pitched  into  for  writing  to  the  papers.  At 
any  rate  it  was,  thereabouts,  nearly  thirty 
yards  broad  and  pretty  deep  in  the  middle. 
It  wriggled  rather  through  meadows,  and 
in  some  places  the  bank  was  steep.  The 
idea  of  crossing  was  unpleasant.  The 
first  thing  the  colonel  did  was  to  ask  me 
to  say  where  I  would  cross  such  a  river. 
**  Where  I  was  ordered,  sir,"  said  I,  and 
thought  I  rather  had  him  there.  He 
smiled.  It  was  one  of  those  cool  smiles 
which  put  one's  blood  up,  and  replied, 
"Then  I  order  you  to  cross  at  once  where 
you  think  best." 

Now  the  worst  of  it  was  that  all  our  fel- 
lows were  there  and  began  to  grin  at  me. 
I  remembered  having  heard  somebody 
say  that  a  good  horseman  sent  with  a  de- 
spatch should  take  a  straight  line  across 
country,  so  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to 
poke  about  for  a  place,  where  one  seemed 
to  me  as  bad  as  the  other,  but  to  ride 
straight  forward.  It  happened  that  the 
stream  bent  towards  us  there,  and  when  I 
came  to  the  edge  there  was  no  way  down 
to  the  water  except  to  jump  ofif  a  high  and 
hollow  bank  into  a  sort  of  black  pool  be- 
low. W*ould  you  believe  it?  Not  a  sin- 
gle horse  would  take  the  jump.  I  was 
riding  a  rattling  good    hunter,  but  the 


A   RIVER   PARADE   IN   THE   BRITISH   ARMY. 


beast  would  not  show  the  way,  do  what  I 
would.  The  fellows  lookin<;  on  now  be- 
gan to  laugh  worse  than  ever,  though  they 
are  much  of  the  same  way  of  thinking  as 
myselff  and  the  colonel  called  me  back 
and  asked  if  I  had  ever  heard  of  the  story 
of  Balaam's  ass.  Perhaps  I  looked  sav- 
age at  my  second  charger  being  called  an 
ass,  for  he  said  quickly,  **  I  only  mean 
that  the  beast  forbade  the  madness  of  the 
prophet.'* 

Then  he  made  me  lead  the  troop  to  a 
place  where  the  curve  was  just  the  other 
way,  turning  away  from  us,  and  sure 
enough  the  bank  shelved  gradually  there. 
But  it  was  no  use.  Whether  the  horses 
had  been  frightened  by  the  first  attempt, 
or  for  some  other  reason,  not  a  brute  of 
them  all  would  enter  at  first.  For  a  good 
five  minutes  the  struggle  went  on.  All 
the  spurring  only  made  them  start  and 
jump  round,  till  the  whole  place  was  cut 
up  like  a  muddy  cow-pond ;  the  beasts 
were  shivering  with  fright,  the  men  and 
the  horse  accoutrements  simply  covered 
with  filth.  When  I  got  half  a  dozen  to 
go  in,  they  spun  round  sharp  before  they 
were  out  of  their  depth.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  was  rather  glad,  for  by  this  time  I  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  some  of  the 
men  would  be  drowned  as  sure  as  fate. 


To  crown  my  chagrin,  the  colonel  said, 
"That  will  do,  Captain  A.  If  your  horses 
had  gone  the  way  you  wished,  they  could 
never  have  got  out  on  the  other  side,  for 
you  see  the  bank  is  steep  there.  You 
should  have  headed  up  stream,  a  little  to 
the  next  bend.  We  will  try  it  again  an- 
other day.**  So  saying  he  took  out  of  his 
pocket  a  bit  out  of  a  newspaper,  and  read 
us  a  description  of  the  crossing  of  a  river 
something  like  ours  in  Russia  the  other 
day  as  practice  for  the  men.  Of  course 
one  doesn't  believe  much  out  of  the  pa- 
pers, but  this  one  gave  chapter  and  verse. 
The  river  was  the  Souprasl,  and  the  place 
was  Vassilkovo,  or  some  such  name.  The 
stream  flowed  at  the  rate  of  a  foot  a  sec- 
ond, and  was  thirty-6ve  yards  broad.  A 
regiment  of  Cossacks  swam  it  in  twenty- 
seven  minutes,  and  the  colonel  said  that 
not  one  of  them  came  to  grief. 

Thank  goodness  I  am  not  a  Cossack, 
but  the  colonel  declares  that  the  Austrian 
cavalry  can  do  just  the  same,  and  its  offi- 
cers are  some  of  the  greatest  swells  in 
Europe.  All  I  can  say  is  that  I  can  do 
all  that  is  laid  down  in  the  drill-book,  but 
if  we  are  to  be  bothered  in  peace  with 
practising  things  that  would  come  all  right 
in  war,  I  for  one  shall  cut  the  service. 


The  Writings  of  Euripides.  —  Leaving 
Euripides  as  a  man  and  a  thinker,  we  may 
pass  for  a  moment  to  his  art,  which  we  per- 
ceive to  be  but  the  flower  of  his  philosophy. 
His  discursive  and  contemplative  spirit,  enam- 
ored of  reality,  did  not  even  attempt  to  soar  to 
the  Titanic  world  of  i^schylus.  As  little  could 
bis  quick-changing  conceptions  lend  them- 
selves to  the  gradual  evolution,  the  nice  grada- 
tions of  Sophocles*  art.  His  plots  are  often 
careless  and  unequal.  Far  from  evolving  his 
storv,  he  is  fain  to  make  it  known  beforehand 
to  the  audience  by  means  of  a  prologue.  His 
choruses,  beautiful  as  they  lyrically  are,  are 
often  disconnected  from  the  main  theme.  Too 
negligent  of  unity,  he  seeks  rather  to  move  by 
scene  or  situation  or  incident,  by  the  presenta- 
tion of  human  life  in  its  thousandfold  variety. 
His  language  itself  is  not  involved  or  subtle, 
but  that  of  every-day  life.  Philosophic  in  his 
method,  his  philosophy  further  asserts  itself  in 
his  prominent  and  peculiar  characteristics. 
To  the  thoughtful  observer  human  life  must 
necessarily  appear  at  first  sight  sad,  and  Eu- 
ripides is  the  master  of  pathos.  No  poet 
ever  drew  more  tears.  With  ready  imagina- 
tive sympathy  he  has  felt  deeply  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  the  human  lot,  approached  it  under 


all  its  varying  conditions.  His  touch  lays 
bare  the  beatings  of  the  human  heart,  and 
strikes  the  chord  of  every  passion  and  affec- 
tion. And  life  has  other  aspects  for  him  too. 
His  attentive  eye  has  caught  the  color,  the 
variety  of  the  outward  moving  panorama  of 
men  and  things ;  has  turned  aside  to  dwell  with 
loving  appreciation  on  the  beauty  of  external 
nature,  and  the  picturesqueness  of  both  has 
passed  into  his  verse.  Hut  he  has  not  stopped 
short  even  here.  Looking  with  visionary  eyes 
on  the  things  of  reality,  he  has  informed  them 
with  a  new  spirit,  and  blended  truth  with  fancy 
in  themes  of  the  most  romantic  interest.  Nor 
are  the  grace  and  brilliancy  of  his  imagination 
less  striking  than  the  homeliness  and  pathos 
of  his  dramatic  conception.  It  is  his  pathos, 
his  romance,  his  picturesqueness  that  make 
Euripides  the  most  modern  of  the  ancients. 
In  his  variety,  his  free  flow  of  fancy,  his  care- 
less prodigality  of  treatment,  there  is  discerni- 
ble something  of  that  "  wood-note  wild,**  that 
"naturalness  **  which  is  the  distinguishing  trait 
of  Shakespeare.  To  further  the  resemblance 
there  are  not  wanting  indications  that  the 
genius  of  Euripides  also  had  its  humorous 
side.  Monthly  Packet. 


J 


UTTELL'S  LIVING-  AGE. 


vZ.%.  }         No.  2056. -November  17,  188a       {'Tol'S:^*' 


CONTENTS. 


I.  Edward  Henry  Palmer,    • 
IL  Ruth  Hayes.    Part  H., 
in.  The  Story  of  a  Little  War,  , 
IV.  The  Rose  op  Black  Boy  Alley, 
V.  Toads,  Past  and  Present,. 
VI.  Acting  in  Earnest,     .       • 
VI L  Judges'  Clerks,    • 
VIIL  The  Oyster  Season, 


^ 


Church  Quarterly  Review^   • 

.    387 

BelgraviOf     •        .        •        . 

.    408 

Blackwood's  MagoMine^         • 

.    415 

Sunday  Afagatine^        • 

.    430 

Longman's  MagoMtnt^  •        • 

.    437 

Chambers^  youmal^      .        • 

.    441 

Leisure  Hour^      •        •        • 

.    445 

Morning  Post^      •        • 

.    447 

POKTRY. 


The  Skylarks,     . 
The  Burden  of  Life,  • 


186 1  An  English  Home, 
386" 


386 


PUBUSHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  TkiVLKHS^remitied  directly  to  ike  Fubli$kers^  the  Lnmio  Acxwill  b«  puoctnally  f  orwaidaa 
lor  9LytaSt/ree  o/^stare. 

Kem'uunces  should  b«  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-office  money-order,  if  poesible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  mooeyshould  be  sent  in  a  refpstered  letter.  All  postmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.  i>raft8,  checks  and  money-orders  shoald  be  made  payable  to  the  order  ol 
LiTTBLL  &  Co. 

SiBgle  Numbers  of  ThbLivinq  Ads,  iSotntfc 


386 


THE   SKYLARKS,   ETC, 


THE  SKYLARKS. 
IN   AN  EAST-END  BIRD  MARKET. 

Oh,  the  sky,  the  sky,  the  operi  sky. 

For  the  home  of  a  song-bird's  heart ! 
And  why,  why,  why,  why 

Do  they  stifle  here  in  the  mart  ? 
Cages  of  agony,  rows  on  rows. 
Torture  that  only  a  wild  thing  knows ; 

Is  it  nothing  to  you  to  see 
That  head  thrust  out  through  the  hopeless 

wire, 
And  the  tiny  life,  and  the  mad  desire 

To  be  free,  to  be  free,  to  be  free  ? 
Oh,  the  sky,  the  sky,  the  blue,  wide  sky, 

For  the  beat  of  a  song-bird's  wings !        * 
And  why,  why,  why,  why  ?  — 

Is  the  only  song  it  sings. 

Great,  sad  eyes,  with  a  frightened  stare, 
Jjook  through  the  wildering  darkness  there, 

The  surge,  the  crowd,  and  the  cry. 
Fluttering  wild  wings  beat  and  bleed. 
And  it  will  not  peck  at  the  golden  seed, 

And  the  water  is  almost  dry ; 
And  straight  and  close  are  the  cramping  bars. 
From  the  dawn  of  mist  to  the  chill  of  stars, — 

And  yet  it  must  sing  or  die  ! 
>Vill  its  marred,  hoarse  voice  in  the  city  street 

Make  any  heart  of  you  glad  ?. 
It  will  only  beat  with  its  wings,  and  beat. 

It  will  only  sing  you  mad. 

Better  to  lie  like  this  one  dead, 
Ruflled  plumage  on  breast  and  head. 
Poor  little  feathers  forever  furled, 
And  only  a  song  gone  out  of  the  world  I 

Where  the  grasses  wave  like  an  emerald  sea 

And  the  poppies  nod  in  the  corn. 
Where  the  fields  are  wide  and  the  wind  blows 
free. 

This  joy  of  the  spring  was  born. 
Whose  passionate  music  loud  and  loud. 

In  the  hush  and  the  rose  of  morn 
Was  a  voice  that  fell  from  the  sailing  cloud 
Midway  to  the  blue  above, — 
A  thing  whose  meaning  was  joy  and  love. 

Whose  life  was  one  exquisite  outpouring 
Of  a  sweet,  surpassing  note  ; 

And  all  you  have  done  is  to  break  its  wing, 
And  to  blast  God's  breath  in  its  throat  I 

If  it  does  not  go  to  your  hearts  to  see 
The  helpless  pity  of  those  bruised  wings, 
The  tireless  effort  with  which  it  clings 
To  the  strain  and  the  will  to  be  free, 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  set  in  words 
The  meaning  of  God  in  this. 
For  the  loveliest  thing  in  this  world  of  his 
Are  the  ways  and  the  songs  of  birds  I 

And  the  sky,  the  sky,  the  wide,  free  sky, 
For  the  home  of  the  song-bird's  heart  I 

And  why,  why,  why,  why 
Do  they  stifle  here  in  the  mart  ? 
Specutor.  Ren  NELL  RoDa 


THE  BURDEN  OF  LIFE. 

The  burden  of  our  life  is  hard  to  bear. 

But  we  must  bear  it  if  it  blame  or  bless ; 
Joy  is  so  like  to  grief,  hope  to  despair. 

That  life's  best  sweet  has  taint  of  bitterness. 
Springes  piercing  promise,  summer's  still  se- 
rene. 

The  autumn's  pathos  each  alike  portends 
The  dark,  inevitable,  unforeseen. 

Great  gulf  of  silence  where  all  singing  ends. 

Yet  whence  may  come  this  sense  beyond  all 
sense 
Of  what  we  cannot  see  nor  hear,  but  feel, 
But  that  from  far,  in  some  supreme  intense, 
A  spark  is    stricken  from    Fate's  solemn 
wheel  ? 
From  the  dim  drear  beyond,  the  wild  some- 
where, 
Wheij|||int  dreams  die  before  they  reach 
^^^ore, 
Suddevl^chance  into  our  earthy  air 
A  far  scent    streams    through  some  half- 
opened  door. 


Was  it  from  that  blank  world  of  mysteries 

Where  music  dwells  beyond  the  walls  of 
Time, 
Where  vague  accordances,  lost  melodies 

In  rhythmic  pulse  of  unborn  being  rhyme,— 
Or  rather,  from  that  vast  inane  of  thought 

Where  disembodied  dreams  in  darkness  lie. 
That  the  tranced  soul  the  fine  alfection  caught 

That  searched  the  sentient  spirit  with  a  sigh  ? 

Blackwood's  Macazioe. 


AN  ENGLISH  HOME. 

Deep  in  a  hazy  hollow  of  the  down 
The  brick-built  court  in  mellow  squareness 

stood. 
Where  feathery  beeches  fringed  the  hanging 
wood, 
And  sighing  cedars  spread  a  carpet  brown. 

Out  of  the  elms  the  clamorous  tree-folk  sent 
A  breezy  welcome,  while  the  rnses  made 
Their  vesper  offering,  and  the  creeper  laid 

His  flaming  hands  about  the  pediment 

O  happy  souls,  most  fatherly  denied 
The  cares  that  fret,  not  quicken :  drawn  to 
know 
The  healing  hands  that  hang  upon  the  cross. 
And  through  pure  agonies  of  love  and  loss 
Wrought  into  sorrow  for  a  world  of  woe. 
And  from  a  prosperous  baseness  purified. 

A.  C.  Benson. 
Addington  Park,  Croydon^  October  yth. 

Spectator. 


1 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


From  The  Church  Quarterly  Review. 
EDWARD   HENRY  PALMER.* 

A  DRAMATIST  whu  undertakes  to  write 
a  play  which  is  to  be  almost  devoid  of  in- 
cident, and  to  depend  for  interest  on  the 
development  of  an  eccentric  character, 
with  only  a  single  strong  situation,  even 
though  that  situation  be  one  of  surpassing 
power,  is  considered  by  those  learned  in 
such  matters  to  be  almost  courting  failure. 
Such  a  work  is  therefore  rarely  attempted, 
and  is  still  more  rarely  successful.  Yet 
this  is  what  Mr.  Besant  has  had  to  do  in 
writing  the  life  of  Edward  Henry  Palmer; 
and  we  are  glad  to  be  able  to  say  at  once 
that  he  has  discharged  a  delicate  and  dif- 
ficult task  in  a  most  admirable  fasiiion. 
For  in  truth  he  had  a  very  unpromising 
subject  to  deal  with.  It  is  always  difficult 
to  interest  the  general  public  in  the  say- 
ings and  doings  of  a  man  of  letters,  even 
when  he  has  occupied  a  prominent  posi- 
tion, and  thrown  himself  with  ardor  into 
some  burning  question  of  the  day,  politi- 
cal or  social,  of  which,  though  it  may  be 
almost  forgotten  when  his  biography  ap- 
pears, the  world  likes  to  be  reminded. 
Palmer,  however,  was  not  such  a  man  at 
all.  He  did  "break  his  birth's  invidious 
bar,"  but  alas  !  it  was  never  given  to  him, 
until  the  end  was  close  at  hand,  "  to  grasp 
the  skirts  of  happy  chance,"  or  to  rise 
into  a  position  where  he  could  be  seen  by 
the  world.  It  is  melancholy  now  to  spec- 
ulate on  what  might  have  been  had  he 
returned  in  safety  from  the  perilous  enter- 
prise in  which  he  met  his  death,  for  it  is 
hardly  likely  that  the  government  would 
have  failed  to  secure,  by  some  permanent 
appointment,  the  services  of  a  man  who 
had  proved,  in  so  signal  a  manner,  his 
capacity  for  dealing  with  Orientals.  As 
it  was,  however,  with  the  exception  of  the 
journeys  to  the  Sioaitic  Peninsula  and 
the  Holy  Land,  he  lived  a  quiet  student 
life;  not  wholly  retired,  for  he  was  no 

•  I  Tfu  L  if*  and  A  ckitvtmtntt  of  Edward  Henry 
Palmer  t  late  Lord  Almoner^  t  t*rc/essor  of  Arabic 
in  the  University  of  Cambridge  and  Fellow  of  S. 
Joktit  College.    By  Walter  Bbsant,  M.A.    London, 

18S3. 
1.  Correspondence  respecting  the  Murder  0/ Pro- 

fessor  E.  H.  Palmer,  Captain  hyUliam  GUI,  R.E., 

and  Lieutenant  Harold  Charringtou,  R.N.     Pre- 

senteji  to  both  Houses  of  Parliament  by  Command  of 

HsK  Majk»ty.    London,  i8Sj. 


387 

bookworm,  and  enjoyed,  after  a  peculiar 
fashion  of  his  own,  the  society  of  his  fel- 
low-men ;  but  still  a  life  which  did  not 
really  bring  him  beyond  the  narrow  circle 
of  the  few  intimate  friends  who  knew  him 
thoroughly,  and  were  proportionately  de- 
voted to  him.  He  took  no  part  in  any 
movement ;  he  was  not  **  earnest "  or  •*  in- 
tense." He  did  not  read  new  books,  or 
any  of  the  **  thoughtful  "  magazines;  nor 
had  he  any  particular  desire  to  alter  the 
framework  of  society.  The  world  was  a 
good  world  so  far  as  he  was  concerned ; 
and  men  were  strange  and  interesting 
creatures  whom  it  was  a  pleasure  to  study, 
as  a  naturalist  studies  a  new  species  ;  why 
alter  it  or  them?  The  interest  which  at- 
taches to  such  a  life  depends  wholly  on 
the  way  \n  which  the  central  character  is 
presented  to  the  public.  That  Mr.  Besant 
should  have  succeeded  where  others  would 
have  failed  need  not  surprise  us.  The 
same  qualities  which  have'  made  him  a 
delightful  novelist  are  brought  to  bear 
upon  this  prose  *Mn  Memoriam,"  with  the 
additional  incentives  of  warm  friendship 
and  passionate  regret.  It  is  clear  that  he 
realized  all  the  difficulties  of  his  task  from 
the  outset ;  and  he  has  treated  his  mate- 
rials accordingly,  leading  the  reader  for- 
ward with  consummate  art,  chapter  by 
chapter,  as  the  spectator  is  led  through 
successive  acts  by  a  skilful  dramatist,  to 
the  catastrophe  at  the  end,  which  is  de- 
scribed with  the  picturesqueness  of  a 
romance,  and  the  solemn  earnestness  of 
a  tragedy.  Such  a  book  is  almost  above 
criticism.  A  mourner  by  an  open  grave, 
pronouncing  the  funeral  oration  of  his 
murdered  friend,  has  a  prescriptive  right 
to  apportion  praise  and  blame  in  what 
measure  he  thinks  fit;  and  we  should  be 
the  last  to  intrude  upon  his  sacred  sorrow 
with  harsh  and  inconsiderate  criticism. 
But  we  should  be  failing  in  our  duty  if  we 
did  not  draw  attention  to  one  point.  It 
has  been  Mr.  Besant*s  object  to  show  the 
difficulties  of  all  kinds  against  which  his 
hero  had  to  contend -^  ill-health,  heavy 
sorrows,  debt  —  and  how  he  came  trium- 
phant through  them  all,  thanks  to  his  . 
indomitable  pluck  and  energy;  and  fur- 1 
ther,  as  though  no  element  of  interest 
should  be  wanting,  he  has  represented 


388 

him  as  smartiDg  under  a  sense  of  un- 
merited wrong  done  to  him  by  his  univer- 
sity, which  **  went  out  of  the  way  to  insult 
and  neglect  "  him.  This  is  no  mere  fancy 
of  Mr.  Besant's;  we  know  from  other 
sources  that  Palmer  himself  thought  he 
had  not  been  treated  at  Cambridge  as  he 
ought  to  have  been,  and  that  he  was  glad 
to  get  away  from  it.  We  shall  do  our 
best  to  show  that  this  was  a  misconcep- 
tion on  his  part,  and  we  regret  that  his 
biographer  should  have  given  such  prom- 
inence to  it.  But  though  Mr.  Besant 
may  have  been  zealous  overmuch  on  this 
particular  point,  his  book  is  none  the  less 
fascinating,  and  it  will  live,  we  venture  to 
predict,  as  a  permanent  record  of  a  very 
remarkable  man.  We  are  sensible  that 
much  of  its  charm  will  disappear  in  the 
short  sketch  which  we  have  room  to  give, 
but  if  our  remarks  have  the  effect  of  send- 
ing our  readers  to  the  original,  we  shall 
not  have  written  in  vain. 

Edward  Henry  Palmer  was  born  in 
Green  Street,  Cambridge,  August  7,  1840. 
His  father  died  when  he  was  an  infant, 
and  his  mother  did  not  long  survive  her 
husband.  Her  place  was  supplied  to 
some  extent  by  an  aunt,  then  unmarried, 
who  took  the  orphan  child  to  her  own 
home  and  educated  him.  She  was  evi- 
dently a  person  who  combined  great  kind- 
ness with  great  good  sense.  Palmer,  we 
read,  "owed  everything  to  her,"  and 
**  never  spoke  of  her  in  after  years  with- 
out the  greatest  tenderness  and  emotion." 
Of  his  real  mother  we  do  not  find  any 
record  ;  but  the  father,  who  kept  a  small 
private  school,  was  **  a  man  of  considera- 
ble acquirements,  with  a  strong  taste  for 
art."  We  do  not  know  whether  any  of 
Palmer's  peculiar  talents  had  ever  been 
observed  in  the  father,  or  whether  he  can 
be  said  to  have  inherited  anything  from 
his  family  except  a  tendency  to  asthma 
and  bronchial  disease.  From  this,  of 
which  the  father  died  before  he-was  thirty, 
the  son  suffered  all  his  life.  He  grew 
out  of  it  to  a  certain  extent,  but  it  was 
always  there,  a  watchful  enemy,  ready  to 
start  forth  and  fasten  upon  its  victim. 

The  beginning  of  Palmer's  education 
was  of  the  most  ordinary  description,  and 
little  need  be  said  about  it.     He  was  sent 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


in  the  first  instance  to  a  private  school, 
and  afterwards  to  the  Perse  Grammar 
School.  There  he  made  rapid  progress, 
arriving  at  the  sixth  form  before  he  was 
fiiteen;  but  all  we  hear  about  his  studies 
is  that  he  distinguished  himself  in  Greek 
and  Latin,  and  disliked  mathematics.  By 
the  time  he  was  sixteen  he  had  learnt  all 
that  he  was  likely  to  learn  at  school,  and 
was  sent  to  London  to  earn  his  living. 
It  never  seems  to  have  struck  anybody 
that  he  was  a  genius,  nor,  indeed,  had  he 
ever  given  anybody  reason  to  suppose 
that  he  possessed  more  than  good  average 
abilities.  In  London  he  became  a  junior 
clerk  in  a  house  of  business  in  Eastcheap, 
where  he  remained  for  three  years,  and 
might  have  remained  for  the  term  of  his 
natural  life,  had  he  not  been  obliged  to 
resign  his  situation  on  account  of  ill 
health.  Symptoms  of  pulmonary  disease 
manifested  themselves,  and  he  got  so 
rapidly  worse  that  he  was  told  that  he  had 
little  hope  of  recovery.  He  returned  to 
Cambridge,  under  the  belief  that  he  had 
but  a  few  weeks  to  live,  and  that  he  might 
as  well  die  comfortably  among  his  rela- 
tions, as  miserably  in  London  among 
strangers.  But  after  a  few  weeks  of  se- 
vere illness  he  recovered,  suddenly  and 
strangely.  Mr.  Besant  tells  a  curious 
story,  which  Palmer  is  reported  to  have 
believed,  about  the  cure  having  been  ef- 
fected by  a  dose  of  lobelia^  administered 
by  a  herbalist.  That  Palmer  swallowed 
the  drug  —  of  which,  by  the  way,  he 
nearly  died  —  is  certain,  and  that  he  re- 
covered is  equally  certain ;  but  that  the 
dose  and  the  recovery  can  be  correlated 
as  cause  and  effect  is  more  than  we  are 
prepared  to  admit.  We  are  rather  dis- 
posed to  accept  the  view  which  has  been 
communicated  to  us  by  a  gentleman  who 
at  that  period  was  one  of  his  intimate 
friends :  — 

Careful  watchfulness  on  the  part  of  his  aunt, 
open  air,  exercise,  and  freedom  from  restraint, 
were  the  principal  means  of  patching  him  up. 
He  had  frequent  attacks  of  blood-spitting  after- 
wards, and  was  altogether  one  of  those  won- 
derful creatures  that  defy  doctors  and  quacks 
alike,  and  won*t  die  of  the  disease  which  is 
theirs  by  inheritance.  How  little  any  of  us 
thought  that  he  would  die  a  hero  I 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


Palmer's  peculiar  gtft  of  acquiring  lan- 
guages had  manifested  itself  even  before 
be  went  to  London.  Throughout  his 
whole  career  his  strength  as  a  linguist  lay 
In  his  extraordinary  aptitude  for  learning 
a  spoken  language.  The  literature  came 
afterwards.  We  are  not  aware  that  he 
was  ever  what  is  called  a  good  scholar  in 
Latin  or  in  Greek,  simply  for  the  reason, 
according  to  our  view,  that  those  lan- 
guages are  no  longer  spoken  anywhere. 
He  did  not  repudiate  the  literature  of  a 
language  ;  far  from  it.  Probably  few  Ori- 
entalists have  known  the  literatures  of 
Arabia  and  Persia  better  than  he  knew 
them  ;  but  he  learnt  to  speak  Arabic  and 
Persian  before  he  learnt  to  read  them. 
In  this  he  resembled  Cardinal  Mezzofanti, 
who  had  the  same  power  of  picking  up  a 
language  for  speaking  purposes  from  a 
few  conversations  —  learning  some  words, 
and  constructing  for  himself  first  a  vo- 
cabulary and  then  a  grammar.  When 
Palmer  was  still  a  boy  at  school  he  learnt 
Romany.  He  learnt  it,  says  Mr.  Besant, 
'*by  paying  travelling  tinkers  sixpence 
for  a  lesson,  by  haunting  the  tents,  talk- 
ing to  the  men,  and  crossing  the  women's 
palms  with  his  pocket-money  in  exchange 
for  a  few  more  words  to  add  to  his  vocab- 
ulary. In  this  way  he  gradually  made  for 
himself  a  gipsy  dictionary."  In  time  he 
became  a  proficient  in  gipsy  lore,  and 
Mr.  Besant  tells  several  curious  stories 
about  his  adventures  with  that  remarka- 
ble people.  We  will  quote  the  narrative 
supplied  to  him  by  Mr.  Charles  Leiand 
—  better  known  as  Hans  Breitmann  — 
Palmer's  intimate  friend  and  brother  in 
Romany  lore. 

In  one  respect  Palmer  was  truly  remarkable. 
He  combined  plain  common  sense,  clear  judg- 
ment, and  great  quickness  of  perception  into 
all  the  relations  of  a  question  with  a  keen  love 
of  fun  and  romance.  I  could  fill  a  volume 
with  the  eccentric  adventures  which  we  had  in 
common,  particularly  among  the  gipsies.  To 
these  good  folk  we  were  always  a  first-class 
mystery,  but  none  the  less  popular  on  that  ac- 
count. What  with  our  speaking  Romany 
••down  to  the  bottom  crust,"  and  Palmer's  in- 
credible proficiency  at  thiroble-rig,  "ringing 
the  changes,"  picking  pockets,  card-sharping, 
three-mont^,  and  every  kind  of  legerdemain, 
these  honest  people  never  could  quite  make 


389 

up  their  minds  whether  we  were  a  kind  of 
Brahmins,  to  which  they  were  as  Sudras,  or 
what  Woe  to  the  gipsy  sharp  who  tried  the 
cards  with  the  Professor  I  How  often  have 
we  gone  into  a  tan  where  we  were  all  unknown, 
and  regarded  as  a  couple  of  green  Gentiles  I 
And  with  what  a  wonderful  air  of  innocence 
would  Palmer  play  the  part  of  a  lamb,  and  ask 
them  to  give  him  a  specimen  of  their  language ; 
and  when  they  refused,  or  professed  themselves 
unable  to  do  so,  how  admirably  he  would  turn 
to  me  and  remark  in  deep  Romany  that  we 
were  mistake^,  and  that  the  people  of  the  tent 
were  only  miserable  "mumpers'*  of  mixed 
blood,  who  could  nut  rakkerl  Once  I  remem- 
ber he  said  this  to  a  gipsy,  who  retaliated  in  a 
great  rage,  *'  How  could  I  know  that  you  were 
a  gipsy,  if  you  come  here  dressed  up  like  a 
gorgio  and  looking  like  a  gentleman  ?*' 

One  day,  with  Palmer,  in  the  fens  near  Cam- 
bridge, we  came  upon  a  picturesque  sight  It 
was  a  large  band  of  gipsies  on  a  halt  As  we 
subsequently  learned,  they  had  made  the  day 
before  an  immense  raid  in  robbing  hen-roosts 
and  poaching,  and  were  loaded  with  game, 
fowls,  and  eggs.  None  of  them  knew  me,  but 
several  knew  the  Professor  as  a  lawyer.  One 
took  him  aside  to  confide  as  a  client  their  late 
misdoings.     "  We  have  been,"  said  he  — • 

'*  You  have  been  stealing  eggs,"  replied 
Palmer. 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?  " 

'*  By  the  yolk  on  your  waistcoat,"  answered 
the  Professor  in  Romany.  "The  next  time 
you  had  better  hide  the  marks."  * 

•*  But  let  us  not  anticipate,*^  as  the  nov- 
els of  sixty  years  ago  used  to  say.  These 
experiences  among  the  gipsies  took  place 
in  1874  or  1875,  when  be  had  perfected 
himself  in  their  language,  and  we  must  go 
back  for  a  moment  to  the  period  spent  in 
London.  There,  in  his  leisure  hours,  he 
managed  to  learn  Italian  and  French,  by 
a  process  similar  to  that  by  which  he  had 
previously  acquired  the  rudiments  of  Ro- 
many. 

The  method  he  pursued  is  instructive.  He 
found  out  where  Italians  might  be  expected  tp 
meet,  and  went  every  evening  to  sit  among 
them  and  hear  them  talk.  Thus,  there  was  in 
those  days  a  cafi  in  Titchborne  Street  fre- 
quented by  Italian  refugees,  political  exiles,  and 
republicans.  Here  Palmer  sat  and  listened 
and  presently  began  to  talk,  and  so  became  an 
ardent  partisan  of  Italian  unity.    There  was 

*  Life,  p.  18a. 


390 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


also  at  that  time  —  I  think  many  of  them  have 
now  migrated  to  Hammersmith  —  a  great  col- 
ony of  Italian  organ-grmders  and  sellers  of 
plaster-cast  images  in  and  about  Saffron  Hill. 
He  went  atnong  these  worthy  people,  sat  with 
them  in  their  restaurants,  drank  their  sour 
wine,  talked  with  them,  and  acquired  their 
patois.  He  found  out  Italian  waiters  at  res- 
taurants and  talked  with  them ;  at  the  docks 
he  went  on  board  Italian  ships,  and  talked  with 
the  sailors ;  and  in  these  ways  learned  the 
various  dialects  of  Genoa,  Naples,  Nice,  Livor- 
no,  Venice,  and  Me^tsina.  One  of  his  friends 
at  this  time  was  a  well-known  Si?nor  Buono- 
corro,  the  so-called  "  Fire  King^tlVho  used  to 
astonish  the  multitude  nightly  at  Cremorne 
Gardens  and  elsewhere  bv  his  feats.  For 
Palmer  was  always  attracted  by  people  who 
run  shows,  "do"  things,  act,  pretend,  per- 
suade, deceive,  and  in  fact  are  interesting  for 
any  kind  of  cleverness.  However,  the  Brst 
result  of  this  perseverance  was  that  he  made 
himself  a  perfect  master  of  Italian,  that  he 
knew  the  country  speech  as  well  as  the  Italian 
of  the  schools,  and  that  he  could  converse  with 
the  Piedmontese,  the  Venetian,  the  Roman, 
the  Sicilian,  or  the  Calabrian,  in  their  own 
dialects,  as  well  as  with  the  purest  native  of 
Florence. 

Also  while  he  was  in  the  City  he  acquired 
French  by  a  similar  process.  I  do  not  know 
whether  he  carried  on  his  French  studies  at 
the  same  time  with  the  Italian,  but  I  believe 
not.  It  seems  certainly  more  in  accordance 
with  the  practice  which  he  adopted  in  after 
life  that  he  should  attempt  only  one  thing  at  a 
time.  But  as  with  Italian  so  with  French  ;  he 
joined^to  a  knowledge  of  the  pure  language  a 
curious  acquaintance  with  argot ;  also  —  which 
points  to  acquaintance  made  in  cafts  —  he  ac- 
quired somehow  in  those  early  days  a  curious 
knowledge  and  admiration  of  the  French  police 
and  detective  system.* 

The  illness  which  compelled  Palmer  to 
give  up  London  had  evidently  been  very  se- 
rious, and  his  convalescence  was  tedious. 
Nor,  when  supposed    to  be  well,  did  he 
feel  any  inclination  to  resume  work  as  a 
clerk.     So  he  stayed  in  Cambridore  at  his 
aunt*s  house,  with  no  definite  aim  in  life, 
but  taking  up  now  one  thing,  now  an- 
other,  after  the  manner   of  clever   boys 
when  they  are  at  home  for  the  holidays. 
He  did  a  little  literature  in  the  way  ok 
.  burlesques,  one  of  which,  '*  Ye  Hole  in  ye 
Walle,*'  a  legend  told  after  the  manner  of 
Ingoldsby,  was  afterwards   published  by 
Messrs.  Macmillan;    he   wrote    a  farce, 
which  was  acted  in  that  temple  of  Thes- 
pis,  once  dear  to  Cambridge  undergradu- 
ates, but  now,  so  far  as  the  drama  goes,  a 
desecrated  shrine  —  the   Barnwell    The- 
atre ;  he  acted  himself  with  considerable 

*  Life,  p.  ii« 


success,  and  for  a  week  or  so  thought  of 
adopting  the  stage  as  a  profession ;  'he 
tried  conjuring,  in  which  in  after  years  he 
became  an  adept,  and  ventriloquism, 
where  he  failed ;  he  took  up  various  forms 
of  art,  as  wood-engraving,  modelling, 
drawing,  painting,  photography;  in  all  of 
which,  except  the  last,  he  arrived  at  cred- 
itable results.  His  aunt  is  reported  to 
have  borne  her  nephew*s  changeable 
tastes  with  exemplary  patience,  until  pho- 
tography came  to  the  front;  but  **the 
waste  of  expensive  materials,  the  damage 
to  clothes,  stair-carpets  —  he  could  al- 
ways he  traced  —  his  disreputable  piebald 
appearance,"  and  (last,  but  not  least  !)*'  the 
results  on  glass,"  were  too  much  for  even 
her  good-nature.  The  camera  was  ban- 
ished, and  the  artist  was  bidden  to  adopt 
some  pursuit  less  annoying  to  his  neigh- 
bors. The  one  really  useful  study  of  this 
period  was  short  hand  writing.  To  this 
he  applied  himself  with  the  same  zeal  with 
which  he  took  up  the  other  things  we 
have  enumerated,  but  with  more  persever- 
ance ;  and  in  after  years,  when  he  prac* 
tised  as  a  barrister,  he  found  the  useful- 
ness of  it. 

Up  to  this  time  —  the  year  i860  —  he 
hae  never  turned  his  attention  to  Oriental 
literature,  and  very  likely  had  never  seen 
an  Oriental  character.    The  friend  whose 
reminiscences  we  have  quoted  more  than 
once  already   says    that    he  remembers 
**  going  one  morning  into  his  bedroom  (he 
was   a   very   late   riser)  and  finding   him 
looking  at  some  Arabic  characters.    They 
interested    him;    he   liked    the    look    of 
them ;  it  was  an  improvement  on  short- 
hand ;  he  would  find  it  all  out ;  and  so  he 
did  ! "    He  probably  at  once  set  to  work  to 
find  somebody  he  could  talk  to  about  his 
new  fancy,  and  as  the  supply  of  Oriental 
scholars  is  necessarily  limited  even   at 
one  of  the  universities,  he   was   led   at 
once  to  two  persons  who  were  competent 
to  instruct  him  —  the  Rev.  George  Skin- 
ner, and   a    Mohammedan   named   Syed 
Abdullah.    The  former  was  a  master  of 
arts  of  the  university,  who  had  published 
a  translation  of  the  Psalms ;  the  latter  was 
a  native  of  Oudh,  who  had  resided  in  En- 
gland since   1851,  and   who  about    this 
time  came  to  Cambridge  to  prepare  stu- 
dents for  the  Civil  Service  of  India.    Un- 
der the  guidance    of    these    gentlemen. 
Palmer  plunged  into  Oriental  languages 
with  the  same  enthusiasm  with  which  he 
had  followed  the  various  pursuits  we  have 
mentioned  above.     There  was  this  differ- 
ence, however,  between  the  new  love  and 
the  old ;  there  was  do  turning  back;  the 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


391 


dav  of  transient  fancies  was  over ;  that  of 
serious  work  had  begun.  His  ardor  now 
knew  no  abatement;  he  is  said  to  have 
worked  at  this  time  eighteen  hours  a 
day.  This  may  well  be  doubted ;  but 
without  pressing  such  a  statement  too 
closely,  we  may  feel  sure  that  he  gave 
himself  up  to  his  new  studies  with  un- 
wonted perseverance,  and  that  his  prog- 
ress was  rapid.  Mr.  Skinner  used  to  take 
him  out  for  walks  in  the  country,  and  dis- 
course to  him  on  Hebrew  grammar. 
Hebrew,  however,  was  a  language  which 
did  not  attract  him  greatly,  and  in  after 
years  he  used  to  say  that  he  did  not  know 
It.  Syed  Abdullah  gave  him  more  regu- 
lar and  systematic  instruction  in  Urdu, 
Persian,  and  Arabic.  Palmer  was  "con- 
stantly writing  prose  and  verse  exercises 
for  him."  They  became  intimate  friends ; 
and  as  he  resided  in  Cambridge  at  that 
time,  it  was  probably  through  his  repre- 
sentations that  Palmer  was  allowed  to 
give  up  all  thoughts  of  resuming  work  as 
a  clerk,  and  to  take  up  Oriental  languages 
and  literature  as  a  profession.  Through 
him,  too,  he  was  introduced  to  the  NaWab 
Ikbal  ud  Dawlah,  son  of  the  late  rajah  of 
Oudh,  who  took  a  very  warm  interest  in 
Palmer's  studies,  allowed  him  to  live  in 
his  house  when  he  pleased,  and  gave  him 
the  assistance  of  two  able  native  instruc- 
tors. Next  he  struck  up  a  friendship  with 
a  Bengalee  gentleman  named  Bazlurra- 
him,  with  whom  he  spent  some  time, 
composing  incessantly  under  his  super- 
vision in  Persian  and  Urdd.  Besides 
these  he  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
other  Orientals  resident  at  that  time  in 
England,  and  also  with  Professor  Mir 
Aulad  AH,  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
**who  was  constantly  his  adviser,  critic, 
teacher,  friend,  and  sympathizer."  Hence, 
as  Mr.  Besant  points  out,  we  may  see  that 
he  had  no  lack  of  instructors  ;  and  may  at 
once  dismiss  from  our  minds  two  common 
misconceptions  about  him  —  6rst  that 
Oriental  languages  "came  natural"  to 
him ;  and,  secondly,  that  he  was  a  poor, 
friendless,  solitary  student,  burning  the 
midnight  lamp  in  a  garret,  and  learning 
Arabic  all  alone.  On  the  contrary,  he 
never  felt  any  pressure  of  poverty,  and 
was  helped,  sympathized  with,  encour- 
aged, by  all  those  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact.  His  progress  was  rapid,  and  in 
1862  he  was  able  to  send  a  copy  of  origi- 
nal Arabic  verses  to  the  lord  almoner's 
reader  in  that  language,  who  described 
them  as  "elegant  and  idiomatic." 

Up  to  this  time  Palmer  does  not  appear 
to  have  known  uiuch  of  university  r  en,  or 


to  have  thought  of  becoming  a  member  of 
the  university  himself.  He  would  proba« 
bly  have  never  become  a  member  of  St. 
John*s  College  had  he  not  been  acciden- 
tally "discovered,"  as  Mr.  Besant  happily 
puts  it,  by  two  of  the  fellows.  The  result 
of  this  discovery  was  that  he  was  invited 
to  become  a  candidate  for  a  sizarship  in 
October,  1863,  and  in  the  interval  prepared 
himself  for  the  examination  by  reviving 
his  former  studies  in  classics  and  in  work- 
ing at  mathematics.  He  was  assisted  in 
his  work  by  one  of  the  fellows,  who  tells 
us  that,  though  he  declared  that  he  knew 
no  mathematics  at  all,  he  "always  did 
what  he  set  him,  passed  the  examinations 
very  easily,  and  presumably  obtained  his 
sizarship  on  it."  His  known  proficiency 
in  Oriental  languages  was  evidently  not 
considered  at  the  outset  of  his  university 
career,  but  .some  two  years  afterwards,  in 
1865  or  1866,  a  scholarship  was  given  to 
him  on  that  account  only.  He  took  his 
degree  in  1867,  and  as  there  was  no  Ori- 
ental  Languages  Tripos  in  those  days,  he 
presented  himself  for  the  Classical  Tripos, 
in  which  he  obtained  only  a  third  class. 
Such  a  place  cannot,  as  a  general  rule,  be 
considered  brilliant;  but  in  his  case  it 
should  be  regarded  as  a  distinction  rather 
than  a  failure,  for  it  shows  that  he  must 
have  possessed  a  more  than  respectable 
knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek,  and,  more« 
over,  have  been  able  to  write  compoution 


utioi 
Jf  hij 


in  those  languages.  At  the  time  of  his 
matriculation  (November,  1S63)  he  could 
have  known  but  little  of  either;  and  dur- 
ing the  succeeding  three  years  he  had 
been  much  occupied  with  vigorous  prose- 
cution of  his  Oriental  studies,  with  taking 
pupils  in  Arabic,  and  with  making  cata- 
logues of  the  Oriental  manuscripts  in  the 
libraries  of  the  university,  of  King's  Col- 
lege, and  of  Trinity  College  —  work  than 
which  none  can  be  conceived  more  labo- 
rious or  more  time-wasting.  But  he  al- 
ways had  a  surprising  power  of  getting 
through  an  enormous  quantity  of  work 
without  ever  seeming  to  be  in  a  hurry. 

He  did  not  strike  one  [writes  a  friend]  as  a 
man  of  method,  as  an  economist  of  time,  as 
moving  about  wrapped  in  thought.  You  met 
him  apparently  lounging  along,  ready  for  a 
talk,  perhaps  in  company  with  a  rather  idle 
man ;  yet  when  you  came  to  measure  up  his 
work  you  were  puzzled  to  know  how  any  one 
man  could  do  it. 

Palmer's  proficiency  in  Oriental  lan- 
guages at  this  time,  1867  —  only  seven 
years,  it  should  be  remembered,  after  he 
had  begun  to  study  them  —  is  abundantly 
attested  by  a  very  remarkable  body  of  tes* 


392 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


timoDials*  which  he  obtained  when  a 
candidate  for  the  post  of  interpreter  to 
the  English  embassy  in  Persia.  His  old 
friend  the  nawab  said :  — 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  that  he  has 
never  visited  any  Eastern  kingdom,  or  mixed 
with  Oriental  nations,  he  has  yet,  by  his  own 
perseverance,  application,  and  studVi  acquired 
such  great  proficiency,  fluency,  and  eloquence, 
in  speaking  and  writing  three  Oriental  tongues 
—  to  wit,  Urdd  (Hindoostani),  Persian,  and 
Arabic  —  that  one  would  say  he  must  have 
associated  with  Oriental  nations,  and  studied 
for  a  lengthened  period  in  the  Universities  of 
the  East. 

We  have  no  room  for  further  quotations 
from  the  curious  and  flowery  composi- 
tions in  which  numerous  learned  Orientals 
held  up  his  excellencies  of  every  sort  to 
admiration  ;  but  we  will  cite  a  short  pas- 
sage from  what  was  said  by  Mr.  Bradshaw, 
librarian  to  the  University  of  Cambridge, 
who  had  naturally  seen  a  great  deal  of 
him  while  working  at  the  manuscripts:  — 

What  was  at  once  apparent  was  the  radical 
difference  of  his  knowledge  of  these  languages 
[Arabic  and  Persian]  from  that  of  any  other 
Orientalist  I  had  met.  It  was  the  di^erence 
between  native  knowledge  and  dictionary 
knowledge  ;  between  one  who  uses  a  language 
as  his  own  and  one  who  is  able  to  make  out 
the  meaning  of  what  is  before  him  with  more 
or  less  accuracy  by  help  of  a  dictionary. 

lAhe  autumn  of  1867,  a  fellowship  at 
St.  John's  College  being  vacant,  the  then 
master,  Dr.  Bateson,  knowing  Palmer's 
reputation  as  an  Orientalist,  asked  Profes- 
sor Cowell,  then  recently  made  professor 
of  Sanskrit,  to  examine  him.  Professor 
Cowell  writes :  — 

I  undertook  to  examine  him  in  Persian  and 
Hindustani,  as  I  felt  that  my  knowledge  of 
Arabic  was  too  slight  to  justify  my  venturing 
to  examine  him  in  that  language.  I  well  re- 
member my  delight  and  surprise  in  this  ex- 
amination. I  had  never  had  any  intercourse 
with  Palmer  before,  as  I  had  been  previously 
living  in  India ;  and  I  had  no  idea  that  he  was 
such  an  Oriental  scholar.  I  remember  well 
that  I  set  him  for  translation  into  Persian 
prose  a  florid  description  from  Gibbon's  chap- 
ter on  Mohammed.  Palmer  translated  it  in  a 
masterly  way,  in  the  true  style  of  Persian  rhet- 
oric, every  important  substantive  having  its 
rhyming  doublet,  just  as  in  the  best  models  of 
Persian  literature.  In  fact,  his  vocabulary 
seemed  exhaustless.  I  also  set  him  difficult 
pieces  for  translation  from  the  Masnavf,  Khon- 
demir,  and  I  think  Saudd ;  but  he  could  explain 
them  all  without  hesitation.    I  sent  a  full  re- 

*  Testimonials  in  favor  of  Edward  Henry  Palmer, 
B.A.    Svo.    Hertford,  1867. 


port  to  the  Master,  and  the  college  elected  him 
at  once  to  the  vacant  fellowship.* 

It  has  now  become  an  understood  thing 
at  Cambridge  that  a  man  who  is  really 
distinguished  in  any  branch  of  study  has 
a  good  chance  of  ^Uowship;  but  twenty 
years  ago  this  was  not  the  case,  and  we 
Delieve  that  Palmer  was  the  first,  at  least 
in  the  present  century,  to  obtain  that  blue 
ribbon  of  Cambridge  life  for  proficiency 
in  other  languages  than  those  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  Such  a  distinction  meant 
more  to  him  than  it  would  have  meant  to 
most  men.  No  further  anxieties  on  the 
score  of  money  need  trouble  him  for  the 
future ;  he  need  no  longer  be  dependent 
on  the  generosity  of  relations  who  were 
not  themselves  overburdened  with  the 
goods  of  this  world.  He  might  study 
Oriental  languages  to  his  heart's  content 
without  let  or  hindrance  from  anybody; 
and  it  was  more  than  probable  that  one 
piece  of  good  fortune  would  be  the  parent 
of  another  —  a  distinction  so  signal  would 
bring  him  into  notice,  and  obtain  for  him 
the  offer  of  something  which  would  be 
woi'th  accepting.  He  had  not  long  to 
wait.  In  less  than  a  year  a  post  was 
offered  to  him  which  presented,  in  de- 
lightful combination,  study,  travel,  some 
emolument,  and  the  '*  potentialitv,"  as 
Dr.  Johnson  would  have  said,  of  fame 
and  fortune.  At  the  suggestion  of  the 
Rev.  George  Williams,  then  a  resident 
fellow  of  King's  College,  he  was  asked  to 
take  part  in  the  exploration  of  the  Holy 
Land,  and  to  accompany  the  expedition 
then  about  to  start  for  the  survey  of  Sinai 
and  the  neighborhood.  He  was  to  inves- 
tigate the  names  and  traditions  of  the 
country,  and  to  copy  and  decipher  the 
inscriptions  with  which  the  rocks  in  the 
so-called  "  Written  Valley  "  and  in  other 
places  are  covered.  He  accepted  without 
hesitation,  and  left  England  in  November, 
1868. 

The  results  of  this  expedition  will  be 
found  in  **The  Desert  of  the  Exodus,"  f  a 
delightful  book,  in  which  Palmer  has  nar- 
raied  in  a  pleasing  style  the  daily  doings 
of  the  surveyors  and  the  conclusions  at 
which  they  arrived.  His  own  share  in  the 
work  is  kept  modestlv in  the  background; 
but  it  is  evident  that,  besides  his  appointed 
task  as  collector  of  folk-lore,  he  did  his 
full  share  of  topographical  research,  in 
which  he  evidently  took  a  keen  and  grow- 

*  Life,  p.  49. 

t  The  Desert  of  the  Exodus,  Svo,  Cambridge, 
Deiehtons,  1871.  Mr.  Besant  was  informed  that  the 
1  book  was  out  of  print,  but  we  find  that  the  publishers 
I  have  still  a  few  copies  left. 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


393 


log  interest,  all  the  more  remarkable  as 
he  could  have  had  but  little  previous  prep- 
aration for  this  part  of  his  work.  We 
take  it  for  granted  that  our  readers  are  so 
familiar  with  the  subject  that  we  need  not 
do  more  than  remind  them  that  the  inves- 
tigations of  the  expedition  '*  materially 
confirmed  and  elucidated  the  history  of 
the  Exodus ;  "  that  objections  founded  on 
the  supposed  incapacity  of  the  peninsula 
to  have  accommodated  so  large  a  host  as 
that  of  Israel  were  disposed  otby  pointing 
out  abundant  traces  of  ancient  fertility; 
that  the  claims  of  Jebel  Musa  to  be  the 
true  Sinai  were  vindicated  by  a  compari- 
son of  its  natural  features  with  the  Bible 
narrative,  and  by  the  collection  of  Arab 
and  Mohammedan  traditions;  and,  lastly, 
that  the  site  of  Ki broth  Hattaavah  was  de- 
termined, partly  on  geo^^raphicgl  grounds, 
partly  on  the  traditions  still  current  among 
the  Towarah  Bedouin,  whose  language 
Palmer  mastered,  and  of  whose  manners 
and  customs  he  has  drawn  up  a  very  full 
and  interesting  account.  The  intimate 
acquaintance  which  he  thus  formed  with 
one  of  these  tribes  stood  him  in  good 
stead  in  the  following  year,  when  he  took 
a  far  more  responsible  journey.  The  ease 
with  which  he  spoke  the  Arab  language 
was,  however,  one  of  the  least  of  his  many 
gifts:  he  thoroughly  understood  Arab 
character,  and  was  generally  successful, 
not  merely  in  making  the  natives  do  what 
he  wanted^  but,  what  is  far  more  wonder- 
ful, in  making  them  speak  the  truth  to 
him.  He  thus  sums  up  his  method  of 
dealing  with  them :  — 

An  Arab  is  a  bad  actor,  and  with  but  a  very 
little  practice  you  may  infallibly  detect  him  in 
a  lie  ;  when  directly  accused  of  it,  he  is  aston- 
ished at  your,  to  him,  incomprehensible  sagac- 
ity, and  at  once  gives  up  the  game.  By  keep- 
ing this  fact  constantly  in  view,  and  at  the 
same  time  endeavoring  to  win  their  confidence 
and  respect,  I  have  every  reason  to  believe 
that  the  Bedawin  gave  us  throughout  a  correct 
account  of  their  country  and  its  nomenclature. 

When  once  an  Arab  has  ceased  to  regard 
you  with  suspicion,  you  may  surprise  a  piece 
of  information  out  of  him  at  any  moment ; 
and  if  you  repeat  it  to  him  a  short  time  after- 
wards, he  forgets  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  that 
he  has  himself  been  your  authority,  and  should 
the  information  be  incorrect  will  flatly  contra- 
dict you  and  set  you  right,  while  if  it  be 
authentic  he  is  puzzled  at  your  possessing  a 
knowledge  of  the  facts,  and  deems  it  useless 
to  withhold  from  you  anything  further.* 

The  survey  of  Sinai  had  been  completed 
but  a  few  months  when  Palmer  left  En- 

•  Desert  of  the  Exodus,  p.  jas* 


gland  again,  for  a  second  journey  of 
exploration.  It  is  evident  that  he  must 
have  had  a  very  considerable  share  in  the 
proceedings  of  the  former  survey,  for  this 
second  expedition  was  practically  en- 
trusted to  him  to  arrange  as  he  pleased. 
He  was  instructed  in  general  terms  to 
clear  up,  first,  certain  disputed  points  in 
the  topography  of  Sinai ;  next,  to  examine 
the  country  between  the  Sinaitic  penin- 
sula and  the  Promised  Land  —  the  **  Des- 
ert of  the  Wanderings ; "  and  lastly,  to 
search  for  inscriptions  in  Moab.  He  de- 
termined to  take  with  him  a  single  com- 
panion only,  Mr.  Charles  Tyrwhitt-Drake, 
of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  who  had 
had  already  some  experience  of  the  East, 
and  who  proved  himself  in  every  way  to 
be  the  man  of  men  for  rough  journeys  in 
unknown  lands;  to  travel  on  foot,  without 
dragoman,  servant,  or  escort;  and  to  take 
no  more  baggage  than  four  camels  could 
carry.  The  two  friends  started  from  Suez 
on  December  16,  1869,  and  reached  Jeru- 
salem in  excellent  health  and  spirits  on 
February  26,  1870.  They  had  performed 
a  feat  of  which  anybody  might  well  be 
proud.  They  had  traversed  "the  great 
and  terrible  desert,"  the  desert  of  El  Tih, 
and  the  Negeb,  or  "south  country"  of 
Palestine,  exactly  as  they  had  proposed 
to  do  —  on  foot,  with  no  attendants  except 
the  owners  of  the  baggage-camels.  They 
had  walked  nearly  six  hundred  miles  ubut 
this  fact,  though  it  says  much  for  tneir 
endurance,  gives  but  little  idea  of.  the  real 
fatigues  of  such  a  journey.  The  mental 
strain  must  have  been  far  more  exhaust- 
ing than  the  physical  fatigue.  It  must  be 
recollected  that  they  were  not  tourists,  but 
explorers,  whose  duty  it  was  to  observe 
carefully,  to  record  their  observations  on 
the  spot,  to  make  plans  and  sketches,  and 
to  collect  such  information  as  could  be 
extracted  from  the  inhabitants.  These 
various  pursuits  —  in  addition  to  their 
domestic  arrangements  —  had  to  be  car- 
ried on  in  the  midst  of  an  Arab  population 
always  suspicious,  and  sometimes  openly 
hostile,  who  worried  them  from  daybreak 
until  far  into  the  night,  and  against  whom 
their  only  weapons  were  incessant  watch- 
fulness, tact,  and  good  humor.  Readers  of 
Palmer's  narrative  will  not  be  surprised 
to  find  him  hinting,  not  obscurely,  that 
the  only  way  to  solve  the  "  Bedouin  ques- 
tion *'  is  to  adopt  what  was  called  a  few 
years  afterwards,  with  reference  to  an- 
other not  wholly  dissimilar  race,  "  the  bag 
and  baggage  policy."  This  deliberate 
opinion,  expressed  by  one  who  knew  the 
Arabs  well,  and  who  bad  obtained  sin* 


394 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


gular  influence  over  them,  is  worthy  of 
careful  attention,  as,  indeed,  are  all  the 
chapters  in  the  second  part  of  **  The  Des- 
ert of  the  Exodus,'*  where  this  journey  is 
fully  described  and  illustrated.  After 
readinor  that  narrative  no  one  can  be  sur- 
prised that  the  mission  which  ended  so 
triumphantly  and  so  fatally  twelve  years 
afterwards  should  have  been  entrusted  to 
Palmer. 

After  a  brief  repose  in  Jerusalem  thev 
started  afresh,  and  passing:  as^ain  throuj^h 
the  south  country  by  a  different  route, 
travelled  eastward  of  the  Dead  Sea 
through  the  unknown  lands  of  Eden  and 
Moab.  They  make  numerous  observations 
of  great  value  to  Biblical  students;  but 
they  failed  to  And  what  they  had  come  to 
seek — inscriptions  —  though  they  suc- 
ceeded in  inspecting  every  known  "writ- 
ten stone ''  in  the  country;  and  the  conclu- 
sion  at  last  forced  itself  upon  them,  **  that, 
above  ground  2X  least,  there  docs  not  exist 
another  Moabite  stone."*  It  will  be  re- 
membered that  the  famous  inscription  of 
King  Mesha  was  found  built  into  a  wall 
of  late  Roman  work,  the  ancient  Moabite 
city  being  buried  some  feet  below  the 
present  surface  of  the  ground.  This  fact 
induced  Palmer  to  adopt  the  following 
opinion :  — 

If  a  few  intelligent  and  competent  men, 
such  as  those  employed  in  the  Jerusalem  exca- 
vations, could  be  taken  out  to  Moab,  and 
certain  of  the  ruins  be  excavated,  further  inter- 
esting discoveries  might  be  made.  Such  re- 
searches might  be  made  without  difficulty  if 
the  Arabs  were  well  managed  and  the  expedi- 
tion possessed  large  resources ;  but  it  must  be 
remembered  that  the  country  is  only  nominally 
subject  to  the  Turkish  Government,  and  is 
filled  with  lawless  tribes,  jealous  of  each  other 
and  of  the  intrusion  ot  strangers,  and  all 
greedily  claiming  a  property  in  every  stone, 
written  or  unwritten,  which  they  think  might 
interest  a  Frank. 

That  many  treasures  do  lie  buried  among 
the  ruins  of  Moab  there  can  be  but  little 
doubt ;  the  Arabs,  indeed,  narrated  to  us  sev- 
eral instance:)  of  gold  coins  and  figures  having 
been  found  by  them  while  ploughing  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  ancient  cities,  and  sold 
to  jewellers  at  Nablous,  by  whom  they  were 
prooably  melted  up.t 

But,  though  there  was  no  inscription  to 
bring  home  as  visible  evidence  of  what 
had  been  done,  the  expedition  was  not 
barren  of  results.  In  the  first  place,  the 
possibility  of  exploring  the  little-known 
parts  of  Palestine  at  a  comparatively  tri- 

•  Dc«iert  of  the  Exodus,  p.  503, 
t  IbicL,  p.  503. 


fling  cost  had  been  demonstrated;  and« 
secondly,  numerous  sites  had  been  dis- 
covered where  further  research  would 
probably  yield  information  of  the  greatest 
value.  It  is  little  to  our  credit  as  a  natioa 
that  these  clues  have  not  been  followed 
up.  With  all  our  "imperial"  pretensions 
we  might  surely  demand  special  privileges 
from  Turkey  for  investigating  sites  oa 
which  so  much  depends.  Probably  less 
than  half  the  sum  which  was  spent  on  a 
polar  expedition  which  discovered  noth- 
ing would  have  solved  many  of  the  knot- 
tiest problems  of  Biblical'  topography; 
and  a  judicious  expenditure  of  bakshish 
might  unlock  even  the  venerable  doors  of 
Machpelah  itself.  It  is  a  great  misfor- 
tune that  Palmer  was  not  able  in  after 
years  to  give  undivided  attention  to  these 
interesting,  questions.  Unless  we  are 
much  mistaken,  he  would  have  made  a 
revolution  in  many  of  them  ;  and  notably 
in  the  architectural  history  of  the  city  of 
Jerusalem,  upon  which  he  threw  new  light 
from  an  unexpected  quarter  —  the  Arab 
historians.  He  would,  in  fact,  have  pur- 
sued for  the  Temple  area  at  Jerusalem 
the  method  which  Professor  Willis  pur- 
sued so  successfully  for  sonoe  of  our  own 
cathedrals ;  he  would  have  marshalled  in 
chronological  order  the  notices  of  the 
Arab  works  there ;  and  then,  by  compar- 
ing the  historical  evidence  with  the  exist- 
ing structures,  have  assigned  to  them  with 
certainty  their  respective  dates. 

Palmer  returned  to  England  in  the  au- 
tumn of  1870,  and  soon  afterwards  became 
a  candidate  for  the  professorship  of  Arabic 
in  the  University  of  Cambridge.  He  was 
unsuccessful,  and  we  should  have  con- 
tented ourselves  with  recording  the  fact 
without  comment,  had  not  Mr.  Besant 
stated  the  whole  question  in  a  way  re- 
flecting so  unfavorably  on  the  electors, 
and  through  them  on  the  university,  that 
we  feel  compelled  to  investigate  the  cir- 
cumstances in  detail.  This  is  what  he 
says :  — 

In  the  same  year  Palmer  experienced  what 
one  is  fully  justified  in  calling  the  most  cruel 
blow  ever  dealt  to  him,  and  one  which  he 
never  forgot  or  forgave. 

The  vacancy  of  the  Professorship  of  Arabic 
in  1S71  seemed  to  give  him  at  last  the  chance 
which  he  had  been  expecting.  .  .  •  He  became 
a  candidate  for  the  vacant  post ;  the  place  in 
fact  bdonf[ed  to  him  ;  it  was  his  already  by  a 
right  which  it  is  truly  wonderful  could  have 
been  contested  by  any  —  the  right  of  Con- 
quest The  electors  were  the  Heads  of  the 
colleges. 

Consider  the  position  :  Palmer  by  this  time 
was  a  man  known  all  over  the  world  of  Ori* 


EDWARD  HENRY   PALMER. 


395 


ental  scholarship  ;  he  was  not  a  single  untried 
student  and  man  of  books  ;  he  had  proved  his 
powers  in  the  most  practical  of  all  ways,  viz. 
by  relying  on  his  knowledge  of  the  language 
for  safety  on  a  dangerous  expedition  ;  he  had 
written,  and  written  wonderfully  well,  a  great 
quantity  of  things  in  Persian,  Urdu,  and  Ara- 
bic ;  he  was  known  to  everybody  who  knew 
anything  at  all  about  the  subject ;  he  had  been 
greatly  talked  about  by  those  who  did  not ;  he 
was  a  graduate  of  the  University  and  Fellow 
of  St.  John's,  an  honor  which,  as  was  well 
known,  he  received  solely  for  his  attainments 
in  Oriental  languages;  he  had  a  great  many 
friends  who  were  ready  to  testify,  and  had 
already  testified,  in  the  strongest  terms  to  his 
extraordinary  knowledge  ;  he  was,  in  fact,  the 
only  Cambridge  man  who  could,  with  any 
show  of  fairness  or  justice  at  all,  be  electea. 
He  was  also  young,  and  full  of  strength  and 
enthusiasm  ;  if  Persian  and  Arabic  lectures 
and  Oriental  studies  could  be  made  useful  or 
attractive  at  the  University,  he  would  make 
them  so.     What  follows  seems  incredible. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  electing  body  con- 
sisted, as  stated  alx>ve,  of  the  Heads  o^  col- 
leges. It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  the 
Heads,  who  are  mostly  men  advanced  in  years, 
who  have  spent  all  their  lives  at  the  Univer- 
sity, should  retain  whatever  old  prejudices, 
traditions,  and  ancient  manner  of  regarding 
things,  may  be  still  surviving.  There  were  — 
it  seems  childish  to  advance  this  statement 
seriously,  and  yet  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  true 
and  correct  —  two  prejudices  against  which 
Palmer  had  then  to  contend.  The  first  was 
the  more  serious.  It  was  at  that  time,  even 
more  than  it  is  now,  the  custom  at  Cambridge 
to  judge  of  the  abilities  of  every  man  entirely 
with  regard  to  his  place  in  one  of  the  two  old 
Triposes ;  and  this  without  the  least  respect 
or  consideration  for  any  other  attainments,  or 
accomplishments,  or  learning.  Darwin,  for 
instance,  whose  name  does  not  occur  in  the 
Honor  list  at  all,  never  received  from  his  col- 
lege the  slightest  mark  of  respect  until  his 
death.  Long  after  he  had  become  the  greatest 
scientific  man  in  Europe  the  question  would 
have  been  asked  —  I  have  no  doubt  it  was 
often  asked  —  what  degree  he  took.  Palmer's 
name  did  occur  in  the  Classical  Tripos  —  but 
alas !  in  the  third  class.  Was  it  possible,  was 
it  probable,  that  a  third-class  man  could  be  a 
person  worthy  of  consideration  at  all  ?  Third- 
class  men  are  good  enough  for  assistant  mas- 
ters to  small  schools,  for  curacies,  or  for  any 
other  branch  of  labor  which  can  be  performed 
without  much  intellect.  But  a  third-class  man 
niust  never,  under  any  circumstances,  consider 
that  he  has  a  right  to  learn  anything  or  to 
claim  distinction  as  a  scholar.  I  put  the  case 
strongly  ;  but  there  is  no  Cambridge  man  who 
will  deny  the  fact  that,  in  whatever  branch  of 
learning  distinction  be  subsequently  attained, 
the  memory  of  a  second  or  third  class  is  always 
prejudicial.  Palmer,  therefore,  went  before 
the  grave  and  reverend  Heads  with  this  unde- 
niable third  class  against  a  whole  sheaf  of 


proofs,  testimonials,  letters,  opinions,  state- 
ments, and  assertions  of  attainments  extraor- 
dinary, and  in  some  respects  unrivalled.  To 
be  sure  they  were  only  letters  from  Orientals 
and  Oriental  scholars.  What  could  they  avail 
against  the  opinion  of  the  Classical  Examiner 
0?  1867  that  Palmer  was  only  worth  a  third 
class? 

As  I  said  above,  it  seems  childish.  But  it 
is  true.     And  this  was  the  first  prejudice. 

The  second  prejudice  was  perhaps  his  youth. 
He  was,  it  is  true,  past  thirty,  but  he  had  only 
taken  his  degree  three  or  four  years,  and 
therefore  he  only  ought  to  have  been  five* 
and-twenty.  He  looked  no  more  than  five- 
and-twenty  ;  he  still  possessed  —  he  always 
possessed  —  the  enthusiasm  of  )'outh ;  his 
manners,  which  could  be,  when  he  chose,  full 
of  dignity  even  among  his  intimates,  were 
those  of  a  man  still  in  early  manhood  ;  he  had 
been  talked  about  in  connection  with  his  ad- 
ventures in  the  East ;  and  stories  were  told, 
some  true  and  some  false,  which  may  have 
alarmed  the  gravity  of  the  Heads.  There 
must  be  no  tincture  of  Bohemianism  al)out  a 
Professor  of  the  University.  Perhaps  rumors 
may  have  been  whispered  about  the  gipsies 
and  the  tinkers,  or  the  mesmerizing,  or  the 
conjuring ;  but  I  think  the  conjuring  had 
hardly  yet  begun. 

In  speaking  of  this  election,  I  beg  most 
emphatically  to  disclaim  any  comparison  be- 
tween the  most  eminent  and  illustrious  scholar 
who  was  elected  and  the  man  who  was  reject- 
ed. I  say  that  it  is  always  the  bounden  duty 
of  the  University  to  give  her  prizes  to  her 
own  children  if  they  have  proved  themselves 
worthy  of  them.  Not  to  do  so  is  to  discour- 
age learning  and  to  drive  away  students* 
Now,  the  Professorship  of  Arabic  was  vacant ; 
the  most  brilliant  Oriental  scholar  whom  the 
University  has  produced  in  this  century  — 
perhaps  in  any  century  —  became  a  candidate 
for  it ;  he  was  the  only  Cambridge  man  who 
could  possibly  be  a  candidate ;  the  Heads  of 
Houses  passed  him  by  and  elected  a  scholar 
of  wide  reputation  indeed,  but  not  a  member 
of  the  University. 

There  were  other  circumstances  which  made 
the  election  more  disappointing.  It  was 
known,  before  the  election,  that  Dr.  Wright 
had  been  spoken  to  on  the  subject ;  it  was 
also  known  that  he  would  not  stand  because 
the  stipend  of  the  post,  only  300/.  a  year,  was 
not  sufficient  to  induce  him  to  give  up  the 
British  Museum  It  seemed,  therefore,  that 
the  result  of  Palmer's  candidature  would  be  a 
walk  over.  But  the  day  before  the  election 
the  Master  of  Queens'  —  then  Dr.  Phillips, 
who  was  himself  a  Syriac  scholar  —  went 
round  to  all  the  electors,  and  informed  them 
that  Dr.  Wright  would  be  put  up  on  the  fol- 
lowing day.  He  was  put  up  ;  he  was  elected  ; 
and  very  shortly  afterwards  was  made  a  Fellow 
of  Queens*,  probably  in  consequence  of  an 
understanding  with  Dr.  Phillips  that,  in  the 
event  of  his  election  to  the  Professorship,  an 
election  to  a  Queens'  Fellowship  should  fol- 


396 

low.  Of  course,  one  has  nothing  to  say  against 
the  Fellowship.  Probably  a  Queens*  Fellow- 
ship was  never  more  honorably  and  usefully 
bestowed  ;  but  yet  the  man  who  ought  to  have 
obtained  the  Professorship,  the  man  to  whom 
it  belonged,  was  kept  out  of  it.  Palmer  was 
the  kindest-hearted  and  most  forgiving  of 
men,  and  the  last  to  think  or  speak  evil ;  but 
this  was  a  deliberate  and  uncalled-for  injustice, 
an  insult  to  his  reputation  which  could  never 
be  forgotten.  It  embittered  the  whole  of  his 
future  connection  with  the  University  :  it  never 
was  forgotten  or  forgiven. 

We  notice  two  errors  of  fact  in  the 
above  narrative.  The  election  did  not 
take  place  in  187 1,  but  in  1870;  and  sec- 
ondly, the  professorship  was  then  worth 
only  70/.  a  year.  The  stipend  was  not 
raised  to  300/.  until  the  following  Novem- 
ber. The  second  of  these  errors  is  not  of 
much  importance ;  but  the  first  is  very 
material,  as  we  shall  show  presently. 

We  will  next  give  an  exact  narrative  of 
what  actually  took  place.  Professor  Wil- 
liams, who  had  held  the  Arabic  chair 
since  1854,  died  in  the  lon^  vacation  of 
1870,  and  on  October  i  the  vice-chancellor 
announced  the  vacancy,  and  fixed  the  day 
of  election  for  Friday,  OctolJer  21.  The 
only  candidates  who  presented  themselves 
in  the  ordinary  way  were  Palmer  and  the 
Rev,  Stanley  Leathes,  M.A.,  of  Jesus 
College,  a  gentleman  who  had  obtained 
the  Tyrwhit  Hebrew  Scholarship  in  1853. 
It  was  known  that  he  was  not  a  formida- 
ble opponent;  and  Palmer,  as  Mr.  Besant 
rightly  states,  looked  upon  the  professor- 
ship  as  as  good  as  won.  However,  on  the 
day  before,  or  the  day  but  one  before,  the 
election,  the  president  of  Queens'  College 
left  a  card  on  each  of  the  electors,  to  say 
that  Dr.  Wright  would  be  voted  for.  One 
of  these  cards  was  given  to  Palmer,  we  do 
not  know  by  whom.  He  showed  it  to  a 
friend,  who  asked,  "What  does  it  mean  ?" 
'*  It  means  that  it  is  all  up  with  me,*' 
was  Palmer's  reply;  and  events  proved 
that  he  was  right  in  his  forebodings. 
When  the  electors  met,  the  masters  of 
Trinity  Hall  and  Emmanuel  were  not 
present,  and  the  master  of  Caius  declined 
to  vote.  The  remaining  fourteen  voted 
i»'  the  following  way:  for  Dr.  Wright 
eight;  for  Mr.  Palmer  five;  for  Mr. 
Leathes,  one.  Dr.  Wright,  therefore,  was 
declared  to  be  elected. 

It  will  be  seen  from  what  is  here  stated 
—  and  the  accuracy  of  our  facts  is,  we 
know,  beyond  question  —  that  it  was  not 
the  heads  of  houses  in  their  collective 
capacity  who  rejected  Palmer,  but  less 
than  half  of  them.  Again,  we  submit  that 
there  is  no  evidence  that  those  who  voted 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


against  bim  were  actuated  by  either  of  the 
prejudices  which  Mr.  Besant  imputes  to 
them.  A  high  place  in  a  tripos  is  no 
longer  regarded  at  Cambridge  as  indis- 
pensable, unless  the  candidate  be  trying 
for  a  post  the  duties  of  which  are  in  direct 
relation  to  the  tripos  in  which  he  has 
sought  distinction.  Four  years  after- 
wards, the  resident  members  of  the  Sen- 
ate chose  as  Woodward ian  professor  of 
geology  a  gentleman  who  had  taken  an 
ordinary  degree,  in  opposition  to  one  who 
had  been  placed  thirteenth  in  the  first 
class  of  the  mathematical  tripos,  on  the 
ground  that  they  believed  him  to  be  a 
better  geologist  than  his  opponent.  It 
will  be  said  they  were  not  the  heads  of 
colleges;  but  we  would  remark  that,  even 
in  the  election  we  are  discussing,  the  case 
against  them  breaks  down  on  this  point; 
for  the  successful  candidate  was  not  even 
a  member  of  the  university,  and  surely  an 
indifferent  degree  is  better  than  no  degree 
at  all.  As  to  the  second  prejudice  against 
Palmer,  we  simply  dismiss  it  wi^ii  con- 
tempt. We  never  heard  of  a  Cambridge 
elector  who  was  influenced  by  hearsay 
evidence;  and  we  happen  to  know  that 
Palmer  was  supported  by  the  master  of 
his  own  college,  who  must  have  known 
more  about  his  habits  than  all  the  other 
heads  put  together.  If  we  consider  the 
result  arrived  at  by  the  light  of  subse- 
quent events,  it  is  natural  for  those  who, 
like  his  biographer  and  ourselves,  are 
strongly  prepossessed  in  Palmer's  favor, 
to  regret  that  he  was  unsuccessful;  and 
we  are  delighted  to  find  Mr.  Besant  as- 
serting, as  he  does,  that  university  dis- 
tinctions ought  to  be  gxwtik,  cater ts  pari* 
bus^  to  university  men.  But  if  we  try  to 
put  ourselves  in  the  position  of  the  elec- 
tors, and  survey  the  two  candidates  as 
they  surveyed  them,  there  is,  we  feel 
bound  to  assert,  ample  justification  for 
the  selection  they  made,  having  regard  to 
the  particular  post  to  be  filled  at  that  time. 
They  had,  in  fact,  to  choose  between  a 
tried  and  an  untried  man.  Dr.  Wright 
was  known  to  have  received  a  regular 
education  in  Oriental  languages  in  Ger- 
many and  Holland,  and  to  be  thcught 
highly  of  by  the  most  competent  judges 
in  those  countries.  He  had  given  proof 
of  sound  scholarship  in  various  publica- 
tions, and  it  was  considered  by  several 
scholars  in  the  university  that  the  studies 
to  which  he  had  given  special  attention, 
viz.  —  Syriac,  Samaritan,  Ethiopic,  and 
the  Semitic  group  of  languages  generally 
—  would  be  specially  useful  there.  He 
had  held  a  professorship  in  Trinity  Col- 


EDWARD  HENRY   PALMER. 


397 


lege,  Dublin,  where  he  had  been  distin- 
guished as  a  teacher;  he  was  personally 
known  in  Cambridge,  not  merely  to  Dr. 
Phillips,  but  to  the  University  at  large,  at 
whose  hands  he  had  received  the  honorary 
degree  of  doctor  of  law  in  1868.  More- 
over, he  was  already  an  honorary  fellow 
of  Queens'  College,  and  therefore  it  was 
not  strange  that  a  society  which  had  al- 
ready gone  so  far  should  signify  to  him 
their  intention  of  proceeding  a  step  fur- 
ther in  the  event  of  his  consenting  to 
come  and  reside  at  Cambridge  as  a  pro- 
fessor. He  was  accordingly  elected  fel- 
low January  5,  1871.* 

Palmer,  on  the  other  hand,  had  sub- 
mitted to  the  electors  testimonials  which 
testified  to  his  wonderful  knowledge  of 
Hindustani,  Persian,  and  Arabic  as 
spoken  languages ;  he  was  known  to  have 

fiven  special  attention  to  the  languaQ;es  of 
ndia;  he  had  catalogued  the  Oriental 
MSS.  in  the  libraries  of  the  university,  of 
King's  College,  and  of  Trinity  College; 
he  hacf  translated  Moore's  **  Paradise  and 
the  Peri  "  into  Arabic  verse;  and  he  had 
published  a  short  treatise  on  the  Sufiistic 
and  Unitarian  theosophy  of  the  Persians. 
But  here  the  direct  evidence  of  his  ac- 
quirements ceased ;  and  it  is  at  this  point 
that  the  date  of  the  election  becomes  ma- 
terial. None  of  his  more  important  works 
had  as  yet  appeared.  The  official  report 
of  his  journeys  in  the  East  was  not  pub-> 
lished  until  January,  1871 ;  and  the  pref- 
ace to  his  **  Desert  of  the  Exodus"  is 
dated  June  of  the  same  year.f  The 
heads,  therefore,  could  not  know  that 
he  *'  had  relied  on  his  knowledge  of  the 
language  for  safety  in  a  dangerous  expe- 
dition." 

After  a  disappointment  so  severe  as  the 
loss  of  the  much-coveted  professorship,  it 
might  have  been  expected  that  Palmer's 
connection  with  Cambridge  would  soon 
have  been  severed ;  that  he  would  have 
sought  and  obtained  a  lucrative  appoint- 
ment elsewhere.  On  the  contrary,  it  was 
written  in  the  book  of  fate,  as  one  of  his 
favorite  Orientals  would  have  said,  that  he 
should  not  only  remain  at  Cambridge,  but 
remain  there  in  connection  with  Oriental 
studies.    Cambridge    has  two  chairs  of 

*  It  is  stated  in  Natmr*  for  July  a6, 1883,  in  an  article 
by  Prof.  W.  Robertson  Smith,  maimer's  successor  at 
Cambridge,  that  Dr.  Wright  was  elected  fellow  "  with- 
out his  knowledge  or  consent/*  We  are  able  to  state, 
on  the  authority  of  the  president  of  Queens'  College, 
that  Dr.  Wright  was  perfectly  aware  ofthe  honor  about 
to  be  conferred  upon  nim. 

t  The  CaUlogue  of  Arabic,  Persian,  and  Turkish 
MSS.  in  Trin.  Coll.  Carab.  was  not  published  until 
1871 ;  but  the  fact  that  it  had  been  made  was  of  course 
well  known. 


Arabic:  a  professorship  founded  by  Sir 
Thomas  Adams  in  1632;  and  a  reader- 
ship, founded  by  King  George  I.  in  1724, 
at  the  instance  of  Lancelot  Blackburn, 
Bishop  of  Exeter  and  lord  almoner.  It 
is  endowed  with  an  income  of  50/.  a  year, 
paid  out  of  the  almonry  bounty,  but  re* 
duced  by  fees  to  40/.  ioj.  If,  however, 
the  income  be  small  the  duties  are  none 
—  or,  rather,  none  are  attached  to  the 
office  as  such ;  and  moreover  the  reader 
is  technically  regarded  as  a  professor,  and 
has  a  professor's  privilege  of  retaining  a 
college  fellowship  for  life  as  a  married 
man.  The  previous  holder  of  the  office, 
the  Rev.  Theodore  Preston,  fellow  of 
Trinity  College,  had  regarded  it  as  a  sine- 
cure, and  moreover  had  generally  been 
non*resident.  The  imminent  institution  of 
a  Semitic  languages  tripos,  which  was  rec- 
ommended to  the  university  by  the  Coun- 
cil of  the  Senate  in  this  same  year,  had 
probably  alarmed  him,  and  he  determined 
to  avoid  even  the  suggestion  of  work  by 
prompt  resignation.  The  appointment  is 
made  by  the  lord  almoner  for  the  time 
being,  and  the  Hon.  and  Rev.  Gerald 
Wellesley,  bean  of  Windsor,  appointed 
Palmer  in  November,  1871.  At  last, 
therefore,  he  seemed  to  have  obtained  his 
reward  —  congenial  occupation  in  a  place 
which  had  been  the  first  to  find  him  out 
and  help  him,  where  he  had  many  devoted 
friends,  and  where  he  was  now  enabled  to 
establish  himself  as  a  married  man ;  for 
on  the  very  day  after  he  received  his  ap- 
pointment he  married  a  lady  to  whom  he 
had  been  engaged  for  some  years. 

Palmer  took  a  very  different  view  of  his 
duties  as  reader  in  Arabic  from  what  his 
predecessor  had  done.  He  delivered  his 
inaugural  lecture  on  Monday,  March  4, 
1872,  choosing  for  his  subject  "The  Na- 
tional Religion  of  Persia;  an  outline 
sketch  of  Comparative  Theology,"*  and 
during  the  Easter  and  Michaelmas  terms 
he  lectured  on  six  days  in  each  week,  de- 
voting three  days  to  Persian  and  three  to 
Arabic.  To  these  subjects  there  was  sub- 
sequently added  a  course  in  Hindustani. 
In  consequence  of  this  large  amount  of 
voluntary  work  the  Council  of  the  Sen- 
ate recommended  (February  24,  1873)  f 
**  that  a  sum  of  250/.  per  annum  should  be 
paid  to  the  present  Lord  Almoner's  Read- 
er out  of  the  University  Chest,"  and  that 
he  should  be  authorized  to  receive  a  fee  of 
2/.  2^.  in  each  term  for  each  course  of 
lectures  from    every    student    attending 


*  Cambridge  University  Reporter,  187a,  p.  181. 
t  Ibid.,  187},  p.  14a. 


398 

them,  provided  he  declared  in  writing  his 
readiness  to  acquiesce  in  certain  rej^ala- 
tions,  of  which  the  first  was:  **That  it 
shall  be  his  ordinary  duty  to  reside  within 
the  precincts  of  the  university  for  eigh- 
teen weeks  during  term  time  in  every 
academical  year,  and  to  give  three  courses 
of  lectures — viz.  one  course  in  Arabic, 
one  in  Persian,  and  one  in  Hindustani." 
The  Senate  accepted  this  proposal  March 
6,  1873,  and  Palmer  signed  the  new  regu- 
lations five  days  afterwards.  In  record- 
ing this  transaction  Mr.  Hesant  remarks: 
**  It  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  uni* 
versity  got  full  value  for  their  money.'* 
We  reply  to  this  sneer  that  the  university 
a^ked  no  more  from  Palmer  than  it  asked 
from  every  other  professor  whose  salary 
was  augmented.  The  clause  imposing 
residence  had  been  accepted  in  the  same 
form  by  all  the  other  professors ;  and  one 
course  of  lectures  in  each  term  is  surely 
the  very  least  that  a  teaching  body  can 
require  from  one  of  its  staff.  It  must 
also  be  remembered  that  the  lord  almo- 
ner's readership  is  an  office  to  which  the 
university  does  not  appoint,  which  there- 
fore it  cannot  control,  and  which,  until 
Palmer  held  it,  had  been  practically  use- 
less. He,  however,  being  disposed  to 
reside,  and  to  discharge  his  selt-imposed 
duties  vigorously,  the  university  came 
forward  with  an  offer  which  W2^s  meant  to 
be  generous,  in  recognition  of  his  per- 
sonal merits ;  for  the  whole  arrangement, 
it  will  be  observed,  had  reference  to  the 
present  reader  only  —  that  is,  to  himself. 
The  precise  amount  offered,  250/.,  was 
evidently  selected  with  the  intention  of 
placing  the  lord  almoner*s  reader  on  the 
same  footing  as  a  professor,  for  the  sala- 
ries of  nearly  all  the  professorial  body 
had  been  already  raised  to  300/. ;  and  if  a 
comparison  between  the  reader  and  the 
professor  of  Arabic  be  inevitable,  it  may 
be  remarked  that  while  the  university 
offered  250/.  to  the  former,  they  offered 
only  230/.  to  the  latter.  The  intention, 
we  repeat,  was  generous,  and  we  protest 
with  some  indignation  against  Palmer's 
bitter  words :  **  The  very  worst  use  a  man 
can  make  of  himself  is  to  stay  up  at  Cam- 
bridge and  work  for  the  university."  The 
truth  is  that  university  life  did  not  suit 
him,  and  though  he  tried  hard  for  ten 
years  to  believe  that  it  did,  the  attempt 
ended  in  failure,  and  it  is  much  to  be  re- 
gretted that  it  was  ever  made. 

We  must  pass  rapidly  over  the  next  ten 
years.  They  were  years  of  incessant 
labor,  which  must  have  been  often  most 
painful  and  irksome,  for  it  had  to  be  un- 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


dertaken  in  the  midst  of  heavy  sorroir, 
ill-health,  pecuniary  difficulties  —  every- 
thing, in  short,  which  damps  a  mans 
energies  and  takes  the  heart  out  of  hts 
work.  His  married  life  began  brightly 
enough :  he  had  an  assured  income  of 
nearly  600/.  a  year,  which  he  could  in* 
crease  at  pleasure,  and  we  know  did 
increase,  by  literary  work.  In  1871  he 
entered  at  the  Middle  Temple,  probably 
with  the  intention  of  practising  at  the 
Indian  bar  at  some  future  time;  but  after 
he  had  given  up  all  thoughts  of  India  he 
joined  the  Eastern  Circuit,  and  attended 
assizes  and  quarter  .sessions  regularly. 
He  had  a  fair  amount  of  business,  and  is 
said  to  have  made  a  good  advocate,  though 
he  could  have  had  little  knowledge  of  law, 
and,  in  fact,  regarded  his  legal  work  as  a 
relaxation  from  severer  studies.  These 
he  pursued  without  intermission.  Be- 
sides his  lectures,  which  he  gave  regu- 
larly, he  produced  work  after  work  with 
amazing  rapidity.  In  1871,  in  addition  to 
'*  The  Desert  of  the  Exodus,"  he  published 
a  "  History  of  Jerusalem,"  written  in  col- 
laboration with  his  friend  Mr.  Besant;  in 
1873  he  undertook  to  write  an  Arabic 
Grammar,  which  appeared  in  the  follow- 
ing year;  in  1874  he  wrote  *' Outlines  oC 
Scripture  Geography,"  and  a  "  History  of 
the  Jewish  Nation,"  for  the  Christian 
Knowledge  Society,  and  began  a  Persiin 
Dictionary,  of  which  the  first  part  was 
published  in  1876;  in  1876-77  he  edited 
the  works  of  the  Arabian  poet  Heda  ed 
din  Zoheir  for  the  Syndics  of  the  Univer- 
sity Press,  the  text  appearing  in  iS76and 
the  translation  in  1877;  and  during  the 
next  few  years  he  was  at  work  upon  a 
**  Life  of  Haroun  Alraschid,"  a  new  trans- 
lation of  the  Koran,  and  a  revision  of 
Henry  Martin's  translation  of  the  New 
Testament  into  Persian.  Besides  this 
vast  amount  of  solid  work  it  would  be 
easy  to  show  that  he  produced  nearly  as 
great  a  quantity  of  that  other  literature 
which,  when  we  consider  the  labor  which 
it  entails  upon  him  who  writes  it,  it  is 
surely  a  misnomer  to  call  "  light."  Pro- 
fessor Nicholls,  of  Oxford,  gives  an  ac- 
count, in  a  most  interesting  appendix  to 
Mr.  Besant's  book,  of  the  quantity  of 
Persian,  Arabic,  and  Hindustani  which 
Palmer  was  continually  writing.  In  the 
last-mentioned  language  there  were  a 
poem  on  the  marriage  of  the  Duke  of  Ed- 
inburgh, and  a  wonderful  account  of  the 
visit  of  the  shah  to  England,  which  occu- 
pied thirty-six  columns  of  tlje  Akhbar,  z. 
space  equivalent  to  about  twenty  columns 
of  the  Times y  and,  although  Palmer  ad- 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


399 


mitted  that  "the  writing  of  such  things  is 
a  laborious  and  artificial  task  to  me,  as  I 
am  not  as  familiar  with  the  Urdu  of  every- 
day life  as  I  am  with  the  Persian/*  he  still 
went  on  writing  them.  How  familiar  he 
was  with  Arabic  and  Persian  is  shown  by 
the  curious  fact  that  whenever  he  was 
under  strong  emotion  he  would  plunge 
abruptly  into  one  or  other  language,  some- 
times writing  a  whole  letter  in  it,  some- 
times only  a  sentence  or  two,  or  a  few 
verses.  Besides  these  Oriental  '*  trifles,** 
as  he  would  probably  have  called  them, 
we  find  continual  contributions  to  English 
periodical  literature,  and  three  volumes  of 
poetry :  **  English  Gipsy  Songs  in  Rom- 
any" (1875);  the  "Song  of  the  Reed, 
and  other  Pieces*'  (1876);  and  *' Lyrical 
Songs,  etc.,"  by  John  Liidwig  Runeberg 
(1878).  In  the  first  of  these  he  colla^ 
orated  with  Mr.  Leland,  whom  we  men- 
tioned before,  and  Miss  Janet  Tuckey; 
and  in  the  last  with  Mr.  Magnusson;  but 
the  second  is  entirely  his  own.  We  re- 
gret that  we  cannot  6nd  room  for  a  speci- 
men of  these  graceful  verses.  Those  who 
have  leisure  to  look  into  the  "  Song  of  the 
Reed  **  or  the  translation  of  Zoheir,  will 
find  themselves  introduced  to  a  new  lit- 
erature by  one  who,  if  not  a  poet,  was 
unquestionably,  as  Mr.  Besant  says,  a 
versifier  of  a  high  order,  and  in  the  very 
front  rank  of  translators. 

We  have  said  that  most  of  this  work  — 
were  it  grave  or  gay,  it  mattered  not  — 
bad  to  be  got  through  in  the  midst  of  se- 
rious anxieties.  Mrs.  Palmer's  health 
began  to  fail  before  they  had  been  mar- 
ried long,  and  it  soon  became  evident  that 
her  lungs  were  affected.  It  was  neces- 
sary that  she  should  leave  Cambridge.  In 
the  spring  of  1876,  Wales  was  tried,  with 
results  which  were  so  reassuring  that  it 
was  decided  to  complete  her  cure  (as  it 
was  then  believed)  by  a  winter  in  Paris. 
There,  however,  she  got  worse  instead  of 
better,  and  early  in  the  following  year  her 
husband  began  to  realize  that  she  would 
die.  In  the  autumn  of  1877,  they  re- 
turned home  to  try  Wales  once  more,  and 
then,  as  a  last  resource,  Bournemouth. 
There,  in  the  summer  of  1877,  Mrs. 
Palmer  died.  The  expenses  of  so  long  an 
illness,  added  to  journeyings  to  and  fro, 
and  the  cost  of  keeping  iip  two  establish- 
ments (for  he  was  obliged  to  continue  his 
Cambridge  lectures  all  the  while),  crip- 
pled his  resources,  and  produced  embar- 
rassments from  which  he  never  became 
wholly  free.  His  own  health,  too,  never 
strong,  gave  way  under  his  fatigues  and 
worries,  and  he  became  only  not  quite  so 


ill  as  his  wife.  Yet  he  never  complained ; 
never  said  a  word  about  his  troubles  to 
any  of  his  friends.  Those  who  were  roost 
with  him  at  this  dreary  time  have  re- 
corded that  he  always  met  them  with  a 
smiling  face,  and  went  about  his  work  as 
calmly  as  if  he  had  been  well  and  happy. 
It  was  fortunate  for  him  that  he  had  a 
singularly  joyous  nature,  which  could 
never  be  saddened  for  long  together.  He 
was  always  surrounded  by  a  pleasant  at- 
mosphere of  cheerfulness,  which  not  only 
did  good  to  those  about  him,  but  had  a 
salutary  effect  upon  himself,  enabling  him 
to  maintain  his  elasticity  and  vigor,  even 
in  the  face  of  sorrow  and  ill-health.  Most 
things  have  their  comic  side,  if  only  men 
are  not  blind  to  it ;  and  he  could  see  the 
humorous  aspect  of  the  most  melancholy 
or  the  most  perilous  situation.  To  the 
last  he  was  full  of  life  and  fun.  Though 
he  no  longer,  as  of  old,  wrote  burlesques 
in  which,  it  is  whispered,  he  not  unfre- 
quently  took  a  part  himself,  he  could  draw 
clever  caricatures  of  his  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances ;  tells  stories  which  convulsed 
his  hearers  with  laughter;  and  sing  comic 
songs  — especially  a  certain  Arab  ditty,  in 
which  he  turned  himself  into  an  Arab 
minstrel  with  really  wonderful  power  of 
imp>ersonation.  Again,  whatever  he  came 
across  —  especially  in  great  cities  like 
London  or  Paris  —  was  full  of  interest 
for  him.  Without  being  a  philanthropist, 
or,  indeed,  having  a  spark  of  humanitarian 
sentiment  in  his  nature,  he  took  a  pleas- 
ure in  investigating  his  fellow-creatures, 
talking  to  men  and  finding  out  all  about 
them.  He  was  endowed  in  the  highest 
degree  with  the  gift  of  sympathy;  and 
this,  while  it  made'  him  the  most  lovable 
of  friends,  made  him  also  a  singularly 
acute  investigator,  and  gave  him  a  power 
of  influencing  others  which  was  truly  won- 
derful. He  possessed,  too,  great  manual 
dexterity,  and  took  a  pleasure  in  finding 
out  how  all  those  things  were  done  which 
depend  for  their  success  upon  sleight  of 
hand;  and  in  all  such  he  became  a  profi- 
cient himself.  He  was  a  first-rate  conjuror, 
and  besides  doing  the  tricks,  ordinary  and 
extraordinary,  of  professed  conjurors,  he 
took  much  satisfaction  in  reproducing  the 
most  startling  phenomena  of  Spiritualism, 
which  he  regarded  as  a  debased  form  of 
conjuring  —  "a  swindle  of  the  most  pal- 
pable and  clumsy  kind."  It  was  in  such 
pursuits  that  he  found  the  recreation 
which  other  men  find  in  hard  exercise. 
Of  this  he  took  verv  little.  Even  in  his 
younger  days  he  did  not  care  for  games, 
and  bis  one  attempt  at  cricket  was  nearly 


400 


EDWARD  HENRY  PALMER. 


fatal  to  the  wicket-keeper,  whom  he  man- 
aged to  hit  on  the  head  with  his  bat;  but 
he  was  an  expert  gymnast,  and  loved  boat- 
ing and  lishine  in  the  Fens,  to  which  he 
used  to  retire  Irom  time  to  time  with  one 
of  his  friends.  It  may  be  doubted  whether 
he  cared  about  the  sport  and  the  fresh  air 
so  much  as  the  absolute  repose ;  the  old- 
world  character  of  that  curious  corner  of 
England ;  the  total  absence  of  convention. 
There  he  could  dress  as  he  pleased ;  and 
he  took  full  advantage  of  his  liberty.  It 
is  recorded  that  once,  as  he  was  coming 
home  to  college,  he  happened  to  meet  the 
master,  Dr.  Bateson,  who,  casting  his  eye 
over  the  water-boots  and  flannels,  stained 
with  mud  and  weather,  in  which  the 
learned  professor  had  encased  himself, 
remarked,  ''This  is  Eastern  costume,  I 


suppose 


»»       ti  M 


No,  master;  Eastern  coun* 


ties  costume,"  was  the  reply. 

It  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  record  that 
the  happiness  which  had  been  so  long 
delayed  came  at  last.  In  about  a  year 
after  his  wife*s  death  he  married  again. 
His  choice  was  fortunate,  and  for  the  last 
three  years  of  his  life  he  was  able  to  en- 
joy  that  greatest  of  all  luxuries  —  a  thor- 
oughly happy  home.  He  stood  sorely  in 
need  of  such  consolation,  for  in  other 
directions  he  had  plenty  to  distress  and 
worry  him.  His  pecuniary  difficulties 
pressed  upon  him  as  hardly  as  ever,  and 
his  relations  with  the  university  began  to 
be  somewhat  strained.  He  had  had  the 
mortification  of  seeing  Professor  Wright's 
salary  raised  to  500/.  a  year,  with  no  hint 
of  any  corresponding  proposition  being 
made  for  him;*  and  when  the  commis- 
sioners promulgated  their  scheme  his 
office  was  not  included  in  it,  a  suggestion 
for  raising  his  salary  which  had  been 
made  by  the  Board  of  Oriental  Studies 
being  wholly  disregarded  by  them.  More- 
over, the  scheme  for  delivering  three 
courses  of  lectures  in  each  year  turned  out 
to  be  infinitely  more  laborious  than  he 
had  expected.  Candidates  for  the  Indian 
Civil  Service  increased  in  number;  and 
the  pupils  of  any  given  term  were  pretty 
sure  to  want  to  go  on  with  their  work  in 
the  next,  when  he  was  teaching  a  different 
language,  so  that  he  was  compelled  in 
practice  to  give,  not  one,  but  two,  or  even 
three,  courses  in  each  term.  Moreover, 
the  elementary  nature  of  much  of  this  in- 


*  Grace  of  the  Senate,  April  39,  i87St  confirming  a 
report  of  the  Council,  dated  March  15.  We  believe 
that  it  was  thought  desirable  to  make  the  salary  of  the 
professor  of  Arabic  equal  to  that  of  the  professor  of 
Sanskrit,  who  from  the  creation  of  the  professorship  in 
1867  received  500/.  a  year  out  of  the  notvenity  cbetU 


struction  —  the  **  teaching  boys  the  Per* 
sian  alphabet,'*  as  he  called  it — became 
every  year  more  and  more  irksome.  We 
are  not  surprised  that  he  got  disgusted 
with  the  university ;  but  at  the  same  time 
we  cannot  agree  with  Mr.  Besant  that  the 
university  was  wholly  to  blame.  They 
were  in  no  wise  responsible  for  the  con« 
duct  of  the  commissioners ;  in  fact,  all 
that  could  be  done  to  make  them  take  a 
different  view  was  done.  Had  Palmer 
resided  continuously  in  the  university,  and 
pressed  his  own  claims,  things  mij^ht  have 
been  very  different.  But  this  he  had  been 
unable  to  do,  for  reasons  which,  as  we 
have  seen,  were  beyond  his  own  control, 
and  for  which,  therefore,  he  is  not  to  be 
blamed;  but  the  fact  cannot  be  denied 
that  for  some  years  he  had  been  practi- 
cally non-resident.  There  was  also  an- 
other  cause  which  has  to  be  taken  into 
consideration  —  his  own  disposition.  The 
life  of  a  university  is  a  peculiar  life,  which 
does  not  suit  everybody,  and  certainly^ 
did  not  suit  him.  He  felt  "cabinea, 
cribbed,  confined,*'  in  it ;  and  he  said 
afterwards  that "  he  never  really  began  to 
live  till  he  was  emancipated  from  aca- 
demic trammels."  Our  wonder  is,  not 
that  he  left  Cambridge  when  he  did,  but 
that  he  remained  so  long  connected  with 
it.  The  final  break  took  place  in  1881, 
when  he  voluntarily  rescinded  the  en* 
gagement  which  he  had  made  to  lecture, 
and  retaining  the  office  and  the  fellowship 
at  St.  John's  College  —  neither  of  which 
he  could  afford  to  resign  —  took  up  his 
abode  in  London,  and  obtained  a  place 
on  the  staff  of  the  Standard  newspaper. 
He  readily  adapted  himself  to  this  new 
life,  and  soon  became  a  successful  writer. 
One  of  the  assistant  editors  at  that  time, 
Mr.  Robert  Wilson,  has  recorded  that  — 

Palmer  considered  his  career  as  a  journalist 
in  London,  short  as  it  was,  one  of  the  pleas* 
antest  episodes  of  his  life.  Those  who  were 
associated  with  him  in  that  career  profession* 
ally  can  say  that  they  reckoned  his  compan* 
ionship  one  of  the  brightest  and  happiest  of 
their  experiences.    He  was 

The  dearest  friend  to  me.  the  kindest  man. 
The  best-conditioned  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies ; 

and  what  he  was  to  me  he  was  to  all  who 
worked  with  him. 

It  will  be  well,  before  we  relate  the  he* 
roic  achievement  with  which  the  career 
of  our  friend  closed,  to  try  to  estimate 
his  position  as  an  Oriental  scholar,  for  as 
such  he  will  be  remembered,  especially 
in  Cambridge.  For  this  purpose  Mr. 
I  Besant  has,   most  judiciously,  supplied 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


401 


ample  materials  to  those  competent  to  use 
them,  by  printing  an  essay  by  Professor 
Nicholls,  of  Oxford,  which  we  have  al- 
ready  quoted,  and  a  paper  by  Mr.  Stan- 
ley Lane  Poole.  The  former  points  out 
Palmer's  extraordinary  facility  in  the  use 
of  Persian  and  Arabic,  and  gives  a  mi- 
nute, and  in  the  main  highly  laudatory, 
criticism  of  some  of  his  performances, 
which  ends  with  these  words:  *Mn  him 
England  loses  her  greatest  Oriental  lin- 
guist, and  readiest  Oriental  scholar." 
From  the  latter  we  will  quote  a  few  sen- 
tences :  — 

Palmer  was  a  scholar  of  the  kind  that  is 
bom,  not  made.  No  amount  of  mere  teach- 
ing could  develop  that  wonderful  instinct  for 
language  which  he  possessed.  He  stood  in 
strongly  marked  contrast  to  the  other  scholars 
of  his  time.  Most  of  them  were  brought  ap 
on  grammars  and  dictionaries ;  he  learned 
Arabic  by  the  ear  and  mouth.  Others  were 
careful  about  their  conjugations  and  syntax; 
Palmer  dashed  to  the  root  of  <11  grammatical 
rules,  and  spoke  nr  wrote  so  and  so  because  it 
would  not  be  spoken  or  written  any  other  way. 
To  him  strange  idioms  that  a  book-student 
could  not  understand  were  perfectly  clear ;  he 
bad  used  them  himself  in  the  Desert  again 
and  again.* 

He  then  proceeds  to  examine  his  prin- 
cipal Arabic  works;  and  decides  that 
while  the  edition  of  Zoheir  is  the  most 
finished  of  them,  and  the  translation  rep- 
resents the  original  with  remarkable  skill, 
bis  version  of  the  Koran  "  is  a  very  strik- 
ing performance." 

It  has  the  grave  fault  of  immaturity ;  it  was 
written,  or  rather  dictated,  at  great  speed,  and 
is  consequently  defaced  by  some  oversights 
which  Palmer  was  incapable  of  committing  if 
he  had  taken  more  time  over  the  work.  But, 
in  spite  of  all  the  objections  that  maybe  urged 
against  it,  his  translation  has  the  true  Desert 
ring  in  it ;  we  may  quarrel  with  certain  ren- 
derings, puzzle  over  occasional  ol)scurities, 
regret  certain  signs  of  haste  or  carelessness ; 
but  we  shall  be  forced  to  admit  that  the  trans- 
lator has  carried  us  among  the  Uedawf  ttnts, 
and  breathed  into  us  the  strong  air  of  the 
Desert,  till  we  fancy  we  can  hear  the  rich  voice 
of  the  Blessed  Prophet  himself  as  he  spoke  to 
the  pilgrims  on  Akabah.t 

Lastly,  Mr.  Poole  points  out  the  peculiar 
excellence  of  Palmer's  Arabic  grammar, 
which  is  arranged  on  the  Arab  system,  in 
bold  defiance  of  the  usual  custom  of  treat- 
ing Arabic  in  the  same  way  that  one  treats 
Latin.  To  these  favorable  criticisms  of 
works  beyond  our  powers  of  appreciation 


•  Life,  p.  142. 
t  Ibid.,  p.  144. 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV. 


2262 


we  should  like  to  add  a  word  of  praise  of 
our  own  for  the  historical  introduction  to 
the  Koran,  in  which  the  career  of  Ma* 
homet  is  sketched  in  a  few  bold,  vigorous 
lines,  and  the  scope  and  object  of  the 
work  are  analyzed  and  explained.  We 
regret  that  Palmer  was  not  able  to  devote 
more  time  to  history;  the  above  "  Intro- 
duction," and  the  "  Life  of  Haroun  Alra- 
schid,"  seem  to  us  to  show  that  he  would 
have  excelled  in  that  style  of  composition. 
He  could  read  the  native  authorities  with 
facility,  and  knew  how  to  put  his  materials 
to  a  good  use.  But  alas !  all  these  peace- 
ful studies  were  to  be  closed  forever  by 
an  enterprise  as  masterly  in  its  execution 
as  it  was  terrible  in  its  conclusion. 

The  suppression  of  Arabi's  revolt  in 
Egypt  created  the  greatest  enthusiasm  in 
this  country.  The  British  public  dearly 
loves  a  war,  and  every  event  in  which  the 
troops  were  concerned  was  eagerly  read 
and  proudly  commented  on  by  enthusiastic 
sympathizers.  But  there  were  probably 
not  half-a-dozen  persons  who  knew  the 
measures  by  which  the  revolt  had  been 
confined  within  the  narrowest  limits  pos- 
sible ;  and  not  many  who  so  much  as  read 
the  scanty  paragraphs  which  noted,  first, 
the  anxiety  respecting  the  fate  of  some 
Englishmen  who  had  gone  into  the  desert 
on  a  certain  day  in  Au<:;ust ;  and,  secondly, 
the  certainty  of  their  murder.  And  yet  it 
is  not  too  much  to  say  that  it  was  due  to 
one  of  these  men  that  Lord  \Volseley*s 
operations  were  comparatively  easy ;  that 
three  weeks  sufficed  to  crush  a  revolt 
which,  but  for  him,  might  have  become  a 
holy  war  of  indefinite  and  indefinable  pro- 
portions. Palmer's  wonderful  achieve- 
ment has  been  told  for  the  first  time  by 
Mr.  Besant  with  a  fulness  of  detail,  a 
vividne.\s  of  descriptive  power,  and,  we 
may  add,  a  bitterness  of  grief,  that  only 
those  who  read  it  carefully  more  than 
once  can  appreciate  as  such  a  piece  of 
work  deserves  to  be  appreciated.  We 
shall  try  to  set  before  our  readers  the 
principal  circumstances  of  those  eventful 
days,  treading  in  his  steps,  and  often 
using  his  very  words. 

Early  in  the  month  of  June,  1882,  when 
it  became  evident  that  the  Egyptian  revolt 
must  be  put  down  by  forge,  two  great 
causes  of  anxiety  arose  :  (i)  the  safety  oC 
the  Suez  Canal  *,  (2)  the  amount  of  support 
which  Arabi  was  likely  to  receive,  and 
the  allies  on  whom  he  could  depend. 
These  two  questions  were  of  course 
closely  connected  with  each  other ;  and  it 
is  now  known  that  as  regards  the  second 
of  them,  he  hoped  to  obtain  the  support 


402 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


of  the  Arabs  of  the  desert  on  both  sides 
of  the  canal,  and  by  their  aid  to  seize, 
and,  if  possible,  to  destroy  the  canal  itself. 
These  Arabs,  it  is  important  to  recollect, 
rise  or  remain  quiet  at  the  command  of 
their  sheikhs.  The  sheikhs,  therefore, 
had  to  be  won  over.  This  he  hoped  to 
accomplish  by  the  assistance  of  the  gov- 
ernors of  the  frontier  castles  of  El  Arish 
on  the  Mediterranean,  Kulat  Nakhl,  Suez, 
Akabah,  and  Tor  on  the  west  coast  of  the 
Sinaitic  peninsula,  all  of  whom,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  rebellion,  were  his  frantic 
partisans.  He  had  therefore  an  easy 
means  of  access  to  the  Bedouin  sheikhs. 
The  number  of  men  whom  they  could  put 
into  the  field  was  estimated  by  Palmer 
himself  at  about  fifty  thousand ;  but  this 
was  not  all.  It  was  feared  that  if  a  single 
tribe  joined  Arabi,  it  would  be  followed 
by  all  the  others,  and  that  the  Bedouin  of 
the  Syrian  and  Sinaitic  deserts  might 
presently  be  joined  by  their  kinsfolk  of 
Arabia  and  the  Great  Desert,  a  countless 
multitude. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  Saturday,  June 
24,  that  Captain  Gill,  whose  unhappy  fate 
it  was  to  perish  with  Palmer  on  the  ex- 
pedition which  they  planned  together,  was 
sent  to  him  from  the  Admiralty  to  ask  him 
for  information  respecting  "the  character, 
the  power,  the  possible  movements  of  the 
Sinai  Arabs."  The  interview  was  short; 
but  long  enou<rh  for  Palmer  to  sketch  the 
position  of  affairs,  and  to  convince  Gill 
that  a  man  whom  the  government  could 
thoroughly  trust  must  be  sent  out  to  ar- 
range matters  personally  with  the  sheikhs. 
When  Gill  had  left,  Palmer  said  to  his 
wife,  **  They  must  have  a  man  to  go  to  the 
Desert  for  them ;  and  they  will  ask  me 
because  there  is  nobody  else  who  can  go.'* 
On  Monday  Captain  Gill  came  again,  and 
the  whole  question  was  carefully  talked 
over. 

It  was  agreed  that  no  time  ought  to  be  lost 
in  detaching  the  tribes  from  Arabi,  in  prevent- 
ing any  injury  to  the  Canal,  and  in  quieting 
fanaticism,  which  might  assume  such  propor- 
tions as  to  set  the  whole  East  aflame.  It  now 
became  perfectly  evident  to  Gill  that  Palmer 
was  the  only  man  who  knew  the  sheikhs,  and 
could  be  asked  to  go,  and  could  do  the  work  ; 
it  was  also  perfectly  evident  to  Palmer  that  he 
would  be  urged  to  undertake  this  difficult  and 
delicate  mission  ;  he  had,  in  fact,  already  laid 
himself  open  by  speaking  of  the  ease  with 
which  these  people  may  be  managed  by  one 
who  can  talk  with  them.  When  Gill  left  him 
on  that  Monday  morning  he  was  already  more 
than  half  persuaded  to  accept  the  mission. 

It  is  evident  that  after  this  interview  Cap- 


tain Gill  returned  to  the  Admiralty  and 
gave  a  glowing  account  to  his  superiors  of 
the  man  he  had  discovered,  and  the  infor- 
mation he  had  obtained  ;  for  in  the  course 
of  the  same  afternoon  Palmer  received  an 
invitation  to  breakfast  with  Lord  North- 
brook  on  the  following  mornincr,  Tuesday, 
June  27,  which  he  accepted.  The  interest 
which  he  had  already  excited  is  proved 
by  the  fact 

that  all  the  notes  and  reports  which  Gill  had 
made  during  the  interviews  on  the  subject 
were  already  set  up  in  type  and  laid  on  the 
table.  The  whole  conversation  at  breakfast 
was  concerning  the  tribes,  and  how  they  might 
be  prevented  from  giving  trouble.  Palmer 
stated  again  his  belief  that  the  sheikhs  might, 
if  some  one  could  be  got  to  go,  be  persuaded 
to  sit  down  and  do  nothing,  if  not  to  take  an 
active  part  against  the  rebels. 

At  this  point  it  is  material  to  notice 
that  the  government  did  not  send  for 
Palmer  and  ask  him  to  undertake  a  cer- 
tain mission  to  the  East;  neither  did 
Palmer  communicate  with  the  government 
and  volunteer,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of 
that  word;  but  that  in  the  course  of  a 
succession  of  interviews  it  became  evi- 
dent  to  the  government  that  the  mission 
must  be  undertaken  by  somebody ;  and  to 
Palmer,  that  if  he  did  not  go  himself  the 
chance  would  be  lost.  No  one  equally  fit 
for  such  a  mission  was  available  at  that 
moment;  no  one  personally  knew  the 
sheikhs  as  he  did,  and  could  travel  among 
them  as  an  old  friend,  for  it  must  always 
be  remembered  that  the  country  he  was 
about  to  visit  was  the  same  which  lie  had 
traversed  with  Drake  in  i869-7a  He 
did  not  exactly  wish  to  go ;  he  was  too 
fondly  devoted  to  his  wife  and  children  to 
find  any  pleasure  in  courting  dangers  of 
which  he  was  fully  sensible:  but  beseems 
to  have  felt  that  his  duty  to  his  country 
demanded  the  sacrifice ;  and  perhaps  the 
thought  may  have  crossed  his  mind  that, 
if  he  ran  the  risk  and  came  out  of  it  safe 
and  successful,  his  fortune  would  be 
made ;  and  therefore,  when  Lord  North- 
brook  inquired,  "  Do  you  know  any  one 
who  would  go?"  he  replied,  "I  will  go 
myself." 

This  decision  was  not  arrived  at  until 
Thursday,  June  29.  On  the  following 
evening  he  left  London,  and  on  Tuesday,^ 
July  4,  he  was  on  board  the  •*  Tanjore," 
between  Brindisi  and  Alexandria,  writing 
to  his  wife  :  — 

I  am  sure  this  trip  will  do  me  an  immense 

deal  of  good,  for  I  wanted  a  change  of  air 

and  complete  rest  from  writing,  and  now  I 

I  have  got  both.    Of  course,  the  position  is  not 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


403 


withoat  its  anxieties,  but  I  have  no  fear.  .  .  . 
It  is  such  a  chance ! 

Such  a  chance!  It  was  worth  while 
running  the  risk,  for,  though  there  was 
danger  in  it,  there  was  fame  and  fortune 
beyond  the  danger:  there  would  be  no 
more  debt  and  difficulty;  no  more  days 
and  nights  of  uncongenial  toil.  No  won- 
der as  he  sat  under  the  awning,  "  like  a 
tent,'*  as  he  said,  and  did  nothing,  that 
these  thoughts  came  into  his  mind,  and 
found  their  way  on  to  his  paper  —  it  was 
a  chance  indeed  ! 

It  seems  certain  that  the  plan  of  the 
enterprise  had  been  laid  down  before 
Palmer  left  London,  though  no  formal  in- 
structions were  given  to  him  in  writing. 
It  was  understood  between  him  and  the 
government  that  he  was  to  travel  about  in 
the  desert  and  peninsula  of  Sinai,  and 
ascertain  the  disposition  of  the  tribes; 
secondly,  that  he  was  to  attempt  the  de 
tachment  of  the  said  tribes  from  the 
Egyptian  cause,  and  in  order  to  effect 
this  he  was  to  make  terms  with  the 
sheikhs ;  thirdly,  that  he  was  to  take  what- 
ever steps  he  thought  best  for  an  effective 
guard  of  the  banks  of  the  canal,  and  for 
the  repair  of  the  canal,  in  case  Arabi 
should  attempt  its  destruction.  Lastly, 
he  was  instructed,  probably  at  Alexan- 
dria, to  ascertain  what  number  of  camels 
could  be  purchased,  and  at  what  price. 

Arrived  at  Alexandria,  Palmer  put  him- 
self under  the  orders  of  Admiral  Lord 
Alcester,  then  Sir  Beauchamp  Seymour, 
who,  after  a  few  words  of  welcome  and 
encouragement,  ordered  him  to  go  at  once 
to  the  desert  and  begin  work.  It  was 
decided  that  he  should  proceed  by  steamer 
to  Jaffa,  thence  to  Gaza,  and  across  the 
desert  to  Tor  in  the  Sinaitic  peninsula, 
where  he  could  be  taken  up  and  join  the 
fleet  at  Suez.  On  the  morning  of  July  9 
he  reached  Jaffa,  where  he  bought  his 
camp  equipage  and  stores,  hired  a  ser- 
vant, and  opened  communications  with 
certain  Arabs  of  the  desert,  whom  he  or- 
dered to  meet  him  at  Gaza.  We  know 
the  details  of  this  time  from  a  long  letter 
which  he  wrote  to  his  wife  just  before  he 
left  Jaffa. 

It  is  bad  enough  here  where  I  find  plenty  of 
people  to  talk  to  and  be  civil  to  rae  ;  but  how 
will  it  be  when  I  am  in  the  Desert  with  no  one 
but  wild  Arabs  to  talk  to  ?  Not  that  I  am  a 
bit  afraid  of  them,  for  they  were  always  good 
friends  to  me ;  but  it  will  be  lonely,  and  you 
may  be  sure  that  when  I  sit  on  my  camel  in 
the  burning  sun,  or  lie  down  in  my  little  tent 
at  night,  my  thoughts  will  always  be  with  you 
and  our  dear  happy  home.  I  am  quite  sure  of 
succeeding  in  my  mission,  and  don*t  feel  any- 


thing to  fear  except  the  being  away  for  a  few 
months.  ...  I  feel  very  homesick,  but  quite 
confident 

He  got  to  Gaza  on  July  13,  and  on  July 
15  plunged  into  the  desert.  Here  Pro- 
fessor Palmer  disappears,  and  we  have 
instead  a  Syrian  officer,  dressed  in  Mo- 
hammedan costume,  known  as  the  Sheikh 
Abdullah,  the  name  which  had  been  given 
to  him  by  the  Arabs  on  his  former  jour- 
ney. The  expedition  occupied  just  a  fort- 
night, for  Suez  was  reached  on  August  i. 
He  was  fortunately  able  to  keep  a  brief 
journal,  and  this  daily  record  of  what  he 
was  about  he  sent  home  by  post  from 
Suez.  This  invaluable  document,  with 
two  or  three  letters  written  to  friends,  and 
a  formal  report  addressed  from  Suez  to 
the  government,  but  not  yet  printed,  ena- 
bles us  to  ascertain  what  he  did,  and  what 
sufferings  and  dangers  he  endured  in  the 
accomplishment  of  it.  It  was  the  middle 
of  the  summer,  and  apparently  an  unusu- 
ally  hot  and  stormy  summer,  for  we  read 
of  even  the  natives  being  overcome  by  the 
heat,  wind,  and  dust.  His  business  ad- 
mitted of  no  delay;  whether  he  were  well 
or  ill,  he  must  ride  forward,  in  the  full 
glare  of  the  sun,  with  the  thermometer 
"at  110  in  the  shade  in  the  mountains, 
and  in  the  plains  about  twice  that ;  "  and 
yet  never  show  by  the  slightest  hint,  that 
he  was  either  overcome  by  the  physical 
exertion,  or  alarmed  at  the  imminent  peril 
which  he  ran  at  every  moment.  So  well 
was  the  bodily  frame  sustained  by  the 
brave  heart  within,  that  he  could  write 
cheerfully,  nay  humorously,  even  before 
he  had  reached  a  place  ot  safety.  Here 
is  an  extract  from  one  of  his  letters,  dated 
•*  Magharah,  in  the  Desert  of  the  Tih, 
July  22:"  — 

This  country  is  not  exactly  what  you  would 
call,  in  a  truthful  spirit,  safe  just  now.  I  have 
had  to  dodge  troops  and  Arabs,  and  Lord 
knowi*  what,  and  am  thankful  and  somewhat 
surprised  at  the  possession  of  a  whole  skin. . . 

I  wish  to  remark  that  about  the  fifth  consec- 
utive hour  (noon)  of  the  fifth  consecutive  day's 
camel  ride,  with  a  strong  wind  blowing  the 
sand  in  your  face,  camel-riding  loses,  as  an 
amusement,  the  freshness  of  one's  childhood's 
experience  at  the  Zoo. 

I  am  now  two  days  from  Suez,  and  before 
the  third  sun  sets  shall  be  either  within  reach 
of  beer  and  baths,  or  be  able  to  dispense  alto- 
gether with  those  luxuries  for  the  future.  The 
very -equally  balanced  probabilities  lend  a  cer- 
tain zest  to  the  journey.  .  .  . 

My  man  stole  some  melons  from  a  patch 
near  some  water  (if  I  may  use  the  expression), 
and  I  feel  better  for  the  crime.  Still  I  am 
dried  up,  and  burnt,  and  thirsty,  and  bored. 


404 


EDWARD    HENRY   PALMER. 


Let  us  now  extract  from  the  journal  a 
few  passages  bearing  directly  on  the  main 
object  of  the  journey.  All  of  these,  we 
ought  to  state,  are  fully  corroborated  by 
the  subsequently  written  report,  and  by 
incidental  allusions  in  the  telegrams  em- 
bodied in  the  blue-book. 

July  15.  —  My  sheikh  has  just  come,  and  I 
have  had  a  long  and  very  satisfactory  talk  with 
him.  I  think  the  authorities  will  be  very 
pleased  with  the  report  I  shall  have  for  them. 

July  16.  —  I  now  know  where  to  find  and 
how  to  get  at  every  sheikh  in  the  Desert,  and 
I  have  already  got  the  Teydhah,  the  most  war- 
like and  strongest  of  them  all,  ready  to  do 
anything  for  me.  When  I  come  back  I  shall 
be  able  to  raise  40,000  men  I  It  was  very 
lucky  that  I  knew  such  an  influential  tribe. 

July  18.  —  I  have  been  quite  well  to-day, 
but  as  usual  came  in  very  fatigued.  I  had  an 
exciting  time,  having  met  the  great  sheikh  of 
the  Arabs  hereabouts  ♦  I,  however,  quite  got 
him  to  accept  my  views.  ...  It  was  really  a 
most  picturesque  sight  to  see  the  sheikh  ride 
into  my  camp  at  full  gallop  with  a  host  of  re- 
tainers, all  riding  splendid  camels  as  hard  as 
they  could  run ;  when  they  pulled  up,  all  the 
camels  dropped  on  their  knees,  and  the  men 
jump>ed  off  and  came  up  to  me.  I  had  heard 
of  their  coming,  so  was  prepared,  and  not  at 
all  startled,  as  they  meant  me  to  be.  I  merely 
rose  quietly,  and  asked  the  sheikh  into  my 
tent 

July  19  — I  have  got  hold  of  some  of  the 
very  men  whom  Arabi  Pasha  has  been  trying 
to  get  over  to  his  side,  and  when  they  are 
wanted  I  can  have  every  Bedawin  at  my  call 
from  Suez  to  Gaza. 

July  20.  —  The  sheikh,  who  is  the  brother 
of  Suleiman,  is  one  who  engages  all  the  Arabs 
not  to  attack  the  caravan  of  pilgrims  which 
goes  to  Mecca  every  year  from  Egypt,  so  that 
he  is  the  very  man  I  wanted.  He  has  sworn 
by  the  most  solemn  Arab  oath  that  if  I  want 
him,  he  will  guarantee  the  safety  of  the  canal 
even  against  Arabi  Pasha.  ...  In  fact,  I  have 
already  done  the  most  difficult  part  o€  my  task, 
and  as  soon  as  I  get  precise  instructions  the 
thing  is  done,  and  a  thing  which  Arabi  Pasha 
failed  to  do,  and  on  which  the  safety  of  the 
road  to  India  depends.  .  .  .  Was  I  not  lucky 
just  to  get  hold  of  the  right  people?  ...  I 
have  seen  a  great  many  other  sheikhs,  and  I 
know  that  they  will  follow  my  man,  Sheikh 
Muslih. 

July  21.  —  I  am  anxious  to  get  to  Suez,  be- 
cause I  have  done  all  I  wanted  by  way  of 
preliminaries,  and  as  soon  as  I  get  precise  in- 
structions, I  can  settle  with  the  Arabs  in  a 
fortnight  or  three  weeks,  and  get  the  whole 
thing  over.  As  it  is,  the  Bedouins  keep  quite 
quiet,  and  will  not  join  Arabi,  but  will  wait 
for  me  to  give  them  the  word  what  to  do. 
They  look  upon  Abdullah  Effendi  —  that  is 

*  This  was  Mislch,  sheikh  of  the  Teyihah  Arabs. 
(Warren's  Narrative,  p.  10.) 


what  they  call  me — as  a  very  grand  personage 
indeed  I 

J^lv  22.  —  I  have  got  the  man  who  suppKes 
the  pilgrims  with  camels  on  my  side  too,  and 
as  I  have  promised  my  big  sheikh  500/.  for 
himself,  he  will  do  anything  for  me.  •  •  .  It 
may  seem  a  vain  thing  to  say,  but  I  did  not 
know  that  I  could  be  so  cool  and  calm  in  the 
midst  of  danger  as  I  am,  and  I  must  be  strong, 
as  I  have  endured  tremendous  fatigue^  and  am 
in  first*rate  health.  I  am  very  glad  that  the 
war  has  actually  come  to  a  crisis,  because  now 
I  shall  really  have  to  do  my  big  task,  and  / 
am  certain  of  success, 

July  26.  —  I  have  had  a  great  ceremony  to- 
day, eating  bread  and  salt  with  the  sheikhs,  ia 
token  of  protecting  each  other  to  the  death. 

This  journal,  it  will  be  remarked^ 
speaks  of  \\\e  expedition  as  preliminary 
to  something  else.  What  this  was  is  ex- 
plained by  the  report  above  alluded  to, 
and  by  the  the  telegrams  which  Sir  Wil- 
liam Hewett  and  Sir  Beauchamp  Sey- 
mour sent  to  the  Admiralty  after  Palmer's 
arrival  at  Suez.  On  August  4  Sir  William 
Hewitt  telegraphs :  — 

Professor  Palmer  confident  that  in  four  days 
he  will  have  500  camels,  and  within  ten  or 
fifteen  days,  5,000  more. 

He  waits  return  of  messengers  sent  for  500* 
so  he  cannot  start  for  Desert  before  Monday. 

On  August  6,  Sir  Beauchamp  Seymour 
telegraphed  to  the  Admiralty:  — 

Palmer,  in  letter  of  August  i  at  Suez,  writes 
that,  if  precisely  instructed  as  to  services  re- 
quired of  Bedouins,  and  furnished  with  funds, 
he  believes  he  could  buy  the  allegiance  of 
50,000  at  a  cost  of  from  20,000/.  to  30,000/. 

On  the  receipt  of  this  telegram  the  Ad- 
miralty telegraphed  to  Sir  William  Hew« 
ett:  — 

Instruct  Palmer  to  keep  Bedouins  available 
for  patrol  or  transport  on  Canal.  A  reasona- 
ble amount  may  be  spent,  but  larger  engage- 
ments are  not  to  be  entered  into  until  General 
arrives  and  has  been  consulted. 

The  Admiralty  must  have  been  satisfied 
with  what  Palmer  had  accomplished  in 
the  desert,  or  they  would  not  have  direct- 
ed him  to  proceed  with  his  "big  task;" 
and  it  came  out  afterwards  that  one  at 
least  of  the  tribes  refused  to  join  Arabi  in 
consequence  of  promises  made  to  him. 
Meanwhile  he  was  appointed  interpreter 
in  chief  to  her  Majesty's  forces  in  Egypt, 
and  placed  on  the  admiraPs  staff.  It  is 
important  to  note  this,  as  it  gave  him  the 
command  of  money,  broua;ht  him  into 
prominence,  and  paved  the  way  for  the 
disaster  which  was  so  soon  to  overtake 
him.     Captain  Gill  joined  him  at  Suez  on 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER, 


40s 


the  morning  of  the  same  day,  Aua:ust  6. 
He  brought  20,000/.  with  htm,  which  he 
considered  to  be  paid  to  Palmer,  as  ap- 
pears from  his  journal,  and  Palmer  took 
the  same  view.  Sir  William  Hewett, 
however,  after  the  receipt  of  Lord  North- 
brook's  telegram,  determined  to  limit  the 
preliminary  expenditure  to  3,000/.,  which 
was  paid  to  Palmer  on  August  8.  Soon 
after  Gill's  arrival  at  Suez,  he  and  Palmer 
had  a  long  discussion,  in  which  they 
agreed  to  combine  their  respective  du- 
ties. Gill  had  been  ordered  to  cut  the 
telegraph  w^ires  from  Kartarah  to  Con- 
stantinople, and  so  destroy  Arabi's  com- 
munications with  Turkey,  and  Palmer  had 
made  arrangements  for  a  meeting  of  the 
sheikhs  at  Nakhl.  We  have  seen  that 
the  journal  mentioned  presents  to  the 
sheikhs  (as  much  as  500/.  had  been  prom- 
ised to  Misleh),  and  these  would  have  to 
be  conveyed  to  them  before  they  were 
likely  to  arm  their  followers.  The  rest  of 
the  20,000/.  was  intended  to  be  spent  in 
fair  payment  for  services  rendered  when 
the  general  should  give  the  order  to  en- 
eage  the  Bedouin ;  and  the  word  "  buy," 
in  Sir  Beauchamp  Seymour*s  telegram  of 
Aagost  6^  need  not  be  interpreted  to  mean 
**  bribe."  The  purchase  of  camels  was 
another  object  which  Palmer  had  before 
him  in  going  to  the  desert;  but  this,  we 
take  it,  was  quite  subsidiary  to  the  former, 
though  perhaps,  as  a  matter  of  policy,  it 
was  occasionally  made  prominent,  in 
order  to  disarm  suspicion.  That  much 
more  important  business  than  buying 
camels  was  intended  is  also  proved  by 
Palmer's  letter  to  Admiral  Hewett,  in 
which  he  said  that  "  it  woQld  be  most  de- 
sirable that  an  officer  of  her  Majesty's 
Davy  should  accompany  me  on  my  journey 
to  the  desert,  as  a  guarantee  that  I  am 
acting  on  the  part  of  her  Majesty's  gov- 
ernment.* 

It  mast  now  be  mentioned  that  on 
Palmer's  first  journey,  when  staying  in 
the  camp  of  Sheikh  Misleh,  he  had  been 
introduced  by  him  to  a  man  of  about  sev- 
enty years  of  age,  of  commanding  stat- 
ure, and  haughty,  peremptory  manner, 
named  Meter  ibn  Sofieh.  This  man  Mis- 
leh represented  to  be  the  sheikh  of  the 
Lehewat  tribe,  occupying  all  the  country 
east  of  Suez.  This  was  not  true.  Meter 
was  not  a  sheikh  of  the  Lehewats,  and 
the  Lehewats  as  a  tribe  do  not  live  east 
of  Suez,  but  on  the  south  t)order  of  Pales- 
tine.    Meter  was  a  Lehewat,  but  he  was 


*  Letter  to  Admiral  Sir  William  Hewett,  dated  Suez, 
Augiut  8.    Blue-lM>ok,  p.  4. 


simply  the  head  of  a  family  who  had  left 
the  tribe,  and  taken  up  their  abode  near 
Suez,  where  they  had  collected  together 
two  or  three  other  families,  who  called 
themselves  the  Sofieh  tribe,  but  had  no 
power  or  influence.  Palmer,  however, 
believed  Meter's  story  about  himself, 
called  him  his  friend,  and  trusted  him  im- 
plicitly. It  was  Meter  whom  he  sent  into 
Suez  from  Misleh's  camp  to  fetch  his  let- 
ters ;  Meter  who  conducted  him  thence  to 
the  place  called  "the  Wells  of  Moses" 
between  July  27  and  July  31 ;  Meter  with 
whom  he  corresponded  respecting  his 
second  journey;  and  there  is  little  doubt 
that  it  was  Meter  who  betrayed  him. 

In  the  report  which  Palmer  addressed 
to  the  Admiralty  on  August  i  he  stated 
that  when  he  started  on  his  second  jour- 
ney a  company  of  three  or  four  hundred 
Bedouin  should  go  with  him,  **for  the 
sake  of  effect."  Most  unfortunately,  this 
precaution  was  not  taken.  On  August  7, 
Meter,  accompanied  by  his  nephew,  Sa- 
lameh  ibn  Ayed,  came  to  Moses'  Wells, 
and  asked  Mr.  Zahr,  one  of  the  native 
Christians  who  reside  there,  to  read  a  let- 
ter which  he  had  received  from  Palmer. 
The  letter,  signed  •*  Abdullah,"  contained 
a  request  that  Meter  would  bring  down 
one  hundred  camels  and  twenty  armed 
men.  Meter  then  crossed  over  to  Suez 
by  water,  Mr.  Zahr's  son  going  with  him, 
saw  Palmer,  who  did  not,  so  far  as  we 
know,  express  surprise  that  he  came  with- 
out men  or  camels,  and  in  the  evening 
was  presented  to  Consul  West  and  Ad- 
miral Hewett,  from  whom  he  received  a 
naval  officer's  sword,  as  a  mark  of  confi- 
dence and  respect.  This  sword  Meter 
subsequently  gave  secretly  to  Mr.  Zahr's 
son  to  take  care  of  for  him,  saying  that  he 
was  going  to  the  desert  with  some  En- 
glish gentlemen,  and  was  afraid  that  the 
Bedouin  might  kill  him  .if  they  saw  him 
with  a  sword,  as  they  were  not  quiet  at 
that  time.  After  the  murder,  Mr.  Zahr's 
son  brought  the  sword  to  the  English 
consul,  and  told  the  above  story. 

The  following  day  was  spent  in  making 
preparations  for  the  journey.  During  the 
afternoon  Palmer  received  a  package  con- 
taining three  bags  of  1,000/.  each  in  En- 
glish sovereigns,  which  were  taken  intact 
into  the  desert.  The  party,  consisting  of 
Professor  Palmer,  Captain  Gill,  Lieuten- 
ant Charrington,  of  the  "Euryalus  "  (who 
had  been  selected  by  Palmer  out  of  seven 
officers  who  volunteered  to  go  with  him). 
Gill's  dragoman,  a  native  Christian,  and 
the  servant  whom  Palmer  had  engaged  at 
JafiEa,  a  Jew,  named  Bokhor,  crossed  over 


4o6 

to  Moses'  Wells  in  a  boat  after  sunset, 
and  passed  the  night  in  a  tent  supplied 
by  Mr.  Zahr.  Next  morning,  they  started 
soon  after  sunrise,  and,  after  the  usual 
midday  halt,  pitched  their  camp  for  the 
night  in  Wady  Kahalin,  a  shallow  water- 
course, about  half  a  mile  wide,  and  distant 
eighteen  miles  from  Moses'  Wells.  So 
far  their  proceedings  can  be  followed  with 
certainty;  but  after  this  it  becomes  a  most 
difficult  task  to  compose  an  exact  narra- 
tive of  what  befell  them.  We  have  fol- 
lowed the  account  drawn  up  by  Colonel 
Warren,  through  whose  persevering  en- 
ergy some  of  the  murderers  were  brought 
to  justice,  supplementing  it,  in  a  few 
places,  by  facts  stated  in  the  blue-book, 
generally  on  the  same  authority. 

On  Thursday,  August  lo,  the  travellers 
were  unable  to  start  at  dawn  as  they  had 
intended,  because  it  was  found  that  two 
of  their  camels  had  been  stolen  during  the 
night,  probably  with  the  intention  of  de- 
laying the  start,  and  so  giving  time  to 
warn  the  Bedouin  appointed  to  waylay 
them.  Several  hours  elapsed  before  the 
camels  were  found,  and  they  were  not 
able  to  start  until  3  P.M.  Meter  is  said 
to  have  sugs:ested  that  the  baggage  should 
be  left  to  follow  slowly  (both  the  stolen 
camels  and  those  which  had  been  sent  out 
to  bring  them  hack  being  tired)  and  that 
the  three  Englishmen  and  the  dragoman 
should  ride  forward  with  him,  taking  with 
them  only  their  roost  valuable  effects, 
among  which  was  a  black  leather  bag 
containing  the  3,000/.,  and  Palmer's  de- 
spatch-box containing  235/.  more.  At 
about  5  P.M.  they  reached  the  mouth  of 
the  Wady  Sudr.  This  valley  is  described 
as  a  narrow  mountain  gorge,  bounded  by 
precipices  which,  on  the  northern  side, 
are  from  twelve  to  sixteen  hundred  feet 
in  height ;  on  the  southern  side  they  are 
much  lower,  not  exceeding  three  or  four 
hundred  feet.  They  turned  into  the 
wady,  and  rode  up  it,  intending  no  doubt 
not  to  halt  again  until  they  reached 
Meter's  camp,  at  a  place  called  Tusset 
Sudr.  Shortly  before  midnight  they  were 
suddenly  attacked  by  a  party  of  about 
twenty-nve  Bedouin,  who  fired  upon  them, 
disabled  one  of  the  camels,  and  took 
prisoners  Palmer,  Gill,  Charrington,  and 
the  dragoman.  The  accounts  of  the  at- 
tack are  very  conflicting,  but  it  appears 
certain  that  Meter  deserted  his  charge  at 
once,  and  escaped  up  the  wady  to  his 
own  camp,  which  he  reached  at  sunrise ; 
while  his  nephew,  Salameh  ibn  Ayed,  who 
bad  been  riding  with  Palmer  on  one  of  his 
uncle*s  camels,  rode  rapidly  off  in  the  op- 


EDWARD   HENRY   PALMER. 


posite  direction,  down  the  wady,  taking^ 
with  him  the  bag  containing  the  3,000/., 
and  the  despatch-box.  It  has  been  af- 
firmed that  he  struck  Palmer  ofiE  the 
camel ;  but  as  it  is  stated  in  evidence  that 
the  attacked  party  knelt  down  behind  their 
camels  and  fired  at  their  assailants,  the 
truth  of  this  rumor  may  be  doubted.  It 
is  certain,  however,  that  had  he  not  been 
at  least  a  thief,  if  not  a  traitor,  he  would 
have  warned  the  men  in  charge  of  the 
baggage  of  what  had  occurred,  for  it  was 
proved  afterwards,  by  the  tracks  of  his 
camel,  that  he  passed  within  a  few  feet  of 
them ;  or,  if  he  really  missed  them  in  the 
dark,  that  he  would  have  gone  straight  oa 
to  Moses*  Wells  and  given  the  alarm  there* 
or  even  to  Suez,  as  it  was  deposed  he  was 
desired  to  do.  As  it  was,  he  rode  straight 
on  to  the  mouth  of  the  wady,  and  thence 
by  a  circuitous  route  to  Meter*s  camp* 
having  hid  part  of  the  money  and  the 
despatch  box  in  the  desert.  What  he  did 
with  the  remainder  will  probably  never  be 
known. 

Meanwhile  the  four  prisoners  were 
stripped  of  everything  except  their  under- 
clothing, which,  being  of  European  make, 
was  useless  to  Arabs,  and  taken  down  to 
a  hollow  among  the  rocks  about  two  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  place  of  attack.  Here 
they  were  left  in  charge  of  two  of  the  rob- 
bers. The  rest,  disappointed  at  finding 
no  money,  rode  off,  some  to  pursue  Sala- 
meh, some  to  look  for  the  baggage.  They 
were  presently  followed  by  one  of  the  two 
guards,  so  that  for  several  hours  the  En- 
glishmen were  left  with  only  one  man  to 
watch  them.  The  camel-drivers  were  just 
loading  their  camels  for  a  start,  when  they 
were  attacked,  disarmed,  and  the  baggage 
taken  from  them.  Palmer's  servant  was 
made  prisoner,  but  the  camel-drivers  were 
not  molested,  and  were  even  permitted  to 
take  their  camels  away  with  them.  The 
robbers  then  retraced  their  steps,  and 
rode  up  the  valley  for  about  three  miles. 
There  they  halted,  and  laid  out  the  spoil, 
with  the  view  of  dividing  it;  but  they 
could  not  agree,  and  finally  each  kept 
what  he  had  taken.  This  matter  settled, 
they  mounted  their  camels  again,  and  went 
to  look  after  their  prisoners,  taking  Palm- 
er's servant  with  them. 

We  will  now  return  to  Meter  ibn  So- 
fieh.  On  arriving  at  his  own  camp  he 
collected  his  four  sons  and  several  other 
Bedouin,  and  came  down  to  the  place  of 
attack.  This  they  were  able  to  recognize 
by  the  dead  or  wounded  camel,  which 
had  not  then  been  removed.  Finding 
nobody  there,  they   shouted,  and   were 


EDWARD   HENRY  PALMER. 


407 


answered  by  the  prisoners  in  the  hollow. 
Meter  and  another  went  down  to  them 
and  found  them  unguarded,  their  guard 
having  run  away  on  the  approach  of  stran- 
gers. Had  Meter  really  come  to  save 
them  —  and  it  is  difficult  to  explain  his 
return  from  any  other  motive  than  that  of 
a  late  repentance— r there  was  not  a  mo- 
ment to  be  lost.  Much  valuable  time, 
however,  was  wasted  in  useless  expres- 
sions of  pity  and  exchange  of  Bedouin 
courtesies,  and  they  had  hardly  reached 
Meter's  camels  before  the  hostile  party 
came  in  sight.  It  is  reported  that  Meier's 
men  said,  "  Let  us  protect  the  English- 
men,"  and  raised  their  guns;  but  that 
Meter  answered,  *'  No,  we  must  negotiate 
the  matter,"  and  allowed  his  men  to  be 
surrounded  by  a  superior  force.  What 
happened  next  will  never  be  known  with 
certainty.  Meter  himself  swore  that  he 
ofiEcred  30/.  for  each  of  the  five ;  others, 
that  he  offered  thirty  camels  for  the  party ; 
while  there  is  a  general  testimony  that 
Palmer  offered  all  they  possessed  if  their 
lives  could  be  spared,  adding,  "  Meter 
has  all  the  money.'*  The  debate  did  not 
last  long,  not  more  than  half  an  hour,  and 
then  Meter  retired,  it  being  understood 
that  the  five  prisoners  were  ail  to  be  put 
to  death.  The  manner  of  the  execution 
of  this  foul  design  had  next  to  be  deter- 
mined, and  it  seems  to  have  been  regarded 
as  a  matter  requiring  much  nicetv  of  ar- 
t  rangement.  The  captors  belonged  to  two 
tribes,  the  Debour  and  the  Terebin,  and 
It  was  finally  arranged  that  two  should  be 
killed  by  the  Debour,  and  three  by  the 
Terebin.  The  men  who  were  to  strike 
the  blow  were  next  selected,  one  for  each 
victim ;  and  when  this  had  been  done  the 
prisoners  were  driven  before  their  captors 
for  upwards  of  a  mile,  over  rough  ground, 
to  the  place  of  execution.  It  was  now 
near  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  the  unfor- 
tunate men  had  no  means  of  protecting 
their  heads  from  the  August  sun.  It  is 
to  be  hoped,  therefore,  that  they  were 
nearly  unconscious  before  the  spot  was 
reached.  At  that  part  of  the  VVady  Sudr 
a  ledge  or  plateau  of  rock,  some  twenty 
feet  wide,  runs  for  a  considerable  distance 
along  the  steep  face  of  the  cliffs;  and 
below  it  the  torrent  cuts  its  way  through 
a  narrow  channel,  not  more  than  eighteen 
feet  wide,  with  precipitous  sides,  about 
fifty  feet  high.  At  the  spot  selected  for 
the  murder  a  mountain  stream,  descend- 
ing from  the  heights  above,  works  its  way 
down  the  cliffs  to  the  water  below.  The 
bed  of  this  stream  was  then  dry ;  but  it 
would  be  a  cataract  in  the  rainy  season, 


and  might  be  trusted  to  obliterate  all 
traces  of  the  crime.  The  prisoners  were 
forced  down  the  mountain-side  until  the 
plateau  was  reached,  and  then  placed  in  a 
row  facing  the  torrent,  the  selected  mur- 
derer standing  behind  each  victim.  Some 
of  the  Bedouin  swore  that  they  were  all 
shot  at  a  given  signal,  and  that  their  bodies 
fell  over  the  cliff;  others  that  Abdullah 
was  shot  first,  and  that  the  remaining  four, 
seeing  him  fall,  sprang  forward,  some 
down  the  cliff,  some  along  the  edge  of  the 
gully.  Three  were  killed,  so  they  said^ 
before  they  reached  the  bottom  ;  the  fourth 
was  despatched  in  the  torrent  bed  by  an 
Arab  who  followed  him  down.  There  is^ 
however,  too  much  reason  for  believing 
that  some  at  least  were  wounded  or  killed 
before  they  were  thrown  into  the  abyss ; 
for  the  rocks  above  were  deeply  stained 
with  blood.  It  may  be  that  one  or  more 
of  them  had  been  wounded  in  the  first 
encounter,  or  intentionally  maimed  by 
their  captors  ;  and  this  may  explain  what 
seems  to  us  so  strange,  that  they  made 
no  effort  to  escape  during  the  long  hours 
they  were  left  unguarded.  At  the  mo- 
ment of  death  Palmer  alone  is  said  to 
have  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  to  have  ut* 
tered  a  solemn  malediction  on  his  mur- 
derers. He  knew  the  Arab  character 
well,  and  he  may  have  thought  that  the 
last  chance  of  escape  was  to  terrify  his 
captors  by  the  thought  of  what  would 
come  to  pass  if  murderous  hands  were 
laid  upon  him  and  his  companions. 

Justice  was  not  slow  to  overtake  the 
criminals.  In  less  than  two  months 
Colonel  Warren  had  discovered  who  they 
were,  and  had  found  some  scattered  re- 
mains of  their  unfortunate  victims  in  the 
gulf  which  they  hoped  would  conceal  them 
forever.  In  January  of  this  present  year 
he  read  the  solemn  burial  service  of  the 
Church  at  the  spot  in  the  presence  of  the 
brother  and  sister  of  Lieutenant  Char- 
rington  ;  after  which,  according  to  military 
custom,  the  officers  present  fired  three 
volleys  across  the  torrent.  On  the  hill 
above  they  raised  a  huge  cairn,  seventeea 
feet  in  diameter,  and  thirteen  feet  in 
height,  surmounted  by  a  cross,  which  the 
Bedouin  were  changed,  at  their  peril,  to 
preserve  intact.  Of  the  actual  murderers 
three  were  executed,  as  also  were  two 
headmen  for  having  incited  them  to  the 
crime.  Others  were  imprisoned  for  vari- 
ous terms  of  years,  and  the  governor  of 
Nakhl,  who  was  proved  to  have  been 
privy  to  the  murder,  and  near  the  place  at 
the  time,  was  imprisoned  for  a  year  and 
dismissed  the  service.    The  end  of  Meter 


4o8 


RUTH   HAYES. 


ibn  Sofieh  was  strangpiv  retributive.  He 
had  led  the  party  out  ot  their  way  into  aa 
ambuscade,*  probably  for  the  paltry  (;ain 
of  3000/.,  for  we  have  seen  that  his  nephew 
escaped  with  the  gold,  and  rooo/.  was 
afterwards  found  in  the  place  where  he 
knew  it  was  hid ;  he  had  betrayed  the 
inan  with  whom  he  had  solemnly  eaten 
bread  and  salt  in  Nfisleh's  camp  only  a 
month  before ;  he  dared  not  face  the  ac- 
cusing justice  of  England,  but  hid  him- 
self in  the  desert  for  a  while;  then  he 
gave  himself  up,  and  told  as  much  of  the 
story  as  he  probably  dared  to  tell ;  then 
fell  ill  —  his  manner  had  been  strange 
ever  since  the  murder,  it  was  said  —  he 
was  taken  to  the  hospital  at  Suez,  and 
there  he  died.  These,  however,  were  only 
instruments  in  the  hands  of  others.  The 
influence  of  Sheikh  Abdullah  in  the  des- 
ert was  soon  known  at  Cairo ;  the  governor 
of  £1  Arish  set  out  to  bring  him  in  dead 
or  alive ;  the  Bedouin  swore  that  Arabi 
had  promised  20/.  for  every  Christian 
head;  the  murder  itself  was  planned  at 
Cairo,  by  men  high  in  place;  for  Colonel 
Warren  complains  over  and  over  again 
that  the  Shedides  thwarted  his  proceed- 
ings, and  let  guilty  men  escape.  And 
after  the  guilt  of  Egypt  comes  the  guilt  of 
Turkey:  Hussein  Effendi,  a  Turkish  no- 
table at  Gaza — a  man  who  might  have 
been  of  the  greatest  service  —  was  not 
allowed  by  the  Porte  to  help  in  bringing 
the  guilty  to  justice  ;  and  there  were 
other  indications  that  further  inquiry  was 
not  desired.  The  murder  in  the  Wady 
Sudr  is  one  more  count  in  the  long  indict- 
ment against  the  Turk  which  the  Western 
powers  will  one  day  be  compelled  to  hear; 
and,  after  hearing,  to  pronounce  sen- 
tence. 

The  remains  discovered  by  Colonel 
Warren  were  reverently  gathered  to- 
gether and  sent  home  to  England,  and  in 
the  spring  of  this  present  year  they  were 
interred  in  the  crypt  of  St.  Paul's  cathe- 
dral. With  this  exception,  we  believe 
that  no  mark  of  respect  has  been  paid  to 
the  three  Englishmen  who  died  for  their 
country  in  the  Wady  Sudr.  A  pension, 
we  are  glad  to  say,  has  been  conferred  on 
Mrs.  Palmer,  with  a  remainder  to  Palm- 
er's children  — a  mode  of  recognizing  his 
services  which  he  would  probably  have 
selected,  and  which,  after  all,  is  better  than 
the  most  eloquent  phrases  of  ministerial 
eulogy. 

*  The  Wady  Sudr  it  aaite  out  of  the  direct  route 
from  Moses'  Wells  to  Nakhl,  as  Palmer  of  course 
knew.  He  must  therefore  have  been  induced  to  ^o  that 
way  by  some  earnest  representation  made  to  him  by 
Meter. 


RUTH  HAYES. 


From  Belgnvia. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  next  evening,  when  John  Mason 
called  at  the  farm,  he  found  another  vis- 
itor there. 

"Good  evenin',  Miss  Ruth,"  he  said, 
advancing  rather  awkwardly  to  present 
her  with  a  small  basket,  the  contents  of 
which  were  hidden  by  a  white  cloth. 
"  Mother  'ave  a-killed  a  pig  for  the  har- 
vesting, an'  she  hopes  you'll  accept  of  a 
few  of  the  puddin's.  She's  a  bit  proud 
of  'er  puddin's,  she  thinks  there's  none 
like  'em,  I  believe,"  he  explained. 

"Thank  you,  and  your  mother  too  — 
her  puddings  are  always  beautiful,"  Ruth 
said,  accepting  the  offering  graciously. 

John  nodded  a  good  evening  to  the  two 
men. 

"  Take  a  seat,  John,  take  a  seat,  glad  to 
see  *ee,  Vm  sure,"  the  old  man  said  heart- 
ily. "  There  ain't  no  extra  charge  for  sit- 
tin',  so  take  a  seat  an'  'ave  a  bit  of  a  chat. 
Mr.  Tearoes  there  'ave  a-dropped  in  to  say 
good-bye  'fore  goin'  away,  an'  'e  was  just 
tellin'  us  a  bit  about  *is  'ome  what  he's 
goin'  to,  an'  the  grand  doin's  there'll  be 
when  he  gets  there." 

"  I've  acome  to  say  good-bye.  Pm 
goin'  away  to-morrow,"  John  said,  sitting 
down  near  the  old  man. 

"Then  we  are  both  in  the  same  situa- 
tion, and  I  expect  we  are  both  very  sorry 
to  have  to  say  good-bye,  if  only  for  a 
lime,"  Herbert  James  said,  turning  to 
John  with  a  smile. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I'm  sorry  exactly," 
said  John. 

"Course  you  bain't,"  Peter  Martyn 
broke  in.  "  Why,  you'd  be  a  born  fool  if 
you  was  1  I  'ope  you'll  enjoy  yourself  ao' 
get  all  the  good  you  can  by  the  change, 
/didn't  'ave  no  such  chance  for  improvin' 
myself  when  I  was  a  young  man.  I  'ad 
to  do  the  best  1  could,  I  'ad;  an'  your 
father,  too,  didn't  'ave  no  advantages,  so 
to  speak.  But  we've  done  pretty  well, 
thank  the  Lord!  pretty  well.  Still,  it's  a 
fine  thing  to  see  a  bit  of  the  world,  I  don't 
say  'tisn't,  an'  a  young  chap  can't  be  al- 
ways tied  to  'is  mother's  apern-siring.  I 
wish  you  well,  John,  1  wish  you  well! 
One  of  these  days  you'll  be  bringin'  'ome 
a  wife  with  you,  I'll  be  bound." 

"I'm  goin'  to  improve  myself,**  Joba 
said  coloring. 

"  Don't  'ee  call  that  improvin'  of  Your- 
self? You  won't  get  a  sweetheart  n  ^ou 
don't  look  sharp!"  the  old  man  said, 
laughing,  as  he  chatted  on,  now  to  JohD» 
now  to  young  Mr.  James. 


RUTH   HAYES. 


409 


Ruth  seemed  rather  silent  and  preoccu- 
pied, and  John  had  lost  all  hope  of  speak- 
ing to  her.  He  must  go  away  without  — 
and  what  might  not  happen  while  he  was 
away  ?  he  asked  himself  gloomily*.  Again 
he  began  to  envy  the  young  gentleman 
sitting  there  in  his  easy,  graceful  way, 
saying  just  the  right  thing  at  the  right 
moment,  with  no  effort  at  all.  It  was 
some  comfort  that  he  was  going  away  too  ! 
Still  John's  feelings  were  not  of  the  most 
cheerful  as  he  rose  to  say  good-bye  to 
Ruth. 

"Good-bye,  John,  we  shall  be  very  glad 
to  see  you  home  again,"  she  said,  and 
John  mattered  sometiiing  about  "being 
glad  when  it  was  time  to  come  back.''  It 
was  a  relief  to  him  to  turn  to  her  grand- 
father. 

••Good-bye,  Mister  Martyn,"  he  said. 

"Good-bye,  John,  good-bye.  I  'ope 
you'll  come  and  see  us  so  soon  's  ever 
you  come  back  along.  We  shall  always 
DC  glad  to  see  *ee,  mind.  I  shall  be  —  if 
I  ain't  tucked  in  by  the  side  of  my  old 
woman  by  that  time,  that  is.  You  won't 
be  wantin'  to  pay  me  a  visit  in  that  case, 
'tisn't  likely,"  he  said  chuckling.  "Tell 
'ee  what,  to  make  sure  you'd  better  go  out 
to  the  well  an'  wish  for  to  see  me  again," 
he  added. 

"I've  no  objection,  'specially  if  Miss 
Ruth  is  goin'  out  to  the  garden,"  John 
said  boldly,  seeing  that  Ruth  was  stand- 
ing near  the  door. 

"  I  had  better  go  too,"  Mr.  James  said 
with  his  cheerful  smile.  **  I  shall  be  away 
a  long  time,  and  1  wish  very  much  to  see 
you  when  I  come  back." 

"Thank  you,  I'm  sure.     I  'ope  I  may 
be  spared  to  see  'ee  both,"  the  old  man 
said,  leading  the  way  into  the  garden  him 
self,  while  the  rest  of  the  party  followed. 

They  stood  round  the  well,  and  Ruth 
grew  suddenly  merry.  She  stopped  John 
as  he  was  solemnly  dropping  a  pin  into 
the  water. 

"You  must  wish  something  quite  dif- 
ferent, because  the  spell  is  broken  if  any 
one  knows  what  you  wish,"  she  said, "  and 
we  all  know  now." 

"  You  can't  know,  you  can  only  guess," 
John  said,  giving  her  a  look  of  meaning, 
which  she  did  not  or  would  not  see,  as  the 
pin  sank  into  the  water. 

"  1  have  never  wished  yet,  but  I  think 
I  will  wish  you  safe  back  again,  John," 
she  said  gaily. 

"And  me? "said  Herbert  James. 

Ruth  did  not  answer,  but  she  looked  at 
him  instead,  and  John  turned  dissatisfied 
away. 


It  was  Mr.  James's  turn  now.  He 
looked  at  the  old  man  and  laughingly 
dropped  in  his  pin. 

"  I've  wished  as  earnestly  as  if  some 
advantage  could  really  come  of  it,"  he 
said. 

"  Well,  I  dessay  'tis  all  a  pack  of  non- 
sense about  this  'ere  well,  but  wishin' 
can't  do  no  'arm,  an'  then  you'm  on  the 
safe  side!  An' 'tis  true  that  Jim  wished 
'is  rhumatics  away,  because  'e  told  me  so 
'isself ;  an'  Betsy  Packett  got  a  pig  soon 
*s  ever  she  wished  for  un — which  do 
seem  as  if  there  is  somethin'  in  it  after 
all,"  Ruth's  grandfather  remarked  as  they 
went  back  t(3  the  house. 

John  Mason  said  a  final  good-bye  at 
the  door.  And  soon  after  he  had  gone 
Ruth  and  Herbert  James  went  out  to- 
gether. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  back,  we  are  only 
going  down  to  the  beach,"  Ruth  said  as 
they  went  out. 

The  day  had  been  stormy,  and  the  sea 
looked  black  and  dreary  as  the  two  walked 
together  towards  the  beach.  Ruth  was 
silent  and  grave,  and  the  young  man  did 
not  speak  much,  until  they  were  alone  on 
the  sand,  with  the  sea  rolling  in  in  front 
of  them  and  the  dark,  solemn-looking 
cliffs  behind ;  then  he  took  her  hand  in 
his  and  looked  earnestly  into  her  face. 

"Ruth,"  he  said,  "you  are  sad,  and  it 
is  because  I  am  going  away  —  you  don't 
know  how  that  touches  me !  I  couldn't 
go  away  till  I  was  sure  that  you  loved  me, 
and  now  it  is  so  very  hard  to  leave  you  ! 
Will  you  be  very  dull  and  dreary  ? " 

Ruth  made  no  answer.  At  this  moment 
a  feeling  of  dreariness  and  oppression 
was  creeping  over  her,  and  she  could  not 
shake  it  off. 

"  After  all  I  don't  see  that  I  need  go." 
he  said  with  a  sudden  smile.  "  No,  I  will 
stay,  and  nothing  but  death  shall  part  us." 

He  spoke  lightly,  but  Ruth  was  very 
serious,  as  she  put  both  her  hands  on  his 
arm,  and  said,  "  You  promised  your  mother 
to  go,  and  I  should  be  miserable  if  you 
broke  your  promise,  to  stay  with  me." 

"  I  did  not  know  the  circumstances 
when  I  gave  the  promise,  and  so  it  is  not 
binding." 

"  Promises  are  always  binding  while 
you  have  the  power  to  fulfil  them,"  Ruth 
said  gravely. 

"  How  good  you  are,  Ruth  1  and  you 
are  always  right,"  the  young  man  said, 
putting  his  arm  round  her  as  they  walked 
on.  "  But  I  wish  I  could  take  you  away 
from  this  dismal  place  at  once,  poor 
child  I » 


4IO 


RUTH   HAYES. 


'*  The  place  is  only  too  good  for  me,  and 
I  could  not  leave  my  grandfather,"  Ruth 
said,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

**You  mustnH  talk  like  that,  Ruth.  I 
can't  bear  to  hear  you!  You  shall  not 
make  a  martyr  of  yourself.  You  are 
young  and  beautiful  and  clever,  and  you 
shall  not  give  up  all  your  life  to  an  old 
man  who  is  your  inferior  in  every  respect. 
You  have  done  that  long  enough.'* 

^*  And  now  I  should  give  it  up  to  you?** 
Ruth  said,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

'*  Yes,  that  is  natural  and  right ;  we  love 
each  other,  and  we  were  made  to  be  happy, 
you  and  1,  and  to  show  other  people  how 
to  be  happy.'* 

"  1  wish  it  were  so  easy !  **  Ruth  said. 
**  But  we  will  be  happy  now,  while  there 
is  no  one  to  see;  we  won*t  quarrel  this 
last  time.** 

"  I  could  never  quarrel  with  you,*'  he 
said  tenderly. 

They  sat  down  under  the  shelter  of  a 
rock  which  hid  the  sea  from  them,  and 
Herbert  James  began  to  talk  gaily  of  the 
future  —  of  the  things  they  would  do  when 
he  came  back  and  tliey  were  married. 

"  We  will  not  slay  in  England  always,** 
he  said.  **  While  I  am  away  now  with 
my  mother,  I  shall  be  looking  out  for 
some  beautiful  spot  in  Italy,  where  there 
is  always  sunshine,  and  the  sea  is  always 
blue ;  and  when  we  are  there,  every  day 
will  be  like  the  days  we  have  spent  here 
together  —  only  happier,  if  possible.** 

Ruth  sighed. 

**  I  think  I  am  very  weak,**  she  said 
slowly ;  "  but  I  am  almost  afraid  to  think 
about  it,  for  fear  I  should  grow  discon- 
tented with  my  life  now  —  and  1  feel  some- 
how as  if  it  would  never  change  —  as  if  my 
grandfather  and  his  friends  would  go  on 
being  my  world  always.  I  daren't  think 
of  anything  else  1  and  now,  at  any  rate,  it 
is  my  duty  to  stay  and  take  care  of  him, 
and  to  let  you  go.'* 

"That  may  be  now^'^  he  said  rather 
sharply.  *'  But  your  idea  of  your  duty  to 
your  relatives  is  exaggerated  and  mis- 
taken; they  have  not  the  only  claim  on 
you.  You  are  in  danger  of  forgetting 
your  duty  to  yourself  and  to  me;  you 
must  think  of  that  I" 

The  light  on  the  beach  was  fading,  and 
while  they  had  been  talking  they  had  not 
noticed  that  the  tide  was  rising,  until  now, 
when  the  waves  began  to  creep  round  the 
rock,  behind  which  they  sat.  Ruth  stood 
up  and  looked  around.  In  an  instant  the 
truth  flashed  upon  her  —  they  had  wan- 
dered too  far,  and  now  they  were  cut  off, 
with   no  way  of  escape;  the  clifiEs  rose 


smooth  and   perpendicular  above  thetn, 
and  the  grey  sea  moaned  at  their  feet. 

Ruth*s  first  thought  was  for  her  grand- 
father. He  was  sitting  at  home  in  the  old 
kitchen,  watching  for  her  !  and  she  choked 
back  her  tears  before  she  turned  to  her 
lover.  He  too  had  looked  around  him, 
and  had  half  guessed  their  situation. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Ruth?  Why 
don*t  you  speak  .^'*  be  said  hurriedly,  with 
his  face  quite  pale. 

"  Herbert,"  Ruth  said  very  solemnly, 
**  even  death  won*t  part  us  now." 

She  held  her  hands  out  to  him  with  a 
pitying,  almost  protecting  gesture.  He 
grasped  her  wrists  and  held  them  tight. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,*' he  said;  "it  is 
madness.  There  is  some  way  out  of  this 
infernal  place  —  there  must  be  —  think, 
don't  drive  me  mad  ! " 

They  had  moved  instinctively  as  far  up 
the  beach  as  was  possible,  and  they  stood 
looking  at  the  stretch  of  sand  which  lay 
between  them  and  the  waves. 

"  How  long  before  the  tide  will  be  up 
here?'*  the  young  man  asked,  as  Ruth 
did  not  speak. 

"  Perhaps  in  half  an  hour,  perhaps  not 
so  long,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  we  have  to  stand  all  that  time 
with  death  staring  us  in  the  face,  without 
hope  of  escape!"  he  said  fiercely.  "It 
is  horrible,  it  is  too  terrible.  It  cannot 
be  true !  It  is  bad  enough  to  die  anyhow 
when  one  has  hardly  had  a4aste  of  life— - 
but  to  die  by  inches  like  this  !  If  you  had 
a  fancy  for  this  sort  of  thing,  Ruth,  yoa 
might  have  thought  of  me!  you  might 
have  known  that  it  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent for  me ! " 

Ruth  looked  at  him  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  turned  her  face  away,  and  her 
voice  was  very  strange  and  bitter  as  she 
said, — 

"  I  loved  you,  and  you  made  me  believe 
that  you  loved  me !  '* 

"Is  this  a  time  to  talk  of  love?"  he 
said,  loosing  her  hands  and  beginning  to 
walk  up  and  down,  with  quick,  uneven 
steps,  raising  his  voice  in  an  agonized  cry 
for  help. 

Ruth  sank  down  upon  the  sand  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  She 
had  no  power  even  to  cry  out,  as  the  daric 
sea  crept  nearer  and  nearer  in  the  gather- 
ing darkness.  The  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment and  pain  was  too  bitter  for  that.  If 
she  might  only  have  died  without  know- 
ing her  lover's  real  nature !  But  it  was 
useless  wishing  that,  and  she  stretched 
her  arms  out  and  cried  to  him  again.  He 
did  not  hear  her,  and  she  covered  her 


RUTH   HAYES. 


411 


face  with  her  hands  and  waited  silently. 
And  now  through  all  her  bitter  thoughts 
came  the  vision  of  the  old  farmhouse, 
standing;  amidst  the  trees,  so  close  at 
hand,  with  her  grandfather  sitting  alone 
in  the  dim  candlelight  of  the  great  kitchen, 
watching,  watching  for  her!  Her  heart 
went  out  to  him  once  more.  11  she  might 
only  go  back  to  him ! 

She  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  there 
was  no  escape  for  them  —  the  ciiance  of  a 
boat  being  able  to  take  them  up,  even  if 
they  were  seen  in  that  remote  spot,  in  the 
fading  light,  was  so  small.  But  it  hap- 
pened that  a  fisherman,  setting  out  on  his 
night's  toil,  had  heard  the  young  man's 
cries,  and  was  at  this  moment  pulling  with 
might  and  main  to  reach  them  in  time. 
Ruth  heard  the  plash  of  the  oars  and 
looked  up. 

"Thank  God  we  are  safe  I"  Herbert 
James  cried,  putting  his  arms  round  Ruth 
to  raise  her. 

She  shrank  away  from  his  touch. 

"  Yes,  we  are  safe,  thank  God,"  she  re- 
peated in  a  hard,  unnatural  voice.  ^*  Good- 
bye." 

**  Dangerous  sort  of  a  courtin'  place, 
this,"  the  fisherman  remarked  drily,  as  he 
helped  them  to  get  into  the  boat.  **  A 
young  chap  unless  *e  was  quite  daft  'ud 
Know  better  'ow  to  take  care  of  a  lady. 
*Tis  a  good  thing  I  seed  'ee,  though  'tis 
much  if  I  'aven't  took  the  bottom  out  of 
my  boat  on  this  'ere  beastly  beach." 

Ruth's  grandfather  was  sitting  waiting 
for  her  when  she  came  into  the  kitchen  at 
home. 

"  'Ad  a  pleasant  walk,  Ruth  ?  "  he  said, 
as  she  took  off  her  hat,  and  sat  wearily 
down  on  the  window-seat. 

**  I'm  tired  ;  is  it  bedtime  ?'*  she  asked. 

*'  Law !  you  don't  want  to  go  to  bed  just 
directly  you  come  in  1  s'pose,  if  '//>  bed- 
time. An'  what  'ave  you  got  to  be  tired 
for  I  should  like  to  know?  never  'eard 
such  thing  at  your  time  of  life  !  I'm  'most 
tired  of  waltin'  for  vou,  1  can  tell  you.  If 
yau^d^  been  bidin' 'ere  while  1  was  gala- 
vantin'  you  might  be  tired  with  some  rea- 
son," the  old  man  said  sliiy. 

There  was  only  one  candle  burning  in 
the  room,  and  he  could  not  see  her  face 
as  Ruth  answered,  — 

"  People  are  tired  sometimes  without 
any  reason." 

•*  You*m  tired  'cause  some  one's  gone 
away,  I  s'pose,"  her  grandfather  said, 
rubbing  his  knees  and  smiling.  "  It's  al- 
ways the  way,  I  was  like  it  myself  once-— 
an'  yer  gran'mother,  I  b'lieve,  was  just 


so  bad's  me.  But  I  shall  be  a  pore,  lone» 
old  creetur'  if  you  go  an'  get  married, 
Ruth." 

"There's  no  fear  of  that!"  Ruth  said 
shortly,  as  she  leaned  her  elbows  on  the 
window-sill,  and  turned  her  face  towards 
the  darkness  outside. 

"  I've  'eared  of  more  unlikely  things 
nor  that  I  an'  I  shan't  stand  in  your  way, 
my  dear,  you  needn't  be  afraid.  Though 
I'm  gettin'  up  in  years,  I  ain't  no  fool  yet, 
an'  I  can  see  fast  enough  that  that  young 
James  is  more  than  common  sweet  on 
you,  an*  you  don't  appear  to  be  averse  to 
'im.  If  'tis  so,  Ruth,  I  shan't  stand  in 
your  way;  it  seems  very  sootible  like  to 
me,  such  a  nice  young  gentleman  as  'e  is. 
You've  been  eddicated  enough  to  marry  a 
dooke  if  you'd  a  mind  to.  An'  what  I've 
got  you'll  'ave  —  it'll  be  a  tidy  bit.  Your 
mother  would  'ave  'ad  it  if  she*d  lived,  but 
as  'tis,  she  married  a  Methody  parson  an* 
died,  poor  thing,  after  I'd  gave  her  as 
good  a  eddication  as  could  be  got,  an' 
made  a  lady  of  'er.  My  missus  says,  says 
she,  'Yes,  send  'er  to  a  simminery  an* 
make  a  lady  of  'er  —  let  'er  learn  readin* 
an'  writin',  an'  the  use  of  the  globes  if 
you've  a  mind  to  —  but  don't  let  us  'ave 
no  nonsense  with  them  foreign  tongues 
an'  the  pianner  an'  such  trash.'  But  I 
says,  'Just  let  me  bide,  Jane,  I  knows 
what  I'm  about,  an' she  shall  'ave  the  best 
that  can  be  got,  pianners  an'  all  sorts.* 
So  she  did,  an'  come  'ome  to  marry  a  poor 
parson ! " 

♦*  Why  shouldn't  she  ?  "  Ruth  said.  She 
had  hardly  been  listening  to  what  the  old 
man  was  saying,  and  had  not  caught  the 
drift  of  his  remarks. 

**  I  don't  say  she  shouldn't  'ave  done  it. 
All  I  says  is,  she  might  'ave  done  better, 
poor  thing !  But  what  I  was  goin'  to  say 
was,  when  is  that  young  gentleman  com- 
in'  back  along,  an'  'ave  you  settled  it  up 
between  'ee  ?  " 

The  old  man  spoke  in  perfect  con- 
fidence. Ever  since  he  had  seen  the 
young  man's  partiality  for  Ruth  he  had 
felt  a  secret  pleasure.  With  his  idea  of 
Ruth's  education,  and  his  pride  in  her 
evident  superiority  to  the  people  about 
her,  the  difference  in  their  station  had 
not  struck  him  as  any  drawback  to  the 
match. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  he  was  almost 
struck  dumb  with  astonishment,  as  well 
as  frightened  by  the  tone  in  which  Ruth 
said,  as  she  rose  and  took  her  candle,  — 

'*  Yes,  we  have  settled  it  up,  and  he  is 
never  coming  back  here  again.  I  wouldn't 
marry  him  if  he  came  back  a  hundred 


4X3 


RUTH   HAYES. 


times.  IVe  seen  to-night  for  the  first 
time  what  he's  really  like.  He's  a  cow- 
ard !  and  I  suppose  he  only  made  love  to 
me  to  pass  the  time.  You  needn't  think 
I*d  marry  him  !" 

There  was  a  sort  of  passionate  scorn  in 
her  voice  which  her  grandfather  could 
not  understand,  and  she  did  not  explain 
herself;  she  went  straight  up  to  her  own 
room,  leaving  him  sitting  below  in  a  state 
of  miserable  bewilderment. 

**  I  can't  make  it  out !  I  can't  make  it 
out!"  he  murmured  sadly  to  himself. 
**  Such  a  pleasant-spoken  young  gentle- 
man an'  everything !  Ruth's  a  sperrit  an' 
no  mistake.  She'll  break  my  'eart  be- 
fore she's  done.  An'  I  never  could  'ave 
believed  Mr.  Jeames  would  a'  done  it !  — 
'e  must  'ave  done  somethin'  to  put  'er 
up  like  that  there !    I  can't  make  it  out !  " 

CHAPTER  VII. 

As  time  passed  away  Ruth  Hayes  grew 
silent  and  rather  grave  —  the  years  that 
had  gone  by  had  not  made  her  younger  or 
gayer,  they  had  changed  her  from  a  girl 
into  a  woman. 

Two  years  soon  slip  away  in  a  lonely 
farmhouse,  where  there  are  few  visitors, 
and  nothing  to  mark  the  days  as  they 
pass,  and  if  the  time  had  seemed  long  to 
Ruth,  it  must  have  been  because  she  had 
not  been  born  and  bred  to  the  life  as  the 
people  about  her  had  been.  In  two  years 
she  had  lost  none  of  her  beauty  —  her 
cheeks  were  as  blooming  and  her  eyes  as 
bright,  if  they  were  less  merry,  than  they 
used  to  be  when  John  Mason  had  known 
her  first,  and  when  Herbert  James  had 
fallen  in  love  with  her,  and  had  gone  away 
so  suddenly  and  left  her. 

This  was  something  like  what  John 
Mason  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  on  the 
bench  in  the  field  that  overlooked  the 
sea,  while  his  honest  grev  eyes  rested  on 
Ruth's  face,  as  she  sat  oy  his  side  knit- 
ting. Neither  of  them  had  spoken  since 
their  first  greeting,  and  Ruth  was  begin- 
ning to  6nd  the  silence  oppressive. 

**  Hofv's  your  father,  John? "she  said 
at  last. 

"Nicely,  thank  you.  He'd  a' sent  his 
duty  \i  he'd  a'  known  I  was  comin'.  Hut 
I  hardly  knew  myself  till  I  was  here,"  he 
added,  smiling  nervously. 

**  How's  your  mother's  rheumatics  ?  " 
Ruth  asked  next. 

"Middlin*  much  as  usual;  she'd  be 
pleased  if  you'd  step  over  and  see  her 
when  you  can  spare  the  time." 

"  I  am  coming  very  soon,"  Ruth  said. 

After  that  they  were  silent  again.  John 


took  off  his  hat  and  turned  it  round  and 
round  in  his  hands,  looking  at  it  from  all 
points  of  view,  then  he  sighed  heavily  and 
set  it  down  on  the  bench. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said. 

Ruth  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

•*  Yes,  John,"  she  said. 

John  cleared  his  throat  and  began. 

'*  I  was  thinkin'  I'd  wait  to  speak  my 
mind,  but  I  don't  see  no  good  in  waitin , 
only  I'm  afraid  you  ain't  prepared  like, 
Ruth." 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  he  expected  her 
to  say  something,  but  she  said  nothing, 
she  did  not  even  look  at  him,  and  he  went 
on  earnestly. 

"  I  don't  see  no  good  in  waitin',  I've 
been  savin'  money  this  long  time ;  and  if 
only  you're  willin',  I'm  in  a  position  to 
marry  comfortable.  I've  loved  you,  Ruth, 
since  ever  I  set  eyes  on  you.  It's  been 
growin'  an'  growin'  on  me  all  these  years. 
If  you'll  take  me  as  1  am  I'll  do  my  best 
to  make  you  happy." 

A  very  troubled  look  came  into  Ruth's 
face  as  she  listened. 

"  Oh,  John,  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said, 
with  something  that  sounded  like  a  sob 
in  her  voice,  when  he  had  finished,  "it's 
no  use  talking  of  it,  I  can't  ever  care  for 
you  in  that  way." 

"  Never  mind,  we  won't  speak  of  it  now, 
if  it  comes  amiss  to  you,"  John  said 
slowlv.  "  1  was  afraid  you  weren't  pre- 
parea  like,  and  I  can  wait  —  if  'tis  years 
I  don't  mind.  So  long  as  you  get  used 
to  the  notion,  I  can  wait  so  long  as  you 
like." 

"  It's  no  good,  John,"  Ruth  said  more 
firmly,  **  I  shan't  get  used  to  the  notion,  I 
never  should  1  It's  you  must  get  used  to 
that,  and  look  for  a  different  sort  of  wife 
to  me.  We  will  be  friends  as  we  have 
been." 

"  I  don't  want  no  other  sort  of  wife.  I 
want  you,  Ruth,''  John  said  obstinately. 
"And  we  haven't  been  friends  exactly. 
You've  liked  me  as  a  friend,  but  I've 
always  loved  you  all  the  time,  aftd  I'd  love 
you  all  our  lives  if  only  you'd  let  me." 

"No,  John,  you  mustn't  think  of  that 
any  more,"  Ruth  said.  Her  knitting  had 
dropped  from  her  hands,  and  her  face  was 
grave  and  sad  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"  Why  is  it,  Ruth  ?•"  John  said  bitterly. 
*' I  know  you  ain't  happy,  I've  known  it 
this  lonv  time.  I  wish  I  could  make  you 
happy ! " 

He  paused,  and  then  began  again  — 
"I'm  afraid  you're  still  thinkin'  of  that 
young  gentleman  that  went  away.  Tell 
me  if  'tis  so,  though  'twill  'most  drive  me 


RUTH    HAYES. 


413 


tnad."    He  put  his  hand  on  Ruth's  arm 
and  looked  into  her  face. 

"  You  are  quite  wrong ! "  she  said, 
speaking  quickly  and  passionately.  **•  I'll 
tell  you  because  you  shall  never  speak  of 
bim  again  to  me  —  I'm  not  thinking  about 
him,  and  I  never  want  to  see  him  again." 

"  But  you  was  fond  of  him,"  John  said, 
opening  his  eyes  in  astonishment.  **  I 
knew  it  fast  enough  — that  evenin'  when 
I  was  going  away,  and  we  went  out  to  the 
well  —  I  knew  it  then  if  I  didn't  before  — 
but  what  could  I  do?" 

"You  couldn't  do  anything,"  Ruth  said 
aimlessly.  John  got  up  and  walked  two 
or  three  paces  away,  then  he  came  back 
and  stood  directly  in  front  of  her. 

"But  you  was  fond  of  him!"  he  re- 
peated. "  I  s'pose  he  just  went  away  an' 
left  you  when  he  was  tired  of  you,  curse 
him!" 

"  No,  he  didn't,  not  without  my  telling 
him  I'd  have  nothing  more  to  do  wiib 
bim,"  Ruth  answered  quickly. 

John  was  more  and  more  puzzled  and 
uneasy.  He  sat  silent  <(  moment  waiting 
for  her  to  speak. 

"Just  tell  me  how  it  was,  Ruth.  It  will 
do  yoa  good  to  tell,  and  you  may  depend 
on  me,"  be  urged. 

"  There  isn't  anything  to  tell,  and  I 
don't  see  any  use  in  talking  about  it,  it's 
all  over  now,"  she  said  coldly.  But  after 
a  moment  or  so,  she  began  with  sudden 
energy  —  "  I  will  tell  you  though,  to  make 
you  understand  that  1  shall  never  care  for 
any  one  like  that  again  —  no,  never!  I 
did  care  for  hi/ft,  as  you  say,  once,  for  a 
little  while  — it  didn't  last  long!"  The 
hot  blood  mounted  to  her  cheeks  and  her 
eyes  flashed  as  she  spoke,  but  she  went 
on  more  quietly  —  "  It  was  that  very  night 
^*ou  went  away  that  we  went  out  for  the 
ast  time  together,  down  to  the  beach,  and 
we  thought  of  nothing  but  just  ourselves, 
until  the  waves  crept  up  to  our  feet,  and 
then  I  knew  that  we  must  be  drowned  — 
there  was  hardly  a  chance  for  us  —  and  I 
told  him  so,  and  1  found  out  then  that  he 
was  a  coward  —  a  coward  and  a  liar !  1 
didn't  care  much  then  whether  the  boat 
came  and  picked  us  up  or  not !  But  it 
did  come,  you  see,"  she  ended  with  a  bit- 
ter  little  laugh.  "I  told  him  then  that  I 
would  never  see  him  again  —  and  I  never 
have.     Now  you  know,  John." 

John  gave  a  low  murmur  of  assent. 
The  strength  of  her  passion  stirred  and 
overcame  him.  He  knew  of  no  words  that 
would  be  of  any  use  to  say,  but  how  gladly 
would  he  have  done  anything  — anything 
in  the  world  —  to  have  saved  her  this. 


I 


Ruth  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  before 
her  and  her  face  turned  away  from  him. 
She  was  recalling  the  scene  which  had 
cost  her  such  cruel  pain  and  humiliation, 
the  memory  of  which  she  could  never  rid 
herself  of  so  long  as  she  lived. 

John  rose  at  last. 

"  Good-night,  Ruth  ;  you  can  always  de- 
pend on  me  as  a  friend,"  he  said  huskily. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  told  you  if  I  could 
have  helped  it,  it  is  all  over  so  long  ago," 
Ruth  said.  And  when  John  had  gone 
away,  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  sat  thinking,  while  the  sun  sank  be- 
hind the  blue,  restless  sea,  and  the  gulls 
and  the  pigeons  and  the  hoarse  croaking 
crows  had  all  flown  home  to  roost.  Then 
she  picked  up  her  knitting  and  went 
slowly  home. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

**  Be  you  as  fond  of  Ruth  as  you  was  ?  " 
John  Mason  said  to  his  son  as  they  walked 
home  together  one  night  from  the  farm. 

"'Tisn't  likely  I  shouldn't  be,  is  it?" 
said  John. 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  not,  but  you  don't  seem 
to  get  no  forrarder,  so  to  speak.  'Ave  'ee 
popped  the  question  at  all,  John  ?  " 

"  If  she  don't  fancy  me  'tisn't  no  good 
keepin'  on  about  it.  I  shall  never  marry, 
1  believe,  father,"  John  said  gloomily. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  John,  don't  be  so 
down-'earted  1  'er'Il  come  round  sure 
enough,  only  you  wait.  An'  if  she  don't, 
why,  bless  you,  there's  plenty  of  other 
mains  'ud  take  'ee  for  the  askin';  but  I'll 
be  bound  she'll  come  round  if  you  bide 
yer  time.  She  don't  seem  to  me  to  'ave 
no  objection  to  you,  like  ;  only  this  evenin' 
she  says,  *  John,' says  she,  *  I'm  main  glad 
to  see  *ee.* " 

"  She  said  that  to  you,  you  know,"  Joha 
said. 

"  Well,  an*  if  she  did,  she  was  passin' 
the  compliment  to  me  just  for  to  pass  it 
on  to  you,"  his  father  rejoined  cheerfully. 
"An'  I  could  see  fast  enough  she  was 
glad  to  see  'ee,  she  said  as  much ;  for  I 
says  when  I  come  in,  *  John  an'  I  have 
jest  stepped  over  to  see  you  a  bit ;  you 
needn't  wake  gran'father.'  An'  she  says 
so  pretty,  lookin'  at  you  all  the  time,  *  I'm 
glad  to  see  'ee  both,  she  says." 

"She've  always  had  nice  manners," 
John  said,  "  but  that  ain't  no  reason  why 
she  should  marry  me,  and  'tisn't  likely 
she'd  think  of  marryin'  now  with  her 
gran'father  gettin'  so  old  and  weak  as  he 
is,  and  wantin'  her  more  than  ever  he 
did.  She  isn't  so  selfish  as  that  by  a  long 
way." 


414 


RUTH    HAYES. 


"You'm  a  thoughtful  sort  of  a  chap, 

tohn.  I  should n*t  wonder  if  you  was  a 
•it  more  knowin*  in  choosin'  a  wife  nor 
your  father  was."  Mason  laughed  and 
clapped  his  son  on  the  back  as  he  added. 
•*  If  Ruth  'ave  refoosed  *ee  I  dare  say  she's 
sorry  for  it  by  this  time;  maids  is  like 
that  —  they  don't  know  their  own  minds 
'alf  their  time,  but  they'll  most  of  'em  take 
a  mate  when  they'm  put  to  it,  if  they  can 
set  one  easy.  So  don't  you  take  on  about 
It,  you  just  bide  your  time." 

John  smiled  and  said  nothing.  Though 
he  did  not  admit  it,  he  secretly  agreed 
with  his  father  that  Ruth  would  **come 
round."  It  was  hardly  a  year  since  he  I 
had  asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  already 
he  fancied  he  saw  signs  of  relenting  in 
her.  He  had  told  her  he  could  wait,  and 
he  would  prove  it,  he  would  wait  her  own 
time. 

It  was  true  that  Peter  Martyn  was  grow- 
ing old  and  feeble  ;  he  had  had  a  seizure 
and  could  do  little  more  now  than  sit 
in  the  chimney-corner  and  watch  Ruth's 
movements  with  a  touching,  unfailing  in- 
terest, while  the  management  of  the  farm 
w^as  left  to  Ruth  and  to  Jim,  who  had 
served  her  grandfather  before  she  was 
born. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  that  the  old  man 
was  iirst  taken  ill,  and  through  the  winter 
and  spring  he  grew  gradually  weaker  and 
weaker,  and  before  the  summer  had  fairly 
set  in  he  was  so  much  worse  that  it  was 
evident  that  he  could  not  live  many  days. 

The  doctor  had  been  one  evening  and 
had  told  Ruth  so.  Till  then  she  had  not 
clearly  realized  it.  But  when  he  was 
gone,  she  threw  herself  down  on  the 
window-seat  in  the  old  kitchen,  and  for  a 
few  moments  the  bitter  feeling  of  being 
left  alone  and  desolate  once  more,  over- 
came her.  She  realized  it  as  keenly  now  as 
if  her  grandfather  were  already  dead.  Her 
eyes  wandered  over  the  familiar  landscape 
outside  —  the  meadows  with  the  golden 
evening  sunshine  on  them,  and  the  cattle 
feeding  peacefully ;  the  garden,  bright 
with  spring  flowers  of  her  own  planting; 
and  overlvead  the  blue  and  cloudless  sky. 
Ruth's  feeling  as  she  looked  out  was 
dreary  and  almost  hopeless.  Her  poor 
old  grandfather  was  dying,  her  work  was 
almost  done,  and  she  would  be  alone  ! 

She  was  roused  at  last  by  the  clatter  of 
Jim's  nailed  boots  on  the  stone  floor. 

"  I  'ope  I  don't  introode,  miss,"  Jim 
said  as  he  came  into  the  kitchen,  and  sat 
down  in  his  seat  near  the  door. 

''Oh  no,  I  am  doing  nothing,"  Ruth 
said. 


'*So  I  see;  my  missus  is  up  with  the 
master,  an'  I  thought  we  could  'ave  a  bit 
of  a  talk  about  business." 

**  Yes ;  what  is  it  ?  "  Ruth  said,  rather 
wearily. 

"  Well,*'  said  Jim  —  "  well,  'tis  like  this 

'ere "  Then  he  paused.    *'  'Tis  rather 

a  delicate  subject.  But  there  !  there's  no 
use  beatin'  about  the  bush  —  the  mas- 
ter's dyin*  —  'im  as  I've  worked  for  so 
long  as  I  can  mind.  I  shall  feel  'mazed 
like  w*hen  he's  gone!  But  Miss  Ruth, 
dear,  what  be  you  goin'  to  do  when 
gran'father's  gone?  that's  what  I  wants 
for  to  ask  *ee.    'Tis  worse  for  you  nor  any 


11 


one. 

*'  I  don't  know,  Jim.  I  haven't  thought, 
I  don't  seem  able  to  think  about  any- 
thing," Ruth  said. 

**  Don't  s'pose  you  do,  poor  thing  I  but 
us  can't  stay  on  here  when  gran'father's 
gone,  an'  us  ought  to  be  thinkin'  about 
things." 

"  Yes."  said  Ruth. 

"  Well,  the  squire  was  'ere  this  mornin' 
eyein'  of  the  placfc,"  Jim  went  on  ;  **  an'  *e 
says  to  me,  *  I  presoome  you'm  the  'ead 
man.'  *  In  a  manner  of  speakin'  I  be,' 
says  I,  *  though  a  famale  is  'ead  man  in 
this  place.'  Well,  'e  goes  on,  glimpsin* 
round  at  the  'ouse,  *  I  shan't  let  this  'ere 
beautiful  'ouse  for  a  farm'ouse  no  more,' 
'e  says.  *I  wouldn't  turn  out  the  old 
man  '  (*  Come,  I'm  glad  of  that,'  I  says  to 
meself),  '  but  when  'e  goes  out  I  shall  do 
up  this  place  to  live  in  myself;  it's  a  long 
sight  better  'ouse  than  my  present  one,' 
'e  says.  ('Ow  'e  could  say  it  I  dunno, 
when  'is  'ouse  'as  got  a  verandy  an'  pil- 
lars, an'  no  ugly  beasts  'pon  the  wall,  and 
everything  thereafter.)  Still  that's  what 
'e  says,  an'  so  if  us  wanted  to  stay  on 
'ere  us  couldn't,  though  'e  offered  me  to 
stay  on  same  as  I  am  now.  But  I  says  I 
shouldn't  do  nothing  without  askin'  you, 
Miss  Ruth,  an'  if  you'm  goin'  away  an'  I 
can  be  any  service,  why  I  shall  up  an'  go 
too.  If  you'd  take  a  bit  of  a  farm  and  'ud 
'ave  me  to  'elp  'ee  with  it,  an'  my  missus 
for  to  wait  upon  'ee,  you  wouldn't  be  so 
lonesome  like  as  if  you  was  all  to  yourself. 
But  if  you  don't  care  for  to  farm  I  was 
thinkin'  that  my  missus  an'  me  could  take 
a  bigger  'ouse  an'  'ave  a  room  or  two  that 
you  could  put  the  old  furniture  into  an' 
bide  'long  with  us.  You  dunno  'ow  proud 
an'  'appy  us  would  be  to  'ave  you,  an'  I 
ain't  so  much  past  work  but  what  I'd  do 
my  best  for  'ee.  What  do  'ee  say,  ray 
dear  ?  " 

Jim  had  warmed  to  his  subject,  and 
when  he  had  finished  bis  speech  he  sat 


THE  STORY  OF  A  LITTLE  WAR. 


4IS 


*» 


•t 


Wiping  Ins  forehead  nervously,  waiting  for 
Ruth  to  answer. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  the  tears 
came  into  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  his 
honest  old  face. 

**  Jim,"  she  said, "  I  doa*t  know  what  to 
say." 

"Lor,  then,  don't  say  nothing,"  Jim 
said  hastily,  dropping  her  hand  and  shuf- 
fling OQt  of  the  room. 

When  he  had  gone  Ruth  went  back  to 
the  window-seat,  and  looked  out  again  on 
the  garden  and  the  fields  —  this  time  with 
different  feelings.  Jim's  thought  for  her 
had  touched  her,  and  the  bitterness  was 
gone  from  her  heart. 

After  a  while  she  heard  another  step  in 
the  passage,  and  young  John  Mason  en- 
tered the  room. 

**  How  are  you,  Ruth  ?  —  tired,  I  ex- 
pect," he  said,  as  he  came  and  sat  down 
by  her. 

"No,  I  don't  feel  tired,  thank  you," 
Ruth  said. 

How's  your  gran'father  to-night  ?  " 
Just  the  same;  he  doesn't  suffer,  but 
he  won't  live  many  days,  the  doctor  says," 
she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

John  got  up,  and  stood  looking  out  of 
window  without  speaking. 

"You'll  be  lonesome  like  when  he's 
gone,  Ruth  ?"  he  said  at  last. 

Ruth  did  not  answer;  she  looked  out  of 
window  with  sad,  tearless  eyes. 

"If  you  could  only  fancy  me  ^twould 
make  it  so  simple.  Just  marry  me,  and 
you'd  have  no  more  trouble.  You'd  have 
somebody  to  take  care  of  vou,  and  people 
and  everything  you've  been  used  to; 
whereas,  if  you  go  away,  you  go  among 
strangers,  an'  'twill  be  a  long  time  before 
you'll  get  any  one  to  care  K>r  you  like  I 
do.  I  shall  never  marry  no  one  else  so 
long  as  I  live  —  you  won't  say  no  again, 
Ruth,  will  you  ?  "  John  took  her  hand  in 
his,  and  sat  down  by  her  side  while  he 
tried  to  look  into  her  face. 

Ruth   kept  her  eyes  fastened  on  the 

f  round,  and  she  did  not  speak,  but  she  let 
er  hand  rest  in  his. 

"'Twon't  be  like  makin'  a  change  at 
all,"  John  went  on  gently.  "Anyways, 
vou'U  have  to  make  a  change,  an'  this  will 
be  so  easy.  Just  step  across  the  fields 
an'  there  you  are  !  an'  you'll  never  repent 
it.    It  isn't  as  if  I  was  a  stranger." 

Ruth  looked  up. 

"It  seems  to  me  'most  wicked  to  be 
talking  of  marrying,  with  grandfather  ly- 
ing dying  up-stairs,"  she  said  slowly; 
••but  I'll  think  about  it,  John, some  time." 

John  slipped  his  arm  around  her  waist. 


••  I  knew  you*d  get  used  to  the  notion  I 
'twas  only  to  wait ;  an'  your  grandfather 
would  be  quite  easy  about  you  now ;  and 
as  for  father  and  mother,  they'll  be  'most 
so  glad  as  me.  Oh,  Ruth,  you  don't  know 
how  glad  I  am  —  " 

John  stopped,  for  Ruth  had  suddenly 
burst  into  tears.  He  moved  so  that  her 
head  might  rest  on  his  shoulder;  she  did 
not  resist,  and  the  two  sat  there  in  the 
quiet  old  kitchen,  while  the  sunlight  died 
away  from  the  fields,  and  a  white  mist 
stole  down  the  valleys  and  wrapped  the 
earth  in  a  soft  cloud.  Then  Jim  came  in, 
and  Ruth  went  quietly  up  to  her  grand- 
father. 


From  Blackwood's  Mapaxine. 
THE  STORY  OF   A   LITTLE  WAR. 

The  histories  of  little  wars  are  not  in 
general  very  gratifying  to  national  pride. 
In  £ns:lish  experiences  of  the  kind,  they 
commonly  begin  with  a  tragedy,  the  result 
of  undue  confidence  and  scorn  of  opposi- 
tion, and  end  with  such  a  scattering  of 
petty  antagonists  and  such  a  prodigious 
bill  of  costs,  that  the  country  is  apt  to 
return  to  its  first  mood  of  contempt  and 
over-security,  and  to  think  the  panic  ex* 
aggerated  and  the  enterprise  unnecessary. 
There  have  been  also  recent  instances  in 
which  failure  has  added  a  sting  to  the 
reckonino^,  and  we  have  not  even  had  that 
sense  of  having  beaten  our  adversary 
which  Englishmen  had  always  insisted 
upon,  right  or  wrong,  in  earlier  days.  It 
is  with  all  the  greater  satisfaction  that  we 
draw  the  reader's  attention  now  to  a  little 
war  which  ended  in  complete  success, 
with  the  additional  advantages  of  very 
little  bloodshed,  and  but  a  small  bill  to 
pay.  One  way  or  other,  we  have  heard  a 
great  deal  lately  of  Fiji.  Miss  Gordon 
Cumming's  lively  and  amusing  book  has 
opened  its  external  aspect  and  domestic 
economv  to  many  readers,  and  its  recent 
history  has  been  full  of  an  interest  more 
comfortable  and  satisfactory  than  is  usu- 
ally afforded  by  savage  races  —  with  the 
additional  attraction  that  no  race  was  ever 
more  savage,  and  none  had  bloodier  and 
more  horrible  traditions,  than  the  very 
constitutional,  parliamentary,  and  evan- 
gelical people  which  now  lives  so  calmly 
and  reasonably  under  the  joint  sway  of 
the  English  government  and  the  Wes- 
levan  Conference  —  an  example  to  all 
islanders. 

The  story  of  the  original  annexation  of 


4i6 

the  Fiji  Islands  is  well  known,  as  well  as 
the  curious  and  most  unfortunate  circum- 
stance of  the  introduction  of  measles,  that 
(in  our  climate)  mild  and  childish  malady, 
which  spread  like  wildfire  amon^^  the  na- 
tives, and  very  naturally  appeared  to  these 
innocent  people  a  device  of  their  new 
rulers  to  kill  them  off  and  appropriate 
their  territory.  That  any  portion  of  the 
population  should  have  been  sufficiently 
enlif^htened  or  strong-minded  to  resist 
this  evident  conclusion  seems  to  say  a 
good  deal  for  their  intellectual  powers 
and  capability  of  reason.  The  hill  tribes, 
however,  who  had  not  the  same  means  of 
knowing  their  new  superiors,  and  whose 
education  under  the  missionaries  was  but 
beginning,  took  up  with  natural  vehemence 
this  simple  idea,  and,  with  all  the  force  of 
prejudice  and  panic  added  to  their  linger- 
ing inclination  towards  the  old  rSgime^ 
sent  away  their  teachers,  resumed  their 
old  habits,  and  renounced  at  once  their 
new  masters  and  all  the  early  beginnings 
of  civilization.  That  they  should  be  at 
liberty  to  practise  the  religion  they  pre- 
ferred, and  be  governed  by  their  own  laws, 
had  been  promised  to  them ;  but  it  was 
scarcely  to  be  expected  that  so  important 
a  step  as  a  change  of  allegiance  could  be 
accomplished  altogether  without  trouble; 
or  that  the  mountaineers  of  Fiji  should 
have  been  better  disposed  to  accept  civil- 
ization than  other  mountaineers  before 
them.  When  they  proceeded  to  the 
aggressive  steps  of  burning  Christian 
villages  and  killing  the  helpless  and  unde- 
fended whom  they  found  there,  it  became 
necesi<ary  to  act  at  once  and  with  vigor. 
In  ordinary  circumstances  a  military  cam 
paign,  with  a  little  army  imported,  and  all 
the  circumstance  if  not  the  pomp  of  ac- 
tual war,  would  have  been  the  method 
adopted  to  convince  the  rebels  that  the 
vows  they  had  so  lately  made  were  in- 
tended to  be  kept  and  not  broken.  Fortu- 
nately, however,  for  Fiji,  its  first  governor. 
Sir  Arthur  Gordon,  was  a  man  little  fet- 
tered by  precedent,  and  one  who  added  to 
a  thorough  interest  in  his  new  subjects 
and  earnest  desire  for  their  improvement 
and  well  being,  a  mind  and  methods  of 
his  own.  Foreseeing  what  was  likely  to 
occur,  he  had  formed  his  own  view  of  the 
situation,  and  decided  that  the  necessary 
work  could  be  done  by  the  small  constab- 
ulary force  already  at  his  command,  backed 
by  the  friendly  natives  whose  loyalty  had 
not  wavered.  It  is  evident  that  he  had 
formed  a  high  opinion  of  these  chiefs,  and 
had  been  impressed  by  the  native  sense 
and  intelligence  as  well  as  good  feeling  of 


THE   STORY   OF   A   LITTLE   WAR. 


many  among  them.  The  "  Story  of  a  Lit- 
tle War"* — a  book  which  Sir  Arthur 
has  not  seen  fit  to  add  to  the  over-abun- 
dant book-making  of  the  time  —  contains 
the  account  of  this  successful  enterprise 
in  the  dail^  letters  to  him  and  to  each 
other  of  his  staff.  And  it  is  something 
more  than  a  mere  narrative  of  military 
operations.  The  interchanges  of  opinion, 
sometimes  even  the  differences  frankly 
made  apparent,  of  this  handful  of  En- 
glishmen in  the  midst  of  a  foreign  and 
half,  if  not  wholly,  savage  race  —  their  ad- 
mirable loyalty  towards  their  leader,  and 
cordial  co-operation  among  themselves ; 
the  ready,  watchful  alertness  of  mind  and 
body  among  them,  and  devotion  to  their 
object  —  a  devotion  by  no  means  incom- 
patible with  considerable  enjoyment  of 
the  strange  and  beautiful  scenery  in  which 
they  found  themselves,  the  picturesque- 
ness  of  the  people,  and  the  delights  of 
adventure,  —  give  the  reader  a  glimpse  of 
the  liveliest  kind  into  that  process  which, 
but  that  the  word  has  been  spoiled  by 
ignoble  use,  we  might  call  making  history. 
A  century  or  two  hence,  if  Fijian  litera- 
ture progresses,  there  will  no  doubt  be 
lyric  narratives  of  the  young  white  chiefs 
with  their  cheerful  looks  —  marching, 
speech-making,  conciliating,  judging,— 
sometimes  stern,  when  they  were  terrible, 
—  sometimes,  in  their  evening  camp  or 
hut,  full  of  jests  and  laughter,  hating 
nothing  but  cruelty  and  bloodshed,  —  who 
brought  order  and  government  to  the  very 
mountain-tops,  to  the  caves  and  rock  vil- 
lages, far  above  the  reach  of  commoa 
men.  It  was  perhaps  wise  not  to  have 
published  a  book  in  which  there  are  in- 
evitably many  repetitions;  but  we  think 
the  reader  will  be  all  the  better  for  a 
bird's-eye  view  of  this  most  wholesome, 
effective,  cheap,  and  manly  campaign. 

It  is  difficult,  without  the  assistance  of 
maps,  to  follow  all  the  movements  of  the 
various  parties  in  this  little  war;  but  we 
may  say  briefly,  that  what  may  be  called 
the  western  highlands  of  Viti  Levu,  by 
much  the  largest  island  of  the  Fiji  group, 
wa?  the  scene  of  the  rebellion.  The  Si- 
gatoka  River  forms  a  kind  of  boundary 
between  these  high-lying  regions,  wyith  all 
their  natural  defences  of  mountain  and 
cliff,  and  the  easier  and  more  accessible 
portions  of  the  island  in  which  all  was 
order  and  good  faith.  But  on  the  other 
side  were  bristling  rocks  and  mountains 
scarcely  explored,  where,  rel^fred  in  un- 

*  Letters  and  Notes  written  daring  the  disturbances 
in  the  Highlands,  known  as  the  "Devil"  Couatry,  ol 
I  Viti  Levu,  Fiji,  1876.    Privately  printed. 


THE   STORY   OF  A   LITTLE   WAR. 


417 


known  fastnesses,  the  mountain  tribes 
returned  to  their  old  customs,  and  if  they 
did  not  lift  their  neiji[hbor's  cattle,  burnt 
bis  houses,  and  killed  his  retainers,  and 
ate,  or  would  have  liked  to  eat,  what  they 
slew.  These  Tevoro^  or  highlandmen, 
more  recognizable  under  the  easy  appella- 
tion of  **  Devils,*'  were  the  representatives 
of  primitive  savagery  against  native  law 
and  order  as  well  as  against  the  new  reli- 
gion, government,  and  humanity  which 
had  been  brought  to  the  island  by  their 
new  rulers.  In  hopes  of  quenching  the 
disaffection  before  it  came  the  length  of 
open  war,  Sir  Arthur  Gordon  commis- 
sioned two  officials  (one  of  them  already 
in  charge  of  the  district),  attended  by  a 
body  of  native  police,  to  establish  a  per- 
manent camp  upon  the  heights,  within 
reach  of  the  river,  whence  they  could 
watch  the  proceedings  in  the  Devil  coun- 
try, and  give  notice  of  danger.  These 
were  a  cautious  commissioner,  learned  in 
Fiji  language  and  customs,  considerably 
inclined  to  exercise  his  eloauence  upon 
the  chiefs,  and  with  no  smalt  confidence 
tn  that  mode  of  subduing  them:  and  a 
somewhat  rash  and  impulsive  captain  of 
constabulary  at  the  head  of  the  little  band 
of  native  police,  who  would  have  liked  to 
rush  in  at  once  and  demolish  the  canni- 
bals without  more  ado.  The  little  drama 
opens  with  the  letters  of  these  gentlemen 
to  headquarters  —  the  commissioner  very 
careful  and  explanatory,  and  troubled  by 
the  rashness  of  his  companion.  To  get 
'*  the  chiefs  to  come  in  and  have  conver- 
sations," to  secure  a  supply  of  food,  and, 
equally  important,  a  supply  of  the  circu- 
lating medium  —  to  wit,  cloth  and  knives 
(for  he  becomes  almost  querulous  in  his 
complaint  of  having  **  nothing  but  money 
to  buy  food  with  "),  and  to  keep  the  cap- 
tain quiet,  are  the  things  which  chiefly 
occupy  his  thoughts.  The  people  he  de- 
scribes as  "  very  hostile : "  the  distance 
from  the  coast  is  considerable,  and  the 
position  altogether  not  encouraging.  The 
commissioner,  however,  though  full  of 
cares,  is  not  without  confidence  in  his  own 
power  of  persuasion :  — 

I  had  a  meeting  last  night  and  spoke  very 
moderately,  and  made  them  understand  every- 
thing. One  fact  I  particularly  pointed  out  to 
them,  that  we  did  not  pretend  to  say  we  had 
conquered  them,  but  that  we  had  joined  our- 
selves to  them,  and  that  they  would  derive 
freat  benefits  from  our  presence  among  thenu 
n  fact  I  exhausted  every  subtlety  gained^  by 
my  intimate  acquaintance  with  their  modes  of 
thought  to  bring  them  round  to  a  proper  way 
of  thinking ;  but  although  they  professed 
UVING  AGS.  VOL.  XLIV.  2263 


themselves  as  being  much  pleased  at  what 
they  heard,  it  was  pretty  evident  that  their 
pleasure  merely  extended  to  me  personally, 
and  not  to  the  subject-matter  of  my  discourse. 

This  excellent  representative  of  her 
Majesty's  civil  servants,  always  ponder- 
ing a  new  speech,  and  with  an  invincible 
confidence  that  his  intimate  acquaintance 
with  Fijian  modes  of  thought  must  one 
time  or  other  bear  fruit,  finds,  with  that 
curious  artistic  fitness  which  is  often  to 
be  met  with  in  human  conjunctions,  his 
perfect  opposite  in  his  military  colleague, 
who  might  be  an  Irishman  of  the  old 
Charles  O'Malley  type  —  a  headstrong, 
daring,  and  careless  individual,  as  much 
disposed  to  be  impatient  of  the  meetings 
and  palavers  at  which  **  Carew  got  through 
a  deal  of  talking,"  as  the  other  is  with  his 
rashness.  ***  What  I '  said  I,  *  turn  back 
and  see  the  government  defied  ! ' "  cries 
the  captain,  **  much  disappointed  at  not 
having  a  rub  at  the  scoundrels,''  and 
wounded  in  his  finest  feelings  by  **  seeing 
the  government  defied  bv  a  few  flintlock 
and  old  Tower  muskets.*'  While  his  col- 
league is  anxiously  reasoning  with  all 
comers,  this  foolhardy  leader  risks  his 
own  person  in  a  reconnaissance,  by  which 
we  see  the  nature  of  tht  dangers  around. 

I  went  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill  again,  first 
sending  my  men  back  to  Nasaucoko.  They 
were  most  reluctant  to  move  away,  esp>eciany 
as  they  did  not  see  me  with  them,  but  they  had 
to  go.  And  now  comes  what  I  cannot  account 
for.  I  felt  that  I  could  not  return  to  Nasau- 
coko (the  camp),  and  that  I  must  go  and  see 
this  crowd  of  rebels.  So  I  told  Batikarakara 
and  Gusudradra  that  I  was  going  with  them, 
telling  them  that  they  might  kill  me  if  they 
liked.  They  seemed  agreeable,  so  I  sent  down 
for  my  cook,  and  had  a  feed  before  starting, 
and  gave  some  food  to  the  **  Devils."  One  of 
my  faithful  boys  came  up  with  my  food,  and 
on  my  telling  him  to  go  away,  he  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  remain  with  me,  and  nearly  shed 
tears:  so  I  took  him,  together  with  an  ex- 
mountaineer  and  the  boy  who  waited  on  yoa 
at  Navola.  We  set  out  pn  our  perilous  jour- 
ney. I  did  not  care  very  much  what  hap- 
pened. On  arriving  at  the  village,  which  con- 
sisted but  of  eight  or  nine  houses,  I  asked  for 
the  chief,  and  the  answer  I  received,  in  any- 
thing but  a  polite  way,  was,  **  Go  in  there  and 
you  will  find  him,**  the  person  who  spoke 
I>ointing  at  the  same  time  to  a  house,  at  the 
door  oF  which  stood  a  man  leaning  on  the 
handle  of  a  very  large  battle-axe,  who  re- 
minded me  of  an  executioner  of  the  olden 
time  waiting  for  his  victinu  The  feeling  that 
came  over  me  at  the  time  was  that  I  was  to 
have  that  beastly  thing  about  my  head  before 
long,  and  the  scene  alx>ut  me  did  not  tend  to 
dispel  the  idea.    Old  men  with  hideous  faces 


4i8 


THE    STORY   OF   A   LITTLE   WAR. 


begrimed  with  dirt  sat  about,  eyeing  me  curi* 
ously  and  savagely,  and  altogether  the  scowl- 
ing visages  of  the  elder  portion  of  the  crowd 
were  enough  to  make  one's  blood  curdle. 
The  most  they  could  do,  however,  was  to  kill 
me  ;  so  I  put  on  a  bright  face  and  entered  the 
house,  and  finding  no  one  inside  began  to 
think  I  was  in  for  it.  But  such  was  not  the 
case,  for  the  chief  turned  up,  and  turned  out 
to  be  a  fairly  decent  fellow,  and  anxious  to 
hear  about  the  government ;  but  his  younger 
men  were  uncivil,  and  would  not  allow  him,  so 
1  told  them  about  England  and  ships,  which 
aroused  them.  I  don*t  think  they  intended  to 
hurt  me,  but  I  believe  they  wanted  to  kill  my 
men.  On  leaving  the  village  at  last,  I  asked 
for  a  small  club,  which  they  gave  me,  and  then 
left  with  a  decent  escort  of  about  twenty 
youths.  We  had  got  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  out  of  the  village  when  I  was  asked  to 
sit  down.  I  did  so,  and  ate  some  sugarcane. 
They  were  much  amused  with  my  rifle  and 
knife,  and  one  fellow  got  so  affectionately  close 
that  I  thought  he  was  going  to  have  a  slice 
out  of  me.  After  waiting  a  short  time,  we 
saw  several  men  crossing  the  river  at  a  short 
distance  from  where  we  were  sitting,  and  pres- 
ently they  formed  up,  and  commenced  to 
march  towards  us.  I  began  to  think  again 
they  were  up  to  some  mischief,  and  as  I  had 
no  chance,  determined  to  put  a  good  face  on 
it ;  so  they  came  up,  looking  very  fierce,  spears 
planted  and  ready  to  be  thrown.  They  all 
passed  within  a  few  yards  of  me,  each  man 
dropping  a  small  piece  of  sugarcane  or  some 
bananas.  They  then  formed  up  in  some  sort 
of  order,  and  started  for  us  at  the  double, 
shouting  and  yelling,  till  within  a  yard  or  two 
of  me,  and  then  nalted  and  pointed  their 
spears,  to  which  I  said,  '*  Vinaka^  vtnaka^  kai 
coh"  (Very  well  done,  highlanders).  After 
that  I  said  I  would  like  to  see  the  chiefs ;  so 
they  came  over,  and  I  shook  hands  with  them 
in  rather  a  peculiar  way:  each  planted  the 
whole  of  his  fist  in  my  hand  and  left  it  there, 
and  stared  me  in  the  face.  I  did  not  like  to 
hurt  his  feelings  by  dropping  it  unceremoni- 
ously, so  shook  it  once  or  twice,  and  vinaluCd 
him  and  dropped  iL  I  then  thought  it  time 
to  get  back,  so  made  a  start,  well  satisfied 
with  my  visit,  rejoicing  to  have  seen  their 
strength,  which  consists  of  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  armed  meg,  some  quite  boys,  some 
decrepit  old  men :  not  a  single  rifle  or  breech- 
loader. 

It  is  easy  to  imag^ine  how  the  careworn 
commissioner  must  have  regarded  this 
schoolboy  exploit,  which  the  hero  himself 
allows  to  have  been  *' foolish,  rash,  and 
dangerous.''  Mr.  Carew's  hands  were 
indeed  sufficiently  full  to  make  the  inap- 
propriateness  of  his  colleague  very  galling 
to  him.  When  the  captain  was  not  risk- 
ing his  life  in  vain  expeditions,  he  was 
^*  all  apathy  and  irresolution ; "  and  though 


he  would  have  precipitated  a  warlike  en- 
counter  had  he  not  been  held  back  almost 
by  force,  he  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
take  necessary  precautions  about  the 
stockade  rouncl  the  camp.  In  short,  this 
officer,  who  **  understood  none  of  his 
Excellency's  ideas,"  and  had  no  distinct 
purpose  in  his  puzzled  brains  one  way  or 
another,  is  clearly  the  very  type  of  man 
whose  agency  is  so  disastrous  in  enter- 
prises of  this  kind,  and  whose  very 
bravery  brings  misfortune.  There  is, 
however,  a  certain  charm  and  simplicity 
of  human  nature  about  the  brave  and 
foolish  fellow  which  make  us  pause  on 
the  edge  of  more  stirring  events.  His 
grave  companion  very  soon  hints  that  **a 
trip  to  Levuka"  (his  Excellency's  resi- 
dence) would  be  the  best  thing  for  the 
captain's  health ;  and  this  plan  is  finally 
resorted  to.  In  the  mean  time,  however, 
a  reproof  and  warning  from  his  Excellency 
produces  a  confused,  half-pathetic  letter 
from  the  offender,  which  is  too  good  to 
be  altogether  lost,  and  gives  a  side-elance 
into  character  such  as  would  delight  a 
biographer  or  writer  of  fiction,  though  it 
has  little  to  do  with  the  history. 

I  have  lived  much  by  myself,  and  have  only 
a  few  real  friends  [he  says,  having  been  re- 
buked for  ••  incoherency "].  I  have  lived 
among  men  I  have  not  cared  about  nor  trust- 
ed ;  hence  arises  this  serious  impediment  to 
my  progress  as  a  useful  member  of  the  Gov- 
ernment when  verbal  explanations  are  re- 
quired. A  letter  can  be  copied  and  thought 
over ;  but  speech,  like  a  wild  bird  in  a  cage, 
when  let  loose  is  seldom  or  never  taken  again 
—  a  bad  illustration,  but  I  can  think  of  do 
other  at  present 

This  is  almost  too  exquisite  for  real 
life;  and  we  part  from  the  warrior  with 
regret.  He  took  that  "trip  to  Levuka" 
not  long  after,  on  the  very  eve,  as  it  hap- 
pened, of  serious  disturbances,  and  was 
afterwards  employed  in  raising  recruits 
and  other  work  more  fitted  to  his  charac- 
ter. His  appointment  would  seem  to  be 
the  only  mistake  in  the  admirable  selec- 
tion of  workmen  fitted  to  his  purpose 
made  by  the  governor,  and  it  was  rem- 
edied with  promptitude.  As  soon  as  the 
troubles  really  began,  his  place  was  taken 
by  two  much  more  efficient  figures.  Cap- 
tain Knollys  and  Mr.  Gordon,  who  come 
into  the  field  with  all  their  wits  about 
them,  prompt,  cool,  intelligent  to  perceive 
the  meanings  of  every  step  that  has  to  be 
taken,  and  penetrated  by  his  Excellency's 
ideas.  It  is  no  harm,  however,  to  these 
gentlemen  to  say  that  they  are  not  half 


THE   STORY  OF  A   LITTLE   WAR. 


419 


to  amusing:  as  their  predecessor,  do  not 
tenopt  us  to  laugh  except  at  some  humorous 
view  of  the  savage  simplicities  around, 
Dor  make  any  ingenuous  revelations  of 
character  to  tempt  us  aside  from  the 
record. 

The  captain  had  but  newly  departed 
when  the  storm  broke  out.  By  aid  of  Mr. 
Carew's  journal  we  now  find  ourselves 
placed  upon  a  kind  of  watch-tower,  from 
which  we  can  see  all  that  is  going  on,  and 
partially  divine  what  is  brewing,  kept  con- 
stantly on  the  alert  by  here  the  light  of  a 
burning  village  on  the  horizon,  there  a 
discharge  of  muskets  or  the  warning 
clamor  of  a  drum,  or  perhaps  the  appari- 
tion on  a  height  of  armed  bands  among 
the  trees,  investigating  the  approaches  to 
the  camp  itself,  with  its  still  imperfect 
stockade.  No  easy  post  was  that  of  the 
commissioner.  We  perceive  from  his 
mount  of  vision,  dimly  stirring  in  the 
landscape,  white  settlers,  planters  who 
are  of  no  use  to  him,  though  their  little 
groups  of  wife  and  children  add  to  his 
anxieties,  and  their  complaints  of  property 
stolen  and  houses  threatened  add  so  many 
pin-points  to  his  greater  vexations.  Then 
as  soon  as  the  Devils  break  out,  another 
set  of  figures  become  visible,  hurriedly 
appearing  out  of  the  unknown  —  village 
chiefs,  bulls  of  the  various  places  at- 
tacked or  threatened,  hastening  in  with 
their  reports,  some  of  disaster,  some  of 
successful  resistance,  asking  for  orders, 
for  ammunition,  and,  with  a  comic  touch, 
for  stationery,  the  new-born  necessity  of 
letter-writing  having  found  them  some- 
what unprovided.  We  doubt  much  wheth- 
er the  mayors  and  aldermen  of  as  many 
little  country  towns  in  England  would 
keep  their  courage  and  self-possession,  or 
write  their  reports  with  half  the  concise- 
ness and  lucidity  of  these  half-savage 
officials.    Here  is  an  example :  — 

Thb  Buus  op  Nadi  to  the  Governor. 

Mbrbkb,  Vuda,  A^il  14. 

ISAKA.  —  We,  the  Bui  is  of  Nadi,  write  unto 
your  Excellency  our  report. 

War  has  commenced  in  the  mountains. 
Several  towns  have  been  burnt,  sir.  The 
towns  of  Deva,  Vunirosawa,  Vunimoli,  Nalo- 
qi,  Uto,  and  Nawaqa.  These  six  have  been 
burnt  We  report  to  your  Excellency  and  the 
head  of  the  police  that  you  may  know,  sir, 
what  is  now  commencing  here  to  the  west. 

We  remain  here  obediently  waiting  that 
your  Excellency  may  be  pleased  to  direct  us 
what  to  do.  Shall  we  go  up  to  your  Excel- 
lency's Commissioner  in  the  mountains,  or 
shall  we  remain  in  our  own  places  for  the 
present  ?    Let  us  know  your  decision  in  this 


matter,  sir.    This  is  the  report  from  the  west. 

Our  report,  sir,  is  finished. 

I,  Sabori,  BuH  Vuda. 
I,  Navola,  Buli  Nadu    • 
I,  BuKATAVATAVA,  Buli  Sobeto, 
I,  Dauru,  Buli  Veitoga, 

Your  true  friends. 

The  officers  of  the  assailed  districts  are 
still  more  terse  and  in  earnest.  "Our 
district  is  ruined  on  account  of  the  Dev- 
ils," says  one.  **  Batiri  is  all  burned. 
Several  women  and  children  are  clubbed. 
Some  men  are  killed.  The  details,  sir, 
have  not  3'et  been  made  clear."  Another 
reports  the  news  with  further  particulars 
about  the  men  who  have  been  speared,  the 
mothers  and  children  who  have  perished, 
the  teachers  whose  fate  is  not  known. 
"  Our  district  is  ruined.  On  this  Monday 
morning  the  17th  of  April  this  thing  hap- 
pened. 1  beg  of  you  some  paper  and  en- 
velopes, that  1  may  continue  writing  to 
you."  Another  asks  for  guns,  powder, 
and  balls,  that  his  men  and  he  may  go  off 
to  the  help  of  their  neighbors :  ♦*  My  idea 
is,  if  they  show  a  bold  front  at  all,  to  have 
a  try  at  them."  The  roko  of  Nadroga 
sends  a  similar  list  of  the  destroyed  vil- 
lages, but  adds  a  more  hopeful  description 
of  the  spirit  of  the  neighborhood. 

They  then  approached  up  to  Burua,  but  thev 
were  well  prepared,  and  not  of  the  same  mind 
as  the  enemy  were,  so  they  did  not  make  any 
attempt  on  this  village.  They  then  went  to 
Nabuasa,  but  this  was  prepared  to  meet  them  ; 
so  they  left  there  and  went  off  to  Nadrumai, 
one  of  the  villages  of  ours  they  had  threat- 
ened frequently.  I  was  ready  for  them,  and 
swept  together  my  men  far  down  the  coast ; 
and  yesterday  they  attempted  to  take  the  vil- 
lage, and  started  firing ;  but  we  were  better 
men  than  they.  They  left  eleven  dead  of  their 
friends  in  the  middle  of  the  village,  after 
which  they  ran  off,  throwing  away  guns  and 
clubs  and  everything  else. 

These  demonstrations  of  loyalty  gave 
some  consolation  to  the  anxious  commis- 
sioner in  the  midst  of  all  the  alarms,  false 
and  true,  which  surrounded  him.  And 
they  afforded  encouraging  proof  that  *♦  his 
Excellency's  ideas  "as  to  the  possibility 
of  subduing  the  disaffected  and  restoring 
order  without  any  military  demonstration, 
by  the  help  of  the  native  auxiliaries,  were 
correct  and  well  founded;  but  a  man, who 
is  aware  of  the  existence  of  bands  of 
armed  savages  all  round  his  little  encamp- 
ment, and  can  even  see  them  appearing 
on  the  heights,  to  which  they  retire  when- 
ever threatened,  is  to  be  pardoned  for  a 
good  deal  of  anxiety. 

In  the  mean  while  Captain  Knollys  w< 


420 


THE   STORY   OF  A   LITTLE  WAR. 


hastenin?  up  to  the  mountains  to  take 
command  of  the  operations,  and  in  the 
loyal  districts  below  Mr.  Gordon  and  Cap- 
tain Olfve  were  occupied  in  calling  out 
the  native  levies  and  equipping  them  as 
far  as  was  possible.  The  plan  of  the  cam- 
paign was  very  simple  and  thorough.  It 
was  to  divide  the  forces  so  as  to  surround 
the  cannibals,  —  Captain  Knollys  ascend- 
ing into  their  fastnesses  on  one  hand, 
and  shutting  these  refuges  against  them, 
while  Mr.  Gordon  advanced  from  below. 
The  Fijian  highlanders  were  not  very 
great  in  number,  nor  were  they  very  well 
armed,  but  they  dispersed  and  reassem- 
bled with  all  the  facility  of  mountain  war- 
riors ;  and  the  caves,  which  were  their  last 
defence  and  resort,  were  formidable  natu- 
ral strongholds,  which  it  was  of  the  last 
importance  to  secure.  The  forces  col- 
lected against  them  were,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  small  band  of  the  police  with 
their  Sniders,  entirely  composed  of  Fi- 
jians,  led  by  their  natural  chiefs,  several 
of  whom  present  an  aspect  of  dignified 
authority  and  intelligence,  which  the 
reigning  class,  in  a  much  more  advanced 
civilization,  does  not  always  possess. 
Their  letters  and  reports  are  admirable 
in  their  brevity  and  distinctness :  and  their 
ready  adoption  of  more  civilized  modes 
of  warfare,  in  distinction  from  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  cannibals  who  killed  their 
prisoners,  destroyed  the  gardens  of  the 
villages  they  attacked,  and  ruthlessly  shot 
dow*n  women  and  children,  shows  a  fine 
natural  understanding,  as  well  as  the  in- 
fluence of  Christian  sentiment.  That 
they  were,  however,  still  on  a  ticklish 
border  ground  between  savagery  and  bet- 
ter knowledge,  may  be  seen  from  one  of 
the  first  incidents  in  the  story. 

I  hope  [writes  Captain  Knollys]  that  I  have 
not  been  aiding  and  abetting  at  heathen  rites ; 
but  as  the  people  who  brought  the  dead  man 
from  Beimana  made  a  point  of  my  seeing  the 
body,  I  went  to  the  village  to  do  so.  It  was  a 
curious  sight  by  torchlight  to  see  the  dead 
man  slung  on  a  bamboo,  with  about  sixty  of 
the  wildest-looking  people  I  ever  saw  dancing 
round  him  and  making  speeches.  They  wound 
up  by  a  half-joking  request  to  be  allowed  to 
eat  him,  and  half  a  hint  would  have  made 
them  do  so.  However,  I  ordered  him  to  be 
buried  at  once. 

The  same  writer,  a  few  pages  further 
on,  begs  the  governor,  who  is  anxious  to 
pay  a  visit  to  the  camp,  to  come  on  Friday, 
**  as  that  would  enable  you  to  return  on 
Saturday,  otherwise  you  would  find  diffi- 
culty about  bearers,  etc.,  and  would  create 
s^  scandal  by  travelling  on  Sunday.  Moun- 


taineers are  very  strict  about  the  Sab- 
bath,^^  It  was  the  same  men  who  would 
at  "  half  a  hint "  have  embraced  the  oppor- 
tunity of  eating  their  dead  prisoner,  who 
would  have  been  scandalized  by  his  Ex- 
cellency's visit  on  Sunday  —  which  is  as 
curious  a  conjunction  of  sentiments  as  we 
remember  to  have  heard  of. 

This  visit  from  his  Excellency  afiPords 
a  pleasant  break  in  the  somewhat  confus- 
ing record  of  villages  burned  and  chiefs 
interviewed.  The  governor  had  been  anx- 
ious for  some  time  to  proceed  to  the  centre 
of  the  operations,  to  see  with  his  own  eyes 
what  was  going  on,  and  give  the  high 
sanction  of  his  presence  to  the  force  en- 
gaged, but  had  been  anxiously  dissuaded 
from  the  expedition  by  his  officers,  who 
were  very  naturally  afraid  of  running  the 
risk  of  any  personal  danger  to  their  chief. 
As  his  Excellency,  however,  insisted,  not 
being  himself  of  a  timorous  disposition, 
the  visit  took  place,  and  we  came  down 
with  relief  from  our  watch-tower  at  the 
camp,  to  accompany  the  governor's  prog- 
ress through  the  fine  landscapes  and 
among  the  picturesque  groups  of  the 
loyal  regions.  On  the  voyage  to  Sagunu, 
the  home  of  the  roko  Tui  Ba,  one  of  the 
most  intelligent  and  dignified  of  the  na- 
tive chiefs,  the  governors  steamer  passed 
four  large  canoes,  **  smart  with  red  and 
white  pennants  from  the  crescent-shaped 
masthead  and  the  edge  of  the  huge  mat- 
sails,'*  which  contained  Adi  Alisi — that 
is,  the  Lady  Alise,  the  wife  of  the  roko, 
hastening  home,  as  fast  as  a  dead  calm 
would  let  her,  to  receive  the  illustrious 
visitor.  She  was  late,  poor  lady,  and  the 
honors  of  the  mansion  had  to  be  done 
without  her.  Tli«  Ba  River,  upon  which 
Sagunu  is  situated,  made  one  of  the  gov- 
ernor's companions  imagine  himself  *'to 
be  looking  on  the  west  Highlands  of 
Scotland,'  rather  than  **the  mountains  of 
an  island  in  the  South  Seas.'*  The  town 
was  considerable,  but,  as  all  the  houses 
were  **  hidden  away  among  trees  and  gar- 
dens," did  not  reveal  its  size  to  a  cursory 
? [lance.  These  dwellings  are  described  as 
ollows :  — 

The  style  of  building  here  was  quite  new  to 
me.  The  posts  that  support  the  walls  of  the 
house  are  set  square,  and  one  large,  central 
post  supports  the  somewhat  dome-like  roof  of 
thatch  and  bamboo  rafters.  The  wa  Is,  too, 
are  thatched  with  grans,  and  from  the  outside 
it  is  hard  to  say  where  the  walls  end  and  the 
roof  begins.  £ach  house  stands  on  a  built- 
up  mound,  four  feet  above  the  ground-level ; 
but  few  houses  have  more  than  one  c^oor,  and 
that  seems  generally  closed,  and  windows  they 


\ 


THE   STORY   OF   A   LITTLE   WAR. 


42 1 


have  none.  A  good  road  leads  op  from  the 
banks  of  the  river  to  the  Rara  (public  square 
or  village  green),  where  the  Roko's  house 
stands.  The  house  is  a  new  three-roomed 
one,  in  shape  the  same  as  those  on  the  east 
coast,  and  is  divided  into  compartments  by 
well-made  reed  partitions,  and  is  very  com- 
fortable, though  the  European  writing-table 
and  chest  of  drawers,  and  the  easy-chairs  and 
muslin  curtains  done  op  with  pink  ribbon, 
looked  rather  odd  and  out  of  place.  But 
Ratu  Vuki  is  a  good  man  of  business,  the 
pigeon-holes  of  his  bureau  are  full  of  papers, 
and  he  was  able  to  put  his  hand  directly  on 
one  that  was  wanted  —  an  improvement  on  the 
usual  Fiji  fashion  of  hiding  away  all  letters 
and  papers  under  the  mats. 

This  is  the  same  native  gentleman  who, 
writing  to  his  wife  for  paper  while  he  is 
absent  on  the  campaign,  tells  her  that  she 
will  find  it  in  the  portfolio  in  a  certain 
drawer  —  an  insigniAcant  detail  which  im- 
presses the  imagination  when  we  recollect 
that  the  roko  Tui  Ba  and  the  Lady  Alise 
were  born  cannibals  and  savages.  The 
curtains  with  the  pink  ribbons  were  no 
doubt  her  share  of  the  rapidly  advancing 
civilization.  We  must  not  pause  to  de- 
scribe the  curious  scene  which  ensued 
when  the  people  of  the  town  presented 
their  offering,  placing  ** presents  of  boiled 
yams  or  taro  sewed  up  in  banana-leaves, 
with  sometimes  the  addition  of  a  boiled 
chicken,  on  the  floor  mats  in  front  of  the 
governor,*'  whose  distress  at  all  this  waste, 
and  dislike  to  accept  such  presents,  had 
to  give  way  to  the  custom  of  the  country 
—  a  difficulty  which  the  roko  was  intelli- 
gent enough  to  understand,  though  proud 
and  happy,  in  spite  of  his  better  knowl- 
edge, in  the  feeling  that  his  people  had 
distinguished  themselves  by  their  liberal- 
ity. As  the  governor's  cortij^g  moved  on, 
additional  illustrations  are  continually 
added,  —  alternate  scenes  of  engaging  and 
primitive  simplicity,  belonging  now  to  the 
savage,  now  to  the  civilized  side.  "The 
weather  was  beautifully  fine  and  cool,  and 
the  moonlight  nights  were  lovely,"  writes 
the  secretary  above  quoted.  "  Every 
night  during  the  five  days  we  were  at  Na 
Rewa  the  mats  were  spread  outside  the 
house,  and  the  natives  sat  in  a  great  semi- 
circle in  front  of  us,  and  chanted  their 
drinking-songs  while  the  yaqona  was  be- 
ing strained."  Th^ yaqona  is  a  beverage 
prepared  in  a  .very  primitive  fashion  from 
a  root,  into  the  manufacture  of  which  it  is 
unnecessary  to  enter,  but  which  seems  by 
prolonged  experience  to  commend  itself 
even  to  the  European  palate.  It  is  the 
national  debauch,  though  apparently  a 
mild  one,  of  the  Fijians.    After  the  sight 


of  those  dark  figures  in  the  moonlight 
singing  their  wild  songs  comes  with  hu- 
morous incongruity  an  inspection  of  the 
school,  with  the**  usual  reading,  writing, 
and  summing."  The  children,  however, 
had  a  meki  or  festive  meeting  after  on  the 
green,  where  their  proceedings  bore  a 
more  amusing  character  than  those  of  an 
ordinary  school  feast. 

Through  Mr.  Wilkinson  and  the  native  par- 
son I  managed  to  make  out  something  of  the 
meaning  of  the  song.  It  was  a  lesson  in  nat- 
ural history  which  had  certainly  never  been 
taught  them  by  a  white  missionary.  All  the 
children  were  seated  on  the  ground,  and  in  a 
rhythmic  chant  they  told  all  about  the  birds 
and  hisects,  imitating  their  cries,  and  giving 
descriptions  of  their  habits  that  were  scarcely 
scientifically  correct.  When  they  came  to  the 
mosquito,  they  began  to  hum  and  buzz,  then 
to  slap  their  arms  and  legs  in  perfect  unison, 
as  if  they  had  just  felt  a  mosquito  in  the  act 
of  biting.  All  this  was  part  of  the  perform- 
ance, and  done  in  the  most  perfect  time  ;  then, 
as  if  driven  half  wild  bv  the  irritation,  they 
shouted  and  threw  their  arms  about,  and  then 
suddenly  stopped  exhausted,  declaring  that 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  bear  the  pain 
patiently,  when  the  mosquito  would  sing  songs 
in  their  ears,  and  say  vinaka,  vinaka  (good, 
good),  in  applause.  "  When  a  man  dies," 
they  told  us,  **all  the  other  animals  rejoice 
that  he  can  no  longer  enslave  them,  or  hurt 
them,  or  kill  them ;  and  most  of  all  the  ants 
are  pleased,  for  they  dig  down  through  the 
earth  to  where  his  bones  are  buried,  and  carry 
off  his  teeth  for  their  tabuas  (offerings  of 
whales*  teeth,  the  usual  conciliatory  present 
and  proffer  of  friendship  in  Fiji).  But  the 
mosquito  alone  is  sorry,  and  hovers  about 
humming  a  mournful  song, '  What  good,*  says 
he,  '  is  a  man  to  me  when  he  is  dead  ?  I  can 
neither  drink  his  blood  nor  sing  songs  in  his 
ears  that  he  will  hear.* " 

The  expedition,  as  it  moves  on,  always 
ascending  towards  the  disturbed  regions, 
passes  through  so  much  fine  scenery  that 
we  are  at  a  loss  whether  to  choose  for 
quotation  the  very  admirable  sketches 
given  of  it,  both  by  the  governor  himself 
and  Mr.  Maudslay,  or  those  of  the  con- 
stantly recurring  groups  which  animate 
their  progress.  The  human  interest,  on 
the  whole,  is  the  greatest,  and  we  will 
leave  the  '*  rolling  waves  of  the  plain," 
the  rapidly  increasing  strain  of  the  as- 
cent, the  widening  out  of  the  magnificent 
view  seaward,  with  all  the  islands  lying  in 
purple  and  gold,  the  valleys  with  **  their 
slopes  broken  up  into  thousands  of  little 
grass-covered  ridges  and  dells,  as  if  to 
see  how  much  surface  could  be  exhibited 
in  a  given  space"  —  to  the  imagination  of 
the  reader.    As  the  party  begin  to  reach 


4aa 


THE   STORY  OF  A  LITTLE  WAR. 


the  neighborhood  of  the  insurgents,  the 
story  becomes  exciting;  and  here  is  one 
sketch  in  which  the  eerie  sensation  of  un- 
known danger  and  darkness  is  wonder- 
fully suggested.  It  is  at  Wai-wai,  which 
the  party  reached,  having  ascended  over 
seventeen  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  in  a  cold 
and  rainy  night,  and  found  the  place  in 
^  hourly  expectation  of  an  attack.  The 
governor  and  his  companion  inspected  in 
the  chill  and  wet  evening  all  the  ap- 
proaches, and  posted  sentries ;  but  it  was 
judged  expedient  to  keep  a  watch  through- 
out the  night.  It  is  his  Excellency  him- 
self who  speaks. 

We  took  it  in  turn  to  keep  guard,  and  I  hsd 
the  first  watch.  My  companions  were  soon 
asleep,  and  I  had  plenty  of  time  for  thought 
and  ohservation.  The  house  we  were  in  was 
an  ordinary  mountain  house,  with  only  one 
doorway  and  a  central  post  Within,  it  was 
not  unlike  a  cow-shed  on  a  very  miserable  old 
Scotch  farm,  being  divided  into  six  stalls, 
three  on  a  side,  and  the  floor  littered  with 
straw  and  grass.  There  were  no  mats  except 
what  had  been  brought  in  for  us  from  the 
chief's  house.  Against  the  central  post  was 
stuck  a  candle,  which  I  from  time  to  time  re- 
moved. Twice  I  went  the  round  of  the  sen- 
tries with  Sergeant  Low.  They  were  all 
awake  and  on  the  alert.  It  was  very  cold  in 
spite  of  our  rugs  and  wrapys,  and  I  could  not 
get  warm.  As  I  sat  half  dozing,  the  grass  fringe 
which  hung  in  the  doorway  to  keep  out  the 
wind  was  moved  aside,  and  a  handsome  young 
soldier,  dressed  only  in  a  black  iiku,  came  in 
with  a  letter  from  Knollys.  He  had  come 
very  fast  from  Nasaucoko,  and  was  tired.  .  .  . 
About  I  A.M.  I  called  Maudslay  for  his  watch, 
and  at  once  fell  asleep. 

Next  day  brought  the  welcome  appear- 
ance of  Captain  Knollys  and  his  train  to 
escort  the  governor  to  the  camp.  The 
A.D.C.  presented  himself  before  his  chief 
not  in  parade  costume.  *'  He  was  bare- 
legged, with  trousers  cut  short  at  the 
knee,  his  rifle  slung  over  his  checked 
shirt,  and  a  solar  topee  on  his  head.'' 
Neither,  perhaps,  was  his  Excellency  ap- 
parelled for  a  drawing*room.  The  men  in 
Captain  Knollys's  train  streamed  in,  pic- 
turesque and  terrible,  in  native  cloth  and 
Cainted  faces.  **One  had  his  face  all 
lack,  with  a  red  tip  to  his  nose ;  another 
equally  all  black,  with  one  red  temple ; 
another  had  a  face  like  a  gridiron,  longi- 
tudinal stripes  of  black  and  white;  an- 
other a  singular  zigzag  device  coming 
from  forehead  to  cheek  diagonally ;  but 
the  most  ghastly  was  one  who,  on  a  com- 
pletely black  face,  had  large  white  circles 
round  his  eyes."  The  governor  was  much 
Struck  by  the  completeness  of  the  dis* 


guises  afforded  by  the  painted  face,  and 
the  manceuvres  of  these  somewhat  appall- 
ing figures  were  amusing.  **Sakiusa  was 
at  their  head,  and  he  and  many  others 
carried  huge  fighting  fans.  It  was  pretty 
to  see  the  .skirmishers  running  in  front 
quivering  those  fans,  quartering  over  the 
ground  like  pointers,  and  brushing  the 
grass  with  the  fans  as  if  to  sweep  away  all 
enemies  from  their  path."  The  following 
description  of  the  procession,  as  It  set  out 
again  for  the  camp  at  Nasaucoko,  by  Mr. 
Maudslay  must  be  quoted :  — 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  picturesque 
than  our  guard  winding  along  the  track  in 
single  file.  Each  dress  seemed  more  fantastic 
than  the  last  one,  and  many  of  my  old  ac- 
quaintances were  so  disguised  by  their  war- 
paint that  I  could  not  recognize  them.  The 
European  guns  and  cross-belts  seemed  some- 
how only  to  add  to  their  fierce  barbarian  ap- 
pearance. The  man  just  in  front  of  me  for 
the  first  few  miles,  though  by  no  means  the 
most  fantastically  dressed,  is  a  fair  specimen 
to  describe.  He  was  a  fine  tall  fellow,  with  a 
shining  brown  skin,  his  face  blackened  all 
over,  and  his  head  done  up  in  folds  of  brown 
gauze-like  masi^  arranged  somewhat  in  the 
manner  of  a  Parsee*8  cap.  Round  his  neck 
was  a  piece  of  red  cloth,  and  fastened  to  it 
behind  were  two  long  folds  of  brown  masi, 
which  hung  down  below  his  waist  or  streamed 
out  in  the  wind.  A  black  leather  cross-belt 
and  pouch  were  the  only  parts  of  his  dress 
which  could  be  called  uniform.  Round  his 
waist  he  wore  a  sash  of  scarlet  cloth  ;  and  a 
long  black  water-weed  //>»,  like  a  kilt  of 
horsehair,  hung  in  strings  to  his  knees.  His 
legs  were  gartered  with  fringed  rolls  of  the 
same  weed,  strung  with  many-colored  beads. 
Although  I  kept  a  sharp  look-out  to  mark  the 
character  of  the  country  we  were  passing 
through,  it  was  hard  to  take  one's  eyes  off  the 
movements  of  one's  escort  Every  turn  in  the 
track,  the  view  from  every  hill,  showed  them 
to  fresh  advantage :  climbing  up  a  bare  hill 
with  their  masi  streamers  flying  in  the  wind, 
or  grouping  themselves  on  heights  to  rest  after 
an  ascent,  they  seemed  to  form  picture  after 
picture.  Perhaps  the  most  striking  of  all  was 
when  through  a  tunnel  of  trees  they  scrambled 
down  a  steep  hillside,  and  were  gradually  lost 
to  sight  in  the  dark  wood  at  the  bottom.  Ev- 
ery moment  we  saw  a  fresh  head-dress  and 
new  style  of  ornament.  One  man  had  his  head 
covered  with  brown  masU  bound  en  with  a 
fringe  of  white,  and  a  long  queue  of  brown 
hanging  behind  like  a  bag-wig ;  another  man 
had  on  what  looked  like  a  very  tall  white  night- 
cap ;  a  third  had  his  masi  arranged  with  a  sort 
of  plume  in  the  front  In  fact,  there  were  not 
two  of  them  alike. 

With  this  train  the  governor  proceeded 

*  A  native  cloth  made  from  bark,  of  a  sort  of  laot 
texture,  extremely  tough  and  light 


THE   STORY  OF  A   LITTLE   WAR. 


423 


to  Nasaucoko,  where  he  met  and  spoke 
with  several  native  chiefs,  collecting  what 
information  they  could  give,  the  principal 
being  Kolikoli,  the  nearest  and  most  im- 
portant person  in  the  district,  whose 
course  of  action,  placed  as  he  was  with 
the  Devils  on  one  side  and  the  govern- 
ment camp  on  the  other,  was  of  the  utmost 
consequence.  On  Saturday  the  party  left 
again,  his  Excellency  having  encouraged 
and  commended  the  bands  of  warriors, 
and  elated  their  native  leaders  by  his 
thanks  and  courtesies.  After  returning 
to  the  coast  and  expediting  the  other 
branch  of  the  little  army  under  the  com- 
mand of  Mr.  Arthur  Gordon,  his  Excel- 
lency went  on  across  the  hills  to  Nadroga, 
where  his  presence  was  said  to  be  ex- 
tremely necessary,  the  white  planters 
about  having  interfered  in  an  unjustifiable 
way,  and  the  natives  having  precipitated 
the  struggle,  and  burned  several  villages, 
the  thing  which  of  all  other  things  was 
roost  intolerable  to  the  governor.  He  had 
assurances  on  all  hands  that  the  road  was 
perfectly  safe,  but  on  his  first  night's  halt 
found  himself  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
danger.  This  revelation  did  not  burst 
upon  the  partv  till  after  they  settled  to  a 
little  ease  ancf  repose  after  their  journey. 
Once  more  it  is  the  governor  himself  who 
speaks. 

We  sat  down  on  the  ground  and  ate  our 
supper,  watching  the  picturesque  effects  of 
light  from  a  fire  which  our  men  had  lighted  to 
cook  a  young  pig  which  we  had  given  them. 
The  grouping  and  the  light  and  shade  were 
admirable,  and  quite  delighted  me  ;  but  pres- 
ently an  additional  effect  of  light,  which  had 
not  been  anticipated,  made  itself  startlingly 
visible.  The  rise  of  flames  over  a  neighbor- 
ing ridge,  and  clouds  of  smoke  rolling  up- 
wards tu  the  sky,  and  brightly  illuminated 
from  below,  showed  us  that  the  Kai  Colo  — 
elsewhere  called  Devils  —  were  burning  a 
Christian  village  about  a  mile  off,  Vakula  by 
name.  Of  course  it  was  to  be  anticipated  that 
their  next  attack  would  be  on  us,  and  the  ex- 
citement was  general  All  the  able-bodied 
men  had  gone  to  Nadroga  to  join  Arthur's 
army,  and  none  but  very  old  men,  women,  and 
children  were  left  in  the  town.  Of  these  we 
had  a  muster.  All  the  guns  in  the  place  were 
broughuout,  our  scanty  guard  told  off  to  dif- 
ferent parts,  and  the  old  men  employed  as 
pickets  along  the  three  roads  which  led  to  the 
town.  I  had  my yaqona  prepared  on  the  rara, 
and  drank  it  there  ;  then,  at  the  strong  request 
of  the  others,  I  went  into  the  house,  at  the 
door  and  corners  of  which  sentries  were  post- 
ed. I  did  not  like  going  into  this  house, — 
one  felt  so  like  a  rat  in  a  trap,  the  house  hav- 
ing but  one  door  and  being  so  easy  to  set  fire 
to ;  but  no  doubt  they  were  right,  as  my  white 


clothes  made  me  conspicuous,  and  one  could 
not  tell  who  might  not  lurk  in  the  bush  close 
to  us.  Macgregor  made  an  excellent  captain 
of  the  fi^uard,  and  visited  the  sentries  every 
hour.  The  Bishop  (native),  who  had  one  of 
the  few  rifles  of  the  party,  constituted  himself 
my  especial  guard,  and  I  do  not  think  closed 
his  eyes  once  throughout  the  night.  He 
watched  at  the  door  of  the  house,  and  followed 
me  closely  wherever  I  went.  .  .  .  The  mos- 
quitoes were  fearfully  troublesome,  and  would 
have  themselves  rendered  it  impossible  to 
sleep,  so  we  watched  and  waited.  Once  we 
heard  the  beating  of  the  Devil  drums  at  no 
great  distance,  but  no  other  sounds  disturbed 
the  still  night.  Hour  after  hour  passed,  and  , 
the  suspense  and  want  of  sleep  became  very 
wearisome.  When  the  moon  rose  the  scene 
was  picturesque  in  the  extreme.  The  Bishop 
in  his  white  dress,  rifle  in  hand,  sat  on  the 
doorstep,  with  a  tiny  fire  before  him  ;  at  each 
corner  of  the  house,  and  on  each  road  at  the 
entrance  to  the  village,  sat  other  armed  men, 
all  quiet  and  silent,  but  all  on  the  alert  and 
full  of  anticipation.  About  i  A.M.  a  Kai  Colo, 
with  a  big  head,  stepped  out  of  the  bush  at 
the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and,  standing  for  a 
moment  in  the  road,  looked  up  at  the  town, 
and  then  crossed  into  the  trees  and  jungle  on 
the  other  side.  I  suppose  he  saw  that  we 
were  prepared,  and  probably  supposed  us  to 
be  stronger  than  we  really  were,  for  no  attack 
was  made.  But  for  an  hour  or  two  after  the 
scout  had  been  seen,  we  were  of  course  in 
momentary  anticipation  of  an  assault.  .  .  . 
More  time  passed  without  a  sound  but  the 
humming  of  the  intolerable  mosquitoes,  and 
at  length  moonlight  slowly  gave  place  to  dawn, 
and  dawn  to  day.  Macgregor  and  I  then  lay 
down  and  slept  for  an  hour  or  two,  but  the 
mosquitoes,  though  diminished  in  number, 
were  still  very  troublesome.  When  I  awoke 
again,  I  went  and  explored  the  upper  part  of 
the  village,  strangely  quaint  and  picturesque.* 
It  was  a  most  lovely  morning.  The  Vakavuli 
Buli  (elsewhere  called  the  Bishop),  of  course, 
in  his  morning  prayers  touched  on  our  "  de- 
liverance ; "  and  when  he  had  done,  all  our 
young  soldiers  repeated  the  Lord's  Prayer, 
Vula  leading. 

Vula,  a  young  chief,  *'  with  his  bright 
golden  hair  dressed  in  wavy  points  around 
his  head  like  Apollo,"  apologizes  for  the 
bad  manners  of  the  mountain  folk  as  a 
young  exquisite  might  do  in  any  other 
region.  **  Nadroga  manners,  sir,"  with  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  *'  What  else  caa 
you  expect?"  But  after  this  exciting 
night  there  was  no  further  alarm,  and  the 
expedition  ended  peacefully  enough. 

We  now  come  to  the  real  beginning  of 
the  campaign,  all  the  plans  having  been 
finally  settled  and  arranged  during  the 
governor's  visit.  Mr.  A.Gordon,  in  com- 
mand of  the  army  00  the  lower  side,  col- 
lected bis  forces,  while  Captain  KnoUySi 


424 


THE   STORY  OF  A  UTTLE  WAR. 


the  commandeMn-cbief,  waited  with  such 
patience  as  he  could  at  the  Nasaucoko 
camp,  till  somebody  should  be  sent  to  oc- 
cupy his  post  there,  along  with  the  rein- 
forcements necessary  for  him.  Here  our 
interest,  though  not  our  sympathy,  is 
taken  from  Captain  Knollys  —  whose  en- 
forced inactivity,  with  nothing  to  do  while 
so  much  remained  to  be  done,  must  have 
been  galling  in  the  extreme  —  and  reverts 
to  Mr.  Gordon  on  the  lower  river,  with 
his  recruits  and  his  little  circle  of  chiefs 
eager  for  action.  He  too  had  to  wait,  in 
the  hope  that  Knollys  might  have  begun 
his  share  of  the  work  simultaneously. 
The  two  young  commanders  were  thus, 
much  against  their  will,  in  the  historical 
position  so  long  appropriated  to  two  bet- 
ter known  though  not  more  successful 
leaders,  — 

Lord  Chatham  with  his  long  sword  drawn, 
Was  waiting  for  Sir  Richard  Strahan : 
Sir  Richard,  longing  to  be  at  'em. 
Was  waiting  for  the  Earl  of  Chatham. 

Their  letters  in  the  mean  time,  and 
friendly  wrangles  over  various  subjects,  — 
Heffernan  the  interpreter  for  one,  whom 
both  wish  to  have,  with  mutual  regret  that 
the  heroic  method  of  dividing  invented 
by  King  Solomon  is  not  practicable,  — 
and  mutual  eagerness  to  get  to  work,  are 
amusing  and  full  of  interest.  The  reader 
feels  himself  in  good  company.  The  cor- 
dial simplicity  of  their  language,  not  un- 
touched by  a  little  slang,  and  altogether 
devoid  of  any  **  tallness  "  of  expression, 
might  astonish  a  more  formal  race;  but 
their  minds  are  full  of  what  they  have  to 
do,  and,  especially  in  the  case  of  Captain 
Knollys,  the  pause  is  beyond  measure 
trying.  It  is  Gordon  who  gets  first  to 
work.  So  far  as  can  be  made  out  from 
the  map,  the  south-west  coast  upon  which 
he  was  stationed  is  lined  with  lofty  cliffs 
rising  up  from  the  sea-level,  upon  the 
rocky  heights  of  which  were  several  strong 
towns  or  villages,  some  of  them  fortified 
rudely,  all  of  them  defended  by  the  nat- 
ural ramparts  of  the  rock.  The  river 
Sigatoka  makes  its  way  through  these 
cliffs  to  the  sea,  and  it  was  by  means  of 
this  natural  highway  that  the  attacking 
force  ^ot  within  reach.  Mr.  Gordon's 
campaign  —  when  at  last,  being  able  to 
wait  no  longer,  though  still  a  little  too 
early  for  his  colleague  up  the  river,  he 
began  operations — was  short,  brilliant, 
and  victorious.  Had  we  room,  we  should 
like  to  quote  his  description  of  his  camp, 
and  the  devices  to  which  he  was  put  to 
occupy  and  amuse  the  men  during  their 


long  waiting,  setting  them  to  build  hoQses« 
churches^  fortifications,  whatever  could  be 
thought  of.  Here,  however,  is  one  curi- 
ous scene,  describing  the  ceremonial  by 
which  the  Fijians  prepare  for  war,  which 
must  be  given :  — 

Each  Nadroga  tribe  advanced  silently  in 
single  file,  and  on  nearing  the  place  where  we 
sat,  squatted  down  in  two  long  rows,  several 
men  deep,  until  the  whole  of  the  Nadroga 
men  were  seated,  with  their  faces  turned  in 
the  direction  of  the  ]X>int  where  the  other 
tribes  stood  ready  to  make  their  advance. 
Then  after  a  short  interval  of  silence,  the  other 
tribes,  each  tribe  formed  separately  into  a 
compact  square,  began  singing  a  wild  monoto- 
nous chant,  swaying  from  side  to  side  while 
slowly  advancing;,  and  now  and  again  simulta- 
neously flourishing  their  muskets,  clubs,  or 
spears  in  the  air.  Thus  they  approached,  one 
tribe  after  the  other,  until  within  about  fifty 
yards  from  where  we  sat ;  then  suddenly  — 
like  the  turn  of  a  flock  of  starlings  on  the 
wing  —  they  crouched  in  dead  silence,  but  for 
a  moment  only ;  for  as  the  whole  compact 
mass,  still  half -crouching,  began  rapidly  to 
rush  at  us,  the  most  extraordinary  sound  was 
heard,  commencing  with  something  between  a 
hiss  and  a  growl,  which  rapidly  increased  in 
volume  as  they  rushed,  till  it  ended  in  a  roar 
as  they  stopped  suddenly  within  a  yard  of 
where  we  saL  They  then  turned  off  abruptly 
to  the  right  and  left,  and  squatted  down  on 
either  side  to  await  the  next  tribe.  This  man- 
ner of  approach  was  repeated  by  all  the  tribes 
in  succession,  until  the  whole  were  seated, 
numbering  altogether  about  1200  men.  The 
ceremony,  which  has  often  been  described  be- 
fore, was  thus  gone  through,  which  always 
takes  place  at  a  taqa  (preparation  for  war),  and 
which  may  very  properly  be  called  the  cere- 
mony of  lx>asting.  Every  tribe  is  called  upon 
in  succession  by  a  chief  of  the  party  to  whom 
the  taqa  is  given,  to  give  some  token  of  will- 
ingness to  fight  for  the  cause  in  hand,  and  this 
token  is  accepted  in  the  form  of  a  boast  as  to 
what  each  individual  will  do  in  the  coming 
war.  The  chief  before  mentioned  stands  in 
the  centre  of  the  circle  with  a  long  stick  or 
spear  in  his  hand,  with  which  he  keeps  dig- 
ging away  at  the  earth,  whilst  one  man  of  each 
tribe  as  they  are  named  in  succession  (gener- 
ally an  old  man  and  distinguished  warrior) 
rushes  up  and  down  the  line  of  his  own  men, 
calling  upon  them  to  fight,  taunting  them  with 
cowardice,  asking  what  they  can  do,  and  the 
whole  time  brandishing  a  spear  before  their 
eyes.  Then  one  by  one,  generally,  but  some- 
times two  or  three  together,  the  men  rush  out 
of  their  ranks,  and  stopping  short  before  the 
chief  in  the  centre,  shout  out  their  boast,  at 
the  same  time  not  unfrequently  firing  off  their 
muskets,  or  bringing  down  a  club  on  the 
ground  to  enforce  their  words. 

This  ceremony  concluded,  and  everybody 
having  resumed  his  seat  in  the  circle,  a  long 
line  of  women  are  seen  approaching  along  the 


THE  STORY  OF  A  LITTLE  WAR. 


4aS 


road  from  the  coast,  and  as  they  come  nearer, 
It  is  seen  that  they  are  dressed  in  high  white 
iappa  caps,  and  likus  of  a  fine  white  fibre,  and 
bear  in  their  arms  and  on  their  backs  numer- 
ous packets  of  cooked  yams  and  taro^  fish, 
poultry,  and  portions  of  pork  neatly  done  up 
m  baskets  and  banana-leavea.  These,  as  they 
come  into  the  circle  one  by  one,  they  deposit 
in  a  heap  in  the  centre,  throwing  off  at  the 
same  time  in  another  heap  their  lappa  head- 
dresses, and  then  quietly  file  along  the  road  to 
Navalilli,  there  to  await  their  husbands,  broth- 
ers, and  sons.  The  apportionment  o£  the  food 
next  takes  place.  A  heap  for  each  tribe  is 
made  from  the  big  heap,  and  when  all  is 
ready,  each  tribe  is  called  upon  by  name  to 
take  its  portion.  This  is  quickly  done,  and 
each  tribal  heap  divided  till  each  individual 
has  received  his  lot.  After  this  the  tribes  go 
back  to  their  encampment,  and  the  taqa  is 
over. 

With  the  force  thus  composed,  the 
youn^  civilian,  cool  and  clear-headed, 
though  altogether  without  military  expe- 
rience, took  in  rapid  succession  three  of 
the  great  cannibal  fortresses,  entirely  de- 
stroying the  rebel  power  in  that  part  of 
the  island,  and  bringing  profound  discour- 
agement upon  the  other  tribes  still  in 
arms.  The  complete  and  victorious  exe 
cution  of  this  work  took  him  about  ten 
days  only,  with  very  little  loss  of  men ; 
the  sole  drawback  in  the  matter  being 
that  Captain  Knollys's  force  was  not  yet 
in  possession  of  the  higher  ground,  and 
that  consequently  the  routed  rebels  had  a 
larger  tract  of  country  to  fiee  to.  But  the 
hornets'  nests,  at  least,  were  in  his  hands. 
The  possession  of  these  hornets'  nests, 
and  what  to  do  with  them,  had,  however, 
by  this  time  become  in  every  sense  of  the 
word  a  burning  question.  The  invariable 
use  and  wont  in  Fiji  warfare  had  been  to 
burn  the  villages  of  rebels,  and  banish 
the  rebels  themselves  to  some  of  the 
smaller  islands  —  a  method  which  deso- 
lated the  district  in  which 'the  outbreak 
occurred,  while  spreading  disaffection  in 
other  places.  But  against  this  unsatis- 
factory policy  the  governor  had  set  his 
face  from  the  beginning.  His  plan  was 
at  once  sharper  and  more  merciful.  To 
cut  off  summarily  the  leaders  of  rebellion, 
and  the  bloodthirsty  criminals  in  their  im- 
mediate train,  but  to  preserve  and  reclaim 
the  multitude,  and  to  establish  permanent 
conditions  of  peace,  under  which  the  very 
Devils  themselves  might  mend  and  thrive, 
instead  of  being  banished  or  exterminated, 
was  his  determination.  Before  the  begin- 
ning of  the  struggle,  his  orders  had  been 
urgent  that  none  of  the  villages  should  be 
burnt.    This,  however,  was  one  of  **bi8 


Excellency's  ideas  '*  which  greatly  exer- 
cised his  active  representatives ;  and  not 
one  of  the  least  interesting  points  in  the 
narrative  is  the  searchings  of  heart  that 
occurred  on  this  subject,  the  distress  of 
the  young  commanders  when  compelled 
to  Infringe  these  orders,  yet  confidence  in 
their  chief's  understanding  of  their  diffi- 
culties and  motives.  Mr.  Gordon  was 
obliged  to  burn  the  towns  he  had  taken, 
but  in  every  other  respect  the  governor's 
programme  was  fully  carried  out.  The 
operations  on  the  lower  river  were  con- 
cluded by  an  act  of  solemn  justice,  the 
extreme  and  dangerous  novelty  of  which 
a  hasty  reader  will  scarcely  note,  in  the 
perfect  composure  of  the  record.  It  was 
no  less  than  the  establishment  of  law  with 
its  gravest  penalties  amid  a  people  totally 
unaccustomed  to  consider  the  preserva- 
tion  of  the  helpless  and  protection  of  the 
weak  as  objects  of  high  importance,  and 
to  whom  the  execution  of  a  chief  for  any- 
thing so  unimportant  as  the  murder  of  a 
woman  was  unprecedented.  When  the 
struggle  was  over,  the  chiefs,  who  not 
long  before  would  have  made  a  great  feast 
and  eaten  their  captives,  were  assembled 
in  a  solemn  tribunal,  before  which  the 
ringleaders  of  the  rebellion  were  tried. 
Fifteen  of  them  were  condemned  to  death. 
These  were  chiefly  men  who  had  been 
convicted  of  the  brutal  murder  of  the 
women  and  children,  whose  massacre  had 
been  the  first  step  in  the  revolt,  along 
with  the  chief  plotters  and  leaders  of  the 
rebellion,  a  certain  Mudu  being  the  head 
of  all.  This  high  court  of  judgment  was 
presided  over  by  Mr.  Gordon, —  the  gov- 
ernor being  present,  and  making  a  solemn 
address  to  the  assembly,  but  taking  no 
part  in  the  proceedings.  One  of  the  men 
accused  of  spearing  a  child  smiled  a  little, 
when  questioned,  **as  if  there  was  some- 
thing which  pleased  and  amused  him  in 
the  recollection."  "It  is  quite  true  I 
killed  a  child  ;  onlv  one  though,"  he  said. 
Others  confessecl  their  guilt  calmly. 
"Yes;  I  killed  her  with  a  club."  The 
governor's  speech  after  this  curious  trial 
was  grave  and  impressive.  He  bade  them 
remember  that  all  had  been  warned  as  to 
the  consequences  of  rebellion  and  blood- 
shed. 

Those  who  plotted  this  wickedness  and  led 
others  to  commit  it,  I  cannot  pardon.  Nor 
can  I  pardon  those  who  began  this  evil  by 
killing  women  and  children  who  could  not 
fight  them,  nor  yet  the  traitor  who  took  money 
from  the  Government  whilst  he  fought  against 
it.  These  men  must  die.  There  must  be  no 
more  wars  in  Viti  Levu.    This  must  be  the 


436 


THE   STORY  OF  A  LITTLE   WAR. 


last  time  there  is  fighting.  For  let  there  be 
no  doubt  about  it, — there  is  no  man  nor  place 
in  Fiji  that,  sooner  or  later,  I  cannot  reach ; 
and  if  any  do  wrong  in  this  fashion,  most 
surely  they  will  be  punished  for  it. 

The  strange  and  terrible  new  light 
which  must  have  poured  upon  the  canni* 
bal  leaders,  expecting  nothing  more  than 
an  easy  sentence  of  deportation,  and  little 
troubled  in  their  minds  about  a  parcel  of 
murdered  women,  may  be  imagined.  A 
highly  dramatic  and  tragical  scene  ensued. 
Mudu,  the  chief  rebel,  a  great  chieftain 
and  man  of  unbounded  influence,  burst 
from  his  captors  and  ran  towards  the  peo- 
ple, the  circling  mass  of  half-savage  spec- 
tators of  his.  own  blood,  and  calling  to 
them  as  his  children,  entreated  them  to 
save  him.  "  Not  a  voice  replied,  nor  was 
a  hand  raised.  Had  he  succeeded  in  ex- 
citing their  sympathy,'*  the  governor  adds, 
'*our  career  would  have  been  short/' 

Meanwhile  the  party  under  Captain 
KnoUys  were  but  bej^inning  their  cam- 
paign. The  arrival  of  Mr.  Le  Hunte  at 
the  camp  freed  the  anxious  leader,  but  it 
was  not  without  much  difficulty  and  many 
vexatious  incidents  that  he  got  under  way. 
For  one  thing,  the  commissioner,  his  su- 
perior in  the  general  government  of  the 
district,  though  not  in  military  matters, 
had  come  back  from  a  wandering  expedi- 
tion among  the  tribes  with  his  head  full 
of  possibilities  of  mediation,  of  certain 
chiefs  of  the  Wai  ni  Mala  who  were  to 
set  everything  right,  and  of  his  old  confi- 
dence in  needless  explanations  and  talk 
—  and  was  therefore  no  small  trouble  to 
the  young  soldier  who  had  so  long  been 
consuming  his  heart  in  forced  inactivity. 
At  last,  however,  he  managed  to  get  away ; 
and  on  the  day  when  the  last  germs  of 
danger  were  being  stamped  out  far  down 
at  the  mouth  of  tiie  Sigatoka,  was  plod- 
ding his  way  up  towards  the  head  of  the 
river,  and  had  just  captured  and  taken  pos- 
session of  a  rebel  town  in  which  **  abun- 
dant signs  of  recent  cannibal  feasts'' 
were  to  be  seen  about.  With  Captain 
KnoUys  was  the  respectable  roko  Tui  Ba, 
with  whom  we  have  already  made  ac- 
quaintance —  h«  whose  bureau  was  so 
well'  arranged,  with  all  his  papers  in  their 
appropriate  drawers,  and  whose  wife's 
white  curtains  and  pink  ribbons  had 
amused  the  strangers.  Before  starting 
from  Sagunu,  the  roko's  town,  he  had 
made  a  speech  to  his  people,  *'  warning 
them  that  we  were  going  to  war  after 
the  white  man's  fashion,  and  that  club- 
bing of  women  and  children  and  wounded, 
and  other  excesses  previously  indulged  in 


in  war  time,  were  strictly  tabu,  and  would 
be  followed  by  severe  punishment."  This 
warning  seems  to  have  been  generally  ad- 
dressed to  the  savage  warriors,  and  to  all 
appearance  was  accepted  by  them  implic- 
itly, along  with  various  other  refinements 
which  puzzled  them  greatly,  such  as  not 
destroying  their  enemy's  harvest,  and 
buying  instead  of  taking  the  produce  of 
their  gardens  when  wanted  for  the  com- 
missariat. 

The  work  of  Captain  KnoIIys  was  much 
more  difficult  than  that  of  Mr.  Gordon. 
In  the  one  case  there  was  a  series  of 
towns  to  be  taken,  and  success  from  the 
first  raised  the  spirits  and  confidence  of 
his  men,  who  had  no  toilsome  journey  or 
succession  of  anxious  circumstances  to 
disturb  them  from  their  straightforward 
work.  Captain  Knollys  had  to  make  his 
way  through  an  unfriendly  country,  ha- 
rassed occasionally  by  ambushes  in  which 
he  lost  a  few  men  —  deceived  by  false 
soros  or  offers  of  peace,  which  aid  not 
prevent  the  negotiators  from  taking  the 
field  against  him  next  day,  or,  worse  still, 
laying  snares  for  the  stragglers  of  his 
army,  at  the  very  moment  when  they  were 
presenting  their  overtures.  And  when  at 
length  the  expedition  arrived  at  its  object, 
it  was  no  ordinary  town  or  village  that  had 
to  be  stormed,  but  a  wonderful  succession 
of  caves  in  the  rocky  heights,  which  were 
the  last  retreats  of  the  mountaineer,  and, 
so  far  as  the  ordinary  tactics  of  war  are 
concerned,  were  virtually  impregnable; 
while,  as  they  were  fully  provisioned, 
starving  out  was  impracticable,  and  the 
enemy  had,  if  he  knew  how  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  it,  unbounded  opportunities  of 
"  potting "  the  assailants.  The  difficul- 
ties of  a  mountain  campaign  are  apparent 
throughout,  even  before  the  expedition 
had  clambered  up  to  the  final  stronghold. 
**  1  am  in  low  spirits,  but  getting  vicious," 
Captain  Knollys  writes.  *'  These  beasts 
move  about  in  the  bush  like  so  many 
buck,  and  there  is  apparently  about  the 
same  chance  of  catching  them.  We  have 
bustled  them  about,  as  it  is  our  best  hope 
of  getting  hold  of  them;  but  the  slightest 
movement  in  camp  —  even  a  louder  sneeze 
than  usual  —  starts  them  off."  Nothing, 
however,  in  Mr.  Gordon's  more  brilliaot 
and  rapid  work,  is  equal  in  dramatic  in- 
terest and  in  wild  originality  to  the  final 
achievement  of  Captain  Knollys  —  the 
siege  and  clearing  out  of  the  various 
caves.  His  own  account  of  his  first  suc- 
cess of  this  kind  is  so  very  succinct  that 
we  turn  to  that  of  Dr,  Macgregor,  a  new 
but  very  important  personage  who  reveals 


THE  STORY   OF  A   LITTLE  WAR. 


437 


himself  in  this  part  of  the  campaign,  hav- 
ing been  merely  alluded  to  by  name  in  the 
former  records,  and  who  furnishes  us  with 
a  detailed  description  of  this  exploit^  as 
well  as  with  one  heroic  narrative  of  his 
own  proceedings,  unparalleled  perhaps  in 
all  the  records  of  his  beneficent  craft. 
We  must  omit  the  account  of  the  exciting 
night  journey,  full  of  hairbreadth  'scapes 
and  feats  of  mountaineering,  the  long  pro- 
cession ascending  and  descending,  now 
pushing  breathless  to  the  top  of  a  rocky 
ridge,  now  stumbling  down  through  broken 
ground  and  dark  wood,  now  wading  across 
an  occasional  stream  in  single  file,  not 
without  observation  of  the  novel  and 
sometimes  "sublime "landscape,  yet  with 
bated  breath  and  without  even  a  whisper 
of  communication  from  one  to  another. 
Here,  however,  is  a  glimpse  on  the  way : 

We  were  on  the  top  of  a  very  high  ridge  of 
mountain,  and  coald  command  a  view  of  a 
very  extensive  tract  of  country.  On  one  side 
of  us  the  mountains  were  clothed  with  forest, 
while  those  on  the  other  side  were  almost  des- 
titute of  trees,  and  their  forms  were  plainly 
visible  in  the  moonlight.  But  the  appearance 
of  the  woods  and  mountains  was  singularly 
soft  and  beautiful :  only  the  to]>s  of  the  moun- 
tains were  visible,  —  every  valley  and  gorge 
was  full  of  a  dense  fog  of  snowy  whiteness. 
The  cool  breeze,  however,  that  glided  over  the 
surface  of  this  flood  of  mountain  mist  was 
very  chilling,  and  by*  no  means  gratifying  to 
our  senses. 

The  dawn  found  them  still  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  object  of  their  march  ;  and 
as  the  sun  was  up  and  shining  before  they 
attained  it,  the  surprise  which  they  had 
intended  became  impossible,  and  their 
task  accordingly  much  harder.  After  va- 
rious casualties,  the  doctor  had  the  luck 
to  arrive  in  the  very  central  spot  of  the 
stronghold,  and  to  secure  the  most  impor- 
tant prisoner.  His  narrative  (like  all  his 
other  contributions  to  this  history)  has  a 
touch  of  the  professional  in  it  which  is 
horrible  but  graphic :  — 

Rorobokala  and  his  men  being  silenced,  we 
had  time  to  look  round,  and  found  at  one  tor- 
ner  of  the  rara  a  strange  spectacle.  There 
was  spread  on  the  ground  a  large  mat,  rather 
coarsely  made  of  broad  plaits,  and  well  worn, 
and  on  it  lay  several  pieces  of  cooked  taro^ 
and  a  human  leg  cooked  and  laid  out  for 
breakfast.  It  was  the  right  leg  apparently  of 
an  adult  Fijian,  and  had  been  severed  from 
the  thigh  by  one  unacquainted  with  that  kind 
of  work,  and  ignorant  of  anatomy.  ...  It 
was  a  small  leg  with  soft  muscles  and  a  deli- 
cately rounded  calf,  a  nicely  turned  ankle,  and 
a  small,  neat  foot.  It  was  in  very  fair  condi- 
tion ;  and  the  skin,  smooth  and  soft,  presented 


here  and  there  small  cracks,  through  which 
peeped  a  line  of  yellow  fat  that  must  have 
rendered  the  individual  for  whose  gastronomic 
delight  it  was  served  very  reluctant  to  leave  it, 
warm  and  untasted.  I  had  seen  three  or  four 
people  leave  the  place  where  this  repast  lay, 
and  had  marked  where  they  had  gone.  On 
proceeding  to  the  spot,  followed  oy  two  or 
three  of  our  men,  I  came  upon  four  or  five 
people,  one  of  whom  was  evidently  the  chief 
of  the  party.  At  first  they  manifested  some 
disposition  to  offer  resistance,  but  the  leader, 
covered  by  a  hostile  rifle,  surrendered  himself, 
and  ordered  the  others,  to  do  the  same. 

I  soon  found  that  my  prize  was  the  principal 
personage  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy,  where  he 
was  priest  and  king,  and  was  said  to  be  fed  by 
his  subjects  on  human  flesh  txi^yaqona.  His 
appearance  was  certainly  striking.  Looked  at 
from  a  little  distance,  he  was  of  an  iron-grey 
color,  about  forty  years  of  age,  of  middle 
height,  with  a  hooked  nose,  scanty  hair,  and 
blear-eyed.  The  color  of  his  skin  was  owing 
to  the  existence  of  a  pathological  condition 
said  to  be  present  in  those  fortunate  creatures 
white  elephants,  and  it  most  probably  secured 
for  this  chief  the  proud  position  he  occupied 
in  his  tribe.  Neighboring  septs  said  the  color 
of  his  skin  was  caused  by  the  constant  drink* 
ing  of  yaqona,  .  .  .  After  seeing  the  break- 
fast that  had  been  prepared  for  this  chief,  the 
men  with  me  could  scarcely  be  restrained  from 
attacking  him  after  he  became  mv  prisoner; 
and  he  at  once  evidently  made  up  his  mind  to 
put  himself  under  my  protection. 

This  extraordinary  personage  is  de- 
scribed by  Captain  KnoIIys  with  much 
less  toleration  as  "the  ^^/^  (priest)  —  one 
of  the  most  disgusting  animals  in  human 
form  I  ever  saw."  But  we  do  not  know 
what  becomes  of  the  wretch,  or  whether, 
if  his  life  was  spared,  he  was  able  to  do 
without  the  horrible  stimulus  of  his  favor- 
ite food.  Dr.  Macgregor  goes  on  to  de- 
scribe the  funeral  of  two  men  who  were 
killed  in  the  attack  (for,  exciting  as  it  was, 
this  warfare  resulted  in  little  bloodshed). 
After  the  women  had  made  their  lamenta- 
tion over  them,  one  apparently  with  a  true 
passion  of  grief,  the  burial  took  place. 
The  native  teacher,  who  is  the  hero  of 
this  incident  and  of  the  doctor's  chaff 
(who  is  not  very  favorable  to  the  Chris- 
tians), was  one  who  is  recorded  as  follow- 
ing him  close  in  every  danger. 

The  bodies  were  then  placed  in  the  extem- 
porized grave,  and  Filipi,  the  missionary, 
took  his  post,  and  after  his  own  fashion  per- 
formed the  funeral  service.  Filipi  was  never 
so  much  in  his  element  as  when  he  was  bury- 
ing a  Kai  Colo :  on  no  other  occasion  could 
he  ever  wear  the  same  look  of  bland  and  dig- 
nified triumph.  He  advanced  with  an  im- 
perial stride  to  the  head  of  the  grave,  planting 
his  left  foot  on  the  grass,  and  his  right  foot  on 


428 


THE   STORY  OF  A  LITTLE  WAR, 


the  top  of  the  earth  and  stones  scraped  out  of 
the  shallow  pit ;  then  leaning  forward*  he  put 
the  radial  edge  of  his  right  hand  to  his  fore- 
head, and  thas  shading  his  eyes,  prayed  silently. 
The  upper  lip  was  elevated  at  the  comers,  his 
brow  was  calm  and  placid,  his  eyes  sparkling 
with  jubilant  exultation,  but  looking,  as  was 
becoming,  meekly  towards  the  ground  From 
the  expression  of  his  face,  one  would  have 
said  that  his  thoughts  must  have  been,  **  Have 
him  at  last  1 "  What  was  the  subject  of  Fi- 
Iipi*s  prayer  on  that  occasion  I  could  not  ascer- 
tain, as  nobody  heard  it ;  but  I  strongly  sus- 
pect it  was  a  pxan. 

This  success  was  followed  by  two  oth- 
ers of  a  similar  character,  —  in  one  case 
the  caves  being  beleaguered  for  forty- 
eight  hours  ^  in  the  other,  a  whole  week 
of  dangerous  and  exhausting  watchfulness 
being  necessary.  **The  entrance  holes 
were  so  small  that  one  had  to  creep  in  on 
hands  and  knees ;"  therefore  any  of  the 
usual  operations  of  a  siege  were  impossi- 
ble. **  Every  opening  in  the  rock,  and 
they  were  too  numerous  to  count,  was  a 
loophole."  Parties  were  posted  at  every 
entrance;  and  **as  the  inmates  informed 
us  that  they  would  rather  die  inside  than 
come  out,  we  sat  down  to  wait  for  them," 
Captain  Knollys  says.  Then  ensued  num- 
berless parleys,  in  all  of  which  the  young 
commander  and  his  aids  must  have  been 
in  the  utmost  danger  from  the  unseen 
enemy.  So  wearing  out  was  this  process, 
and  so  helpless  seemed  any  ordinary  at- 
tempt to  dislodge  them,  that  smoking  out 
was  tried,  but  feebly,  against  the  grain, 
bringing  a  rebuke  from  his  Excellency 
when  he  heard  of  it,  but  no  other  result. 
Finally,  however,  the  hidden  foe  were 
coaxed,  threatened,  and  tired  out  of  their 
holes,  a  great  number  taken  prisoners, 
and  the  last  centre  of  resistance  over- 
come. With  the  surrender  of  these 
caves  at  Nacawanisa  the  '* little  war" 
would  seem  to  have  been  at  an  end.  The 
commissioner,  indeed,  with  his  pet  chiefs 
whom  he  believed  in,  had  his  own  troubles 
to  get  through,  which  kept  the  camp  in 
hot  water.  But  nothing  much  seems  to 
have  come  out  of  that  under-current  of 
tragi-comedy,  save  that  poor  Mr.  Le 
Hunte,  eagerly  hoping  to  have  a  share  in 
the  active  operations,  had  never  a  chance 
of  any  of  *'  the  fun"  at  all,  for  which  we 
sincerely  sympathize  with  that  humorous 
and  cheerful,  but  deeply  disappointed 
gentleman. 

Before  concluding  this  narrative,  how- 
ever, we  must  return  to  the  doctor  and 
his  story,  above  referred  to  as  the  most 
wonderful  surgical  feat  we  remember  to 


ha^e  heard  of.    Dr.  Macgregor  all  through 
is  like  a  doctor  'Ma  a  book,"  although, 
indeed,  a  novelist  would  scarcely  venture 
to  place  a  man  so  charmingly  professional 
in  a  work  of  fiction.    His  ardor  is  unfail- 
ing, and  he  sees  everything  from  a  medi- 
cal point  of  view.    ••  Macgregor  is  enjoy- 
ing himself,"  writes  Captain  Knollys  dur- 
ing   the    campaign,  '*  revelling    in    skin 
diseases  and  intestinal  worms.'*    The  fol- 
lowing extraordinary  account  of  his  dar- 
ing and  coolness,  as  well  as  of  the  emer- 
p;encies  of  a  surgeon  in  a  savage  country, 
IS  from  the  doctor's  calm  Journal  of  an 
"  interesting  case."     One  of  the  prisoners 
had  his  leg  shattered  by  a  bullet,  and  Dr. 
Macgregor  found  that   amputation    was 
necessary  to  save  the  man's  life»  and  that 
not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost. 

The  critical  period  had  now  arrived  when  I 
must  either  operate  or  let  the  man  die.  I 
therefore  arranged  my  medical  panniers  in  the 
open  air,  so  as  to  form  a  kind  of  operating- 
table,  which  I  covered  well  with  soft  grass, 
and  I  then  arranged  my  instruments  in  such  a 
way  that  whatever  might  happen  I  should  have 
everything  that  might  be  required  within  reach 
of  my  own  hand.  I  then  got  some  of  the  na- 
tives to  lift  the  patient  on  to  the  extemporized 
operating- table,  and  I  myself  proceeded  to  put 
him  under  the  influence  of  chloroform,  as  it 
would  have  been  quite  impossible  to  operate 
without  the  use  of  an  anaesthetic  When  I 
had  put  the  patient  well  under  the  influence  of 
chloroform,  I  directed  Crawford  to  take  the 
towel  containing  it  and  to  keep  it  over  the 

Catient*s  mouth  and  nose  to  keep  up  insensi- 
ility.  I  had  been  so  exclusively  occupied  in 
concerting  my  plans  and  making  arrangements 
to  meet  every  emergency,  that  I  had  not  ob- 
served until  I  handed  Crawford  the  towel  that 
he  was  very  drunk.  Seizing  the  towel,  he  im- 
medialelv  proceeded  to  press  it  hard  upon  the 
mouth  of  the  patient.  I  removed  his  hands, 
and  told  him  again  to  hold  it  as  I  had  directed  ; 
but  as  soon  as  I  went  to  lift  the  patient*s  leg, 
C.  seized  hold  of  the  sick  man's  nose,  and  held 
it  tightly  compressed,  for  which,  in  the  anger 
of  the  moment  and  the  hurry  to  relieve  my 
patient,  I  rewarded  C.  with  a  push  that  sent 
him  sprawling  on  his  back.  I  then  ordered 
half-a-dozen  men  to  take  him  and  put  him  in 
irons,  which  they  did  with  great  alacrity.  But 
meantime  I  was  left  alone,  in  the  midst  of  a 
multitude  of  wondering  natives  with  a  man 
under  chloroform  for  the  performance  of  a 
capital  operation.  After  the  patient  had  lost 
the  power  of  speech  and  motion,  not  one  o£ 
the  native  onlookers  would  come  within  ten 
yards  of  him,  as  they  were  lost  in  astonishment 
at  the  effect  of  the  itfoi  ni  mou  (water  of  sleep), 
and  thought  that  the  man  was  being  deliber- 
ately killed.  The  position  was  one  of  the 
greatest  difficulty  and  of  the  greatest  responsi^ 
ility.    I  was  convinced  the  patient  could  not 


THE  STORY  OF  A   LITTLE  WAR, 


419 


live  twenty*four  hoars  unless  the  operation 
was  performed ;  there  were  only  two  white  men 
within  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  of  me,  one  of 
whom  was  ill  with  fever  and  too  weak  to 
stand ;  the  other  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  so 
that  his  presence  was  a  positive  danger.  •  4  . 
If  the  man  died  during  or  immediately  after 
the  operation,  it  might  be  feared  that  my  act 
would  make  the  natives  suspicious,  and  might 
give  rise  to  serious  complications  in  the  un- 
settled sute  of  the  country. 

These  and  many  other  ar^^uments  pro 
and  con  the  doctor  paused,  yet  scarcely 
paused  to  consider  at  this  tremendous 
moment,  which  indeed  was  as  great  a  test 
of  courage  and  heroic  self-devotion  (just 
tinctured  perhaps  with  professional  incli- 
nation) as  it  is  possible  to  imagine;  and 
no  more  curious  scene  occurs  in  the 
whole  history  than  this  of  the  indomitable 
surgeon  with  all  his  instruments  and  all 
his  vvtts  about  him,  the  gaping,  frightened 
crowd  round,  and  the  patient  insensible 
upon  the  improvised  erection  before  him. 

I  therefore  did  not  hesitate,  but  determined 
to  incur  all  risks  to  save  a  human  life,  although 
that  of  a  rebel.  I  put  the  patient  thoroughly 
under  chloroform,  and  began  to  amputate  the 
limb  as  best  I  could.  ...  I  was  thus  able  to 
cut  through  the  soft  parts  and  to  saw  through 
the  bone  with  more  ease  and  despatch,  and  I 
even  managed  to  ligature  the  main  artery  of 
the  limb  before  the  patient  began  to  recover 
so  far,  from  the  chloroform,  as  to  move  incon- 
veniently. A  little  more  chloroform  was  then 
administered,  which  enabled  me  to  tie  all  the 
vessels  and  stitch  up  the  wound ;  but  I  must 
confess  I  found  that  holding  the  end  of  a 
catch-forceps  between  one*s  teeth,  when  tying 
the  vessel  held  by  it,  w^ith  half-a-dozen  small 
arteries  projecting  as  many  streams  of  hot 
blood  into  one's  face,  is  not  the  most  pleasant 
position  in  the  world,  especially  if  surrounded 
oy  two  or  three  hundred  spectators  quite  ca- 
pable of  imagining  that  one  was  drinking  the 
olood  of  one*s  patient,  and  dividing  his  body 
for  the  purposes  of  the  larder.  At  last,  how- 
ever, the  wound  was  dressed,  and  bv  degrees 
both  the  patient  and  myself  could  breathe 
freely.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  and  began 
to  talk,  the  astonishment  of  the  dusky  crowd  of 
spectators  broke  the  deep  silence  that  had  pre- 
vailed during  the  operation.  Standing  at  a 
distance  of  about  ten  paces  from  the  patient, 
those  in  the  nearest  ring  of  the  spectators  would 
gaze  hard  at  him,  and  in  a  voice  of  joy  and 
wonder  exclaim, "  How  strange  I  how  strange  1 
he  is  not  dead  after  all." 

The  operation  was  completely  success- 
ful,  though  "performed,"  our  doctor  says 
modestly,  "  under  greater  difficulties  than 
any  other  I  have  ever  felt  it  my  duty  to 
undertake.'*    He    heard  afterwards  that 


the  man  had  become  quite  a  hero  among 
the  people,  and  that  two  or  three  families 
contended  for  the  possession  of  so  mirac- 
ulous a  being  as  a  man  with  one  leg. 

Dr.  Macgregor,  however,  we  are  sorry 
to  say,  wa:»  not  very  favorable  to  the  na- 
tive Christians,  and  thought  the  hillmen 
finer  fellows  and  more  industrious,  for 
one  reason,  because,  **not  being  Chris- 
tians, thev  do  not  wallow  all  day  on  a  mat 
in  the  Slough  of  Despond  of  the  *  Pil- 
grim's Progress,*"  a  book  which  it  ap- 
pears the  Fijians  are  fond  of  reading. 
We  are  distressed  by  the  doctor*s  scorn, 
and  by  his  mixed  metaphor,  yet  admire 
the  courage  with  which  he  states  his  opin- 
ion, all  but  censuring  the  very  governor 
himself  for  the  number  of  capital  punish- 
ments which  he  had  sanctioned  at  the 
close  of  the  campaign  on  the  lower  river. 
It  is  an  admirable  proof  of  the  good  un- 
derstanding between  Sir  Arthur  Gordon 
and  the  officials  under  him,  that  his  medi- 
cal officer  states  this  conviction  with  so 
much  frankness,  in  a  letter  to  which  his 
Excellency  instantly  replies  with  the  most 
perfect  temper  and  friendship,  explaining 
at  length  the  reasons  which  made  him 
feel  such  a  step  to  be  necessary.  The 
position  of  the  governor  throughout,  with 
his  staff  of  voung  men  all  eager  for  his 
approval,  referring  to  him  in  every  diffi- 
culty, yet  sufficiently  sure  of  his  perfect 
good-will  and  candor  to  express  without 
hesitation  and  even  urge  their  different 
views,  is  almost  an  ideal  example  of  that 
which  the  head  of  such  a  government 
ought  to  occupy.  A  touch  of  the  peremp- 
tory now  and  then  but  serves  to  give 
character  to  the  consideration  and  fine 
confidence  and  understanding  with  which 
he  treats  the  executors  of  his  plans ;  and 
the  unfailing  condemnation  of  every  meth- 
od inconsistent  with  his  purpose,  which 
was  not  to  crush  but  to  bring  into  neces- 
sary subjection  the  race  which  it  is  his 
office  to  protect  and  guide  —  and  his  care 
that  no  suffering  which  it  was  possible  to 
spare  should  be  inflicted,  nothing  de- 
stroyed that  it  was  possible  to  preserve  — 
show  through  every  page  of  these  letters, 
even  in  the  impatience  with  which  now 
and  then  his  Excellency's  ideas  are 
touched  upon  among  themselves  by  his 
active  agents  —  such,  for  instance,  as  that 
restriction  against  burning  towns,  already 
referred  to,  which  they  found  it  impossi- 
ble always  to  obey.  But  there  are  few 
ways  of  securing  obedience  and  attach- 
ment more  certain  than  such  a  mode  of 
treatment  on  the  part  of  a  superior  as  is 
expressed  thus ;  — 


430 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


Yoa  are  very  good  about  obeying  orders, 
and  I  am  afraid  you  chafe  a  little  sometimes 
at  the  stringency  of  some  of  mine.  You  need 
not  in  all  cases  take  them  too  literally.  I  am 
anxious  that  you  should  fully  know  my  mind 
and  wishes,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  clo  fully 
understand  them,  and  that  you  will  honestly 
and  faithfully  strive  to  carry  them  out,  even 
when  you  don*t  see  the  whole  of  the  reasons 
for  them.  This  is  all  I  wish.  You  may  not 
always  find  yourself  able,  consistently  with 
what  is  necessary  for  success,  to  adhere  strictly 
to  them.  When  this  is  so,  you  may  be  quite 
assured  that  unless  you  do  something  very 
atrocious  indeed,  or  something  more  idiotically 
stupid  than  you  are  at  all  likely  to  do,  I  shall 
be  ready  to  adopt  what  you  have  done,  believ- 
ing truly  in  my  heart  in  most  cases  that  you 
have  done  right.  .  .  .  You  have,  as  I  have 
more  than  once  told  you,  my  entire  confidence 
in  this  matter ;  and  you  know  that  if  one  gives 
a  thing  entirely,  it  is  contrary  to  mathematical 
possibility  to  give  it  by  halves. 

The  entire  success  of  all  the  operations 
above  described,  and  the  settlement  and 
pacification  of  the  country,  to  all  appear- 
ance as  complete  and  thorough  as  that  of 
any  civilized  and  Christian  nation,  are  re- 
corded at  the  end  of  the  book  in  Sir 
Arthur  Gordon's  despatch,  addressed  to 
Lord  Carnarvon,  then  minister  for  the 
colonies.  The  formal  report  of  towns 
rebuilt,  of  trade  established,  of  savages 
clothed,  and  cannibals  turned  into  Chris- 
tians, gives  but  a  graver  version  of  the 
more  ^[raphic  narrative  of  the  letters  and 
journals:  and  it  is  impossible  to  imagine 
a  result  more  satisfactory. 

We  greatly  regret  that  our  space  forbids 
any  reference  here  to  the  proceedings  of 
the  Legislative  Council  of  Fiji,  and  the 
speeches  of  the  rokos  and  bulis  of  whom 
it  is  composed,  which  testify  to  the  en- 
lightened anxiety  of  these  primitive  law- 
givers for  the  interests  of  their  country, 
their  sound  allegiance  to  the  British  gov- 
ernment, and  their  almost  passionate  at- 
tachment to  the  governor  whose  work 
among  them  was  so  thorough  and  so  ef- 
fectual. VVe  regret  still  more  not  to  give 
the  reader  a  few  more  particulars  and 
letters  of  our  friend  the  roko  Tui  Ba,  and 
his  wife,  the  Lady  Alise.  It  would  be 
hard  indeed  to  describe  as  savage,  a  com- 
munity with  such  a  family  at  its  head. 

The  last  extract  we  shall  make  is  the 
following  description  from  Sir  Arthur 
Gordon's  diary  of  a  visit  paid  little  more 
than  a  year  after  the  end  of  these  opera- 
tions to  the  district  which  had  been  the 
scene  of  conflict.  The  spot  visited  was 
the  rebuilt  and  improved  version  of  one 
of  the  towns  burnt  in  the  war. 


Most  striking  was  the  scene  irf  the  village 
afterwards,  each  household  grouped  in  front 
of  its  own  door ;  and  later  the  sound  of  prayer 
from  the  various  houses.  Every  one  of  the 
people  here  and  at  Na  Sua  Tabu  was  last  year 
a  prisoner.  The  contrast  between  my  present 
visit  and  those  made  while  I  was  in  this  place 
last  year  struck  me  forcibly ;  and  when  Knol- 
lys  and  Heffeman  turned  in  I  did  not  feel 
inclined  to  follow  their  example,  but  strolled 
up  and  down  the  rara  for  some  time  by  myselL 
Though  late,  many  of  the  people  were  still  up, 
discussing  in  little  knots  the  great  event  of 
the  evening.  From  one  house  I  heard  a  num- 
ber of  women  repeating  the  Lord's  Prayer. 
What  a  change  from  last  year,  when  there  was 
nothing  here  but  heaps  of  ashes !  It  had 
been  a  very  hot  calm  day,  and  the  night  was 
perfectly  still.  The  moon  was  almost  full, 
and  its  light  perfect.  The  pale  precipices  oC 
Matunavata  towered  above  as  mysteriously, 
and  as  I  walked  about  at  midnight,  and  abso- 
lutely alone,  but  in  perfect  security,  in  a  town 
full  of  the  nearest  relations  of  those  put  to 
death  last  year  by  my  orders,  I  could  not  but 
rejoice  that  I  haci  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  coun- 
sels which  would  have  prevented  the  rebuild- 
ing of  those  towns  when  once  laid  waste,  and 
would  have  dispersed  their  people  to  distant 
islands,  where  they  must  have  vanished  away 
and  perished  altogether. 


From  The  Sunday  Magaaine. 
THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 

AN  BAST-BND  STORY. 

BY    FLORA    L.    SHAW,    AUTHOR    OF   "CASTXX 

BLAIR,"  ETC 

CHAPTER   I. 

•*  Yes,  mother.  And  they  were  roses, 
did  you  say  ?  " 

**  Roses,  child ;  that's  what  they  were 
called.  You  never  see  anything  like 
them.  But  roll  up  your  sleeve.  Do  you 
see  that  blue  mark  there,  far  up  on  your 
arm  ?  Well,  that's  a  rose  ^*our  father  did 
upon  you  when  you  were  nine  months  old, 
for  he  said  his  daughter's  name  should  be 
Rose,  just  for  love  of  the  flowers  over  the 
door." 

*'  And  they  were  red  all  over  the 
tree  ?  " 

*'  Not  red,  so  to  speak,  ours  weren't, 
but  pinky  like,  and  grew  in  bunches  with 
green  leaves,  and  thorns  as  sharp  as  a  pia 
upon  the  branches.  Oh,  they  were  beau- 
tiful 1  I  think  I  can  see  them  still  hang- 
ing down  from  the  porch,  and  your  father 
standing  underneath  with  you  in  his  arms, 
and  you  stretching  out  to  pick  them,  aad 
he  laughing  because  of  the  thorns,  and 
wouldn't  let  you  get  near,  only  to  smell." 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


431 


"Did  they  smell  nice?" 

"  Smell  ?  Why,  that  was  the  best  of 
them.  But  there,  I  couldD't  tell  you.  No 
one  that  hasn^t  smelt  a  rose  could  have 
any  sort  of  a  notion.  Ycu  might  feel  just 
ever  so  of  a  morninj^,  and  vou  get  up  and 
smell  those  roses,  and  you'd  be  well.  Ah  ! 
often  and  often  I  think  of  them  now,  and 
I  think  that  if  I  could  only  smell  a  bunch 
of  them  roses  that  used  to  grow  on  our 
porch  at  home,  Td  — well,  I  don't  know 
—  I'd  be  a  different  woman,  any  way." 

**  And  where  was  it,  mother,  that  they 
grew  ?  "  The  mother  was  growing  weary 
of  what  seemed  unusual  talk.  She  leaned 
her  head  on  her  hands  for  a  long  time  be- 
fore she  answered  —  "In  the  country." 

**  In  what  country?"  the  child  gently 
persisted. 

"In  England,  bless  the  child!  in  En- 
gland." 

On  the  mother's  part  the  conversation 
was  at  an  end.  She  would  speak  no 
more ;  but  the  child  sat  and  repeated  to 
herself  more  than  once  the  fact  she  had 
just  learned  —  in  England  roses  grow. 
She  did  not  know  that  she  too  was  in  En- 
gland. She  was  sitting  with  her  mother 
on  a  doorstep  in  the  heart  of  London. 
Roses  were  blossoming  within. a  few  miles 
of  her,  for  it  was  the  month  of  June ;  but 
they  were  hidden  by  myriads  of  brick 
walls  and  chimneys  and  slated  roofs.  Very 
little  of  the  country  air  could  penetrate 
the  veil  of  smoke  which  hung  perpetually 
over  the  east  end  of  the  town  where  Nixie 
lived.  No  country  scent  had  ever  visited 
the  court  in  which  she  sat.  It  was  one  of 
many  which  form  intricate  labyrinths  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Ratcliffe  Highway. 
Hidden  from  outer  London  bv  factories 
and  shops,  these  courts  are  selcxom  visited 
by  respectable  strangers,  and  the  element 
of  respectability  is  almost  forgotten  by 
their  natural  inhabitants.  So  the  sights 
which  habitually  met  Nixie's  eyes,  and 
the  sounds  which  met  her  ears,  were  not 
of  a  kind  to  help  her  to  picture  easily  the 
pleasures  of  a  country  life  in  summer. 
Still  her  mother  was  unusually  good  to  her 
tonday,  and  Nixie  felt  very  happy  as  she 
sat  and  dreamed  her  own  dreams  on  the 
doorstep. 

The  court  was  paved  with  flags,  which 
burned  in  the  midday  sun,  and  it  was 
strewed  with  bits  of  newspaper,  straw, 
decaying  cabbage-leaves,  and  other  refuse, 
which  yielded  a  smell  that  made  the  hot 
air  heavy  to  breathe.  It  was,  however, 
better  out  of  doors  than  in  the  houses. 
In  the  dark,  dirty,  and  confined  space  of 
low  and  dilapidated  rooms  the  atmosphere 


was  poisonous.  Even  the  inhabitants  of 
Black  Boy  Alley  found  it  overpowering 
to-day,  and  from  every  house  some  three 
or  four  families  had  swarmed  out  into  the 
court.  Sack-making  was  the  chief  indus- 
try of  the  place,  and  groups  of  women  and 
girls  clustered  here  and  there  round  an 
outside  shutter  or  a  door,  or  any  nail  upon 
the  wall  to  which  they  found  it  convenient 
to  fix  the  sacks  at  which  they  worked. 
Children  of  every  age  clung  about  their 
mothers'  skirts,  or  crawled  or  ran  or  sat, 
like  Nixie,  independent  on  a  doorstep. 
Some  were  dressed ;  one  or  two  of  the 
little  ones  had  no  clothes  on ;  but  all  were 
so  dirty  that  even  bare  skins  looked  hardly 
naked.  In  the  same  way  dirt  furnished 
the  houses,  for  throu<;h  the  open  doors 
scarcely  anything  else  was  to  be  seen. 
Here  and  there  was  a  room  which  boasted 
of  a  chimney-piece  garnished  with  pink  or 
yellow  paper  cut  into  shapes,  and  a  few 
shells  or  colored  china  ornaments;  but 
even  in  these  cases  the  essential  furniture 
of  a  living  room  was  probably  absent. 
Where  a  bed  existed  there  would  be  no 
bed-clothes,  or  where  there  were  bed- 
clothes there  was  no  bed.  Most  rooms 
had  a  table;  few  had  any  chairs.  Chairs 
were  convenient  articles  to  pawn,  and 
most  of  the  movable  furniture  of  Black 
Boy  Alley  was  stored  in  the  pavvn-shop, 
awaiting  the  convenience  of  its  owners. 
Nixie's  home  was  no  better  than  the 
others.  A  straw  palliasse,  stretched  in 
one  corner,  was  the  bed  on  which  she  and 
her  mother  slept ;  a  table  completed  the 
permanent  furniture  of  the  room,  for  the 
two  chairs  came  and  went  like  other  peo- 
ple's according  to  the  amount  of  money 
that  was  gained  or  spent  in  the  course  of 
the  week. 

Nixie's  mother  was  a  sack-maker,  and 
when  she  was  well  she  worked  both  hard 
and  quickly ;  but  the  rate  of  pay  for  sack- 
making  was  not  high.  Twenty-five  large 
ones  had  to  be  made  for  6//.,  and  even 
when  the  price  was  raised  to  Sd.  for  work- 
ing the  eyelet-holes  at  the  mouth,  the 
hardest  laborer  could  not  gain  more  than 
6s.  or  ys,  a  week.  Then  Nixie's  mother 
was  very  often  ill.  She  could  not  work, 
she  said,  unless  she  drank,  and  after  a 
hard  drinking-fit  she  would  sometimes  sit 
for  days,  as  she  was  sitting  this  afternoon, 
with  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  her 
head  on  her  hands,  refusing  either  to  work 
or  eat.  She  had  been  a  cork-cutter,  and 
had  earned  131.  a  week ;  but  for  that  work, 
too,  she  had  found  it  necessary  to  drink, 
and  she  had  lost  the  employment.  Sack- 
work  suited  her ;  she  took  it  or  left  it  as 


432 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


she  pleased.  So  long  as  she  did  not  lose 
her  sack-book  she  was  paid  when  the  work 
was  done,  and  nobody  cared  whether  she 
drank  or  starved. 

Nixie  was  so  well  accustomed  to  the 
ups  and  downs  of  life  that  she  minded 
them  very  little.  When  she  had  food  she 
ate  it,  and  when  she  had  none  she  went 
without.  She  never  thought  of  being 
other  than  ragged  and  dirty,  and  she  was 
keenly  alive  to  one  great  advantage  that 
her  situation  possessed  over  those  of 
many  other  children  in  the  court.  Her 
mother  was,  as  Nixie  often  proudly  said, 
a  good  mother  to  her.  She  was  very  sel- 
dom beaten,  and  when  blows  did  come 
her  way  they  were  never  from  her  moth- 
er's hand.  More  than  that,  whoever 
touched  her  out  of  doors  was  sure  to  have 
to  reckon  sooner  or  later  with  her  mother, 
and  this  fact  was  so  well  known  that  Nixie 
bore  in  one  sense  a  charmed  life.  Moggy 
was  the  name  by  which  her  mother  went, 
and  the  strength  of  Moggy*s  arm  was 
great.  Ha  bov  bullied  Nixie,  Moggy 
thrashed  him.  If  his  mother  came  to  in- 
quire the  reason  why,  Moggy  thrashed 
her  too.  She  had  the  reputation  in  the 
court  of  being  the  worst  termagant  who 
lived  there,  but  even  in  her  drunken  fits 
she  would  protect  the  child.  *'That 
child,"  she  would  sometimes  say,  **  was 
born  when  I  was  very  different  from  what 
I  am,  and  every  bit  of  good  '11  be  gone  out 
of  me  before  ever  I  lift  a  finger  to  her  or 
let  any  one  else  do  it  either.**  Beyond 
this  system  of  protection,  which  was 
much,  she  made  no  further  effort  for 
Nixie's  well-being.  The  child  knew  noth- 
ing at  all,  and  Moggy  would  not  let  her  go 
to  school.  The  S^ure  of  the  School 
Board  visitor  was,  with  the  rent-collector, 
the  best  known  in  the  court.  At  sight  of 
him  the  children  who  were  not  at  school 
would  scatter  and  run,  hiding  themselves 
in  an  instant  like  rabbits  in  a  warren ;  but 
Moggy,  like  most  people  who  are  well 
feared,  was  well  served,  and  she  always 
had  knowledge  of  his  approach  in  time  to 
save  Nixie  from  all  risks  of  being  caught. 
Nixie's  age  was  known  to  no  one,  nor  was 
her  real  name  of  Rose  known  even  to 
herself  until  this  afternoon,  when,  after 
an  unusually  long  fit  of  drinking,  her 
mother  was  recovering  not  as  she  gener- 
ally did  to  work,  but  to  talk  in  a  way  that 
Nixie  had  rarely  heard  before.  The 
neighbors  had  given  the  child  her  nick- 
name years  ago,  when  she  came,  a  tod- 
dling mite,  into  the  court,  and  her  cluster- 
ing gold  curls  and  waxen  skin  combined 
with  the  sweet  gravity  of  a  pair  of  large 


grey  eyes  to  win  a  baby's  wav  into  their 
hearts.  She  was  a  fragile-looking,  gentle 
little  creature  now,  the  mother's  rough 
protection  saved  her  from  all  fear,  and 
gave  a  graceful  confidence  to  her  ways 
which  endeared  her  still  to  those  who 
were  not  jealous  of  the  position  Moggy 
claimed.  Nixie  had  no  father  that  she 
knew  of.  There  were  several  men  who 
used  to  come  at  times  and  drink  with  her 
mother  and  the  neighbors,  and  she  called 
them  all  daddy  for  want  of  a  better  namei 
but  she  recognized  no  one  as  belonging  to 
her  except  her  mother,  and  to  her  she 
paid  back  in  full  the  affection  she  re- 
ceived. Whatever  others  might  say  of 
Moggy,  Nixie  saw  no  fault  in  her,  and 
"  mother  '*  upon  her  lips  had  a  meaning  as 
true  and  tender  as  any  "mother"  ever 
spoken. 

It  was  holiday  time  now,  and  the  chil- 
dren swarmed  thicker  than  usual  in  the 
court  without  fear  of  the  School  Board 
visitor.  They  always  grew  specially  wild 
and  rough  in  holiday  time,  and  Nixie,  who 
was  not  fond  of  making  rows  amongst 
them,  did  not  care  to  play  over  much.  She 
liked  better  to  sit  and  think  beside  her 
mother  on  the  doorstep. 

**  Yes,"  said  her  mother  at  last,  raising 
her  head  after  a  long  silence,  **  if  I  could 
smell  a  bunch  of  them  roses  again,  I'd  be 
a  different  woman.  Look  you  here.  Nixie, 
if  ever  I'm  dying  and  you  want  to  bring 
me  to  life,  just  you  take  and  fetch  a  bunch 
of  pink  roses,  an'  they'll  do  me  more  good 
than  all  the  medicine  ever  came  out  of  a 
doctor's  shop." 

"  But  I  don't  know  the  way  to  England, 
mother." 

"  Oh,  there  are  roses  in  London  !  "  And 
Moggy*s  heavy  head  went  listlessly  down 
to  her  hands  again. 

"  You  don't  feel  bad,  do  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do  feel  bad.  1  always  feel 
bad.    You  go  out  and  get  me  some  gin." 

Nixie  rose  to  obey  her  mother's  re- 
quest. 

••  Where's  the  money  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  any  money,  but  there*8  Joe 
coming  down  the  court.  Ask  him  to  give 
you  some." 

"  I'll  fetch  the  bottle  first." 

Nixie  entered  the  dark  room  behind 
them  to  seek  for  a  bottle.  By  the  time 
she  came  out  again,  Joe  had  reached  the 
doorstep  and  entered  into  something 
which  sounded  like  a  quarrel  with  her 
mother.  Joe  was  one  of  Nixie's  many 
"daddies."  She  did  not  like  him  much, 
but  she  was  accustomed  to  ask  him  for 
money  when  her  mother  wanted  drink, 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


433 


aod  his  present  quarrelsome  mood  did 
not  strike  iier  as  anything  new.  Her  foot 
caught  against  the  door-frame  as  she  was 
coming  out,  and  she  fell  accidentally 
against  him  at  the  same  moment  that  she 
asked  for  the  money.  The  action  seemed 
to  infuriate  him. 

••  ni  teach  you,"  he  began,  as  he  threw 
her  away,  and  then  seized  her  in  a  grasp 
which  made  her  shudder  from  head  to 
foot.  His  other  hand  was  raised,  but  be- 
fore it  could  descend  upon  the  child  her 
mother  had  f)own  at  him.  The  next  in- 
stant one  of  the  rows  for  which  the  court 
was  famous  was  in  full  progress.  Nixie 
stood  aside  unhurt.  Moggy  presently 
reeled  and  fell  over  her  own  doorstep. 
Then  Joe  seemed  sorry,  and  while  a  few 
of  the  women  neighbors  cried  out 
**  Shame  !"  and  a  few  others  expressed  a 
wish  to  tear  him  in  pieces,  and  a  few 
said,  "  Serve  her  right,"  he  pulled  out 
some  money,  and  bade  Nixie  run  for  the 
gin. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  Nixie  had  seen 
her  mother  fall  in  a  fight,  and  when  Mo^- 
gy  came  to  herself  and  got  up,  and  joined 
with  Joe  in  bidding  Nixie  look  sharp  and 
fetch  the  gin,  the  child  went  with  no  other 
thought  than  to  make  haste  and  do  what 
her  mother  wanted ;  for  it  was  in  scenes 
of  this  kind  that  her  great  love  and  ad- 
miration were  built  up.  The  courage 
with  which  her  mother  faced  the  blows, 
and  the  strength  with  which  she  dealt 
them,  were  equally  matter  of  wonder  and 
reverence.  The  halo  of  Moggy's  su- 
premacy in  the  court  sanctified  her  in  her 
little  daughter's  eyes,  and  were  parts  of  a 
certain  heroical  splendor  with  which,  all 
unconsciously.  Nixie  invested  her.  **  And 
she  sick  and  ill,  too,  to-day ! "  she  reflected 
as  she  went  along.  **  Well,  she  is  a  good 
mother  to  me." 

••  Hullo,  little  'un  !     Hold  together  I  " 

In  her  absorption  Nixie  had  not  noticed 
that  she  was  running  into  a  ^roup  which 
clustered  on  the  pavement  just  outside 
the  court.  The  shock  of  collision  sent 
her  boiile  flying  to  pieces  in  the  gutter, 
and  would  have  knocked  her  into  the 
street  but  for  a  strong  and  friendly  arm 
which  was  put  round  her  at  the  same  mo- 
ment that  the  warning  was  uttered. 

A  very  respectably  dressed  man,  with  a 
bronzed  and  good-humored  face,  stood 
surrounded  by  clamoring  children.  It 
was  his  arm  which  had  protected  Nixie, 
and  now  he  asked  her  the  question  which 
bad  attracted  to  him  the  noisy  group. 

*•  Do  you  know  any  one  in  this  neigh- 
borhood of  the  name  of  Bennet — Mary 

LIVING   AGE.  VOL.  XLIV»  2264 


Bennet?     IVe    been    seeking    her    this 
many  a  day," 

Nixie  thought,  but  could  remember  no 
one,  and  only  shook  her  head. 

An  eager  girl  on  the  outside  of  the 
crowd  called  out,  "  I  do,  teacher,"  and 
held  up  her  hand  to  attract  attention,  after 
the  fashion  of  a  Board  scholar.  **  I  know 
one,  teacher —  a  great  fat  woman.  She*s 
in  prison  now,  and  Rosie  Green's  mother 
is  looking  after  her  children.  A  lot  of 
black  hair  she  has,  and  the  mark  of  a  big 
cut  over  the  eye." 

**  No,  that's  not  what  I  want  at  all. 
The  Mary  Bennet  I  mean  is  a  nice-look- 
ing young  woman,  with  yellow  hair.  It 
has  a  ripple  in  it  like  the  cornfields  in 
summertime.  Neat-looking  she  is,  and 
as  fresh  as  lavender.  Leastways" — a 
shadow  had  come  across  the  good-hu- 
mored face,  and  the  voice  had  a  sad  and 
anxious  note — "she  was  when  she  left 
the  country  —  maybe  eight  years  ago. 
And  they  tell  me  she's  somewhere  here." 

•'There  ain't  none  of  that  sort  living 
here,  teacher,"  decided  one  girl.  •*  They're 
mostly  a  bad  lot." 

**  My  mother's  a  good  mother."  It  was 
the  first  time  Nixie's  gentle  little  voice 
had  been  heard,  and  she  now  slipped  her 
hand  confidingly  into  the  hand  of  the  maa 
they  called  "  teacher." 

Her  remark  called  forth  a  burst  of  de> 
rision. 

"  Don't  you  believe  her,  teacher.  Her 
mother's  one  of  the  worst  lots  in  the 
place!  Why,  she's  always  fighting  and 
drinking,  and  Nixie's  going  to  get  her 
something  to  drink  now." 

"  You've  broken  your  bottle,"  said  the 
man,  looking  down.  "It's  a  bad  thing, 
drink.  But  if  vou're  sent  for  it,  I  sup- 
pose you  must  fetch  it.  You  come  along 
and  I'll  give  you  smother  bottle." 

The  other  children  clamored  to  be  given 
something  too.  The  man  refused,  and 
soon  he  and  Nixie  were  walking  along 
hand  in  hand.  The  child's  gentle  voice 
and  manner  seemed  to  have  attracted  him. 
He  talked  to  her  as  they  went,  and  she 
told  him  her  linle  history,  so  far  as  she 
knew  it.  She  was  accustomed  to  pick  up 
her  companions  in  the  street ;  there  was 
nothing  strange  to  her  in  chatting  with  a 
man  she  had  never  seen  before,  and 
though  the  way  to  the  nearest  public 
house  was  not  far,  she  found  time  to  take 
interest  in  his  story  as  well  as  to  tell  her 
own.  Very  few  sentences  sufficed  for 
what  she  had  to  say  on  most  subjects. 

**  Does  she  you  were  looking  for  come 
from  the  country  where  roses  grow?" 


432 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


she  pleased.  So  long  as  she  did  not  lose 
her  sack-book  she  was  paid  when  the  work 
was  done,  and  nobody  cared  whether  she 
drank  or  starved. 

Nixie  was  so  well  accustomed  to  the 
ups  and  downs  of  life  that  she  minded 
them  very  little.  When  she  had  food  she 
ate  it,  and  when  she  had  none  she  went 
without.  She  never  thought  of  being 
other  than  ragged  and  dirty,  and  she  was 
keenly  alive  to  one  great  advantage  that 
her  situation  possessed  over  those  of 
many  other  children  in  the  court.  Her 
mother  was,  as  Nixie  often  proudly  said, 
a  good  mother  to  her.  She  was  very  sel- 
dom beaten,  and  when  blows  did  come 
her  way  they  were  never  from  her  moth- 
er's hand.  More  than  that,  whoever 
touched  her  out  of  doors  was  sure  to  have 
to  reckon  sooner  or  later  with  her  mother, 
and  this  fact  was  so  well  known  that  Nixie 
bore  in  one  sense  a  charmed  life.  Moggy 
was  the  name  by  which  her  mother  went, 
and  the  strength  of  Moggy*s  arm  was 
great.  If  a  bov  bullied  Nixie,  Moggy 
thrashed  him.  if  his  mother  came  to  in- 
quire the  reason  why.  Moggy  thrashed 
her  too.  She  bad  the  reputation  in  the 
court  of  being  the  worst  termagant  who 
lived  there,  but  even  in  her  drunken  fits 
she  would  protect  the  child.  "That 
child,"  she  would  sometimes  say,  "  was 
born  when  I  was  very  different  from  what 
I  am,  and  every  bit  of  good  'II  be  gone  out 
of  me  before  ever  I  lift  a  finger  to  her  or 
let  any  one  else  do  it  either.*'  Beyond 
this  system  of  protection,  which  was 
much,  she  made  no  further  effort  for 
Nixie's  well-being.  The  child  knew  noth- 
ing at  all,  and  Moggy  would  not  let  her  go 
to  school.  The  figure  of  the  School 
Board  visitor  was,  with  the  rent-collector, 
the  best  known  in  the  court.  At  sight  of 
him  the  children  who  were  not  at  school 
would  scatter  and  run,  hiding  themselves 
in  an  instant  like  rabbits  in  a  warren ;  but 
Moggy,  like  most  people  who  are  well 
feared,  was  well  served,  and  she  always 
had  knowledge  of  his  approach  in  time  to 
save  Nixie  from  all  risks  of  being  caught. 
Nixie's  age  was  known  to  no  one,  nor  was 
her  real  name  of  Rose  known  even  to 
herself  until  this  afternoon,  when,  after 
an  unusually  long  fit  of  drinking,  her 
mother  was  recovering  not  as  she  gener- 
ally did  to  work,  but  to  talk  in  a  way  that 
Nixie  had  rarely  heard  before.  The 
neighbors  had  given  the  child  her  nick- 
name years  ago,  when  she  came,  a  tod- 
dling mite,  into  the  court,  and  her  cluster- 
ing gold  curls  and  waxen  skin  combined 
with  the  sweet  gravity  of  a  pair  of  large 


grey  eyes  to  win  a  baby's  way  into  their 
hearts.  She  was  a  fragile-looking,  gentle 
little  creature  now,  the  mother's  rough 
protection  saved  her  from  all  fear,  and 
gave  a  graceful  confidence  to  her  ways 
which  endeared  her  still  to  those  who 
were  not  jealous  of  the  position  Moggy 
claimed.  Nixie  had  no  father  that  she 
knew  of.  There  were  several  men  who 
used  to  come  at  times  and  drink  with  her 
mother  and  the  neighbors,  and  she  called 
them  all  daddy  for  want  of  a  better  name, 
but  she  recognized  no  one  as  belonging  to 
her  except  her  mother,  and  to  her  she 
paid  back  in  full  the  affection  she  re- 
ceived. Whatever  others  might  say  of 
Moggy,  Nixie  saw  no  fault  in  her,  and 
*'  mother  "  upon  her  lips  had  a  meaning  as 
true  and  tender  as  any  "  mother "  ever 
spoken. 

It  was  holiday  time  now,  and  the  chil- 
dren swarmed  thicker  than  usual  in  the 
court  without  fear  of  the  School  Board 
visitor.  They  always  grew  specially  wild 
and  rough  in  holiday  time,  and  Nixie,  who 
was  not  fond  of  making  rows  amongst 
them,  did  not  care  to  play  over  much.  She 
liked  better  to  sit  and  think  beside  her 
mother  on  the  doorstep. 

**  Yes,"  said  her  mother  at  last,  raising 
her  head  after  a  long  silence,  **  if  I  could 
smell  a  bunch  of  them  roses  again,  I'd  be 
a  different  woman.  Look  you  here.  Nixie, 
if  ever  I'm  dying  and  you  want  to  bring 
me  to  life,  just  you  take  and  fetch  a  bunch 
of  pink  roses,  an'  they'll  do  me  more  good 
than  all  the  medicine  ever  came  out  of  a 
doctor's  shop." 

"  But  I  don't  know  the  way  to  England, 
mother." 

"  Oh,  there  are  roses  in  London  !  "  And 
Moggy's  heavy  head  went  listlessly  down 
to  her  hands  again. 

"  You  don't  feel  bad,  do  you  ?  " 

**Yes,  I  do  feel  bad.  I  always  feel 
bad.    You  go  out  and  get  me  some  gin." 

Nixie  rose  to  obey  her  mother's  re- 
quest. 

"  Where's  the  money  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  any  money,  but  there's  Joe 
coming  down  the  court.  Ask  him  to  give 
you  some." 

"  I'll  fetch  the  bottle  first." 

Nixie  entered  the  dark  room  behind 
them  to  seek  for  a  bottle.  By  the  time 
she  came  out  again,  Joe  had  reached  the 
doorstep  and  entered  into  something 
which  sounded  like  a  quarrel  with  her 
mother.  Joe  was  one  of  Nixie's  many 
** daddies."  She  did  not  like  him  much, 
but  she  was  accustomed  to  ask  him  for 
money  when  her  mother  wanted  drink, 


J 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


433 


and  his  present  quarrelsome  mood  did 
not  strike  her  as  anything  new.  Her  foot 
caught  against  the  door-frame  as  she  was 
coming  out,  and  she  fell  accidentally 
against  him  at  the  same  moment  that  she 
asked  for  the  money.  The  action  seemed 
to  infuriate  him. 

*•  I'll  teach  you,"  he  began,  as  he  threw 
her  away,  and  then  seized  her  in  a  grasp 
which  made  her  shudder  from  head  to 
foot.  His  other  hand  was  raised,  but  be- 
fore it  could  descend  upon  the  child  her 
mother  had  flown  at  him.  The  next  in- 
stant one  of  the  rows  for  which  the  court 
was  famous  was  in  full  progress.  Nixie 
stood  aside  unhurt.  Moggy  presently 
reeled  and  fell  over  her  own  doorstep. 
Then  Joe  seemed  sorry,  and  while  a  few 
of  the  women  neighbors  cried  out 
"Shame  !"  and  a  few  others  expressed  a 
wish  to  tear  him  in  pieces,  and  a  few 
said,  "Serve  her  right,"  he  pulled  out 
some  money,  and  bade  Nixie  run  for  the 
gin. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  Nixie  had  seen 
her  mother  fall  in  a  fight,  and  when  Mos:- 
gy  came  to  herself  and  got  up,  and  joined 
with  Joe  in  bidding  Nixie  look  sharp  and 
fetch  the  gin,  the  child  went  with  no  other 
thought  than  to  make  haste  and  do  what 
her  mother  wanted ;  for  it  was  in  scenes 
of  this  kind  that  her  great  love  and  ad- 
miration were  built  up.  The  courage 
with  which  her  mother  faced  the  blows, 
and  the  strength  with  which  she  dealt 
them,  were  equally  matter  of  wonder  and 
reverence.  The  halo  of  Moggy's  su- 
premacy in  the  court  sanctified  her  in  her 
little  dauf^hter's  eyes,  and  were  parts  of  a 
certain  heroical  splendor  with  which,  all 
unconsciously.  Nixie  invested  her.  "And 
she  sick  and  ill.  too,  to-day ! "  she  reflected 
as  she  went  along.  "  Well,  she  is  a  good 
mother  to  me." 

"  H  ullo,  little  'un  !     Hold  together !  " 

In  her  absorption  Nixie  had  not  noticed 
that  she  was  running  into  a  ^roup  which 
clustered  on  the  pavement  just  outside 
the  court.  The  shock  of  collision  sent 
her  bottle  flying  to  pieces  in  the  gutter, 
and  would  have  knocked  her  into  the 
street  but  for  a  strong  and  friendly  arm 
which  was  put  round  her  at  the  same  mo- 
ment that  the  warning  was  uttered. 

A  very  respectably  dressed  man,  with  a 
bronzed  and  good-humored  face,  stood 
surrounded  by  clamoring  children.  It 
was  his  arm  which  had  protected  Nixie, 
and  now  he  asked  her  the  question  which 
bad  attracted  to  him  the  noisy  group. 

**Do  you  know  any  one  in  this  neigh- 
borhood of  the  name  of  Bennet — Mary 

UVING   AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2264 


Bennet?  I've  been  seeking  her  this 
many  a  day." 

Nixie  thought,  but  could  remember  no 
one,  and  only  shook  her  head. 

An  eager  girl  on  the  outside  of  the 
crowd  called  out,  "  I  do,  teacher,"  and 
held  up  her  hand  to  attract  attention,  after 
the  fashion  of  a  Board  scholar.  "  I  know 
one,  teacher —  a  great  fat  woman.  She's 
in  prison  now,  and  Rosie  Green's  mother 
is  looking  after  her  children.  A  lot  of 
black  hair  she  has,  and  the  mark  of  a  big 
cut  over  the  eye." 

"  No,  that's  not  what  I  want  at  all. 
The  Mary  Bennet  I  mean  is  a  nice-look- 
ing young  woman,  with  yellow  hair.  It 
has  a  ripple  in  it  like  the  cornfields  in 
summer-time.  Neat-looking  she  is,  and 
as  fresh  as  lavender.  Leastways  "  —  a 
shadow  had  come  across  the  good-hu- 
mored face,  and  the  voice  had  a  sad  and 
anxious  note  —  "she  was  when  she  left 
the  country  —  maybe  eight  years  ago. 
And  they  tell  me  she's  somewhere  here." 

"There  ain't  none  of  that  sort  living 
here,  teacher,"  decided  one  girl.  "  They're 
mostly  a  bad  lot." 

"  My  mother's  a  good  mother."  It  was. 
the  first  time  Nixie's  gentle  little  voice 
had  been  heard,  and  she  now  slipped  her 
hand  confidingly  into  the  hand  of  the  maa 
they  called  "  teacher." 

Her  remark  called  forth  a  burst  of  de- 
rision. 

"  Don't  you  believe  her,  teacher.  Her 
mother's  one  of  the  worst  lots  in  the 
place!  Why,  she's  alwa5-s  fighting  and 
drinking,  and  Nixie's  going  to  get  her 
something  to  drink  now." 

"  You've  broken  your  bottle,"  said  the 
man,  looking  down.  "  It's  a  bad  thing, 
drink.  But  if  vouVe  sent  for  it,  I  sup- 
pose you  must  fetch  it.  You  come  along 
and  I'll  give  you  amother  bottle." 

The  other  children  clamored  to  be  given 
something  too.  The  man  refused,  and 
soon  he  and  Nixie  were  walking  along 
hand  in  hand.  The  child's  gentle  voice 
and  manner  seemed  to  have  attracted  him. 
He  talked  to  her  as  they  went,  and  she 
told  him  her  little  history,  so  far  as  she 
knew  it.  She  was  accustomed  to  pick  up 
her  companions  in  the  street;  there  was 
nothing  strange  to  her  in  chatting  with  a 
man  she  had  never  seen  before,  and 
though  the  way  to  the  nearest  public 
house  was  not  far,  she  found  time  to  take 
interest  in  his  story  as  well  as  to  tell  her 
own.  Very  few  sentences  sufficed  for 
what  she  had  to  say  on  most  subjects. 

"  Does  she  you  were  looking  for  come 
from  the  country  where  roses  grow?" 


434 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


"  Yes." 

**  That's  England.  My  mother  says  that 
beautiful  pink  roses  grow  in  England." 

••Why,  bless  the  child,  of  course  they 
do!  Have  you  never  been  in  the  coun- 
try?" 

Nixie  shook  her  head,  laughing  at  the 
thought. 

**  Have  you  never  seen  a  rose  ?" 

"No,  I've,  never  seen  a  rose.  But  I 
know  about  them ;  my  mother's  told  me." 

The  mkn  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
pavement  and  looked  down  with  astonish- 
ment at  the  little  face,  not  altogether  un- 
suggestive  of  white  roses,  for  all  its  dirt, 
which  was  turned  up  to  meet  his  gaze. 

"  You've  never  seen  a  rose,  and  you  a 
little  English  girl?" 

Nixie  was  astonished  at  his  aston- 
ishment. She  did  not  understand  the 
grounds  of  it,  and,  having  nothing  to  say, 
only  looked  at  him  in  perplexity  as  great 
as  hi.s. 

**  Well  now,  upon  my  word !  I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  Some  day  I'll  bring  vou 
a  rose.  Maybe  it'll  be  a  long  while  before 
I  do ;  but  I'll  keep  my  promise." 

•*  Teacher  1  teacher  I  you  are  good ! " 

Nixie's  cheeks  glowed,  her  eyes  grew 
clear  and  bright,  and  suddenly  and  ecstati- 
cally she  kissed  the  hand  she  held.  The 
man  drew  his  other  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  **  I'm  not  a  teach- 
er; but  don't  you  know  anything  at  all? 
Maybe  you  don't  know  —  well,  maybe  you 
don't  know  who  made  the  roses  grow  ?  " 

••  No,"  said  Nixie. 

"Well,  it's  God." 

His  face  was  red,  and  it  was  evidently 
a  matter  of  considerable  embarrassment 
to  him  to  drag  even  this  much  "teach- 
ing "out  of  himself  on  the  pavement  of 
Ratcliffe  Highway.  Not  even  the  bright 
look  of  the  child,  and  her  eager,  "Oh,  do 
tell ! "  could  keep  him  now. 

"  I  ain't  no  teacher,"  he  answered ;  "  I'm 
not  fit.  You  go  to  Sunday  school,  and 
they'll  tell  you  about  it.  Here's  the  money 
for  a  bottle."  And  he  hurried  away.  She 
looked  after  him  with  an  unusual  swelling 
at  her  heart.  Then  she,  too,  hurried  into 
a  public  house  to  fetch  her  mother's  gin. 

That  night,  as  she  lay  beside  her  moth- 
er, who  groaned  and  tossed  wakefully 
upon  the  palliasse,  her  mind  was  filled 
with  a  vision  of  a  wonderful  and  beautiful 
country  full  of  pink  flowers  and  bright 
green  leaves,  and  men  like  her  teacher, 
and  women  with  yellow  hair.  The  name 
of  it  was  England.  And  there  was  one 
more  marvellous  fact  that  she  had  learned 
to-day. 


<i 


Is  it  true,  mother,"  she  could  not  help 
asking  at  last  —  "is  it  true  that  God 
makes  roses  grow  in  England  ?  " 

"  I     dunno,"    the    mother    answered. 
"  Maybe  it  is,  or  maybe  it  isn't." 
"  Don't  you  know  nothing  about  him  ?  ** 
"  I  don't  know  nothing  about  him  what- 


soever. 


)i 


CHAPTER  II. 


Nixie's  mother  was  really  ill,  much 
worse  than  Nixie  knew.  Joe  came  again 
next  morning,  and  the  women  from  up- 
stairs, and  the  women  from  next  door, 
and  one  or  two  others,  came  and  talked 
about  her.  She  did  not  attempt  to  rise 
from  the  palliasse,  and  Nixie,  understand- 
ing little  save  that  somehow  Joe  had  done 
it,  sat  in  the  corner  by  the  wall,  and  held 
her  mother's  hand  till  some  one  turned 
her  out,  telling  her  that  she  was  in  the 
way,  and  bidding  her  not  to  return  for  a 
couple  of  hours  at  least. 

Moggy  made  no  objection  to  the  child's 
departure.  So  Nixie  went  and  wandered 
aimlessly  about  the  streets.  She  wan- 
dered a  good  way  farther  than  she  had 
ever  done  before,  down  across  one  of  the 
bridges  of  the  dock,  and  out  into  the 
winding  riverside  streets  beyond.  She 
did  not  know  where  she  was  going  or  why 
she  was  going,  but  she  felt  restless.  Till 
yesterday  she  had  never  heard  of  En- 
gland. Now  she  longed  to  get  there; 
and  to  see  roses  and  smell  them  and  take 
them  to  mother  became  an  absorbing  de- 
sire. 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  out  from 
the  narrow,  smoke-encrusted  street  and 
free  of  the  shadow  of  the  London  Dock. 
She  stood  in  a  comparatively  open  space, 
and  directly  opposite,  divided  from  her 
only  by  a  low  wall  and  high  iron  railing, 
was  an  enclosure  which  could  only  be  a 
garden.  Her  mother  did  not  often  have 
moments  of  expansion  such  as  that  of 
yesterday,  but  she  had  told  Nixie  of 
gardens  that  people  had  in  the  country 
with  trees  in  them,  and  flowers,  and  beds, 
and  ornamental  stones.  Here  were  all 
those  things,  and  overhead  the  sky  quite 
wide  and  bright.  Nixie  could  hardly  be- 
lieve her  eyes  as  she  held  with  both  hands 
to  the  iron  railing  and  gazed  before  her. 
She  forgot  her  fatigue,  she  forgot  her  sick 
mother,  she  forgot  everything  but  her 
great  and  marvellous  discovery.  Grass, 
flowers,  trees,  not  dead,  not  for  sale,  but 
living,  growing  in  the  ground  as  her 
mother  had  told  her  that  they  did  1  She 
turned  her  eyes  from  one  to  another.  She 
felt  bewildered  at  this  extraordinary  and 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


43S 


unexpected  realization  of  her  dream.  She 
did  not  know  till  now  how  little  she  had 
in  truth  believed  it  all.  Then,  as  she  re- 
covered a  little,  she  drew  lon*^  breaths  to 
prove  whether  the  scent  would  work  the 
wonders  her  mother  had  attributed  to  the 
scent  of  roses.  No  smell  reached  her  but 
the  smell  of  dusty  grass,  but  she  fancied 
herself  the  better  for  it.  She  was  the 
better  for  it.  Elate  and  fresh  as  if  she 
had  just  risen  from  a  comfortable  bed, 
6he  began  to  walk  round  the  outside  of 
the  garden.  Her  mother  had  told  her 
that  in  the  gardens  of  England  there  were 
vegetables  and  fruit  besides  the  flowers. 
And  then  roses !  Since  all  else  was  true, 
why  not  that?  There  might  be  roses  in 
this  very  garden.  To  see  the  child  scur- 
rying with  bare  feet  and  tattered  garments 
from  end  to  end  of  that  iron-railed  wall, 
few  of  the  passers-by  could  have  suspected 
what  it  was  she  sought  so  eagerly.  At 
last  she  cried  aloud  for  joy,  **  Roses ! 
Roses!"  More  than  one  turned  to  look 
at  her,  but  it  was  not  their  business,  and 
they  passed  on ;  for  she  had  found  in  a 
neglected  corner  out  of  reach,  but  still 
not  very  far  from  the  railing,  a  magnifi- 
cent tall  bush.  It  was  as  high  as  a  man. 
]t  was  covered  all  over  with  pink  flowers, 
and  under  the  leaves  she  could  see,  even 
from  where  she  stood,  that  there  were,  as 
her  mother  had  told  her,  thorns  upon  the 
branches.  All  was  right  in  every  par- 
ticular. She  climbed  upon  the  little  wall, 
and  stretched  an  arm  in  her  excitement 
through  the  railings  towards  it.  **  Oh,  you 
beautiful !  you  beautiful ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  wish  I  could  take  you  to  my  mother." 

•*  What  are  you  doing  on  the  railings? 
Get  along  down  with  you  and  be  off." 

Nixie  had  attracted  attention  at  last 
from  the  only  person  whose  business  it 
was,  and  her  delight  was  for  the  moment 
ended  in  the  grasp  of  a  policeman,  who 
lifted  her  down  from  the  wall,  and  ordered 
her  to  look  sharp  o£E  home.  But  her 
pink  blossoms  were  visible  above  the 
wall ;  they  comforted  and  reassured  her, 
and  she  had  no  wish  now  to  stay  any 
longer  here.  She  wanted  to  speed  home 
and  tell  her  mother.  Here,  she  felt,  was 
a  joy  that  could  be  shared,  and  the  dark- 
some alleys  of  Prussom  Island  nodded 
with  trees  and  glowed  with  flowers  for 
her  as  she  went  home. 

"Mother!  mother!"  she  cried  as  she 
sped  at  last  down  their  own  court  and  in 
at  their  own  door,  "I've  seen  roses! 
pinkie  all  over  the  tree,  and  ^^  " 

She  stopped,  for  here  was  home,  but 
DOt  her  home.    The  table  was  gone,  the 


palliasse  was  gone,  her  mother  was  gone, 
and  in  their  place  there  was  a  strange 
round  table  and  a  bedstead,  a  strange  lot 
of  children  crawling  about  the  floor,  and 
a  strange  woman  girding  herself  with 
pitched  cord,  in  preparation  for  her  work 
at  the  sacks. 

The  woman  looked  ap  as  Nixie  paused, 
speechless,  upon  the  threshold. 

"  I  suppose  you're  the  little  girl  used  to 
live  here  ?  Your  mother  ain't  here ;  she's 
gone !  " 

"  But  I  left  her  here  this  morning." 

"Here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow!" 
The  woman  was  slightly  tipsy,  or  she 
would  have  had  more  compassion  on  the 
scared,  bewildered  countenance  Nixie 
turned  towards  her.  She  now  wound  a 
bit  of  cord  round  her  hand,  and,  croon- 
ing a  song,  she  applied  herself  to  her 
work.  The  hard,  unmusical  sound  lived 
in  Nixie's  memory  for  years. 

One  of  the  strange  children  pushed  up 
against  Nixie.  "Get  away,"  he  said; 
"  you  don't  belong  here." 

She  turned  from  the  doorstep  into  the 
court. 

"  But  I  left  her  here  this  morning,"  she 
repeated  mechanically.  She  had  nothing 
else  to  say.  She  looked  up  and  down,  to 
right,  to  left.  The  court  was  swimming 
before  her,  its  ugliness  and  its  noises  all 
confused. 

"  Why,  Nixie,  are  you  fretting  for  your 
mother?  "  That  was  the  first  sound  she 
heard  distinctly ;  it  came  from  a  friendly 
neighbor*  who  passed  by.  "  Never  you 
fear ;  she'll  be  all  right.  Joe's  taken  her 
to  the  hospital,  and  the  best  thing  he 
could  do  too,  after  knocking  her  about 
yesterday.  He's  pledged  the  things  to 
pay  for  the  expense  of  the  moving;  but 
he'll  look  after  you.  You  sit  and  wait  a 
bit." 

There  was  an  ash-heap  close  by,  and 
Nixie  sat  down  obediently  upon  it. 
"  When  will  she  come  back?"  she  asked. 

"  There's  no  knowing.  Maybe  they 
won't  keep  her  a  great  while.  You  sit 
and  wait  for  Joe." 

All  through  the  heat  of  that  summer 
day  Nixie  sat  and  waited  patiently  upon 
the  ash-heap.  Already  the  absence  of 
her  mother's  arm  made  a  difference  in 
the  way  that  she  was  treated.  The  boys 
came  and  teased,  the  girls  pulled  her  hair, 
decaying  cabbage  leaves  were  thrust  into 
her  face ;  the  children  who  had  come  to 
live  in  her  house  stood  by  the  doorstep 
and  reviled  her.  But  she  scarcely  knew 
it;  her  mother's  absence  left  her  too  des- 
olate to  realize  anything  but  a  sort  of 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


blackness  in  the  day,  which  strangely 
opened  sometimes  to  admit  a  vision  of  a 
t^ll  pink  flowering  tree.  She  shed  no 
tears ;  she  scarcely  spoke,  except  to  say 
quietly,  "  Let  me  alone,"  when  her  tor- 
mentors clustered  thickly  round  her;  and 
as  the  day  wore  on  they  did  let  her  alone, 
for  she  gave  them  so  little  amusement. 
The  court  did  not  empty  with  the  approach 
of  darkness.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  at 
night  that  it  was  always  most  full  and 
noisy.  The  men  were  set  free  from  their 
work.  Drinking  began,  swearing  became 
more  voluble,  blows  were  not  wanting, 
and  the  rougher  sorts  of  quarrelling 
turned  the  place  into  a  pandemonium. 
Nixie  was  worn  out  with  her  long  day  of 
waiting  and  fasting.  No  noise,  no  grief, 
could  keep  her  awake  at  ]ast.  Her  bead 
began  to  droop;  she  sank  down  l<TVver  and 
lower,  till  her  pretty  gold  curls  touched 
the  dust,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  horrible 
turmoil  she  slept,  for  the  first  time  home- 
less, upon  the  ashheap. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  she  was 
awakened  roughly  and  suddenly  by  Joe. 

**  Here  !  I  forgot  all  about  you.  You 
come  along  home  to  my  mi.Hsis ;  she  wants 
a  gal  to  help  look  after  the  brats,  and 
you  can  sleep  somewhere  along  with 
them." 

'*  Not  in  your  house.  I  hate  you ! 
Where's  my  mother?" 

Startled  as  she  was  from  sleep.  Nixie 
recognized  Joe  instantly,  and  gave  him 
the  benefit  of  an  outburst  which  was  quite 
unlike  her  ordinary,  patient  speech. 

"  Now  then,  spitfire  I  "  he  said,  not  ill- 
naturedly.  "  You'd  better  bridle  your 
tongue,  I  warn  you,  before  you  come 
across  my  missis.  Her  hand's  readier 
than  mine." 

**  I  won't  come  across  her;  I  won*tbave 
anything  to-  do  with  her,  oor  with  you. 
Where's  my  mother  ?  " 

**Your  mother's  in  the  hospital,  and 
very  comfortable,  and  sends  her  love  to 
you." 

Nixie  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  and 
refused  to  be  comforted. 

*•  1  want  my  mother,"  she  reiterated, 
turning  a  white,  imploring  countenance 
from  one  bystander  to  another. 

The  court  was  emptier  and  darker  now ; 
but  a  little  group  had  collected  round,  and 
the  woman  who  had  spoken  to  Nixie  early 
in  the  day  undertook  to  reason  with  her. 

**  Your  mother's  where  she  should  be, 
in  the  London  Hospital,  and  she'll  have 
the  best  of  care,  and  she  said  you  were  to 
go  along  with  Joe  till  she  came  back." 

**  When  will  she  come  back  ? " 


••In  a  fortnight,  maybe.  You  can't 
stop  out  all  that  time  without  anything  to 
eat." 

*•  I  won't  go;  I  hate  him.  What  call 
had  he  to  knock  her  down  ?" 

*'Ah,  well,  if  you  don't  do  what  she 
tells  you,  she  won't  know  where  to  find 
you  when  she  comes  out,  and  then,  may- 
be, you'll  never  see  her  again." 

>fixie  went ;  there  was  nothing  else  for 
her  to  do,  and  the  thought  that  her  mother 
might  not  know  where  to  find  her  was  the 
deciding  one. 

Through  the  now  dark  and  desolate 
streets  she  followed  Joe  to  a  home  much 
like  her  own,  situated  in  a  distant  court. 
His  wife,  who  was  in  bed  with  some  of 
the  children  round  her,  greeted  him  with 
a  volley  of  abuse  for  coming  home  so  late, 
and  when  she  saw  Nixie,  was  ready  to  tura 
her  straight  out  of  doors  again.  Joe,  how- 
ever, was  the  master  in  his  own  house. 

••The  child  wilUtav," he  decided,  "and 
she'll  look  after  the  brats  while  youVe  at 
your  work.  Get  you  now  to  bed,"  he  added 
to  Nixie,  and  pointed  as  he  spoke  to  a  heap 
of  flock  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  where 
three  children  already  lay.  Nixie  did  not 
speak  a  word;  she  was  reduced  to  feeling 
almost  grateful  as  she  crept  to  the  place 
be  had  assigned. 

He  vouchsafed  no  explanation  of  where 
she  had  come  from,  and  in  the  morning 
he  gave  her  one  piece  of  advice.  •'Just 
you  take  my  word  for  it,  and  don't  men- 
tion your  mother  while  you're  here.  Say 
I  found  you  on  a  dust-heap,  and  told  you 
my  missis  wanted  a  gal." 

Nixie  was  glad  to  do  as  she  was  told. 
In  this  place  her  life  was  such  as  to  make 
the  old  life  with  her  mother  seem  in  one 
day  a  paradise  too  far  removed  to  have 
been  ever  realized.  Joe's  wife  was  not 
more  often  drunk  than  Moggy ;  but  there 
was  this  great  difference,  that  whenever 
she  was  drunk  Nixie  was  beaten.  The 
child,  who  had  scarcely  known  a  blow, 
would  creep  to  her  sleeping-corner  at 
night,  stunned  and  dizzy,  and  aching  from 
head  to  foot.  Then,  instead  of  the  mother 
by  whose  side  she  had  been  used  to  lie, 
her  bed-fellows  were  rude  children  who 
kicked  and  pinched  her  at  their  will.  To 
go  from  them  to  their  mother  was  to  go 
from  bad  to  worse.  The  woman  had  a 
violent  temper,  and  though  Nixie  was  of 
real  service  to  her  in  minding  the  babies, 
she  seemed  to  bear  a  grudge  against  the 
child  for  the  mere  fact  of  her  existence, 
and  to  be  well  determined  to  let  her  feel 
it.  Nixie  was  no  hungrier  than  she  used 
often  to  be  in  her  mother's  care  ;  but  thei^ 


TOADS,   PAST  AND   PRESENT. 


437 


when  she  was  hungry,  she  could  be  quiet 
and  wait  for  better  times.  Now,  when 
she  was  hungry,  she  had  to  drag  heavy 
babies  about,  and  as  they  were  frequently 
hungry  too,  the  task  of  amusing  them  was 
no  trifling  one.  She  felt  often  so  faint 
and  giddy  that  she  could  not  lift  the  cml- 
dren  from  the  ground,  and  then  the  long- 
ing for  somewhere  to  hide  from  their  cries 
and  their  mother's  blows  became  such  a 
yearning  after  her  own  strong  mother's 
arms  as  was  at  times  almost  unendurable. 
In  all  the  troubles  of  life  she  had  up  to 
this  time  enjoyed  the  comfort,  dearer  than 
any  other  to  the  weak  —  a  protector.  Now 
she  knew  what  it  was  to  be  alone.  Her 
thin  cheeks  grew  thinner.  The  little  face 
lost  its  confiding  gentleness,  and  began  to 
wear  a  constant  expression  of  pain.  Her 
mother's  name  never  passed  her  lips.  She 
scarcely  spoke  at  all,  and  so  fearful  was 
she  of  betraying  anything  with  regard  to 
herself  that  wild  horses  would  not  have 
drawn  her  to  the  court  where  she  used  to 
]ive.  H,  in  perambulating  the  streets  with 
the  children  she  happened  to  pass  the  en- 
trance, she  would  involuntarily  turn  her 
head  away.  Life  was  growing  so  hard  that 
she  could  scarcely  have  endured  it  as  she 
did  but  for  the  one  sustaining  faith  that 
her  mother  would  some  day  return  and 
look  for  her  in  Joe's  room.  Evening  after 
evening,  when  Joe  came  home,  her  eyes 
would  search  his  face  for  news;  but  he 
never  told  her  anything,  and  she  never  ven- 
tured upon  a  question.  She  was  tempted 
at  times  to  run  away;  but  the  sentence 
with  which  the  woman  in  her  own  court 
had  decided  her  to  accompany  Joe,  chained 
her  still  to  her  slaverv,  "  If  you  don't  do 
what  your  mother  tells  you,  she  won't 
know  where  to  find  you  when  she  comes 
out." 

But  no  life  is  altogether  without  joy. 
Besides  the  hope  of  her  mother's  return, 
Nixie  had  one  interest  still.  She  did  not 
forget  the  promise  made  by  her  "  teach- 
er," as  she  persisted  in  calling  him,  and 
her  alleviating  joy  was  to  escape  from  the 
wretched  household  of  which  she  formed 
a  part,  and  to  wander  expectantly  about 
the  streets,  where  she  would  most  likely, 
she  thought,  be  sought  for.  He  had  told 
her  it  would  be  along  time  before  he 
came.  She  did  not,  therefore,  doubt  him 
in  the  least  because  he  delayed.  She 
hoped  for  him  and  sought  for  him,  and 
firmly  believed  that  he  would  some  day 
bring  her  a  rose  from  England.  A  rose 
from  England  meant  all  that  was  sweet 
and  graceful  and  beautiful  to  her,  and  was 
easy  to  believe  in  since  she  had  seen  the 


lovelv  garden.  That  garden  to  which  she 
coulci  never  go  now,  for  it  was  too  far  away, 
had  stirred  thoughts  in  her  that  she  could 
hardly  understand.  Her  •*  teacher  "  had 
given  her  one  steadfast  fact  round  which 
the  new  thoughts  clustered.  "  God  makes 
the  roses  grow  in  England."  Faintly, 
doubtfully,  the  little  heart  was  lifted  up, 
and  as  she  wandered  in  the  England  of 
squalid  streets  and  filthy  smells  and  hide- 
ous sights  and  horrid  sounds,  her  yearn- 
ings were  perhaps  just  as  reverent,  if  not 
so  conscious,  as  those  which,  long  ago,  in 
another  desert,  lifted  another  heart  to  the 
faith  that  some  day,  instead  of  the  thorn 
shall  come  up  the  fir-tree,  and  instead  of 
the  brier  shall  come  up  the  myrtle-tree. 
Somehow  at  this,  the  most  unhappy  peri- 
od of  her  life,  the  dream  of  goodness 
which  makes  roses  grow  gave  her  the  only 
comfort  which  she  had.  She  craved  to 
know  more  about  it ;  she  craved  for  a 
sight  of  the  man  who  had  been  kind  to 
her;  and  when  day  followed  day  and  he 
did  not  come,  she  at  last  inquired  of  the 
children  round  who  went  to  school  where 
it  was  that  the  teachers  came  from.  '*  Up 
the  Commercial  Road  in  trams  and 
'buses,"  they  told  her. 

From  that  time  forth  she  never  failed  to 
escape  at  least  once  a  day  from  her  bond- 
age, and  the  travellers  by  tram  and  'bus 
in  the  Commercial  Road  often  noticed  a 
little  ragged  fissure  with  eager  counte- 
nance, who  ran  alongside  and  peered  into 
the  vehicles  when  they  stopped.  If  any 
one  inquired  what  she  wanted,  the  an- 
swer was  always  the  same,  "  I'm  looking 
for  a  teacher,  please." 


From  Longman's  Masaxine. 
TOADS,  PAST  AND  PRESENT. 

It  will  surprise  some  people  to  learn 
that  Great  Britain  regularly  imports  toads 
from  Austria  and  elsewhere,  carefully 
packed  like  shell-less  plover's  eggs  with 
moss  in  wooden  boxes,  and  that  they 
"fetch  from  3/.  to  4/.  per  hundred." 
Those  who  know  toads  intimatelv  will  not, 
however,  be  surprised  at  that ;  for  a  toad 
has  his  good  points  —  not  in  his  person, 
indeed,  ^r  that  is  only  distinguished  by  a 
certain  **  baggy  squatness"  of  outline, 
said  to  have  been  intentionally  enshrined 
by  Milton  in  his  famous  description  of 
Satan,  who 

Sat  like  a  toad,  squat  at  the  ear  of  Eve. 
But  in  a  greenhouse  or  a  garden,  other 


438 


TOADS,   PAST  AND   PRESENT. 


than  that  of  Eden,  the  toad  is  as  welcome 
as  he  is  out  of  place  in  a  drawing-room. 
Solitude  and  moisture  are  his  elements. 
With  these  and  gnats  in  abundance  he 
will  straddle  in  comfortable  obesity  to  the 
end  of  his  days.  An  American  writer, 
Mr.  Dudley  Warner,  has  recorded  his 
experience,  that  to  keep  beetles  — 
••bugs"  he  calls  them  —  out  of  a  melon 
patch,  next  to  soot,  which  is  blacker  than 
the  beetles,  and  so  disgusts  them  into  go- 
ing away,  the  best  thing  in  the  world  is  a 
toad.  The  difficulty  in  keeping  the  toad 
on  {;uard  where  you  have  placed  him  can 
be  obviated  by  building  a  light  fence  all 
round  him.  Then,  we  are  told,  it  is  touch- 
ing to  observe  the  intimate  relations 
which  the  toad  at  once  establishes  with 
the  •*  black  bug,"  the  *•  straddle  bug.*'  and 
the  '*  striped  bug,  the  saddest  of  the 
year."  Mr.  Warner's  American  toads 
seem,  however,  to  have  been  more  lively 
and  ''jumping'*  than  our  English  ones. 
In  this  country  the  great  artifice  of  the 
toad  in  stalking  an  unwary  gnat  lies  in  its 
prolonged  simulation  of  philosophic  in- 
difference to  all  earthly  appetites.  With 
the  wisdom,  and  certainly  with  the  ugli- 
ness, of  Socrates,  the  toad  appears  to 
ponder  upon  the  great  inscrutable,  and 
takes  up  his  position,  plunged  in  deep 
thought,  a  few  inches  from  his  quarry.  A 
long  silence  succeeds,  then  —  flap!  — 
there  is  one  gnat  less  in  the  world,  and 
again  that  mystic  solemnity  is  drawn  like 
a  mask  over  the  toad's  wrinkled  and  cor- 
rugated countenance.  A  quick  eye  might 
perhaps  have  noticed  some  slight  vibra- 
tion of  the  air  between  the  insect  and  the 
toad ;  but  neither  seemed  to  stir,  and  yet 
the  gnat  has  gone,  and  the  toad  has  swal- 
lowed it.  For  Providence  has  compen- 
sated the  toad  for  his  ugliness  and  his  evil 
reputation  by  the  gift  of  a  patent  reversi- 
ble tongue,  nrmly  fixed  in  front  and  with 
the  gummy  free  end  pointing  down  his 
throat.  This  organ  he  fillips  out  suddenly 
and  **  nails"  his  mosquito  with  scientific 
dexterity. 

This  gift,  however,  which  may  be  said 
to  be  the  only  merit  of  a  modern  toad, 
has  been  consistently  ignored  by  the  poets 
and  others  who  have  held  their  crooked 
mirrors  up  to  nature  from  time  to  time. 
What  is  marvellous  in  nature  has  little 
attraction  for  the  inspired  poet  unless  it 
be  also  untrue.  This  is  the  grand  secret 
of  **  poesie."  When  Shakespeare  lived  to 
write,  toads  were  a  power  in  this  country. 
They  possessed  the  valuable  secret,  since 
lost  in  great  part,  of  getting  sweltered 
venom   under  cold  stones.      For    many 


years  the  semi-scientific  public  had  learned 
to  regard  this  story  as  an  ignorant  super- 
stition, and  the  toad  itself  —  at  a  distance 
—  as  a  perfectly  harmless  and  much 
maligned  reptile.  Real  science,  however, 
in^he  guise  of  the  Lancet  has  come  more 
orTess  to  Shakespeare's  rescue ;  for  that 
journal  last  year  discovered  more  suo 
than  the  venom  of  a  toad  "injected  be- 
neath the  skin  of  a  dog  "  —  always  some 
unhappy  dog  is  the  "friend  of  man"  in 
his  pursuit  of  science  as  of  woodcocks  — 
"produces  convulsions."  When  this  piece 
of  intelligence  shall  percolate  into  country 
districts  it  will  be  hailed  with  pleasure ; 
not  that  there  they  value  Shakespeare 
more,  but  that  they  love  toads  less.  The 
summary  immolation  of  toads,  whenever 
and  wherever  found,  has  long  been  the 
sacred  privilege  and  pastime  of  the  youth- 
ful rustic;  and  the  LanceVs  timely  "dis- 
covery" will  set  the  seal  of  scientific 
authority  upon  the  act. 

It  was  not  always  necessar)%  however, 
to  inject  the  toad's  venom  beneath  the 
skins  of  dogs  to  find  out  that  it  was  tol- 
erably powerful.     A  duke  once  loved  a 
maiden  of  low  degree.     Her  father  and 
lover  disapproved,  but  the  magnanimous 
nobleman  did  not  allow  that  unfortunate 
circumstance  to  embitter  their  relations 
as  landlord  and  tenant.     He  invited  them 
to  a  feast  at  the  ducal  mansion ;  when  they, 
not  content  apparently  with  all  the  special 
dishes  he  had  provided  for  them,  foolishly 
ate  a  leaf  (history  does  not  state  which 
took  the  larger  portion)  of  rue  that  grew 
in   the  garden.      Now,  it    unfortunately 
happened  that  a  toad  had  burrowed  under 
that  identical  plant,  and  both  of  the  men 
died  during  the  afternoon.    There  could 
be  no  doubt  about  the  matter.    There  was 
the  plant,  there  were  the  dead  men ;  and 
when  the  rue,  by  the  duke's  orders,  was 
uprooted,  the  toad  was  found  underneath 
and  promptly  immolated.     The  men  were 
buried,  and  his  Grace  received  much  com- 
mendation for  his  discretion  in  divining 
the  causa  mortis.     Whether  the  course  of 
true  love  ran  subsequently  smooth  is  un- 
certain.    At  all  events  the  duke   never 
married  the  maiden.     But  the   impartial 
toad  of  those  days  did  not  confine  itself 
to  doing  to  death  impedimental  male  rela- 
tions.    It  could,  and  did,  spit  venom  upon 
man  and  beast  with   discrimination   and 
accuracy  from  a  distance  of  many  cubits. 
The  cattle  disease  of  the  period,  as  well 
as  those  mysterious  human  deaths,  which 
a  modern  jury  would  bring  in  as  "wilful 
murder  against  persons  unknown,"  were 
generally  understood  to  be  the  work  of 


TOADS,    PAST  AND   PRESENT. 


439 


the  bated  batrachian.  It  would  indeed, 
not  have  been  surprising  if  the  whole 
clan  had  been  annihilated  for  their  mis- 
deeds. 

Still,  it  is   some  consolation   to  know 
that  even  in  (he  rank  hey-day  of  its  venom 
the  toad   was    sometimes  over-matched. 
The  astute  spider  of  ancient  times  se- 
creted an  opposition  poison  so  deadly  that 
in  single  combat  with  the  toad  it  invaria- 
bly triumphed.     His  Grace,  the  Duke  of 
Bedford,  we  are  told,  was  once  taking  his 
walk  with  divers  gentlemen  of  his  house- 
hold, when   they  espied  a  spider  and  a 
toad  struggling  near  a  "certaine  plante." 
The  duke  was  apparently  not  a  practical 
botanist :  but  the  toad  was,  and  knew  that 
the  *'certaine  plante^was  efficacious  as 
an  antidote  to  spiders*  venom.    After  each 
round  it  retired  to  eat  a  leaf  and  returned 
to  the  charge  with  longer  and  **  more  man- 
ful "  leaps.     His  Grace  thereupon  ordered 
a  certain  honorable  gentleman  to  uproot 
the  plant,  which  was  speedily  done.    Then 
a   marvel,  wonderful  to  relate,  came  to 
pass.      The    toad,    who  had   *'come  up 
smiling"  for  the  fifteenth  time,  was  bitten 
as  usual  by  his  agile  antagonist,  and,  re- 
treating   for    medicine,    found    it    gone. 
Whereupon  it  gave  itself  up  to  despair, 
**grew   blacke,  and   burst  asunder  inso- 
much  that   all   were  astonished."     How 
much  it  was  necessary  that  the  toad  should 
burst  asunder  before  the  company  were 
astonished  is  not  stated.      People  were 
apparently  not  easily  astonished  in  those 
days.     Still  they   were  practical ;   for   a 
godly  society  of  monks  having  observed 
a  toad  **to  take  up  his  station"  upon  the 
mouth  of  a  sleeping  brother,  "and  know- 
ing that  to  arouse  him  was  certain  death, 
but  to  leave  the  animal  there  was  worse," 
carried  the  sleeper  carefully  into  a  corner 
of  the  room  where  there  was  a  spider's 
web.    Guessing  at  once  what  was  required 
of  her,  the  spider  spun  her  thread  down- 
wards and  promptly  burst  the  toad.     The 
sensation  of   the  imperilled   ecclesiastic 
must  then  have  been  enviable.    Spiders, 
however,  soon  degenerated.     A  philoso- 
pher of  an  inquiring  mind  shut  up  a  toad 
and  some  spiders  in  a  glass.     At  first,  in- 
deed,  the   spiders  commenced  **  without 
resistance  to  sit  upon  his  head,"  but  later 
**upon    advantage,   he    swallowed    them 
down,  and  that  in   a  few    hours,  to  the 
number  of  seven."     It  is  humiliating  to 
confess  that  nowadays  toads  eat  spiders 
with  businesslike  regularity,  and  look  as 
healthy  as   toads  can.    Sometimes  they 
eat   nothing  and  grow  stout   on    it.    A 
young  toadlingonce  hibernated  within  the 


empty  rose  of  a  large  watering-pot.  When 
spring  arrived,  it  was  much  exercised  in 
mind  by  a  cork  which  the  ingenuity  of 
juvenile  malice  had  thrust  into  the  en- 
trance. When,  later  on,  the  obstacle  was 
removed,  the  golden  moment  had  passed 
and  the  toad  was  found  to  be  too  stout  to 
get  out.  When  last  seen  as  a  two-year- 
old,  it  seemed  a  little  cramped  for  room, 
but  by  no  means  impatient. 

Patience,  indeed,  would  appear  to  be 
the  toad's  only  good  quality,  unless,  in- 
deed, want  of  beauty,  as  in  those  novels 
of  "  a  good  moral  tendency,"  can  be  mag- 
nified into  a  cardinal  virtue.  With  philo- 
sophic equanimity  the  toad  will  creep 
head  first  into  a  hole,  and  then,  reversing 
its  engines  with  great  difficulty  and  much 
asthmatic  puffing,  turn  round  and  gaze 
out  upon  the  world  with  the  Imperturbable 
visage  of  Herodotus'  prince,  who  "  would 
have  been  handed  down  to  posterity  as 
the  wisest  of  men  if  he  had  not  lain  on 
his  back  and  gesticulated  in  an  unseemly 
manner  with  his  legs."  The  toad  never 
gesticulates  with  its  legs,  but  continues  to 
peer  .solemnly  out  of  the  hole  until  the 
gardener  fills  it  up  with  a  spadeful  of 
earth.  The  gardener  says  it  is  good  for 
toads  to  be  buried  for  fifty  years.  Nor, 
if  the  ordinary  estimates  of  batrachian 
longevity  are  to  be  trusted,  would  the 
toad  miss  that  half-century  of  retirement 
from  business.  Mr.  Arscott,  of  Devon- 
shire, has  recorded  how,  as  a  boy,  he 
became  acquainted  with  a  toad  which  his 
father  had  tor  many  years  noticed  haunt- 
ing the  steps  of  his  father's  front  door. 
From  the  first  this  particular  toad  had 
been  remarkable  for  its  patriarchal  dimen- 
sions, and  when,  after  thirty  years,  Mr. 
Arscott  undertook  to  tame  the  creature,  it 
responded  to  his  approaches  with  all  the 
effusion  of  youthful  confidence,  and  after 
having  haunted  the  front-door  steps  for 
three  generations,  became  at  last  a  wel- 
come guest  at  the  supper-table,  and  ate 
maggots. 

But  it  is  childish  to  calculate  a  toad's 
age  by  human  generations  or  by  cen- 
turies A.D.  Long  before  the  days  of 
Noah's  great-grandfather's  predecessors, 
toads,  we  are  told,  used  to  seat  them- 
selves, for  purposes  known  only  to  them- 
selves, in  the  plastic  sediment  of  the 
antediluvian  past.  There,  oblivious  of  the 
world,  they  remained,  while  the  sediment 
became  sandstone,  and  geological  periods 
came  and  went,  each  dragging  on  its  end- 
less tale  of  years.  Through  their  stone 
walls  perchance  the  toads  speculated  upon 
the  lapping  and  murmuring  sound  of  those 


440 


TOADS,   PAST   AND   PRESENT. 


waters  that  drowDed  the  earth,  and  the 
clinkin*;  of   mallet  and  chisel  upon  that 
useless  tower  of  old,  and   listened  with 
solemn  wonder  to  the  strange  outcry  that 
followed  the  confusion  of  the  workmen's 
tongues.     Then   a   long   silence,  gilded 
with  the  distant  recollection  of  the  Havor 
of  those  plump  palaeozoic  mosquitoes  that 
used  to  settle  upon  the  sedimentary  de- 
posits into  which  the  toad  was  surely  but  | 
slowly  sinking.     Once  more  the  silence  is 
broken   by  the  distant  sound  of  human 
tools  and  voices.    Nearer  and  nearer  they 
approach  until,  at  last,  the  toad's  prison  is 
burst  open,  and,  with  its  blear  eyes  dazzled 
by  a  flood  of  nineteenth-century  daylight, 
the  load  gazes  dreamily  upon  the  wonder- 
ing face  of   Silas  Browne,  of  Liverpool, 
quarrymin.     Then  he  crawls  forth  labori- 
ously, and  **  nails  "  the  housefly  of  civiliza- 
tion with  a  relish  that  would  almost  seem 
to  imply  a  previous  acquaintance  with  the 
insect.     He  is  agile,  too,  considering  his 
age.     But  the  agility  of  a  toad  is  not  to  be 
compared  with  that  of  a  quarryman,  who 
knows   a  scientific  gentleman,  "as  pays 
well   for  fossuls  and  curiosities."    Then 
the  toad  and  fragments  of  his  prison  are 
enveloped  together  in  a  red  handkerchief, 
and  subsequently  displayed  to  the  ecstatic 
eyes  of  the  representative  of  science,  who 
takes  down  Browne's  "  ocular  evidence  " 
with  circumstantial  accuracy,  though,  as 
he  naively  remarks,  *'  corroborative  testi- 
mony is  hardly  necessary,"  for  the  cavity 
in  the  stone  could  not  have  fitted  the  toad 
better,  "if  it  had  been  made  to  measure." 
Whereat  Silas  Browne  glances  uneasily 
round  the  room.    Then   he  pockets  his 
money,  picks  up  his  fur  cap  from  under  the 
chair,  and  departs.    The  man  of  science 
has  been  to  London,  reads  an  address  to 
the  Royal  Society  for  Scientific  Investiga- 
tion of  Impossible  Phenomena,  illustrated 
with  diai^rams  of  a  coal  mine,  sections  of 
geological  strata,   plaster  casts  of  toad- 
holes,  fragments  of  the  genuine  toad-hole, 
and  the  antediluvian  toad  himself  survey- 
ing the  audience  through  his  glass  prison, 
like  Solomon  in  a  greenhouse.    Then  the 
man  of  science  carries  out,  for  the  good 
of  mankind,  a  series  of  instructive  experi- 
ments.    He  buries  a  number  of  toads,  for 
the    good    of   mankind,  underground   in 
stone  prisons    with    glass    fronts;    digs 
them  up  at  the  end  of  a  year.     He  finds 
some  of  the  toads  dead,  others  still  alive, 
though  "much    emaciated."     He   reads 
another  lecture  to  the  R.S.F.S.I.O.l.P., 
and  again  buries  the  toads.     At  the  end 
of  another  year  all  the  toads  are  dead  and 
shrivelled  up,  and  he  reads  no  more  lec- 


tures. It  would  not  be  for  the  good  of 
mankind  to  do  so ;  but  somehow  of  late 
years  the  market  price  of  a  toad  in  a  coal 
mine  has  fallen  oft  considerably,  which  is 
perhaps  only  one  more  instance  of  the 
degeneracy  of  the  modern  toad. 

They  were  once  invaluable  in  many  re- 
spects.     Fortune-tellers    were    helpless 
without  fried  toads.     A  witch's  incanta- 
tion   was    obviously    incomplete    unless 
"  Paddock"  (the  familiar  name  of  the  rep- 
tile) called.    An  ointment   of   toad's  fat 
gave  immense  muscular  strength  if  ap- 
plied to  the  body  at  the  moment  of  con- 
junction of  certain  favorable  planets.    A 
cubic  inch  of  dried  toad  worn  round  the 
neck  on  a  string  was  an  infallible  antidote 
against  many  diseases  of  the  body  and 
mind ;  and  a  powdered  toad,  swallowed  in 
spoonfuls,  formed  a  love  philtre  irresisti- 
ble by  the  most  obdurate  swain,  perhaps 
because  the  nature  of  the  medicine  was 
such  as  to  compel  him  to  throw  up  his 
previous  engaa;ements.     The  common  or 
garden  toad  of  the  present  day  must,  in* 
deed,  admit  with  sorrow  that  virtue  has 
gone  out   of  him.     Batrachian   powders 
would  only  make  a   modern   misogynist 
very'ill;  and  ordinary  toads  shrivel  up  to 
such  an  extent  that  the  happy  effects  of 
a  solid  cubic  inch  of  dried  toad  are  unat- 
tainable.   Even  the  priceless  jewel  that 
each  toad  used  to  carry  in  his  head,  in 
order,  out  of  pure  toadish  spite,  to  pre- 
vent human  beings  from  finding  him,  !s 
not  easily  discovered  nowadays.     Nature 
is  more  niggardly  of  diamonds  than  she 
used  to  be,  and  the  supply  of  precious 
stones  for  the  toads'  heads  has  therefore 
run  short.     In  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  days 
they  were  abundant  enough,  being  "often 
to  be  met  with  in  toads,  at  least  by  the 
induration  of  their  cranies,"  and,  though 
fewer  in  number  than  the  "toadstones'* 
found  in  the  earth,  were  valuable  enough, 
"and  in  substance  not  unlike  the  stones 
in  crabs*  heads.'*    As  far  as  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time  we  can  recollect,  the  results 
of  childhood's  scientific  investigations  for 
the  pearl  of  great  price  in  a  toad's  "cra- 
ny"  produced  a  decided  opinion  that  a 
toad's  head  was  partly  full-  of  water  and 
partly  empty.     Doubtless  the  vinegar  as- 
pect  of   that  toad  —  for  his  malevolent 
expression  haunts  us  still  — dissolved  his 
pearl.     Or  it   may  be  that  the  race  has 
suffered   from   hereditary  water   on  the 
brain  to  such  an  extent  that  not  only  is 
there  no  stone  in  the  cerebellum,  but  not 
even  any  cerebellum  —  nothing  but  water. 
One  inquiring  naturalist  has  stated  that 
this  water  has  an  acid  taste.    It  is  to  be 


ACTING  IN   EARNEST. 


441 


hoped  that  he  became  aware  of  that  valu- 
able fact  by  accident. 

There  is  another  kind  of  English  toad 
distincruished  from  the  ** common'*  or 
"garden"  toad  (Bufo  vulgaris)  by  its 
title,  the  "  natter-jack  *' toad,  by  its  com- 
parative rarity,  its  superior  agility,  and  a 
yellow  stripe  down  its  back.  But  these 
are  poor  substitutes  for  the  venomous, 
medicinal,  jewelled,  and  immortal  toad  of 
poets,  philosophers,  and  men  of  science 
of  the  last  generation.  Their  toad  exists 
no  longer. 

£.  Kay  Robinson. 


From  Chambert'  Journal. 
ACTING  IN   EARNEST. 

It  is  well  known  that  during  those 
hours  which  the  late  Mr.  Charles  Dickens 
devoted  to  literary  labor,  so  thoroughly 
did  he  throw  himself  into  the  different 
characters  of  his  works,  that  for  the  time 
being  he  thou(/ht,  plotted,  spoke,  and 
acted  only  in  their  respective  persons, 
forgetting  altoo;ether  that  he  was  either  a 
novelist  or  Charles  Dickens,  or  indeed 
any  other  than  that  particular  individual 
whose  portrait  had  so  long  by  mental 
intercourse  become  indelibly  implanted  on 
his  mind.  To  the  habitual  practice  of 
this  trait,  therefore,  a  very  large  propor- 
tion of  his  success  is  to  be  attributed; 
for  it  roust  always  be  maintained  that  in 
the  truthful  delineation  of  character  — 
aod  each  individual  character  embodies  a 
variety  of  the  human  passions  —  all  the 
genius  of  an  exceptionally  qualified  novel- 
ist or  dramatist  is  to  be  traced ;  and  he 
who  can  so  completely  identify  himself 
with  the  creations  of  his  ima</ination  as 
to  sink  in  them  the  consciousness  of  his 
own  personality,  must  needs  present  a 
chain  of  characterization,  as  natural  as  it 
will  be  imposing  and  attractive. 

And  if  this  be  true  of  an  author,  with 
how  much  greater  force  must  it  not  apply 
to  an  actor,  who  becomes  at  once  the 
instrument  or  the  interpreter  of  the  dram- 
atist, and  whose  business  it  is  to  repre- 
sent faithfully  all  those  emotions  which 
have  been  allotted  to  the  character  that 
he  impersonates?  It  is  therefore  not  only 
necessary  that  the  histrio  act  his  part  with 
all  due  inteiliu;ence,  and  with  every  atten- 
tion to  details  in  the  matter  of  costume 
and  other  accessories ;  but  he  must  actu- 
ally/5?^/  the  character— to  lose  himself 
so  completely,  that,  for  the  time  present, 
he  become  in  turn  Othello,  Macbeth,  Ro- 


meo, or  any  other  of  those  personages 
which  his  art  calls  upon  him  to  assume. 

A  characteristic  anecdote,  ably  illus- 
trating this  fact,  has  lately  been  reported 

—  on  the  authority  of  M.Jules  Claretie 

—  touching  upon  Salvini's  conception  of 
Othello.  It  appears  that  one  evening  the 
great  tragedian  was  sorely  pressed  by  a 
party  of  friends  to  give  them  as  a  recita- 
tion the  last  monologue  of  Othello.  At 
length  he  consented,  and  after  a  few  mo- 
ments rose,  and  beo^an  in  that  fine  reso- 
nant voice  with  which  few  members  of  his 
profession  have  been  so  gifted.  But  sud- 
denly, and  in  the  middle  of  a  line,  he 
paused,  then,  with  a  gesture  significant  of 
disappointment,  exclaimed:  **No;  it  is 
impossible!  I  am  not  in  the  situation.  I 
am  not  prepared  for  this  supreme  anguish. 
In  order  to  render  the  frantic  despair  of 
Othello,  I  need  to  have  passed  through 
all  his  tortures.  I  need  to  have  played 
the  whole  part.  But  to  enter  thus  the 
soul  of  a  character  without  having  gradu- 
ally penetrated  into  it — I  cannot;  it  is 
impossible!"  Salvini  is  moved  by  the 
associations  of  his  part;  and  from  the 
moment  that  he  steps  on  the  stage,  he  is 
no  longer  Salvini,  but  Othello,  Lear,  or 
any  other  of  Shakespeare's  masterpieces. 
It  is  jocularly  said  in  Italy,  that  Salvini 
always  carries  in  his  pocket  a  free  pardon, 
signed  by  Victor  Emmanuel,  and  counter- 
signed by  the  minister  of  justice,  in  case 
when  he  plays  Othello,  of  his  smothering 
Desdemona  in  downright  earnest. 

Another  impassioned  actor  of  the  ytry 
highest  class  was  the  late  Mr.  Macready. 
**  I  have  often  watched  him,"  writes  Mr. 
George  Augustus  Sala,  **from  the  flies 
before  he  went  on,  standing  at  the  wing, 
apparently  lashing  himself  into  the  proper 
frame  of  excitement  needed  for  the  par- 
ticular part  which  he  was  playing,  and 
muttering  meanwhile  in  a  seemingly  inco* 
herent  manner  to  himself.  But  I  have 
been  assured  that  these  utterances  were 
by  no  means  incoherent,  and  that  thor- 
oughly identifying  himself  with  the  part, 
he  unfeignedly  believed  himself,  for  the 
nonce,  to  be  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  or  what 
not;  and  would  hold  the  most  passionate 
discourse  with  himself,  touching;  the  guilt 
of  Claudius,  the  gray  hairs  of  Duncan, 
and  the  potency,  gravity,  and  reverence 
of  the  Signory  of  Venice,  his  very  noble 
and  approved  good  masters."  On  one 
occasion,  immediately  after  the  curtain 
had  been  rung  up  on  the  first  act  of 
"  Macbeth,"  an  unlucky  actor  in  the  com* 
pany  chanced  to  stumble  upon  the  trage- 
dian during  his  passionate  preparations. 


443 


ACTING  IN   EARNEST. 


the  consequence  of  which  was  that  Mac- 
ready,  quite  unwittingly,  dealt  him  a  blow 
on  the  hand  with  such  force  that  the 
blood  flowed  forth ;  and  as  at  that  instant 
the  victim  was  to  make  his  entrance  on 
the  scene,  he  impersonated  the  "bleeding 
soldier  "  only  too  naturally,  and  much  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  other  actors. 

Talma,  also,  was  so  realistic  an  actor, 
that,  in  order  to  work  up  his  grand  bursts 
of  passion,  he  would  seize  upon  any  un- 
fortunate super  whom  he  came  upon  be- 
hind the  scenes,  and  shake  him  until  he 
himself  had  become  breathless,  and  the 
man  frightened  beyond  all  control  at  his 
assumed  violence.  Nevertheless,  the  pe- 
culiarities both  of  Macready  and  Talma 
were  only  in  accordance  with  that  prece- 
dent furnished  in  ancient  history,  though 
with  less  disastrous  results.  According 
to  Plutarch,  i£sop,  the  Roman  actor,  so 
interested  himself  in  the  characters  he 
undertook,  that  one  day  when  he  played 
Atreus,  he,  in  that  scene  where  it  falls  to 
his  lot  to  consider  how  he  might  best  de- 
stroy the  tyrant  Thyestes,  worked  himself 
up  into  such  a  pitch  of  ungovernable  rage 
that  he  struck  one  of  the  minor  perform- 
ers with  his  sceptre  and  laid  him  dead  at 
his  feet. 

From  the  earliest  days  of  the  Greek 
theatre,  the  drama  held  a  foremost  posi- 
tion among  the  arts,  and  was  considered 
side  by  side  in  importance  with  oratory. 
Nor  during  its  reign  among  the  Romans, 
at  a  later  period,  was  this  high  estimation 
of  the  tragic  muse  suffered  to  abate.    The 
ancients  infused  such  an  intense  earnest- 
ness and  zeal  into  their  acting,  that  no 
efiEort  or  sacrifice  was  ever  deemed  too 
great,  if,  by  its  employment,  the  interests 
of  their  art  could  be  in  any  wise  enhanced. 
And   how  well  these  interpreters  of  the 
dramatists  of  old  acquitted  themselves  on 
all  occasions  has  been  fully  exemplified 
in  the  instance  of  Pulux,  who,  on  the  very 
day  on  which  he  was  to  impersonate  Elec- 
tra  in  one  of  the  heroics  of  Sophocles, 
deeply  mourned  the  death  of  his  only  son; 
yet  this  did  not  inspire  him  with  sufficient 
cause  to  tear  himself  from  the  theatre 
and  his  duties  towards  the  public  as  an 
actor.     And  since,  by  a  peculiar  dramatic 
coincidence,  the  part  he  was  to  play  was 
an  exact  resemblance  of  his  own  condi- 
tion—  a  fond  father  bewailing  the  loss  of 
bis  child  —  he,  in  order  to  render  his  grief 
the  more  poignant  and  natural,  employed 
on  the  stage  the   identical   funeral  urn 
containing  the  ashes  of  his  lamented  son ; 
at  which  he  was  not  only  visibly  affected 
himself,  but  the  entire  assemblage  were 


touched  unto  tears  at  this  exhibition,  so 
harrowing  in  its  reality,  so  intensely  soul- 
inspiring  in  its  sorrow. 

Descending  at  once  to  the  time  of 
Shakespeare,  and  continuing  our  survey 
through  the  whole  history  of  the  modern 
drama,  we  discover  the  same  earnestness 
that  characterized  the  acting  of  the  an- 
cients. Of  Beiterton,  the  contemporary 
of  the  immortal  bard,  it  has  been  recorded, 
that  none  was  ever  more  qualified  by  na- 
ture and  by  genius  to  act  what  Shake- 
speare wrote;  and  that  he  never  for  a 
single  moment,  while  on  the  stage,  con- 
ducted himself  as  an  actor,  but  as  the 
character  he  represented.  We  are  told 
also  that  whenever  he  played  Hamlet  he 
was  actually  seen  to  turn  pale  as  the 
ghost  appeared,  so  thoroughly  did  he  en- 
ter into  the  feelings  of  the  title  r6Uy  so 
deeply  could  he  allow  his  imagination  to 
drink  in  the  horrors  of  such  a  situation. 

Garrick  possessed  the  same  powers  of 
realization.  A  grocer  in  Lichfield  —  Gar- 
rick's  native  place  —  on  the  occasion  of  a 
brief  visit  to  London,  was  desired  by  his 
neighbor,  Peter  Garrick,  to  wait  upon  his 
brother  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre  on  his  be- 
half;  for  which  purpose  he  furnished  him 
with  a  letter  of  introduction.  In  due 
course  he  arrived ;  yet,  before  presenting 
himself  at  the  stage  door,  the  grocer 
thought  he  would  first  see  the  perforn>- 
ance,  as  he  wished  to  satisfy  himself  at 
the  outset  as  to  the  personal  appearance 
of  David  Garrick.  The  theatre  was 
crowded  in  every  part;  and  when  the 
idol  of  the  public  came  on  the  stage  as 
Abel  Drugs:er,  their  enthusiasm  knew  no 
bounds.  The  consequence  of  this  visit, 
however,  was  that  the  grocer  returned  to 
Lichfield  without  having  presented  his 
letter.  He  thus  explained  himself  to  Pe- 
ter: "Your  brother  may  be  rich,  as  I 
dare  say  the  man  who  lives  like  him  must 
be ;  but  though  he  be  your  brother,  he  is 
one  of  the  shabbiest,  meanest,  and  most 
pitiful  hounds  I  ever  saw  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  life ! " 

A  worthy  successor  to  Garrick,  more 
especially  perhaps  in  Shakespearian  rdUs^ 
was  Spranger  Barry.  So  terrible  did  be 
appear  in  the  jealous  scene  of  "  Othello,** 
that  as  he  pronounced  the  words,  "I'll 
tear  her  all  in  pieces ! "  his  muscles  visi- 
bly stiffened,  his  veins  distended,  his  eyes 
almost  forced  themselves  from  their  or- 
bits, and  every  fibre  of  his  body  partook 
of  that  passion  which  carried  all  before 
it.  Men  and  women  in  all  parts  of  the 
house  were  equally  affected,  the  frail  sex 
shrieking  outright ;  while  Bernard,  in  his 


ACTING  IN   EARNEST. 


443 


^^RecoIlecUons/' confesses  that  he  could 
not  sleep  all  night  after  having  witnessed 
such  a  performance. 

Speaking  of  Barry's  earnestness  in  this 
particular  passage,  we  cannot  refrain  from 
calling  to  mind  Mr.  Edwin  Booth's  expe- 
rience in  the  same  portion  of  the  tragedy, 
as,  when  only  a  year  or  two  ago,  while 
performing  in  a  theatre  at  Fort  George  in 
the  far  west,  the  audience  were  so  carried 
away  by  his  terrific  earnestness  of  pur- 
pose, that  at  this  point  they  rose  to  a 
man,  and  drawing  their  bowie-knives  and 
revolvers,  declared  that  "if  he  did  not 
drop  his  diabolical  game  at  once,  they 
would  make  dead-meat  of  him!"—  upon 
which  revelation,  the  tragedian  dropped 
bis  acting,  and  the  manager  dropped  the 
curtain. 

Throughout  all  such  scenes  in  "  Othel- 
lo "and  other  plays,  Barry  was  himself 
so  intensely  moved,  that  his  powers  of 
utterance  were  considerably  weakened, 
and  real  tears  often  a;ushed  forth  from 
bis  eyes.  Apropos  of  this  subject,  too, 
Charles  Kemble  once  told  Mr.  Adolphus 
that  as  often  as  he  (Kemble)  acted  Cassio, 
on  bis  brother  John's  pronouncing  the 
words  as  only  he  could  pronounce  them, 
"  I  do  believe  it,  and  I  ask  your  pardon," 
he  caused  the  tears  to  flow  readily  from 
his  eves.  "  One  must  feel  to  make  others 
feel,"  once  remarked  an  eminent  actress, 
who  often  shed  tears  when  excited  by  the 
situations  in  which  the  heroine  of  her 
performance  found  herself;  and  Miss 
Kelly  used  to  relate  how  she  felt  the  hot 
tears  dropping  from  Mrs.  Siddons*s  eyes 
when  playing  one  of  her  most  pathetic 
parts. 

Nowadays,  weeping  plays  are  not  quite 
so  popular  as  formerly.  At  one  time,  peo- 
ple seem  to  have  frequented  the  theatre 
evidently  as  much  to  be  made  sorrow 
ful  as  to  be  amused ;  and  when  a  partic- 
ularly touching  incident  was  represent- 
ed, pocket-handkerchiefs  were  plentifully 
brought  into  requisition.  As  often  as 
Mrs.  Siddons  appeared  on  the  stage,  she 
worked  upon  their  sensibilities  so  ear- 
nestly, that  they  would  be  in  momentary 
expectation  of  shedding  tears  as  a  matter 
of  course.  As  an  amusing  instance,  there- 
fore, of  mistaken  pathos,  Mr.  J.  Croker 
Wilson  tells  the  story  of  a  lady  who  wept 
all  through  Mrs.  Siddons's  Rosalind,  in 
"As  You  Like  It,"  thinking  it  was  "Jane 
Shore  " ! 

Edmund  Kean  was  wont  to  portray  his 
characters  with  terrible  force.  It  has 
been  stated  that  when  whetting  the  knife 
in  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice,"  the  great 


tragedian  was  so  terribly  In  earnest,  that 
Young,  who  played  Antonio,  'jsed  to  trem- 
ble for  his  very  life  I  A  parallel  story  to 
this,  in  which  a  fellow-actor* found  grave 
reason  to  tremble  indeed,  is  related  of 
George  Frederick  Cooke.  One  night, 
Cooke,  after  having  during  the  day  quar- 
relled with  one  of  the  company,  was  ob- 
served to  be  intently  sharpening  the  edge 
of  his  sword  in  the  greenroom.  This 
was  a  few  minutes  before  going  on  the 
stage  as  Hamlet;  and  being  questioned, 
he  returned:  "Yes,  I  and  Mr.  Laertes 
will  settle  our  little  dispute  to  night."  As 
he  was  popularly  known  to  be  rancorous 
and  violent  on  such  occasions,  this  news 
startled  his  intended  victim ;  yet,  as  no 
possible  excuse  could  prevent  him  from 
going  on  the  scene  and  engaging  Hamlet 
in  the  proper  order  of  the  play,  he  stood 
so  far  on  the  defensive,  that  flinging  him« 
self  upon  his  adversary,  and  seizing  him 
by  the  collar,  he  threw  him  down  on  his 
back  on  the  stage,  and  planting  his  knee 
upon  his  chest,  solemnly  swore  that  he 
would  not  suffer  him  to  rise  or  the  play 
proceed  until  he  had  received  his  positive 
assurance  of  doing  him  no  mischief  either 
there  or  on  any  future  occasion.  We 
need  scarcely  add  that  many  among  the 
audience  must  have  been  somewhat 
struck  upon  beholding  this  new  reading 
of  Shakespeare's  text. 

Stage-flghttng  is  at  all  times  attended 
with  more  or  less  danger,  no  matter  how 
proficient  the  combatants  may  have  be- 
come by  training.  At  the  very  first  rep- 
resentation of  "  Michael  StrogofiE"  at  the 
Adelphi  Theatre,  Mr.  Charles  Warner 
received  a  serious  sword-slash  across  the 
hand,  which  put  him  to  very  considerable 
inconvenience. 

Even  more  serious  accidents  are  to  be 
found  in  the  annals  of  the  stage.  Quite 
recently,  a  case  was  brought  to  light  at  a 
theatre  at  Poitiers,  in  France,  where,  dur- 
ing a  performance  of  "Z^j  Pirates  de  la 
Savanty^  an  actor  was  shot  dead  by  his 
fellow.  '  Whether  the  fatal  issue  of  this 
catastrophe  was  to  be  attributed  to  acci- 
dent, carelessness,  or  design,  has  never 
been  discovered;  nor — as  in  all  similar 
instances  —  have  the  most  rigid  legal  in- 
quiries proved  of  the  least  avail  in  solv- 
ing the  mystery  as  to  how  such  a  firearni 
could  be  charged  with  a  bullet;  while  the 
"property-master,"  whose  business  it  is 
to  superintend  all  such  arrangements  «- 
as  well  as  to  himself  load  the  same  with 
powder  and  paper  ^///y  —  solemnly  avers 
his  utter  ignorance  of  the  circumstance. 

Accidents  of  another  kind,  again,  are 


444 


ACTING  IN   EARNEST. 


frequent,  and  at  times  attended  with  great 
danger.  Notably  these  are  to  be  met 
with  in  elaborate  set  scenes,  where  scaf- 
foldings, a  complex  system  of  rostrums, 
bridges,  turrets,  embatt4ements,  or  other 
elevated  portions  of  framework  are  em- 
ployed, which  are  liable  to  give  way  at  any 
moment  beneath  the  weight  of  an  actor, 
and  precipitating  him  to  an  immense 
depth  on,  or  even  below  the  stage,  are 
generally  attended  with  great  personal  in- 
juries. It  will  not  be  necessary  to  recur 
to  these  facts  more  particularly  in  this 
place  —  our  own  stage  experience  might 
indeed  furnish  a  few  examples  —  yet,  go- 
ing back  to  ancient  history,  we  even  there 
discover  sufficient  precedent  for  such  ca- 
tastrophes. In  those  spectacular  trage- 
dies, for  instance,  in  which  the  gods  de- 
scend in  chariots  from  the  roof  of  the 
stage,  the  ascents  of  heroes  to  the  realms 
of  bliss  on  the  backs  of  eagles,  and  the 
use  of  other  such  extravagant  machinery 
was  called  into  aid  — these  often  afforded 
the  means  of  unfolding  a  tragedy  in  the 
reality;  and  yet  the  performers  entered  so 
thoroughly  into  their  parts  that  they  paid 
little  heed  to  the  hazardous  risks  which 
they  thereby  encountered.  Suetonius 
tells  us  of  an  actor  who  undertook  the 
part  of  Icarus,  in  the  presence  of  Nero 
and  thousands  of  spectators  in  one  of  the 
largest  of  the  Roman  theatres,  and  so  ex- 
erted himself,  **thAt  though  he  fabled  the 
character,  he  realized  the  catastrophe  ; 
for,  falling  from  a  prodigious  height,  he 
was  dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  emperor  was 
covered  by  his  blood."  This  was  cer- 
tainly acting  in  earnest. 

Touching  for  a  moment  upon  the  lyric 
drama.  Sir  John  Hawkins  has  told  us,  in 
his  "History  of  Music,'*  how  that  cele- 
brated songstress,  Mrs.  Tofts,  whose 
triumphant  success  was  first  signalized  by 
her  rendering  of  Camilla  in  the  Italian 
opera  of  that  name,  was  so  affected  by  the 
regal  dignity  which  she  had  to  assume  in 
that  character,  that  it  exerted  a  disastrous 
effect  upon  her  mind.  She  ultimately, 
however,  regained  her  proper  frame  of 
mind,  and  again  resumed  her  lyric  repre- 
sentations, to  the  delight  and  admiration 
of  all  who  heard  her. 

Sometimes  natural  feelings  conquer 
those  that  are  artificial  in  the  actor.  On 
the  occasion  of  the  Olympic  Gascon  Com- 
pany, with  Mr.  John  Nelson  as  leading 
artist,  visiting  Aberdeen,  a  large  and 
fashionable  audience  had  assembled  on 


the  opening  night  to  witness  his  highly 
extolled  impersonation  of  Frank  Faraday, 
in  the  romantic  and  touching  drama 
"  Driven  from  Home,"  and  Joe  the  out- 
cast in  "The  Ocean  Waif."  During  the 
first-named  play,  all  went  well ;  and  the 
deep  pathos  which  the  actor  assumed  in 
his  character  of  the  oppressed  son,  exiled 
from  his  own  family,  and  subjected  to 
every  possible  disaster,  though  innocent  of 
any  crime,  made  itself  manifest  in  the  eyes 
of  many  among  the  audience,  though  they 
were  little  aware  that  his  seemingly  arti- 
ficial sorrow  was  only  too  real.  In  the 
second  piece,  he  found  it  difficult  to  con- 
quer his  rising  emotions ;  and  soon,  fal- 
tering in  his  delivery,  he  sank  back  into 
a  chair,  sobbing  aloud,  and  completely 
broke  down.  In  a  few  incoherent  words, 
he  then  told  the  audience  that  he  had  all 
the  evening  been  suffering  from  a  very 
painful  illness,  consequent  upon  the  sud- 
den death  of  his  brother,  of  which  he  bad 
only  been  informed  whilst  in  the  theatre; 
it  had  been  with  extreme  difficulty  that  be 
had  dragged  through  the  former  piece ; 
but  now  he  could  proceed  no  further.  At 
this  Juncture,  he  was  led  off  the  stage; 
nor  lor  some  moments  afterwards  were 
his  hysterical  sobs  sufficiently  subdued  to 
prevent  their  reaching  the  audience  from 
behind  the  scenes. 

Another  incident  even  more  distressing 
happened  during  the  performance  of  a 
comedy.  ,  The  actor  was  a  low  comedian 
already  high  in  the  public  estimation. 
His  business  was,  therefore,  to  amuse  the 
audience  by  his  antics;  but  unhappily, 
his  whole  bearing  was  on  this  particular 
night  so  unsuited  to  his  part,  and  so  for- 
eign to  the  general  conception  of  his  tal- 
ents, that  popular  indignation  was  levelled 
ajjainst  him;  nor  could  the  audience  ac- 
count for  the  change,  except  on  the  sup* 
position  that  he  must  be  intoxicated. 
Some  even  protested  against  his  being 
allowed  to  appear  before  them  in  such  a 
state.  At  length,  the  actor  advanced  to 
the  centre  of  the  footlights,  and  explained 
to  the  audience  in  a  few  touching  words 
the  cause  of  his  bad  acting.  "  My  wife," 
he  said,  "died  an  hour  ago." 

Verily,  might  not  many  a  member  of  an 
actor^s  profession  exclaim  with  Moli^re? 
—  "  My  life  is  a  sad  comedy  in  hvt  thou- 
sand acts.  It  is  very  droll  to  the  people 
in  front ;  but  It  is  bitter  to  the  man  be- 
hind the  scenes.** 


JUDGES    CLERKS. 


445 


From  The  Leisure  Hour. 
JUDGES'  CLERKS. 

For  some  three  or  four  hundred  years 
past  every  judge  of  the  superior  courts  of 
common  law  has  had  two  clerks  —  the 
"Westminster,"  or  "body"  clerk,  and 
the  "  chambers  *'  clerk.  The  former  of 
these  was  usually  clerk  to  the  particular 
judge  whom  he  represented  when  at  the 
bar.  He  had  most  likely  entered  his  em- 
ployer's service  a  mere  boy,  and  partly 
by  sharpness,  and  partly  by  good  for- 
tune, had  given  satisfaction  to  his  mas- 
ter, until  the  latter  was  raised  to  the 
bench,  and  the  clerk  shared  in  the  distinc- 
tion by  becoming  a  "judge's  clerk,"  with 
—  in  the  olden  days  —  some  j^QOO  or 
;{^i,ooo  per  annum  from  fees  received  as 
salary.  Before  the  Reformation  the 
judges^  clerks  were  in  holy  orders,  and 
long  after  that  event  we  find  them  person- 
ally acting  in  important  matters  in  a  way 
which  would  indicate  that  they  were  men 
of  education  and  legal  experience.  The 
sons  of  many  of  them  became  barristers 
and  solicitors  of  reputation,  and  others 
had  the  happiness  of  seeing  their  descen- 
dants upon  the  bench.  Mr.  Piatt,  West- 
minster clerk  to  Lord  Mansfield,  lived  to 
see  his  son  become  a  baron  of  the  ex- 
chequer. It  is  more  difficult  to  describe 
the  origin  of  the  "  chamber  "  clerk  of  the 
judge.  The  "  bodv  "  clerk  was  really  only 
a  superior  kind  or  servant,  waiting  upon 
the  judge  at  Westminster,  chambers,  and 
the  judge's  own  house,  robing  him  when 
about  to  sit  in  court,  copying  his  notes  of 
trials  if  required  by  the  home  secretary, 
or  in  the  appeal  court,  settling  his  circuit 
bills,  etc.,  and  acting  generally  as  a  secre- 
tary or  steward,  the  latter  an  office  so  en- 
tirely attached  to  him  on  circuit  that  the 
sitting-room  of  the  clerks  in  the  judges' 
lodgings  at  all  old  assize  towns  is  still 
called  "  the  stewards'  room."  The  cham- 
ber clerk  was  (for  the  office  no  longer  ex- 
ists) a  kind  of  delegate  judge  in  many 
matters ;  he  might  seldom  see  his  princi- 
pal. He  attended  daily  at  what  were 
called  "judges'  chambers,"  and  was  en- 
trusted with  a  facsimile  stamp  to  impress 
the  name  of  his  judge  upon  orders^  often 
of  vital  importance,  affecting  the  liberty 
and  property  of  the  subject.  He  read  and 
determined  a  vast  number  of  smaller  ap- 
plications made  to  the  judge,  and  his 
knowledge  of  the  law  was  large  and  com- 
prehensive. Attorneys  and  their  clerks 
continually  sought  his  advice,  and  he  was 
himself  ex  officio  an  attorney  of  the  court, 
and  in  more  instances  than  one,  articled 


to  himself  clerks  to  assist  him  in  his  du- 
ties, they  either  in  time  becoming  attor- 
neys, or  succeeding  as  judges'  clerks. 
The  late  learned  and  amiable  Lord  Justice 
Lush  was  a  remarkable  instance  of  this, 
rising  as  he  did  from  a  judge's  clerk's 
seat  in  the  chambers  of  the  Common 
Pleas  to  become  eventually  a  lord  justice 
of  the  Supreme  Court.  The  position  of 
a  judge's  clerk  in  the  good  old  days  was 
indeed  a  somewhat  enviable  one.  In 
town  his  status  was  that  of  a  gentleman 
associated  with  and  respected  by  men 
high  in  the  legal  profession.  Twice 
every  year  he  travelled  easily  and  pleas- 
antly through  a  group  of  English  counties, 
housed  and  fed  luxuriously  and  free  of 
expense  at  the  judge's  lodgings,  sitting, 
the  one  clerk  at  the  side  of  "the  judge, 
amongst  the  highest  and  noblest  of  the 
county,  the  other  in  a  more  obscure  po- 
sition, but  still  in  open  court,  receiving 
tangible  proofs  of  his  importance  in  the 
shape  of  fees,  momentarily  taken,  of 
which  he  had  to  keep  an  elaborate  ac- 
count, for  the  fees  did  not  belong  entirely 
to  the  clerks,  but,  strange  to  say,  every 
circuit  official,  from  the  judge  downwards 
to  the  footman,  or  "  marshaPs  man,"  as 
he  was  called,  took  pickings  out  of  them. 
The  jud^^e's  clerk's  large  salary  was  in- 
deed entirely  made  up  of  such  fees,  some- 
times earned  very  easily  indeed.  If  a 
"  private  bill "  were  passing  through  the 
House  of  Lords,  a  copy  was  sent  to  a 
judge  to  peruse,  and  with  such  copy  a 
fee  of  ^^5  was  received  by  the  clerk.  If  a 
public  company  made  any  by-laws,  be- 
fore they  became  operative  they  must  be 
signed  by  a  judge,  and  J[^z  was  paid  to  the 
clerk  for  such  signature.  The  clerk  re- 
ceived £2,  for  every  cause  entered  for  trial 
on  circuit,  £\  is,  for  uttering  the  few  for- 
mal words  necessary  upon  opening  each 
commission,  and  6d,  for  every  witness 
sworn  upon  either  a  civil  or  criminal  trial. 
If  a  judge  travelled  the  Northern  Circuit 
(the  heaviest  in  England)  his  two  clerks 
would  easily  clear  ^500  or  ;£6oo  during 
the  six  or  seven  weeks  the  assizes  lasted  ! 
Some  of  the  fees  demanded  seem  ridicu- 
lous enough.  After  each  commission 
was  opened  the  names  of  the  justices  of 
the  peace  in  the  county  were  called  over, 
and  as  each  answered  the  judge's  clerk 
held  to  him  a  wand,  to  the  end  of  which 
was  fastened  a  white  kid  glove  ;  into  this 
the  magistrate  was  expected  to  drop  a 
shilling!  On  certain  occasions  members 
of  the  bar  were  treated  to  a  similar  cere- 
mony. When  it  is  remembered  that  at 
Lancaster  alone,  before  assizes  were  held 


446 


JUDGES    CLERKS. 


at  Manchester  and  Liverpool,  as  many  as 
three  hundred  or  more  causes,  with  per- 
haps two  hundred  prisoners,  awaited  trial 
at  the  assizes,  it  may  be  imagined  what  a 
rich  harvest  of  fees  was  garnered  by  the 
fortunate  man  who  had  the  honor  of  rep- 
resenting the  judjie.  So  large  indeed  was 
the  civil  work  that  the  judge  daily,  before 
he  went  to  court,  sat  for  an  hour  or  so 
in  an  apartment  of  his  lodgings  to  hear 
interlocutory  applications  in  the  causes 
he  was  subsequently  to  try.  Summonses 
had  been  taken  out  and  served  upon  the 
other  side,  perhaps  in  London,  or  in  some 
other  town  many  miles  away.  On  the 
return  of  these  summonses  oiten  neither 
side  >  attended  before  the  judge  —  each 
had  written  to  the  judge's  chamber  clerk, 
appointing  him  his  agent,  and  instructing 
him  in  all  the  arguments  to  be  used  for 
and  against  the  application.  On  the  hear- 
ing the  judge  sat  behind  a  large  table ;  his 
clerk  faced  him  and  urged  the  granting  of 
the  application ;  and  then,  having  ex- 
hausted all  he  had  to  say  on  that  side,  as 
agent  for  the  respondent  he  argued 
af^ainst  granting  the  application.  Of 
course  his  lordship  decided  justly,  and 
which  ever  way  the  decision  went,  the 
clerk  was  duly  paid  "agency  fees"  by 
both  successful  and  unsuccessful  party. 
It  was,  however,  at  the  judges'  chambers 
in  London  that  the  great  bulk  of  fees  an- 
nually received  were  taken.  Down  to 
1838  each  jud^e  had  separate  chambers, 
ancient,  tumble-down  places  scattered 
about  Serjeants'  Inn,  Chancery  Lane,  and 
elsewhere.  In  that  year  a  large  block  of 
handsome  new  buiicfings  was  erected  in 
Rolls  Garden,  to  which  all  the  chamber 
business  of  the  common-law  judges  was 
transferred.  Here,  in  three  large  halls, 
devoted  to  the  Courts  of  Queen's  Bench, 
Common  Pleas,  and  Exchequer  respec- 
tively, the  judges'  chamber  clerks  sat  daily 
from  eleven  to  five  in  term  time,  and  from 
eleven  to  three  in  vacation,  fully  occupied 
in  issuing  summonses,  drawing  uporoers, 
swearing  deponents  to  atBdavits,  etc.,  etc. 
Every  summons  cost  2^.,  an  order  3^.  or 
51.,  as  the  case  might  be.  For  taking  an 
affidavit  \s,  was  demanded,  and  for  filing 
the  same  \s.  also.  The  total  amount  of 
fees  thus  taken  amounted  annually  to 
some  ;£  1 8,000  or  ;^ 20,000!  Twice  every 
year,  during  circuit,  one  judge  only  re- 
mained in  town  to  attend  chambers,  and 
his  pair  of  clerks,  with  such  assistance  as 
they  chose  to  call  in  at  their  own  expense, 
divided  the  fees  amongst  themselves. 
This  period  was  known  as  the  '*stay  at 
borne;"  and  lucky  were  the  clerks  who 


enjoyed  it.  The  work  was  heavy  and 
responsible,  as  may  easily  be  imagined, 
but  the  receipts  amply  compensated  for 
any  extra  fatigue,  whether  of  mind  or 
body.  In  one  such  stay  at  home  the  pair 
of  clerks  took  on  the  average  fees  amount- 
ing to  £\oo  per  diem,  making  perhaps  a 
net  daily  profit  of  jf  90  after  all  assistant 
and  other  expenses  had  been  paid.  Re- 
muneration such  as  this  was  doubtless 
excessive,  and  for  some  years  prior  to 
1852  the  government  had  attempted  to 
put  the  establishment  at  the  judges' 
chambers  on  a  more  reasonable  footing. 
An  act  of  Parliament  was  passed,  and  in 
November,  1852,  came  into  operation,  un- 
der which  the  whole  of  the  fees  taken  by 
the  clerks«^became  the  property  of  the 
imperial  exchequer,  and  were  paid  quar- 
terly on  oath  into  the  treasury.  The 
clerks  were  reduced  to  fixed  salaries  :  the 
Westminster  officer  to  jf6oo  and  the 
chamber  clerk  to  £\oo  per  annum.  Un- 
der the  provisions  of  this  statute  matters 
remained  quiescent  for  nearly  twenty- 
eight  years.  The  grievance,  however, 
was  deeply  felt,  and  alluded  to  in  the  re- 
ports of  more  than  one  royal  commis- 
sion, that  the  judges'  chamber  clerks  still 
had  an  unsatisfactory  tenure  of  office. 
The  Westminster  clerk  necessarily  lost 
his  situation  upon  the  death  or  retirement 
of  the  judge  he  served  in  order  to  make 
room  for  the  old  and  valued  clerk  of  the 
new  judge ;  but  in  the  case  of  the  cham- 
ber clerk  there  was  no  such  necessity  for 
change,  and  it  was  felt  to  be  detrimental 
to  the  public  service  that  a  man  who  had 
gained  experience,  and  enjoyed  the  con- 
fidence of  the  profession,  should  be  super- 
seded, upon  the  death  or  resignation  of  a 
judge  whom  he  nominally  served,  al- 
though, perhaps,  seldom  saw,  by  some 
young  uninformed  clerk  useless  for  years 
to  the  profession  or  public.  At  length,  in 
1879,  niatters  were  radically  altered.  The 
old  "judges' chambers  "  were  practically 
abolished,  and  the  building  containing 
them  deserted  by  the  clerks  and  appli- 
cants. A  new  legal  department  was  cre- 
ated, called  "the  Central  Office  of  the 
High  Court  of  Justice."  The  lord  chan- 
cellor transferred  to  this  new  department 
the  older  and  more  experienced  of  the 
chamber  clerks,  and  created  them  perma- 
nent civil  officers  of  the  crown,  indepen- 
dent of  the  judges  as  to  either  appoint- 
ment, removal,  or  tenure  of  office,  and 
entitled  to  superannuation  upon  retire- 
ment, the  civil  service  commissioners, 
after  due  inquiry,  granting  them  certifi- 
cates as  to  their  experience  and  fitness 


THE   OYSTER   SEASON. 


447 


for  the  office.  The  judges'  clerks  now 
consist  of  two  clerks  to  each  judge,  whose 
salaries  are  ^£400  and  j£200  respectively, 
reduced  to  that  amount  by  the  Judicature 
Acts,  1873-5.  Both  these  arc  personal 
clerks,  appointed  without  special  qualifi- 
cation,  and  holding  office  during  their 
judge's  pleasure,  and  their  office  ceases 
upon  his  death  or  resignation.  No  pen- 
sion whatever  is  provided  for  them,  how- 
ever long  or  ably  they  may  have  held 
office.  Truly  the  present  condition  of  a 
judge's  clerk  contrasts  significantly  with 
the  traditions  of  the  office  10  **  the  good 
old  times." 


From  The  Mornin  ;  Post. 
THE  OYSTER  SEASON. 

By  the  middle  of  October  the  oyster 
season  may  be  said  to  be  at  its  height, 
and  from  this  time  till  next  spring  Tew 
people  blessed  with  a  healthy  appetite  and 
moderate  means  will  allow  many  consecu- 
tive days  to  pass  without  renewing  over 
and  over  again  their  pleasant  acquaintance 
with  the  seductive  bivalve.  Hitherto,  in- 
deed, though  the  oyster  season  nominally 
commences  on  September  i,  gourmets  are 
materially  chary  of  their  attentions.  The 
shell-fish  after  their  exertions  at  spawning 
time  are  somewhat  out  of  condition,  and 
the  copious  supply  of  oatmeal  with  which 
thev  are  treated  may  supply  indeed  all  the 
bulk  that  is  required,  but  sadly  impairs 
the  racy  flavor  that  belongs  only  to  the 
"native  "  fresh  from  his  native  salt.  Our 
ancestors  were  not  so  fastidious  however. 
'*  Who  eats  oysters  on  St.  James's  Day," 
says  an  obsolete  proverb,  "will  never 
want;"  and  as  St.  James's  Day  at  that 
time  fell  on  July  25,  equivalent  to  August 
5  now,  it  is  just  as  well  that  the  proverb 
should  remain  obsolete.  The  oyster 
spawns  —  that  is  to  say,  fills  the  water 
with  fragments  of  a  whiteish  substance 
not  unlike  drops  of  candle  grease,  which 
is  called  "spat,"  and  contains  innumer- 
able baby  oysters  —  in  May  or  June ;  and 
it  stands  to  reason  that  the  little  creatures, 
which  after  three  months'  growth  are  no 
larger  than  shillings,  can  hardly  be  in  a 
condition  to  withstand  a  violent  course  of 
dredging  in  July  or  August.  Therefore 
it  is  that  a  newer  proverb  has  been  in- 
vented, according  to  which  oysters  are 
only  rightly  edible  in  those  months  whose 
names  contain  an  "  r,"  and  by  the  Act  of 
Parliament  (i^^  Vic,  cap  79,  it  was  de- 
clared that  the  oyster  season  should  com- 


mence on  September  i  and  end  on  April 
30.  In  some  places  this  rule  is  strictly 
observed,  and  enforced  in  Dublin,  it  is 
stated,  with  a  heavy  fine ;  but  in  London, 
alas !  oysters  are  more  or  less  procurable 
all  the  year  round.  Professor  Huxley, 
indeed,  m  his  lecture  before  the  Royal 
Institution,  ridiculed  the  idea  that  any 
human  regulation  could  have  any  effect 
upon  the  welfare  of  the  oyster.  He  based 
his  opinion  apparently  simply  on  the  fact 
that  oysters  produce  so  many  million  ova 
per  acre,  and  that  the  struggle  for  exis- 
tence in  nature  is  so  large  and  its  rela- 
tions so  complex  that  *'our  regulations 
after  all  are  of  the  smallest  possible  con- 
sequence." The  professor's  views  have 
not,  however,  met  with  more  approval 
than  perhaps  they  deserve ;  for,  to  tell  the 
truth,  they  were  based  on  a  most  unscien- 
tific view  of  the  nature  of  things.  No  one 
will  deny  that  the  balance  of  nature  is  a 
wide  one  and  its  machinery  highly  com- 
plicated, but  the  same  might  be  said  of 
the  balance  of  power  in  Europe ;  and  yet 
nothing  is  more  easily  upset,  and  when 
once  upset  more  incapable  of  violent  rec- 
tification. Professor  Huxley  should  study 
the  natural  history  of  Jamaica,  where,  with 
the  best  possible  intentions,  man  has  6ve 
times  destroyed  the  status  quo  of  the  ani- 
mal world  with  the  most  disastrous  conse- 
quences to  himself.  In  the  first  place  it 
is  obvious  that  if  we  chose,  by  planting 
the  oyster  beds  thickly  with  the  enemies 
of  the  oyster,  with  starfish  or  "dead  men's 
fingers  "  —  who,  by  means  of  a  patent 
invertible  stomach, digest  the  oyster  with- 
out taking  it  out  of  its  shell  —with  mus- 
sels or  with  cockles,  we  could  easily 
annihilate  the  oyster.  By  dredging  again 
with  a  fine-meshed  net  throu«rhout  May 
and  June  we  could  destroy  most  of  the 
tiny  oysters.  And  if  our  power  of  evil  is 
so  extensive  over  this  same  balance  of 
nature  in  the  matter  of  the  oyster,  why 
not  also  our  power  for  good  ?  We  have, 
indeed,  already  discovered  the  method  of 
artificially  breeding  the  spawn,  and  there 
is  no  real  reason  why  in  time  to  come 
oysters  should  not  return  to  the  good  old 
price  of  half-a-crown  per  hundred.  There 
still  remains  much  in  the  history  of  the 
oyster  unknown  to  science.  The  causes 
of  the  difference,  for  instance,  between 
"  natives  "  and  ordinary  oysters  would  be 
a  grand  secret  to  discover.  It  depends, 
of  course,  upon  the  nature  of  the  food  and 
surrounding  circumstances,  for  Welsh 
oysters  laid  down  with  "  natives  "  in  a  few 
months  begin  to  assume  the  "native*^ 
character.    So  susceptible,  indeed,  is  the 


448 

edible  oyster  to  the  influence  of  his  sur- 
roundings that  the  late  Frank  Buckland 
could  always  distinguish  at  sight  the 
shells  from  different  districts.  Young 
English  oysters  laid  down  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean at  once  altered  their  growth,  ac- 
cording to  M.  Costa,  and  began  to  assume 
the  diverging  rays  that  characterise  the 
Mediterranean  kinds.  The  oyster's  shell, 
indeed,  hard  as  it  appears,  is  really  one  of 
the  most  plastic  of  mechanisms.  It  has 
been  found  adapting  its  structure  com- 
fortably to  the  concave  interior  of  an  old 
champagne  flask  dredged  up  from  the 
"  Royal  George,"  and,  again,  comfortably 
ensconced  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  inside 
an  old  china  teapot  without  a  spout,  which 
it  fitted  as  accurately  as  if  it  had  been 
made  to  order  by  a  skilled  mechanic.  It 
was  almost  fortunate  for  that  oyster,  that 
he  was  discovered,  because  he  had  already 
plugged  up  the  orifice  where  the  lid  had 
once  been,  and  even  an  oyster  must  feel 
the  discomfort  of  carrving  on  all  his 
communications  with  tne  outside  world 
through  the  broken  spout  of  a  teapot. 
With  all  their  powers  of  roughing  it  in 
the  matter  of  locality,  oysters  are,  never- 
theless, quickly  affected  by  unsuitable 
temperature.  For  this  reason  the  failure 
of  the  first  importations  of  bivalves  into 
Ireland  was  attributed  to  the  fact  that 
they  had  been  brought  from  the  warm 
waters  of  Arcachon  instead  of  the  com- 
paratively cold  shores  of  northern  Brit- 
tany. It  is  lucky,  therefore,  for  natives 
of  countries  whose  climate  is  unsuitable 
to  our  Ostrea  Ednlis  that  many  other 
species  can  be  eaten,  else  would  they 
have  grave  cause  to  complain  of  the  par- 
tiality of  Providence.  He  must,  however, 
have  been  a  real  hero  that  first  ate  the 
oyster  of  Coromandel  —  two  feet  in  diam- 
eter. Man,  it  has  been  said,  is  pre-emi- 
i]ent4y  a  monev-getting  animal.  But  this 
is  not  true;  he  is,  above  all  things,  a 
greedy  animal.  The  oyster  proves  this. 
There  are  two  species  of  bivalves  called 
"oysters,"  of  which  one  provides  the 
daintiest  morsel  for  his  palate,  and  the 
other  offers  the  richest  jewels  for  his  pos- 
session. But  he  has  no  hesitation  as  to 
which  of  the  two  is  "the  oyster "^flr  ex- 
alienee;  the  other  is  only  "the  pearl  oys- 
ter.*'  But  even  in  his  greediness  there 
are  refinements.  A  human  being  is  by 
nature  a, /gourmet  r^iher  Xh^n  z  j^aurmandj 
an  epicure  than  a  glutton,  else  "the  oys- 
ter "  should  be  the  two  foot  monster  of 
Coromandel  instead  of  the  two  inch  "na- 
tive."    Other  lands  may  boast  oysters 


THE   OYSTER  SEASON. 


large  enough  to  feed  a  boat's  crew,  pre^ 
cioiis  enough  to  dower  a  princess,  or 
numerous  enough  to  cluster  upon  the 
mangrove  bushes  that  fringe  their  brack- 
ish rivers  and  to  crowd  like  barnacles 
upon  the  ship's  keel  that  tarries  in  their 
ports,  but  with  her  "  native  "  oyster  En- 
gland has  every  reason  to  rest  content. 
The  bonds  of  sympathy  that  exist  between 
man  and  the  oyster  —  and  cannot  be  sat- 
isfied until  one  is  at  rest  within  the  other 
—  date  back,  perhaps,  to  the  time  when 
the  primeval  ancestors  of  the  human  race 
were  "larvae  of  marine  ascidians,"  and 
lay  out  with  the  oyster  in  the  still  moon- 
light below  high-watermark.  Some  trace 
of  this  past  stage  of  early,  very  early, 
evolution  is  to  be  found,  so  wise  men  tell 
us,  in  the  fact  that  the  periods  of  human 
metamorphoses  are  still  most  conveniently 
calculated  by  moons  and  tides.  But  a 
far  more  obvious  trace  surely  lies  in  roan*s 
affection  for  the  oyster,  his  next-door 
neighbor  in  the  sandpools  of  the  past. 
Nay,  more ;  just  as  we  hate  the  ape,  and 
call  it  "witless "on  account  of  its  facial 
resemblance  to  ourselves,  do  we  not  also 
abuse  the  oyster  in  the  same  way,  out  of 
pure  kinship?  "//  raisonne  cotnmt  un 
kuitre  "  is  the  plain. French  for  "  he  argues 
like  an  idiot"  —  an  oyster,  be  it  remem- 
bered, having  a  large  mouth,  but  no  head. 
An  "oyster  part"  in  a  drama  is  one  of 
those  undignified  rdles  in  which  the  actor 
opens  his  mouth  only  once,  like  an  oyster, 
to  say,  "  My  lord,  the  carriage  waits,"  or 
something  else  equally  material  to  the 
plot ;  and  "  Love,"  says  Shakespeare, 
"may  turn  me  to  an  oyster,"  as  if  that 
were  the  lowest  shape  of  human  degrada- 
tion. Nevertheless,  we  are  not  always 
unjust  to  the  oyster.  As  though  confess- 
ing that  it  possesses  something  akin  to  aa 
innate  spark  of  human  intelligence,  the 
"facultv"  recommends  it  as  brain  food. 
In  the  fable,  too,  which  so  aptly  describes 
the  folly  of  those  litigants  who  will  sur- 
render their  estates  to  the  lawyers,  the 
moralist  typifies  the  priceless  value  of 
their  loss  by  an  oyster  which  the  judge 
devours,  handing  to  each  party  to  the 
suit  an  empty  shell.  So  again  the  valiant 
Pistol  could  think  of  no  better  simile  for 
the  whole  world,  which  he  was  about  to 
open  with  his  sword,  than  this  same 
bivalve.  Altogether,  it  is  evident  that 
though  we  may  abuse  the  oyster's  intelli- 
gence and  scoff  at  the  size  of  his  mouth 
and  his  deficiency  in  brains,  his  image  is 
nevertheless  always  treasured  in  our 
breast,  or,  perhaps,  a  little  lower  down. 


LITTELL'S  UYING  AGE. 


Fifth  SariM, 
Volomt  ZLI7. 


.  }         No.  2057. -November  24,  1883.       J^T^i,^^^' 


CONTENTS. 
I.  Thk  Life  and  Timks  of  St.  Anselm,      •    British  Quarterly  Reviiw^    •       •    451 

IL  The  Rose  of  Black  Boy  Alley.     Con- 
clusion,   Sunday  Maganne^       .        •        •    464 

III.  Letters  from  Gaulee.    Part  II.,       •        .    Blackwood^ s  Me^aune^         .        •471 

IV.  Madame  d'Arblay,       .       •        •       •        •    Comhili  MagojUm^      •       .        .    480 
V.  Mr.  Edwin  Cole, Sunday  MagoMine^       •       .       .491 

VL  Sir  Moses  Monti^ore,       •       .       •       •    TUmts^ 501 

VIL  The  Cost  of  Living  in  Switzerland^     •    Sptctatcr^ 509 

VIIL  Grown-up  Children, CloU^  .       •       •       •       •       •    511 

POKTRY. 


Alone, 450 

A  Fancy, 450 

"Fortune  my  Foe,**    .       •       •       .450 


Patience,       .•••••    450 
A  Breath  of  Heaven,       •       •       •   450 


Miscellany,     ••••••• •••512 


PUBUSHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  Dollam,  remUUd  dirtetiy  U  ik»  PtMinktra^  the  Lnriwo  Agb  will  be  ponctiully  forwarded 
for  mjttxtt/rtt  o/Mtsian, 

Reroittanceft  Bnouldbc  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-office  money-order,  if  poosible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  moneyshould  be  sent  i  n  a  registers  letter.  All  poetmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.    Drafts,  checks  and  moneyKwders  should  be  made  payable  to  the  oroer  ol 

LlTTSLL  &  Co. 

Single  Numbers  of  Thx  LnriMO  Aoi^  18  ( 


448 

edible  oyster  to  the  influence  of  his  sur- 
roundings that  the  late  Frank  Buckland 
could  always  distinguish  at  sight  the 
shells  from  different  districts.  Young 
English  oysters  laid  down  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean at  once  altered  their  growth,  ac- 
cording to  M.  Costa,  and  began  to  assume 
the  diverging  rays  that  characterise  the 
Mediterranean  kinds.  The  oyster's  shell, 
indeed,  hard  as  it  appears,  is  really  one  of 
the  most  plastic  of  mechanisms.  It  has 
been  found  adapting  its  structure  com- 
fortably to  the  concave  interior  of  an  old 
champagne  flask  dredged  up  from  the 
"  Royal  George,"  and,  again,  comfortably 
ensconced  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  inside 
an  old  china  teapot  without  a  spout,  which 
it  fitted  as  accurately  as  if  it  had  been 
made  to  order  by  a  skilled  mechanic.  It 
was  almost  fortunate  for  that  oyster,  that 
he  was  discovered,  because  he  had  already 
plugged  up  the  orifice  where  the  lid  had 
once  been,  and  even  an  oyster  must  feel 
the  discomfort  of  carrving  on  all  his 
communications  with  tne  outside  world 
through  the  broken  spout  of  a  teapot. 
With  all  their  powers  of  roughing  it  in 
the  matter  of  locality,  oysters  are,  never- 
theless, quickly  affected  by  unsuitable 
temperature.  For  this  reason  the  failure 
of  the  first  importations  of  bivalves  into 
Ireland  was  attributed  to  the  fact  that 
they  had  been  brought  from  the  warm 
waters  of  Arcachon  instead  of  the  com- 
paratively cold  shores  of  northern  Brit- 
tany. It  is  lucky,  therefore,  for  natives 
of  countries  whose  climate  is  unsuitable 
to  our  Ostrea  Edulis  that  many  other 
species  can  be  eaten,  else  would  they 
have  grave  cause  to  complain  of  the  par- 
tiality of  Providence.  He  must,  however, 
have  been  a  real  hero  that  first  ate  the 
oyster  of  Coromandel  —  two  feet  in  diam- 
eter. Man,  it  has  been  said,  is  pre-emi- 
i]ent4y  a  money-getting  animal.  But  this 
is  not  true;  he  is,  above  all  things,  a 
greedy  animal.  The  oyster  proves  this. 
There  are  two  species  of  bivalves  called 
"oysters,"  of  which  one  provides  the 
daintiest  morsel  for  his  palate,  and  the 
other  offers  the  richest  jewels  for  his  pos- 
session. But  he  has  no  hesitation  as  to 
which  of  the  two  is  "the  oyster "^flr  ex- 
alienee;  the  other  is  only  "the  pearl  oys- 
ter." But  even  in  his  greediness  there 
are  refinements.  A  human  being  is  by 
nature  Si /gourmet  rsilhcr  xhdin  z /gourmand, 
an  epicure  than  a  glutton,  else  "the  oys- 
ter "  should  be  the  two  foot  monster  of 
Coromandel  instead  of  the  two  inch  "na- 
tive.*'    Other  lands  may  boast  oysters 


THE   OYSTER  SEASON. 


large  enough  to  feed  a  boat's  crew,  pre- 
cious enough  to  dower  a  princess,  or 
numerous  enough  to  cluster  upon  the 
mangrove  bushes  that  fringe  their  brack- 
ish rivers  and  to  crowd  like  barnacles 
upon  the  ship's  keel  that  tarries  in  their 
ports,  but  with  her  "  native  "  oyster  En- 
gland has  every  reason  to  rest  content. 
The  bonds  of  sympathy  that  exist  between 
man  and  the  oyster — and  cannot  be  sat- 
isfied until  one  is  at  rest  within  the  other 
—  date  back,  perhaps,  to  the  time  when 
the  primeval  ancestors  of  the  human  race 
were  "larvae  of  marine  ascidians,'*  and 
lay  out  with  the  oyster  in  the  still  moon- 
light below  high-watermark.  Some  trace 
of  this  past  stage  of  early,  very  early, 
evolution  is  to  be  found,  so  wise  men  tell 
us,  in  the  fact  that  the  periods  of  human 
metamorphoses  are  still  most  conveniently 
calculated  by  moons  and  tides.  But  a 
far  more  obvious  trace  surely  lies  in  man*s 
affection  for  the  oyster,  his  next-door 
neighbor  in  the  sandpoots  of  the  past. 
Nay,  more ;  just  as  we  hate  the  ape,  and 
call  it  "  witless  "  on  account  of  its  facial 
resemblance  to  ourselves,  do  we  not  also 
abuse  the  oyster  in  the  same  way,  out  of 
pure  kinship?  "//  raisonne  commt  un 
kuilre^\%  the  plain.French  for  "  he  argues 
like  an  idiot"  —  an  oyster,  be  it  remem- 
bered, having  a  large  mouth,  but  no  head. 
An  "oyster  part"  in  a  drama  is  one  of 
those  undignified  rSles  in  which  the  actor 
opens  his  mouth  only  once,  like  an  oyster, 
to  say,  "  My  lord,  the  carriage  waits,"  or 
something  else  equally  material  to  the 
plot ;  and  "  Love,"  says  Shakespeare, 
"  may  turn  me  to  an  oyster,"  as  if  that 
were  the  lowest  shape  of  human  degrada- 
tion. Nevertheless,  we  are  not  always 
unjust  to  the  oyster.  As  though  confess- 
ing that  it  possesses  something  akin  to  an 
innate  spark  of  human  intelligence,  the 
"faculty"  recommends  it  as  brain  food. 
In  the  fable,  too,  which  so  aptly  describes 
the  folly  of  those  litigants  who  will  sur- 
render their  estates  to  the  lawyers,  the 
moralist  typifies  the  priceless  value  of 
their  loss  by  an  oyster  which  the  judge 
devours,  handing  to  each  party  to  the 
suit  an  empty  shell.  So  again  the  valiant 
Pistol  could  think  of  no  better  simile  for 
the  whole  world,  which  he  was  about  to 
open  with  his  sword,  than  this  same 
bivalve.  Altogether,  it  is  evident  that 
though  we  may  abuse  the  oyster's  intelli- 
gence and  scoff  at  the  size  of  his  mouth 
and  his  deficiency  in  brains,  his  image  is 
nevertheless  always  treasured  in  our 
breast,  or,  perhaps,  a  little  lower  down. 


LITTELL'S  LIYING  AGE. 


Fifth  SariM, 
Volima  ZLIVi 


.  }         No.  2057. -November  24,  1883.       J^ol^^!^' 


CONTENTS. 

I.  Thk  Litb  and  Timss  of  St.  Ansblm,       •  British  Quarterly  Rofiiw^    •        •    451 

IL  The  Rose  of  Black  Boy  Alley.     Con- 

claslon,  ..••.••.  Sunday  Maganne^        .        •        .    464 

IIL  Letters  FROM  Gaulsb.    Part  I  L,      •       .  BlackwootTs  Magazine^         .       .471 

IV.  Madame  d*Arblay, dfrnkUt  Magaaim^      •       .       .    480 

V.   Mr.  Edwin  Cole, Sunday  MagoMitUt       •       •       •491 

VL  Sir  Moses  Mont^fiore,      ....    Tlmes^ 501 

VII.  The  Cost  of  Living  in  Switzerland^    •    Spectator^ 509 

VI IL  Grown-up  Children, Globe^  .       .       •       •       •       •    5i< 


POKTRY. 


Alone, 450 

A  Fancy, 450 

"Fortune  my  Foe,'*    •      •       •       •    450 


Patience,       ••••••    450 

A  Breath  of  Heaven,       •       •       •   450 


Miscellany,      %%%%•%•%•%%•%•.    i\^ 


PUBUSHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  Dollaks,  rtmiiUd  directly  U  ike  FmUiskerg,  thtt  Liviwo  Agb  will  be  punctually  forwarded 
for  •year,y>'M  efiostart, 

KemitUDces  shoulo  be  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-office  money-order,  if  poosible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  moneyshonld  be  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  pottmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.    Drafts,  checks  and  money-orders  should  be  made  payable  to  the  oroer  ol 

LlTTBLL  &  Co. 

Single  Numbers  of  THxLnnMoAoi^  i8( 


ASO 


ALONE,   ETC. 


ALONE. 

I  MISS  you,  my  darling,  my  darling; 

The  embers  burn  low  on  the  heartli ; 
And  stilled  is  the  stir  of  the  household, 

And  hushed  is  the  voice  of  its  mirth ; 
The  rain  plashes  fast  on  the  terrace. 
The  winds  past  the  lattices  moan  ; 
The  midnight  chimes  out  from  the  minster, 
And  I  am  alone. 

I  want  you,  my  darling,  my  darling ; 

I  am  tired  with  care  and  with  fret ; 
I  would  nestle  in  silence  beside  you. 

And  all  but  .your  presence  forget. 
In  the  hush  of  the  happiness  given 
To  those,  who  through  trusting  have  grown 
To  the  fulness' of  love  in  contentment. 
But  I  am-alone. 

I  call  you,  my  darling,  my  darling. 

My  voice  echoes  hack.on  my  heart 
I  stretch  my  arms  to  you  in  longing, 

And  lo  !  they  fall  empty,  apart. 
I  whisper  the  sweet  words  you  taught  me, 
The  words  that  we  only  have  known. 
Till  the  blankof  the  dumb  air  is  bitter, 
For  I  am  alone. 

I  need  you,  my  darKng,  my  darling, 
With  its  yearning  my  very  heart  aches; 

The  load  that  divides  us  weighs  harder; 
I  shrink  from  the  jar  that  it  makes. 

Old  sorrows  rise  up  to  beset  me  ; 

Old  doubts  make  my  spirit  their  own. 

Oh,  come  through  the  darkness,  and  save  me. 

For  I  am  alone. 

All  the  Year  Round. 


A  FANCY. 

Sweet  Summer  went  forth  to  the  fields,. 
With  roses  entwined  in  her  hair ;    . 

Her  footsteps  as  light 

As  her  glances  were  bright. 
And  all  that  she  looked  upon  fair. 

Grave  Autumn,  beholding  the  maid. 
Grew  cheery  in  chanting  her  charms ; 

They  met,  but,  alas ! 

All  ner  strength  seemed  to  pass. 
And  she  languished  to  death  in  his  arms. 

Now  sombre  grew  Autumn  and  sear, 
As  he  clung  to  the  maid  in  his  woe ; 
Then  Winter  passed  by. 
And,  with  tear-stricken  eye. 
Hid  them  both  *ncath  a  mantle  of  snow. 
Sheffield.  Joseph  Dawson. 

Spectator. 


'•FORTUNE  MY  FOE." 

"Aim  not  too  high,  at  things  beyond  thy 

reach," 
Nor  give    the  rein    to  reckless    thought  or 

speech. 
Is  it  not  better  all  thy  life  to  bide 
Lord  of  thyself,  than  all  the  earth  beside  ? 

Thus,  if  high  Fortune  far  from  thee  take  wing. 
Why  should'st  thou  envy  counsellor  or  king? 
Purple  or  homespun,  —  wherefore  make  ado 
What  coat  may  cover,  if  the  heart  be  true  ? 

Then,  if  at  last  thou  gather  wealth  at  will, 
Thou  most  shalt  honor  Him  who  grants  it  still ; 
Since  he  who  best  doth  poverty  endure. 
Should  prove,  when  rich,  best  brother  to  the 
poor. 
SpecUtor.  ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 


PATIENCE. 


What  power  can  ple;ise  a  patient  fantasy 
Like  the  wan  waiting  of  the  dying  rose 
That  fades. and  fails  and  sadly  silent  strews 
Its  grave  with  all  its  lost  felicity  ? 
No  such  serenity  the  towering  tree 
In  mildest  moods  of  breathless  being  knows. 
Where  windv  whispers  torture  its  repose 
With  murmurous  memories  of  a  dreamed-of 
sea. 

Tumultuous  trouble  vainly  may  assail 
The  inward  silence  of  the  settled  soul. 
Joy  may  assume  sad  sorrow's  sober  stole 
If  over  Hope  pale  Patience  draws  her  veil. 
Earth  takes  its  own,  and  on  the  pensive  air 
Death  chants  no  palinodia  of  despair. 

Blackwood's  Masuine. 


A  BREATH  OF  HEAVEN. 

I  ONCE  again  in  this  charm'd  realm  inquire : 
Not  listening  to  the  ocean*s  sad  rcfram, 
Nor  watching  on  the  mountain  heights,  to 
gain 
A  message  for  the  meditative  lyre. 
The  air  contents  me.     Such  do  they  respire. 
Our  lov'd  ones,  gathered  on  the  heavenly 

plain. 
With  (juiet  breathing  blest,  and  freed  from 
pam. 
And  toil,  and  care,  and  unfulfilled  desire. 
Embosom'd  in  like  calm,  oh,  let  me  rest. 
And  breathe  in  sweet,  unseen  companionship 
Time  cannot  sever,  nor  delay,  nor  Death  I 
These  shining  shores  and  sunlit  sea  attest 
The  encircling  Love  that  doth  his  children 
keep 
In  perfect  peace  and  unlaborious  breath. 
LangiamL  Herbert  New. 

SpecUtor. 


i 


THE   LIFE   AND   TIMES   OF   ST.   ANSELM. 


4SI 


From  The  British  Quarterly  Review. 
THE  LIFE   AND  TIMES  OF  ST.  ANSELM.* 

A  GREAT  deal  has  been  written  on  St. 
Anselm  since  the  interest  revived  in  med- 
iseval  history  and  philosophy.  Writers 
with  nothing  else  in  common  have  been 
equally  attracted  by  Anselm.  To  the  stu- 
dent of  ecclesiastical  biography  he  is  one 
of  the  most  perfect  examples  of  the  piety 
of  the  cloister  —  a  piety  which  retains  a 
charm  even  for  tliosc  who  have  rejected 
all  the  ideas  that  gave  it  birth.  Hegel 
and  Cousin  found  in  Anselm  a  medixval 
Descartes  who  spoke  the  first  word  of 
modern  philosophy  amid  the  litanies  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  The  student  of  the 
constitutional  history  of  England  finds 
Anselm's  career  to  be  of  the  first  impor- 
tance; for  during  the  reign  of  William 
Rufus,  and  during  part  of  that  of  Henry 
Beauclerc,  Anselm,  like  Laud  in  the  reign 
of  Charles  I.,  is  in  reality,  as  well  as  in 
name,  the  second  personage  in  the  realm. 
To  those  who  care  for  the  honor  of  the 
Church  of  England  the  name  of  Anselm 
is,  or  ought  to  be,  precious,  for  in  him 
they  have  an  archbishop  who  was  never 
timorous  either  in  thought  or  in  action. 
With  his  name,  if  with  no  other,  they  can 
answer  the  taunt,  "  Episcopi  Anglicani 
S€mper  pavidU^ 

The  most  elaborate  modern  works  on 
Anselm  come  from  France  and  Germany, 
but  he  has  not  been  neglected  by  English 
writers.  The  late  Dean  Hook  told  the 
story  of  his  life,  and  discussed  his  char- 
acter at  some  length,  in  his  "  Lives  of  the 
Archbishops  of  Canterbury."  The  pres- 
ent dean  of  St.  Paul's  has  devoted  a  vol- 
ume to  Anselm;  and  Mr.  Freeman  has 
narrated  the  events  of  his  primacy  with 
such  fulness  in  his  "History  of  William 
Rufus,"  that  he  may  be  regarded  as  a 
third  English  biographer.  Not  much  can 
be  said  in  praise  of  Dean  Hook's  per- 
formance. An  old-fashioned  Anglican,  he 
was  prejudiced  against  Anselm  because 

•  I.  Th4  Lift  and  Times  of  St,  Anselm^  Arck^ 
bishop  of  Canter  bury  y  and  Primate  of  the  Britains. 
By  Martin  Rulb,  M.A.  Two  Vols.  London:  Ke- 
gan  Paul,  Trench,  and  Co. 

3.  The  Reign  of  William  Rm/us  and  the  Accession 
of  Henry  the  First.  By  Edward  A.  Frbbman,  M.  A., 
Hon.  D.CL.,  LL.D.  Vol.  1.  The  Pri«»acy  of  An- 
•elm.    Oxford.    iSSa. 


he  appealed  to  papal  against  royal  author- 
ity. He  was  of  opinion  that  he  ought  to 
have  humored  William  Rufus,  and  to  have 
helped  him  to  anticipate  the  work  of  Hen- 
ry VI H.  He  was,  moreover,  incapable 
of  appreciating  a  character  of  such  deli- 
cate moral  fibre  as  Anselm's,  and  his  en- 
deavors to  expose  Anselm*s  weaknessies 
exposed  only  too  clearly  his  own  low  con- 
ception of  the  functions  of  a  Christian 
bishop.* 

The  work  of  the  dean  of  St.  Paul's  is 
of  course  open  to  no  such  criticism,  and 
is  indeed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  eccle- 
siastical biographies  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, but  it  does  not  profess  to  be  more 
than  a  sketch.  A  few  pages  only  are  de* 
voted  to  Anselm's  philosophical  and  the- 
ological writings,  although  these  make  us 
regret  that  the  plan  of  his  work  prevented 
the  author  from  treating  in  more  detail  of 
subjects  with  which  his  fine  discernment 
makes  him  so  fit  to  deal.  Mr.  Freeman's 
historical  uprightness  and  the  accuracy 
of  his  moral  judgments  are  never  more 
conspicuous  than  in  his  account  of  the 
primacy  of  Anselm.  He  disapproves  of 
much  of  Anselm's  policy,  but  he  never 
fails  to  do  justice  to  the  moral  greatness 
of  the  archbishop  who  appealed  to  Rome 
against  his  sovereign ;  and  he  is  careful 
to  point  out  the  immense  excuses  which 
the  actions  of  William  Rufus  furnish  for 
Anselm's  un-English  policy. 

As  these  writers  had  limitations  im- 
posed upon  them  by  the  plan  of  their 
works,  there  was  still  room  for  a  mono- 
graph on  Anselm  in  which  full  justice 
could  be  done  to  his  life,  and  especially 
to  his  thinking,  to  which  so  little  atten- 
tion had  been  given  by  English  writers. 
We  regret  that  we  cannot  say  that  Mr. 
Rule  has  supplied  the  blank.  Kf  uch  labor 
has  been  spent  on  his  two  bulky  volumes. 
He  has  read  Anselm's  writings  with  care, 
and  has  consulted  many  other  sources. 
He  has  visited  the  places  where  Anselm 
lived,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  localities 
has  enabled  him  to  supply  some  interest- 
ing   illustrations    of  Anselm's   writings. 

•  It  is  only  fair  to  add  that  Mr.  Freeman  says,  in  a 
note  to  his  "  History  of  William  Rufus,"  that  before 
his  death  Dean  Hook  learned  to  understand  Anselm 
better. 


4S2 


THE   LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  ST.  ANSELBC. 


He  has,  moreover,  a  genuine  admiration 
for  Anselm*s  great  charactet,  which  is 
always  beautiful  even  when  it  rises  into 
language  of  rather  feminine  ecstasy.  But 
his  book  is  a  miracle  of  bad  arrangement 
and  of  caprice.  He  hardly  notices  An- 
selm's  theology  and  philosophy;  and 
while  omitting  what  most  required  atten- 
tion, he  is  prodigal  of  space  to  an  almost 
unexampled  extent.  A  medixval  chron- 
icler had  less  scruple  in  introducing 
digressions  than  Mr.  Rule ;  and  he  con- 
stantly invents  imaginary  reflections  and 
speeches  for  the  saint  after  the  fashion  of 
an  historical  novelist.  These  have  little 
merit  in  themselves,  and  they  are  apt  to 
be  seriously  misleading  in  a  book  which 
professes  to  be  history.  Then  Mr.  Rule 
is  a  Papist — papA  papalior,  and  in  all 
questions  which  concern  papal  authority 
he  writes  in  a  tone  of  unreasonable  parti- 
sanship. We  have  no  doubt  that  all  future 
students  of  Anselm's  life  will  consult  Mr. 
Rule's  volumes,  and  with  advantage  ;  but 
they  will  never  do  so,  we  fear,  without  a 
feeling  of  regret  that  a  writer  so  painstak- 
ing and  enthusiastic  should  have  been 
ignorant  of  the  principles  and  of  the  art 
of  historical  biography. 

The  original  authorities  for  Anselm's 
life  are  abundant,  and  for  the  period,  un- 
usually reliable.  A  number  of  his  letters 
have  been  preserved,  and  his  life  was 
written  by  his  English  disciple  Eadmer  in 
his  ^^Historia  Novorum  "  and  in  his  "K/Z/i 
AnselmiP  Eadmer  was  a  loving  biogra- 
pher of  his  master,  and  he  has  recorded 
so  many  things  great  and  small  about 
him,  that  we  know  Anselm  perhaps  better 
than  any  man  of  the  Middle  Ages.  An- 
selm was  born  at  Aosta  about  the  year 
1033.  Although  born  in  southern  Europe, 
he  came  of  a  northern  stock.  His  father 
Gundulf  was  a  Lombard.  His  mother 
Ermenberg  was  a  Durgundian,  and  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Rule  she  was  the  granddaugh- 
ter of  Conrad  the  Pacific,  king  of  Trans- 
juran  Burgundy.  She  was  therefore  the 
cousin  of  the  emperor  Henry  II.,  and  a 
kinswoman  of  most  of  the  princes  of 
Christendom.  Gundulf  and  Ermenberg 
had  property  near  Aosta,  and  they  appear 
to  have  occupied  a  position  of  rank.  An- 
selm has  often  been  called  the  Augustine 


of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  the  resemblance 
extends  to  his  parents.  Gundulf  was  a 
man  of  the  world,  domineering  in  temper, 
prodigal  in  expenditure,  and  probably  dis- 
solute in  life.  Between  him  and  his  son 
there  never  existed  much  sympathy.  It 
was  to  his  devout  mother  that  Anselm 
owed  those  early  religious  impressions 
which  filled  the  imaginative  boy  with  long- 
ings for  a  vision  of  God.  The  dream  of 
his  childhood,  in  which  he  saw  God  sit- 
ting upon  a  throne  of  snow  —  no  doubt 
Becca  di  Nonna,  the  Alpine  summit  above 
his  home  -^  is  one  of  the  loveliest  fancies 
of  the  religious  literature  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  His  boyhood  was  studious  and 
devout,  and  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  says  his 
biographer,  he  began  to  consider  how  he 
might  best  shape  his  life  according  to 
God.  He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
ought  to  become  a  monk,  and  he  wrote  to 
an  abbot  whom  he  knew,  begging  for  ad- 
mission into  his  monastery.  When  the 
abbot  learned  that  he  made  the  request 
without  the  knowledge  of  his  father  he 
refused  to  receive  him,  fearing  the  anger 
of  Gundulf.  Finding  that  the  gate  of  the 
monastery  shut  against  him,  he  entered 
into  **  the  ways  of  the  world.*'  As  long  as 
his  mother  lived,  her  influence  to  some 
extent  restrained  him ;  but  on  her  death 
**  the  ship  of  his  heart  lost  its  anchor,  and 
drifted  almost  entirely  into  the  waves  of 
the  world.**  Most  of  Anselm*s  biogra- 
phers have  inferred  from  £admer*s  words 
that  Anselm  plunged  into  vicious  courses. 
Mr.  Rule  treats  this  as  a  cruel  calumny, 
and  we  think  he  is  right  in  maintaining 
that  Eadmer  merely  meant  to  say  that 
Anselm  abandoned  all  thoughts  of  the 
religious  life.  It  is  true  there  is  a  passage 
in  one  of  the  meditations  ascribed  to  An- 
selm, which  is  quoted  by  Dean  Hook  and 
by  Mr.  Freeman,  and  which,  if  genuine, 
proves  beyond  doubt  that  Anselm,  like 
Augustine,  gave  way  in  early  life  to  the 
lusts  of  the  flesh.*  In  an  article  in  the 
Academy  on  Mr.  Rule's  work,  Mr.  Free- 
man has  already  dealt  with  Mr.  Rule's 
defence  of  Anselm's  chastity.    Some  of 

*  O  aoror,  fera  pessima  devoravit  fratrem  tnutn. 
Quam  miser  ego  sum,  qui  meara  pudicitiam  perdidi, 
tarn  beata  tu^cujus  viiiKinitatem  misericordia  divina  pro- 
texit    (Mediutio  xvi.) 


THE  LIFE  AND  TIMES   OF  ST.  ANSELM. 


4S3 


Mr.  Rule's  reasons  are  absurd  enough, 
but  Mr.  Freeman  evidently  felt  that  the 
reason  urged  against  the  genuineness  of 
the  meditation  had  some  force,  and  he 
concluded  by  saying  that  Mr.  Rule  had 
possibly  lighted  on  a  discovery.* 

After  the  death  of  his  mother,  Anselm's 
home  became  distasteful  to  him,  owing  to 
serious  disagreements  with  his  father. 
He  left  Aosta  accompanied  by  a  single 
clerk,  and  crossed  Mount  Cenis,  almost 
losing  |iis  life  in  the  snow.  He  spent 
some  time  in  Burgundy,  then  went  to 
Normandy  and  stayed  some  time  at 
Avranches,  and  finally  entered  the  Nor* 
man  monastery  of  Bee,  which  was  hence- 
forth to  be  associated  with  his  name. 
The  monastery  of  Bee  was  situated  in 
eastern  Normandy,  on  the  skirts  of  the 
forest  of  Brionne.  It  had  been  founded 
by  a  Norman  knight  named  Herlwin, 
who  was  its  first  abbot.  Herlwin  was  a 
noble-minded  and  devout  man,  and  he  did 
his  best  to  introduce  into  the  monastery 
those  habits  of  order  and  devotion  which 
were  often  wanting  at  the  time  in  Norman 
monasteries.  He  had  ruled  a  feudal  cas- 
tle, and  he  ruled  his  monastery  with  a 
firm  hand.  But  he  could  do  little  for  the 
instruction  of  those  under  him.  He  had 
not  learned  his  letters  until  he  was  forty 
years  of  age,  and  he  remained  to  the  end 
an  ignorant  man.  But,  like  all  Normans, 
he  had  the  power  of  using  others^  even 
when  they  were  intellectually  his  supe- 
riors, and  he  saw  that  he  must  make  use 
of  the  learning  of  others  if  he  would  make 
his  monastery  what  he  desired  to  see  it  — 
a  centre  of  Christian  civilization.  Learned 
strangers  were  always  welcome  at  Bee. 
He  was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  **  What  is 
the  use  of  a  man  who  can  neither  read 
nor  keep  the  commandments  of  God?" 
But  if  any  lettered  man  came  to  him  wish* 
ing  to  enter  the  order,  there  is  no  describ- 
ing the  joy  with  which  he  welcomed  him, 
or  the  kindness  and  consideration  with 
which  he  afterwards  treated  him.  Such  a 
stranger  came  to  him  in  the  person  of 
Lanfranc,  who  was  originally  a  lawyer  in 

*  It  M  not  a  discovery  of  Mr.  Rule's.  Coriously 
enough,  oeliher  Dean  Hook  nor  Mr.  Freeman  noticed 
that  the  Meditation  is  marked  as  spurious  in  Gerbe* 
rDQ*s  edition,  which  they  both  used. 


Pavia.  Lanfranc  was  already  well  known 
in  Normandy,  having  lectured  for  some 
time  at  Avranches.  He  did  not,  however, 
disclose  his  name  to  Herlwin,  but  re- 
mained for  some  time  incognito^  patiently 
allowing  himself  to  be  reproved  for  his  cor* 
rect  pronunciation  of  Latin  by  the  ignorant 
monks.  After  a  time  his  name  was  dis*. 
covered,  and  he  was  appointed  prior.  He 
began  to  lecture  to  the  monks,  and  young 
men  flocked  to  the  humble  monastery 
from  all  parts  of  Normandy  to  listen  to  a 
teacher  who  was  familiar  with  all  the 
learning  of  Europe. 

Even  after  he  made  up  his  mind  to  be- 
come a  monk,  Anselm  was  not  at  first 
disposed  to  enter  the  monastery  which 
Lanfranc  had  rendered  famous.  In  his 
old  age  he  told  his  disciple  Eadmer  the 
reasons  of  his  reluctance,  and  how  they 
were  overcome.  These  show  that  the 
young  patrician  scholar  was  not  without 
aspiring  thoughts,  and  that  he  was  con- 
scious that  it  was  his  natural  destiny  to  be 
a  leader  of  men.  He  thought  first,  he 
said,  of  going  to  Cluny,  but  gave  up  the 
idea  because  the  life  there  was  so  severe 
that  he,  with  his  delicate  constitution, 
would  make  a  poor  figure.  H  he  went  to 
Bee,  he  felt  that  he  would  be  completely 
cast  into  the  shade  by  the  greater  learn- 
ing and  gifts  of  Lanfranc,  and  he  judged 
that  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  go  to  a 
place  where  his  knowledge  would  be  of 
more  service  to  others.  But  further  re- 
flection convinced  him  that  his  great  char- 
ity for  others  in  th«  employment  of  his 
powers  was  but  pride  in  disguise,  and  that 
no  place  was  fitter  for  a  monk  than  one 
where  he  would  be  reduced  to  insisfnifi- 
cance  by  the  presence  of  one  greater  than 
himself. 

Anselm  entered  the  monastery  of  Bee 
in  the  year  1060,  and  for  three  years  he 
sat  at  the  feet  of  Lanfranc  as  a  learner ; 
but  on  the  removal  of  Lanfranc  to  Caen 
he  succeeded  him  as  prior,  for  the  quick 
eye  of  Herlwin  had  discerned  the  gifts  of 
the  young  scholar.  As  prior,  his  special 
duty  was  to  rule  the  monks,  and  to  in- 
struct them.  He  proved  eminently  quali- 
fied for  both  duties.  As  a  ruler,  he  soon 
showed  that  he  understood  the  art  of  get- 
ting his  own  way.    There  was  a  masterful 


454 


THE   LIFE  AND  TIMES   OF  ST.  ANSELM. 


trait  10  his  character,  which  he  probably  j 
inherited  from  his  domineering  father; 
but  the  worst  faults  of  a  naturally  despotic 
character  seldom  made  themselves  mani- 
fest in  Ansel m's  actions.  It  was  not  only 
that  his  aims  were  the  best  and  hi<jhest  — 
for  this  is  not  rare  in  despotic  characters 
—  but  his  deep  understanding  of  the  ethi- 
cal spirit  of  Christianity  led  him  to  adopt 
the  method  of  persuasion  rather  than  the 
easier  method  of  compulsion.  He  was 
one  of  the  first  in  the  .Middle  Ages  who 
protested  against  the  prevailing  harshness 
in  education.  His  biographer  says  that 
on  one  occasion  a  stranger  abbot  came  to 
Bee,  and  in  the  course  of  a  conversation 
with  Anselm  he  complained  of  the  great 
difficulty  he  experienced  in  training  the 
monachi nutriti.  It  was  not  his  fault,  he 
said ;  they  were  fiogged  incessantly,  but 
it  did  no  good  —  they  grew  up  stupid  and 
brutal.  Anselm  listened  to  the  abbot's 
complaint,  and  then,  as  was  his  wont,  he 
spoke  a  parable.  **If  a  young  tree,"  he 
said,  "  was  planted  in  a  garden,  but  had 
no  space  given  it  to  expand,  would  not  its 
branches  become  gnarled  and  crooked  ? 
Let  kindness  and  sympathy  be  shown  to 
the  lads,  and  liberty  granted  as  well  as 
discipline  exercised,  and  they  will  be  won 
to  God."  As  prior  of  Bee,  Anselm  put 
his  own  advice  into  practice.  His  ap- 
pointment excited  much  jealousy  among 
the  older  monks,  who  were  displeased  to 
see  a  young  foreigner  set  over  them.  A 
lad  named  Dom  Osbern  sympathized  with 
the  jealousy  of  his  elders,  and  set  himself 
to  torment  the  new  prior.  A  strong,  se- 
vere man  like  Lanfranc  would  have  made 
short  work  with  such  an  offender,  and  re- 
duced the  malcontents  to  subjection  by  a 
liberal  use  of  the  lash.  Anselm  adopted 
another  course.  He  treated  Osbern  with 
marked  kindness,  granted  him  unexpected 
favors,  tolerated  his  pranks,  until  the  way- 
ward lad,  vanouished  by  his  kindness, 
became  devoted  to  the  prior,  who  soon 
inspired  him  with  his  own  passion  for  ho- 
liness. When  Osbern  was  taken  ill,  the 
prior  tended  him  during  an  illness  which 
ended  in  death,  with  the  most  tender  af- 
fection. In  4he  hospital,  Anselm,  on  this 
and  on  other  occasions,  showed  himself 
to  be  such  a  consummate  nurse,  that  the 
monks  used  to  say  he  was  "father  and 
mother  to  the  sick." 

An  incident  occurred  at  the  death  of 
Dom  Osbern  which  furnishes  an  interest- 
ing glimpse  of  the  thoughts  which  were 
excited  in  devout  minds  by  death  in  the 
Middle  Ages ;  and  it  shows  that  Anselm 
the  prior  still  had  his  dreams,  as  the  boy 


Anselm  had  when  he  lived  in  the  vale  of 
Aosta.  We  give  it  in  the  words  of  Mr. 
Rule,  who  tells  it  with  all  the  reverent 
faith  of  a  hagiographer. 

As  the  end  drew  near  Anselm,  loth  to  have 
such  a  friendship  snapped  so  soon,  and  yearn- 
ing to  trace  the  sours  passage,  though  an 
assured  one,  yet  through  what  storms  he  knew 
not,  hence  to  the  eternal  shore,  bent  over  his 
dying  friend  and  whispered  an  entreaty  that 
he  would,  if  ft  were  possible,  let  him  know 
when  he  was  gone  how  it  fared  with  him.  He 
promised,  and  passed  away.  The  body  was 
washed,  clothed,  composed  on  the  bier,  and 
carried  into  the  church,  the  whole  community 
preceding  it  and  singing  the  Subvenitgy  Sdfurii 
Dei,  When  the  usual  rites  had  been  per- 
formed—  it  seems  that  he  died  about  mid- 
night, and  was  carried  into  the  church  after 
matins  —  the  monks  all  sat  round  about  the 
corpse,  to  watch  it  and  sing  psalms  for  the 
departed  soul  incessantly,  until  it  was  time  for 
the  next  office.  But  the  prior  wished  to  be 
alone,  and  withdrew  to  an  unobserved  part  of 
the  church.  There,  as  he  prayed  and  wept, 
his  strength  failed  him  from  fatigue  and  grief, 
and  he  closed  his  eyes,  when  lo  !  beings  of 
reverend  aspect,  and  clothed  in  the  whitest  of 
white  garments,  had  entered  the  room  where 
Osbern  died,  and  seated  themselves  in  judg- 
ment round  the  spot  where,  stretched  on  the 
sackcloth,  he  expired.  But  their  sentence  was 
hidden  from  the  dreamer,  who  tried  in  vain  to 
learn  it.  Presently  the  scene  changed,  and 
Osbern  himself,  pale  and  haggard,  and  like  to 
one  coming  to  himself  from  excessive  loss  of 
blood,  appeared  in  sight  '*  What !  you,  ray 
child  ?  "  cried  Anselm.  "  How  are  you  ? " 
And  the  vision  replied,  "Thrice  the  old  ser- 
pent rose  up  against  me,  and  thrice  he  fell  back 
again,  and  the  bear-warden  of  the  Lord  God 
delivered  me."  Anselm  opened  his  eyes,  and 
Osbern  was  no  more  seen.  But  observe  (con- 
tinues Eadmer)  how  the  dead  showed  the  same 
obedience  to  the  living  which,  living,  he  had 
been  wont  to  show. 

Anselm  not  only  won  the  devoted  affec- 
tion of  his  own  monks  at  Bee,  but  of  all 
who  came  within  the  magnetic  influence 
of  his  presence.  People  came  from  all 
parts  of  Normandy  to  seek  his  counsels. 
He  had  a  multitude  of  correspondents 
whom  he  advised  by  letter,  and  even  a 
company  of  ladies  settled  beside  Bee  in 
order  to  have  the  benefit  of  his  guidance. 
When  he  visited  England,  where,  after 
the  Conquest,  his  friend  Lanfranc  became 
archbishop,  he  was  received  with  the 
highest  consideration  by  all  classes.  The 
king,  stern  to  others,  was  gracious  to 
Anselm ;  and  Eadmer  says  that  to  such 
extent  did  Anselm  win  the  hearts  of  the 
English  that  there  was  not  an  earl  or 
countess  or  great  person  of  any  kind  in 
England  who  did  not  seek  his  friendship, 


THE   LIFE   AND  TIMES   OF  ST.   ANSELM; 


455 


and  who  did  not  deem  that  his  or  her 
spiritual  state  was  the  worse  if  any  oppor- 
tunity had  been  lost  of  doing  honor  or 
service  to  the  abbot  of  Bee.  Anselm 
owed  his  extraordinary  influence  over 
men  and  women  to  a  combination  of  qual- 
ities not  often  found  together.  He  was 
saintly,  but  he  was  also  genial,  and  even 
at  times  humorous.  He  was  fond  of 
speaking  to  people  in  parables  —  some  of 
which  have  been  preserved,  and  which,  as 
Dean  Church  says,  remind  us  sometimes 
of  the  sayingfs  of  Luther  and  Latimer, 
but  more  frequently  of  St.  Francois  .de 
Sales,  and  of  the  vein  of  quaint  and 
unceremonious  amusement  which  runs 
through  the  later  Italian  works  of  devo- 
tion. 

As  prior  of  Bee,  Anselm  won  equal 
fame  as  a  teacher.  The  chief  duty  of  a 
teacher  in  those  days  was  to  impress  the 
truths  of  religion  upon  men's  minds. 
Even  those  who  wore  the  religious  habit 
were  often  indifferent,  and  it  was  the 
business  of  a  prior  to  arouse  them.  We 
see  in  his  "Meditations"  the  strain  in 
which  Anselm  was  wont  to  address  his 
monks.  These  are  no  doubt  in  substance 
addresses  which  which  were  really  spoken 
within  the  walls  of  Bee.  They  have  the 
intensity,  the  solemnity,  and  the  deep  re- 
ligious passion  which  we  are  accustomed 
to  in  the  best  devotional  works  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  The  present  life  appeared 
to  Anselm  as  a  season  of  deadly  peril,  and 
he  describes  it  in  one  of  the  meditations 
by  means  of  an  image  which,  as  Mr.  Rule 
truly  says,  is  **as  Dantesque  as  anything 
outside  the  pages  of  Dante.'* 

Think  that  you  see  some  deep  and  gloomy 
ravine,  with  every  kind  of  torment  down  in  its 
bed.  Imagine  over  it  a  bridge,  stretched 
across  the  yawning  space,  and  measuring  only 
one  foot  in  width.  If  any  one  were  compelled 
to  go  along  a  bridge  so  strait,  so  high,  so  dan- 
gerous, and  to  go  along  it  with  eyes  bandaged 
so  as  not  to  see  his  steps,  and  with  hands  tied 
behind  him  so  as  not  to  feel  his  way  with  a 
staff  —  what  fear,  what  anguish,  would  possess 
him  \  Nay,  more  ;  imagine  monstrous  birds  of 
prey  sweeping  round  the  bridge,  intent  on  be- 
traying him  down  into  the  gulf  —  will  not  his 
terrors  be  enhanced  ?  And  what  if  one  by  one 
the  paving-tiles  slip  from  his  heels  as  he  ad- 
vances ?  Surely  he  will  be  stricken  with  greater 
and  greater  anxiety  the  further  be  goes. 

If  the  men  of  the  Middle  Ages  cast 
looks  of  shuddering  terror  towards  the 
unseen  world,  they  also  gazed  towards  it 
with  feelings  of  unspeakable  love  and 
tenderness.  The  divine  Redeemer  was 
as  real  to  them  as  the  place  of  torment. 


Anselm's  *' Meditations*'  are  filled 'with 
expressions  of  ardent  love  to  the  Saviour. 
He  dwells  much,  as  was  common  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  upon  the  vast  contrast  be- 
tween the  heavenly  glory  which  Christ 
left,  and  the  earthly  pain  and  poverty 
which  he  accepted.  It  was  this  conse- 
cration of  poverty  by  Christ  that  made  it 
so  dear  to  the  religious  spirits  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages.  It  is  often  said  that  the  monks 
accepted  poverty  that  they  might  w^in 
heaven  as  a  reward  for  their  self-denials  ; 
but  this  is  only  true  of  those  who  had  lost 
the  perception  of  the  original  meanings  of 
their  vows.  Men  like  Anselm  loved  pov- 
erty with  a  passionate  love,  and  almost 
hated  splendor  and  riches,  because  by  ac- 
cepting poverty  they  placed  themselves  in 
fellowship  with  Christ.  Anselm  says  to 
the  rich  that  they  ought  not  to  boast  of 
their  gilded  furniture  and  of  soft  beds,  for 
the  king  of  kings  had  chosen  rather  to 
honor  the  cabin  of  the  poor.  While  there 
was  exaggeration  in  such  teaching,  it  was 
not  an  unwholesome  doctrine  which 
taught  the  oppressed  poor  of  the  Middle 
Ages  that  they  need  not  be  ashamed  of 
their  poverty,  and  the  rich  oppressors 
that  riches  was  not  a  subject  for  unmixed 
satisfaction. 

It  is  not  to  his  devotional  works,  in 
which  he  followed  traditional  methods, 
that  Anselm  owes  his  distinctive  charac- 
ter among  the  religious  teachers  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  While  in  Bee,  he  com- 
mitted to  writing  certain  arguments  on 
the  being  of  God,  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  teach  his  disciples.  They  are 
known  to  us  as  the  "  Monologion  "  and  the 
**  Proslogion ; "  but  the  first  was  originally 
entitled  ^'•Exemplum  Meditandi  de  Ra- 
Hone  Fidei ;^^  and  the  second  bore  the 
title  ''Fides  Quarens  Intellectum?'  The 
titles  sufficiently  indicate  a  new  and  for- 
ward movement  in  religious  thought.  The- 
teachers  of  the  Germanic  people  had 
hitherto  contented  themselves  with  teach- 
ing the  traditions  of  the  Church,  and  de- 
manding faith  and  obedience.  Anselm 
added  a  new  demand.  It  was  the  duty^ 
he  said,  of  a  Christian  not  only  to  be- 
lieve, but  to  understand  the  doctrines  of 
the  faith  ;  and  that,  not  only  that  he  might 
be  able  to  convince  unbelievers,  but  that 
he  might  derive  from  these  doctrines  the 
full  nourishment  which  they  were  calcu- 
lated to  yield.  Anselm  stated  hb  posi- 
tion with  great  reverence  and  caution ;  but 
it  was  a  step  full  of  importance  for  the 
future,  when  a  devout  Churchman  sum- 
moned his  disciples  to  an  intellectual 
scrutiny  of  the  doctrines  of  religion.   Like 


4S^ 


THE   LIFE  AND  TIMES   OF  ST.  ANSELM. 


most  pioneers,  Aoselm  was  troubled  with 
a  misj^iving  when  he  first  attempted  the 
unwonted  work  of  religious  thought.  His 
disciple  tells  us  that  when  he  was  thinking 
out  the  argument  of  the  **  Proslogion  "  his 
thoughts  often  disturbed  him  at  prayers, 
and  he  was  disposed  to  regard  them  as  a 
temptation  of  the  devil;  but  when  at 
length  the  argument  broke  upon  him  in  all 
its  clearness,  during  a  season  of  worship, 
in  the  church,  he  was  filled  with  unspeak- 
able joy,  and  rejoiced  as  one  who  had 
found  a  great  treasure. 

After  spending  thirty-three  years  in  the 
Norman  valley  as  monk,  prior,  and  lat- 
terly as  abbot,  Ansel m  was  transferred  to 
the  see  of  Canterbury.    He  did  not  be- 
come archbishop   immediately  on    Lan- 
franc's  death.    For   four  years  William 
Rufus  kept  the  see  vacant,  that  he  might 
appropriate  its  revenues  to  his  own  use; 
and  his  conduct  excited  a  deep  discontent 
in   England.     It   found  expression  in  a 
curious  manner  at  the  midwinter  Gemdt 
of  1092,  at  which  a  resolution  was  adopted 
that  the  king  should  be  petitioned  to  allow 
prayers  to  be  offered  in  all  the  churches 
of  J£ngland,  craving  that  God  would  move 
the  king's  heart  to  appoint  a  worthy  pas- 
tor to  the  mother  church  of  the  kingdom. 
The  king  gave  the  required  permission, 
but  added  that  they  might  pray  as  thev 
liked,  but  that  no  one  would  alter  his  will. 
He  had  sworn  bv  *Mhe  face  of  Lucca" 
that  no  one  should  be  archbishop  in  En- 
gland except  himself.    With  the  aid  of  an 
unscrupulous    priest,    Ralph    Flambard, 
whom  he  had  appointed  justiciar  of  the 
realm,  William  had  developed  a  system 
according  to  which  it  was  laid  down,  that 
"the  king  would  be  the  heir  of  ilk  man 
ordered  and  leud ! "    All   land  was   re- 
garded as  a  loan  from  the  crown,  and  on 
the  death  of  the  possessor  reverted  to  the 
crown,  and  had  to  be   bought  back  by 
the  successor.    During  a  minority,  or  in 
the  case  of  ecclesiastical  benefices  during 
a  vacancy,  the  whole  revenues  went  to  the 
king.    This  was  one  reason  whv  William 
kept  Canterbury  vacant.    But  it  is  prob- 
able there  was  another  reason.    An  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  was  in  a  special 
sense  the  religious  adviser  of  the  king, 
who  had  a  right  to  speak  to  him  in  the 
name  of  God  and  of  religion.    The  Red 
King  wished  no  mentor  by  his  side  who 
might  remonstrate  with  him  on  his  evil 
.life  and  his  unrighteous  rule. 
I     Anselm  was  in  England  when  the  Ge- 
mdt  made  the  stranee  request  of  the  king, 
and  at  the  desire  of  the  oishops  he  drew 
up  the  form  of  prayer  which  was  used  in 


the  churches.    He  had  come  to  England  1 
to  visit  the  Earl  of  Chester,  who  believed  / 
himself  to  be  dying,  and  who  sent  for  An-/ 
selm  to  give  him  spiritual  counsels.    The^ 
king  scornfully  sug:gested  that  he  was  lin« 
gering  in  England  because  he  had  his  eye 
to  the  vacant  see.    On  one  occasion  some 
of  his  nobles  said  in  the  king's  presence 
that  the  abbot  of  Bee  was  one  who  loved 
God  onlv,  and  sought  for  none  of  the 
things  of  the  world.    On  which  the  king 
said  in  mockery,  *'  Not  for  the  archbisf 
opric  of  Canterbury?"     If  Anselm  had 
his  eye  on  the  vacant  archbishopric  he 
took  a  strange  way  of  winning  the  king's 
favor.    At  the  first  interview  he  was  gra- 
ciouslv  received,  but  Anselm  desired  the 
attenaants    to  withdraw    that  he  might 
speak  with  the  king  alone.    He  then  told 
him  that  things  were  said  of  him  in  his 
realm  which  were  not  to  his  honor,  and 
counselled  him  to  reform  his  life  and  his 
ways.    Dean  Hook  expresses  his  surprise 
at  Anselm*s  want  of  courtesv ;  others  will 
feel  admiration  for  his   fidelity;   but  at 
all  events  he  gave  the  king  fair  notice  o£ 
the  sort  of  archbishop  he  was  likely  to  be. 
The  king's  resolution  to  appoint  no  one 
was  altered,  if  not  by  the  prayers  of  his 
people,  by  an  event  which  was  regarded 
by  many  as  an  answer  to  their  prayers. 
William  was  taken  suddenly  and  danger- 
ously ill  in  the  season  of  Lent,  1093,  and 
was  carried  to  the  city  of  Gloucester,  as 
it  was  thought,  to  die.    He  was  filled  with 
mental  anguish  by  the  thought  of  his  evil 
life,  and  of  his  misrule.    The  bishops, 
who  were  summoned  to  his  bedside,  sent 
for  Anselm  to  advise  the  royal  penitent. 
Anselm  came  at  once,  and  he  ur^ed  the 
king  to  make  full  confession  of  his  sins^ 
and  to  make  atonement  for  all  that  be  had 
done  amiss  so  far  as  lay  in  his  power. 
The  king  assented,  and  from  his  bed  he 
issued  a  proclamation  which  was  put  forth 
under  the  royal  seal,  in  which  he  prom- 
ised to  release  captives,  to  forgive  all  the 
debts  due  to  the  crown,  and  to  appoint 
pastors  to  vacant  churches.  Those  around 
the  king  urged  him  to  complete  his  acts 
of  reparation  by  making  an  appointment 
to  the  metropolitan  see.    The  king  rose 
from  his  bed,  and  pointing  to  the  abbot  of 
Bee  said,  "  I  choose  this  holy  man  An- 
selm."   All  who  heard  the  king  shouted 
with  joy,  except  Anselm,  who  refused  to 
approach  the  bedside  of  the  king.    He 
was  then  dragged  by  force  to  the  king's 
bedside,  who  implored  him  not  to  con- 
demn him  to  eternal  torment,  for  he  felt 
sure  he  would  perish  if  he  died  with  the 
archbishopric  on  his  hands.    Anselm  still 


THE  LIFE  AMD  TIMES  OF  ST.  ANSELM. 


4S7 


refased.  Bat  a  pastoral  staff  was  found, 
and  put  into  the  hand  of  the  sick  king. 
It  was  partially  forced  into  the  resisting 
band  of  Ansel m.  The  clergy  in  the  room 
then  began  to  sing  Te  Deum;  and  An* 
selm  was  carried  into  the  neighboring 
church,  where  a  service  was  held. 

Anselm  at  first  refused  to  recognize  the 
validitv  of  the  forcible  investiture.  He 
was  reluctant  to  leave  his  abbey  and  his 
studies,  and  he  knew  the  character  of  the 
king  too  well  not  to  anticipate  serious  dif* 
ficulties  were  he  associated  with  him  as 
a  yokefellow.  He  put  his  objection,  as 
usual,  in  parabolic  form.  It  was  an  at- 
.  tempt,  he  said,  to  yoke  a  poor  old  ewe 
with  a  young,  untamable  bull.  The  old 
sheep  might  perhaps  furnish  them  with 
the  wool  and  milk  ol  the  Lord's  word,  but 
he  could  not  pull  in  fellowship  with  such 
a  comrade. 

On  his  recovery  the  king  showed  no 
signs  that  his  repentance  had  been  any- 
thing but  a  passing  mood  of  remorse.  He 
said  to  one  of  his  bishops,  who  seems  to 
have  been  exhorting  him  to  persevere  in 
the  good  resolves  he  had  expressed  on  his 
sick  bed,  **  God  shall  never  see  me  a  good 
man ;  I  have  suffered  too  much  at  his 
hands."  Mr.  Rule  freauentl^  interrupts 
his  narrative  to  pour  maledictions  on  VVil- 
liam,  who  certainly  deserved  all  his  cen- 
sure, although  Mr.  Rule  appears  to  forget 
that  endless  iteration  is  apt  to  blunt  the 
force  even  of  just  condemnation.  Mr. 
Freeman's  judgment  is  briefer,  but  not 
less  severe.  **  His  practice,*'  he  writes, 
**  was  such  as  became  the  fool  who  said 
that  there  was  no  God,  or,  rather,  the 
deeper  fool  who  said  that  there  was  a 
God,  and  yet  defied  him." 

Notwithstanding  his  reluctance,  Anselm 
was  obliged  to  become  the  yokefellow  of 
William.  The  need  of  the  Church  in 
England  was  so  great  that  he  felt  it  would 
be  treason  to  the  cause  of  God  to  persist 
in  his  refusal.  He  sought  an  interview 
with  the  king,  and  laid  before  him  the 
terms  on  which  he  would  accept  the  pri- 
macy. The  first  condition  was  that  he 
should  receive  all  the  lands  which  Lan- 
franc  had  held  without  delay.  As  for  the 
lands  to  which  the  ancient  Church  had  a 
claim,  but  which  Lanfranc  had  not  been 
able  to  win  back,  he  demanded  that  the 
king  should  do  him  justice  in-  his  court. 
His  second  condition  was  that  the  king 
should  take  him  as  bis  spiritual  father 
and  adviser  in  things  that  concerned  the 
Church  and  his  own  soul.  The  third  was 
that  Anselm  should  be  permitted  to  ac- 
knowledge  Urban  as  pope,  which  he  had 


already  done  in  Normandy.  The  third 
condition  was  specially  displeasing  to 
William.  His  father  had  established  the 
custom  in  England  that  no  one  should 
acknowledge  a  pope  without  royal  permis- 
sion. There  were  at  this  time  two  rival 
popes,  and  William  had  acknowledged 
neither.  He  did  not,  however,  absolutely 
refuse  Anselm's  conditions.  He  prom- 
ised to  observe  the  first,  and  he  delayed 
final  settlement  regarding  the  second  and 
third.  Anselm  consented  to  receive  the 
archbishopric.  Kneeling  before  the  king, 
according  to  the  ancient  custom  of  En- 
gland, he  did  homage,  pledging  himself  as 
the  king's  man  for  all  earthly  worship. 
His  enthronement  followed  on  September 
25,  1093,  and  on  the  4th  of  December 
he  was  consecrated  at  Canterbut-y.  Mr 
Freeman  calls  attention  to  the  reversal  of 
the  order  of  these  ceremonies  which  has 
taken  place  In  later  times. 

The  order  then  was  homage,  enthronement, 
consecration ;  the  present  order  is  the  exact 
opposite.  The  bishop-elect  is  consecrated; 
then  he  takes  corporal  possession  of  the  see 
by  enthronement ;  last  of  all  he  does  homage 
to  the  king,  and  receives  restitution  of  the  tem- 
poralities. In  the  elder  state  of  things  the 
spiritual  office  was  l^estowed  on  one  who  was 
already  full  bishop  for  all  temporal  purposes. 
By  the  later  rule  the  temporal  rights  are  be- 
stowed on  one  who  is  already  full  bishop  for 
all  spiritual  purposes.  The  difference  in  order 
seems  to  arise  from  the  different  theory  of 
the  episcopate  which  has  prevailed  since  the 
restoration  of  ecclesiastical  elections  was  fully 
established  by  the  Great  Charter.  In  the 
irregular  practice  of  the  eleventh  century  the 
notion  of  investiture  of  a  benefice  by  the  king 
had  come  to  the  front.  The  king  had  in  bis 
hands  a  great  fief,  which  he  granted  to  whom 
he  would :  that  fief  was  chargeable  with  cer- 
tain spiritual  duties.  It  was  therefore  for  the 
Church,  by  her  spiritual  rite  of  consecration, 
to  make  the  king's  nominee,  already  invested 
with  his  temporal  rights,  capable  of' discharg- 
ing his  spiritual  duties.  Such  was  clearly  the* 
established  view  of  the  days  of  Rufus,  and  the 
order  of  the  process  is  in  harmony  with  it. 
The  office  is  treated  as  an  appendage  to  the 
benefice.  In  the  theory,  which  is  both  earlier 
and  later,  the  benefice  is  treated  as  an  ap- 
pendage to  the  office ;  the  order  of  the  process 
is  therefore  reversed.  The  spiritual  office  is 
first  filled  by  the  three  ecclesiastical  processes 
of  election,  confirmation,  consecration — the 
last  course  being  needless  when  the  person 
chosen  is  already  a  bishop.  The  bishop  then 
takes  personal  possession  of  his  church  by  in- 
stallation or  enthronement  The  spiritual 
functions  over,  the  bishop,  now  in  full  posses- 
sion of  his  office,  lastly  receives  the  attached 
benefice  by  homage  to  the  king  and  restitution 
of  the  temporalities  at  his  hands.    That  elec- 


THE   LIFE   AND  TIMES   OF   ST.  ANSELM. 


458 

tions  were  hardly  ever  free  at  any  time,  that 
the  royal  leave  was  needed  for  re-eiection,  that 
kings  recommended,  that  popeq  provided ;  that 
the  later  law  requires  the  electors  to  choose 
only  the  king's  nominee,  and  requires  the 
metropolitan  to  confirm  the  person  mo  chosen, 
makes  no  difference  to  the  theory.  The  royal 
power  is  kept  in  the  background;  it  is  the 
ecclesiastical  power  which  formally  acts.  The 
king's  hand  pulls  the  wires  of  the  ecclesiastical 
puppets;  but  the  ecclesiastical  puppets  play 
their  formal  part.  The  whole  is  done  accord- 1 
ing  to  a  theory  which  naturally  places  the  for- 
mal act  of  the  temporal  power  last.  In  the 
days  of  Rufus  the  whole  was  done  according 
to  another  theory,  which  as  naturally  placed 
the  formal  act  of  the  temporal  power  first  of 
all. 

The  first  difference  that  arose  between 
Anselm  and  the  king  with  whom  he  was 
unequally  yoked,  arose  out  of  a  question 
of  money.  The  king  was  in  need  of  funds 
for  his  wars,  and  Anselm,  with  the  other 
Dobles  and  prelates,  made  him  a  gift. 
He  offered  five  hundred  pounds  of  silver. 
The  king  was  offended  bv  the  smallness 
of  the  sum,  and  returnea  Anselm^s  gift. 
Anselm,  instead  of  offering  a  larger  sum, 
as  the  custom  was  when  a  first  gift  was 
refused,  sought  an  audience  of  the  king, 
and  remonstrated  with  him.  It  was  a  gift, 
he  said,  and  he  ought  to  be  willing  to  ac- 
cept what  could  be  given  with  a  good  will, 
and  not  to  wring  a  larger  sum  from  him  as 
from  a  slave.  The  king  was  exasperated 
by  the  plain  speaking  of  the  archbishop, 
and  said  '*  Keep  your  money  and  your  jaw 
to  yourself ;  I  have  enough  of  my  own. 
Get  you  gone  ! "  Anselm,  we  are  told, 
withdrew  from  the  royal  presence,  and 
remembered  that  at  his  enthronement  the 
gospel  had  been  read  which  says  that  no 
man  can  serve  two  masters. 

He  next  met  William  at  Hastings,  where 
he  was  waiting  for  a  fair  wind  to  embark 
for  Normandy  to  wage  war  against  his 
brother.  Anselm  took  occasion  to  appeal 
to  the  king's  conscience.  He  could  not 
expect,  he  said,  a  divine  blessing  on  his 
enterprises  unless  he  acted  righteously  in 
his  realm.  According  to  the  laws  of  the 
Conqueror  no  synod  of  the  Church  could 
be  held  in  England  without  the  king's 
license.  The  Conqueror  had,  however, 
always  given  the  license  to  Lanfranc. 
But  William  Rufus  had  never  yet  permit- 
ted a  synod  to  be  held,  and  Anselm  pressed 
upon  the  king  the  necessity  of  assembling 
one  to  deal  with  the  grave  ecclesiastical 
and  moral  disorders  of  the  land.  The 
king  replied  mockingly,  **  What  may  come 
of  this  matter  for  you  ?"  "  For  me  noth- 
ing,*' said  Anselm ;  **  for  you  and  for  God, 


i 


I  hope  much."  Anselm  next  touched 
upon  a  subject  which  was  still  more  dis- 
pleasing to  the  king:  the  vacant  abbeys 
ought  to  be  filled  up.  The  king  lost  all 
patience,  and  told  him  that  the  abbeys 
were  his,  and  that  he  had  no  right  to  in- 
terfere with  them.  "You  know,"  he  said, 
"what  you  say  is  most  unpleasing  to  me. 
Your  predecessor  would  never  have  dared 
to  speak  so  to  my  father."  Therein  the 
king  spoke  truly;  and  the  Red  King  must 
by  this  time  have  understood  that  the 
gentle  Anselm,  with  his  self-forgettine 
zeal  for  righteousness,  was  a  more  formid- 
able opponent  to  his  despotic  will  than 
Lanfranc. 

On  William's  return  from  Normandy, 
the  persistent  archbishop  again  appeared 
before  him  with  a  fresh  request.  He  de- 
sired, he  said,  to  go  to  Rome  to  receive 
the  pallium  from  the  hands  of  the  pope  as 
Lanfranc  and  other  archbishops  had  done. 
The  king  refused  the  request  on  the 
ground  that  he  had  as  yet  acknowledged 
no  pope,  and  that  no  subject  had  any  right 
to  acknowledge  a  pope  in  England  with- 
out his  permission.  Anselm  persisted ; 
and  by  the  consent  of  both  parties  the 
matter  was  referred  to  the  Witan  of  the 
kingdom.  The  assembly  met  at  Rocking- 
ham on  March  11,  1095;  and  for  several 
days  the  question  was  discussed.  The 
king  and  his  immediate  counsellors  sat 
apart  in  a  chamber  by  themselves,  and 
messages  passed  between  them  and  the 
assembly.  The  place  of  meeting  was 
crowded,  not  only  with  nobles  and  bish- 
ops, but  with  priests  and  laymen.  Anselm 
then  asked  the  advice  of  the  Witan.  The 
bishops,  who  were  for  the  most  part  crea- 
tures of  the  king  who  had  bought  their 
offices,  declared  against  their  spiritual 
chief.  He  must  promise  to  submit  him- 
self to  the  king,  or  they  would  give  him 
no  counsel.  The  nobles  appeared  to  be 
of  the  same  mind.  Anselm  then  declared 
that  since  the  bishops  and  chiefs  of  the 
Christian  nation  refused  him  counsel,  he 
would  go  to  "the  chief  Shepherd  and 
Prince  of  all  —  the  angel  of  great  counsel," 
as  he  termed  the  pope  1  The  bishops  re* 
ported  the  words  of  Anselm  to  the  king, 
who  was  vastly  indignant.  The  bishops 
then,  with  William  ofSaint  Calais^  Bishop 
of  Durham  at  their  head,  who  had  himself 
appealed  to  the  pope,  endeavored  to  stir 
up  the  king  against  the  archbishop.  They 
were  long  absent ;  and  in  the  mean  time 
Anselm  fell  asleep.  On  their  return, 
William  of  Saint  Calais  upbraided  An- 
selm for  having  robbed  the  king  of  dignity, 
and  threatened  him  with  the  king's  ex* 


THE   LIFE   AND  TIMES   OF  ST.  ANSELM. 


459 


treme  displeasure  should  he  continue  in 
his  purpose.  Anselm  replied  with  dignity, 
and  with  ready  arguments;  and  it  then 
became  evident  that  his  placid  courage 
had  made  a  favorable  impression  upon 
some  in  the  assembly.  A  kniurht  stepped 
forth  from  the  crowd  and  knelt  at  the 
feet  of  Anselm,  and  said,  '*  Father  and 
lord,  through  me  your  suppliant  children 
pray  you  not  to  let  your  heart  be  troubled 
at  what  you  have  heard;  remember  how 
the  blessed  Job  vanquished  the  devil  on 
his  dunghill,  and  avenged  Adam,  whom 
he  had  vanquished  in  Paradise." 

Anselm  and  his  friends  were  greatly 
comforted  by  the  quaint  words  of  the 
knight,  *•  knowing  the  Scripture,"  says 
Eadmer,  '*  that  the  voice  of  the  people  is 
the  voice  of  God."*  It  became  evident 
that  there  was  a  reaction  in  the  assembly 
in  favor  of  Anselm,  whose  calm  courage 
and  readiness  in  debate  had  excited  the 
admiration  of  the  lav  lords.  The  Bishop 
of  Durham  counselled  the  king  to  put 
Anselm  down  by  force.  "Let  the  ring 
and  staff  be  taken  from  him,"  he  said; 
••let  him  be  driven  from  the  kingdom." 
But  the  lay  lords  stoutly  refused  to  ac* 
quiesce  in  this  policy  of  violence.  An- 
selm, they  said,  was  their  archbishop,  and 
they  must  obey  him  in  matters  spiritual. 
And  one  of  them.  Count  Robert  of  Meu- 
lao,  openly  expressed  to  the  king  his 
admiration  for  his  opponent,  "  An  day 
long,"  he  said,  "  we  were  putting  together 
counsels  with  all  our  might,  and  consulting 
how  our  counsels  might  hang  together; 
and  meanwhile  he,  thinking  no  evil  back 
again,  sleeps,  and  when  our  devices  are 
brought  out,  with  one  touch  of  his  lips  he 
breaks  them  like  a  spider's  net."  The 
king  was  anxious  to  follow  the  violent 
counsels  of  the  Bishop  of  Durham,  but  he 
felt  that  he  dared  not  in  face  of  the  feel- 
ing of  the  lay  lords ;  so  it  was  agreed  to 
postpone  the  decision  of  the  question 
until  the  Whitsun  Gemdt. 

It  was  DO  mean  day  in  English  history 
[vrrites  Mr.  Freeman]  when  the  king,  the 
proadest  and  fiercest  of  Norman  kings,  was 
taught  that  there  were  limits  to  his  will.  It 
was  like  a  foreshadowing  of  brighter  days  to 
come,  when  the  Primate  of  all  England,  backed 
by  the  barons  and  people  of  England  —  for  on 

*  "  Confidentes  juzta  scriptnram,  vocem  populi  vo« 
oem  esse  Dei/'  Mr  Freeman  thinks  the  word  xm>- 
titrn  must  be  her  tak'ii  in  a  wider  sense,  as  Eadmer 
oottld  hardly  have  thoa£hC  that  these  words  were  to  b« 
found  in  any  of  the  canonical  books.  We  are  not  so 
cure.  Members  o  Parliament  and  even  clergymen 
sometimes  ouote  common  proverbs  as  Scripture,  and 
are  surprised  when  ihey  are  told  they  are  not  in  Scrip- 
ture. And  Eadmer  had  no  Bible  in  his  native  tongue 
as  we  have. 


that  day  the  very  strangers  and  conquerors  de- 
served that  name  —  overcame  the  Red  King 
and  his  time-serving  bishops.  The  day  of 
Rockingham  has  the  fullest  right  to  be  marked 
with  white  in  the  kalendar  in  which  we  enter 
the  day  of  Runnymede  and  the  day  of  Lewes. 

William  extricated  himself  from  his  dif- 
ficulty with  considerable  address.  He 
sent  two  clerks  of  his  chancery  to  Italv^. 
Gerard,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Hereford 
and  Archbishop  of  York,  and  William  of 
Warelwast,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Exeter. 
They  were  instructed  to  acknowledge 
Urban,  and  to  obtain  from  him  the  pal- 
lium. Urban  was  glad  to  grant  the  terms 
in  order  to  receive  acknowiedcrment  from 
a  powerful  monarch,  and  he  sent  Walter  of 
Albano  to  England  along  with  William*s 
messengers,  as  bearer  of  the  pallium. 
On  his  arrival  in  England  William  pub- 
licly acknowledged  Urban,  but  he  desired 
as  the  price  of  his  acknowledgment  that 
Anselm  should  be  deprived  of  his  arch- 
bishopric by  the  authority  of  the  pope. 
This  request  was  refused  by  the  papal 
legate,  and  William  was  compelled  to 
make  peace  with  Anselm.  An  attempt 
was  then  made  to  persuade  Anselm  to  re^ 
ceive  the  pallium  from  the  hand  of  th» 
king.  This  he  refused  to  do,  and  th& 
pallium  was  laid  upon  the  altar  in  th^ 
metropolitan  church,  and  Anselm  took  it 
thence  *'as  from  the  hand  of  the  Saint 
Peter." 

William  and  Anselm  were  now  nomi- 
nally reconciled,  and  for  some  time  there 
was  peace.  But  the  king  had  notforgriven 
the  man  who  had  opposed  his  will.  A 
new  breach  occurred  in  1097,  and  from 
an  apparentlv  trivial  cause.  The  king:,  on 
his  return  from  a  campaign  in  Wales, 
wrote  an  angry  letter  to  Anselm,  com- 
plaining of  the  contingent  which  he  had 
sent  to  the  army.  He  commanded  him  to 
be  ready  to  do  right  to  him  according  to 
the  judgment  of  the  court,  whenever  he 
should  think  fit  to  summon  him.  Anselm 
was  deeply  discouraged  by  this  fresh  to- 
ken of  the  king*s  ill'Will.  He  went  to  the 
Whitsun  Gemdt  in  May,  1097,  at  which 
the  suit  against  him  was  to  be  tried ;  and 
after  making  a  last  appeal  to  the  king  to 
aid  him  in  the  work  of  ecclesiastical  and 
moral  reformation,  by  giving  permission 
to  hold  synods,  he  requested  the  king's 
leave  to  go  to  Rome.  If  Anselm  made 
this  request  simply  because  a  suit  had 
been  commenced  against  him  in  the  king's 
court,  he  was  morally  as  well  as  legally 
wrong.  But  his  resolve  seems  to  have  \ 
been  taken  in  consequence  of  the  convic*  | 
tion  to  which  he  had  arrived,  that  the 


THE   LIFE  AND  TIMES   OF  ST.  ANSELM. 


1 


460 

tkini^  was  so  hostile  to  himself  and  so 
opposed  to  all  his  holy  aims  that  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  remain  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury.  Dean  Hook  thinks  that 
the  Red  King  might  have  been  managed 
by  Anselm,  as  the  Conqueror  was  man- 
aged by  Lanfranc,  and  he  lays  the  blame 
on  Ansel m*s  want  of  tact  and  his  unyield- 
ing temper.  But  it  is  difficult  to  see  what 
Anselm  could  have  done.  He  could  onl^ 
have  purchased  peace  at  the  price  of  si* 
lence  and  compliance  with  wrong.  Had 
he  ceased  to  appeal  to  the  king's  con- 
science, had  he  been  silent  regarding  the 
moral  condition  of  the  nation,  William 
would  have  been  satisfied.  But  by  such 
a  course  he  would  have  made  himself  a 
partaker  in  the  sins  of  the  king,  and  he 
would  have  taught  the  English  people  that 
DO  protest  was  to  be  expected  from  the 
Church  when  the  sinner  was  a  royal  per* 
sonage. 

)f  It  may  be  admitted  that  Anselm  was  a 
dless  successful  **  manager "  of  royal  per- 
/fionages  than  Lanfranc  Lanfranc  be- 
/'longed  to  the  class  of  ecclesiastics  who 
honestly  seek  to  give  righteous  guidance 
to  those  in  power;  who  do  not  altogeth- 
il  Jer  refrain  from  appealing  to  their  con- 
vjsciences,  but  who  act  upon  the  principle 
ithat  an  open  breach  is  at  all  costs  to  be 
avoided,  and  that  it  is  better  to  wink  at 
wickedness  than  to  estrange  a  king.  An- 
selm belonged  to  a  higher  fellowship  than 
that  of  the  convenient  ecclesiastics  of 
compromise.  He  was  willing,  he  said,  to 
be  driven  forth  naked  out  of  England 
rather  than  abstain  from  doing  what  he 
believed  to  be  his  duty.  When  his  fellow* 
bishops  assured  him  that  it  was  vain  to 
urge  his  request  upon  the  king,  he  said, 
"  If  he  will  not  give  me  permission  I  shall 
act  according  to  Scriptural  injunction,  and 
obey  God  rather  than  man."  We  may 
regret  that  Anselm  considered  it  his  duty 
to  appeal  to  the  pope.  But  in  doing  so 
be  acted  in  accordance  with  maxims  which 
all  men  believed.  The  pope  was  the  vicar 
of  Christ  upon  earth,  and  what  could  an 
archbishop  do,  who  found  his  position 
intolerable  and  his  duties  impossible,  but 
appeal  for  aid  and  counsel  to  the  head  of 
Christendom?  The  king  at  first  refused 
Anselm  a  license  to  go  to  Rome.  He  did 
not  believe,  he  said  sarcastically,  that  An- 
selm had  committed  a  sin  so  black  that 
none  but  the  pope  could  absolve  him; 
and  as  for  counsel,  Anselm  was  better 
fitted  to  give  the  pope  advice  than  the 
pope  was  to  give  it  to  Anselm.  As  An- 
selm continued  to  urge  his  request  he  was 
informed  that  he  might  go,  but  that  if  he 


went  the  archbishopric  would  be  seised 
by  the  king,  and  he  would  not  be  again 
received  in  England  as  archbishop.  The 
king  and  the  archbishop  bad  a  parting 
interview.  At  the  close  Anselm  expressed 
his  desire  to  bless  the  king.  '*  As  an  arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,'*  he  said,  "speak- 
ing to  a  king  of  England,  I  would,  before 
I  go,  give  you  my  blessing,  if  you  do  not 
refuse  it."  The  king  was  touched  for  the 
moment,  and  said,  **  I  refuse  not  your 
blessing.''  He  then  bowed  his  head,  and 
Anselm  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over 
it.    Then  they  parted  forever. 

Anselm  crossed  to  Wissant,  and  jour- 
neyed to  Italy.  The  pope  received  him 
with  every  mark  of  respect,  but  showed 
no  disposition  to  take  up  his  case.  la 
truth  Urban  was  more  perplexed  thaa 
pleased  by  his  arrival,  for  he  had  no  wish 
to  quarrel  with  William.  As  the  air  of 
Rome  proved  unhealthy,  Anselm  accepted 
an  invitation  from  an  old  friend,  John, 
abbot  of  Telesia,  and  sojourned  for  some 
time  at  the  mountain  village  of  Schiavia. 
In  this  quiet  retreat  his  heart  expanded, 
and  he  returned  to  his  old  studies.  At 
Schiavia  he  finally  committed  to  writing 
his  famous  dialogue  "  Cur  Deus  Homo^* 
the  arguments  of  which  had  been  long 
familiar  to  his  disciples. 

He  was  present  for  some  time  in  the 
camp  of  Duke  Roger  before  Capua.  The 
marvellous  fascination  of  his  manner  at- 
tracted the  heathen  Saracens  in  the  duke's 
army,  who,  we  are  told,  always  saluted 
him,  knelt  before  him,  and  would  have 
received  baptism  at  his  hands  had  not  the 
duke  objected  to  baptisms  as  likely  to 
prejudice  the  discipline  of  his  army.  In 
October,  1098,  he  attended  the  Council  of 
Bari.  At  this  Council  the  pope  called 
upon  Anselm  to  defend  the  Western  creed 
against  the  Greeks  who  were  present. 
Anselm  delivered  a  speech  which  has  a 
place  among  his  works  under  the  title 
**  De  Processione  Spiritus  Sancti  contra 
Gracos^  The  whole  Council  was  im- 
pressed by  his  words,  and  when  he  had 
finished  the  pope  exclaimed,  "  Blessed  be 
thy  heart  and  thy  understanding;  blessed 
be  thy  lips  and  the  words  which  flow  from 
them."  Anselm*s  own  case  was  after- 
wards taken  up  by  the  Council.  The  pope 
made  a  violent  speech  against  William, 
and  proposed  to  place  him  and  his  realm 
under  the  excommunication  of  the 
Church.  Anselm  interposed ;  he  was  not 
willing  that  matters  should  proceed  to 
extremities ;  and  the  pope  was  only  too 
glad  to  find  an  excuse  for  delay.  In  the 
mean  time  William  of  Warelwast  came  to 


THE  LIFE  AND  TIMES   OF  ST.  ANSELM. 


461 


Ital^  as  the  emissary  of  Rufus,  and  he, 
having  judiciously  expended  money 
among  the  counsellors  of  the  pope,  the 
pope  was  persuaded  to  grant  nine  months 
of  respite  to  William,  in  which  it  was  ex- 
pected that  he  would  make  up  his  quarrel 
with  Anselm.  The  latter  was  hurt  oy  the 
lukewarm  zeal  of  the  pope,  and  he  pro- 
posed to  leave  Rome,  but  was  prevailed 
on  to  remain  to  the  Council  which  met  in 
the  Lateran  at  Easter,  1099.  At  this 
Council  he  heard  anathemas  fulminate 
against  all  who  practised  or  received  la 
investiture.  His  eyes  were  thus  full 
opened  to  the  mind  of  the  Church  on  th 
subject  of  investitures,  and  what  he  hear 
bad  an  important  influence  on  his  futur 
conduct.  Nothing  was  done  at  the  Coun 
cil  at  the  Lateran  regarding  the  control 
versy  between  William  and  Anselm, 
although  there  was  some  plain  speaking 
on  the  subject  of  the  dilatoriness  of  the 
pope  in  the  cause  of  one  who  had  suffered 
50  much  for  the  Holy  See.  On  the  day 
after  the  Council  Anselm  left  Rome,  ac- 
companied by  Eadmer,  who  was  the  com- 
panion of  his  travels,  "having obtained," 
writes  the. latter  with  some  bitterness, 
**  nought  of  judgment  or  advice  through 
the  Roman  bishop  except  what  I  have 
said." 

Anselm  lived  for  some  time  in  Gaul 
preaching,  writing,  and  winning  from  all 
men  **an  extraordinary  and  incredible 
affection,"  as  his  companion  records. 
Miracles  were  wrought  by  him  —  at  least 
they  seemed  so  to  Eadmer  and  others, 
although  Anselm  himself  seems  never  to 
have  claimed  the  power  of  working  mira- 
cles. In  the  autumn  of  the  vear  iioo, 
when  he  was  staying  at  an  abbey  near 
Brioude,  in  the  Auvergne  country,  the  tid- 
ings reached  him  that  the  controversy  be- 
tween him  and  William  was  ended  bv  a 
higher  verdict  than  that  of  the  pope.  An- 
selm had-  never  ceased  to  pray  for  the 
king,  and  when  he. heard  of  his  sudden 
death  he  burst  into '*  the  bitterest  weep- 
ing." 

Anselm  returned  to  England  at  the 
urgent  request  of  the  new  king.  Henry 
Beauclerc  had  every  wish  to  live  in  har- 
mony with  Anselm  ;  but  difficulties  arose 
over  the  question  of  homage  and  investi- 
ture. Anselm  was  now  fully  aware  that 
lay  investiture  was  forbidden  by  the  high- 
est ecclesiastical  authority,  so  he  refused 
the  investiture  from  Henry  which  he  had 
received  without  scruple  from  Rufus,  and 
he  declined  to  become  the  man  of  the  new 
king.  Some  other  bishops  followed  his 
example,  and  the  king  found  himself  in 


great  straits.  He  was  unwilling  to  quar* 
rel  with  Anselm  at  the  beginning  of  hi» 
reign  while  his  throne  was  yet  insecure; 
but  he  was  too  far-seeing  a  statesman 
willingly  to  permit  a  powerful  order  of 
men  to  get  a  footing  in  his  realm  who  re« 
fused  to  recognize  him  as  their  lord.  An- 
selm  consented  that  the  question  should 
be  referred  to  the  new  Pope  Paschal ;  and 
in  the  mean  time  he  lived  in  harmony 
with  Henry,  and  did  him  some  important 
services.  Henry  was  unmarried,  and  his 
bishops  urged  him  to  marry  that  he  might 
reform  the  many  irregularities  of  his  life. 
He  desired  to  take  in  marriage  Matilda, 
the  daughter  of  Malcolm  of  Scotland,  who 
was  descended  from  the  Saxon  kings. 
Such  a  marriage  was  in  the  highest  de- 
gree politic,  but  there  was  an  ecclesiasti* 
cal  difficulty  in  the  way.  It  was  said  that 
Matilda  had  taken  the  vows  of  a  nun,  and 
that  the  marriage  would  be  sacrilege. 
Matilda  had  lived  for  some  time  with  her 
Aunt  Christina  in  the  convent  at  Romsey, 
and  her  aunt  desired  her  to  take  vows ; 
but  the  vows  had  never  actually  been 
taken.  The  question  was  fully  consid- 
ered at  an  assembly  which  Anselm  con* 
voked  at  Lambeth.  Anselm  then  gave  it 
as  his  judgment  that  the  princess  was 
free  to  marry,  and  she  was  united  in  mar<* 
riage  to  Henry. 

The  questions  of  investiture  and  horn- 
age  were  not  settled.  The  pope  refused 
to  give  his  sanction  to  lay  investiture,  and 
Henry  pressed  for  what  ne  considered  hia. 
sovereign  rights.  The  dispute  ended  iff 
Anselm  again  leaving  England  to  appeal 
to  the  pope.  Paschal  supported  Anselm, 
but,  like  Urban,  was  reluctant  to  proceed 
to  extremities;  and  Anselm,  finding  the 
pop>e  so  indifiFerent,  determined  to  place 
England  under  his  own  interdict.  Henry 
got  notice  of  his  intention,  and  offered  t^ 
make  concessions.  They  met  at  the  cas 
tie  of  L'Aigle,  on  the  Rille.  There  fo) 
lowed  more  references  to  the  pope,  at 
other  negotiations,  which  ended  in  Ai 
selm's  return  to  England.  In  the  moiuh 
of  August,  1 107,  a  great  meeting  was  held 
in  London  of  bishops,  abbots,  and  chief 
men  of  the  realm,  at  which  the  king  give 
his  consent  that  from  that  time  forth  [no 
one  should  be  invested  in  England  with 
bishopric  or  abbey  by  staff  or  ring,  eitller 
by  the  king  or  by  any  lay  hand.  Anseli 
on  his  part,  promised  that  no  one  shoul 
be  refused  consecration  on  account 
homage  done  to  the  king. 

The  final  settlement  of  the  questioil 
was  eminently  just.  The  pastoral  staff 
was  the  symool  of   authority  over  the 


THE   LIFE   AND  TIMES   OF  ST.   ANSEUC 


0 


462^ 

flock,  aod  the  ring  denoted  the  marriage 
of  the  ecclesiastic  to  his  Church.  It  was 
unseemly  that  symbols  of  a  spiritual  re- 
lationship should  be  bestowed  by  an 
earthly  monarch.  On  the  other  hand, 
Henry  had  a  right  to  insist  on  homage 
from  all  who  held  lands  in  his  realm.  It 
is  impossible  to  sympathize  fully  with  An- 
selm  in  his  conflict  with  Henry.  But 
there  were  excuses  for  his  conduct.  The 
councils  of  the  Church  had  prohibited 
lay  investiture;  and  although  popes  used 
decrees  and  excommunications  as  mere 
instruments  of  policy,  and  were  willing  to 
tolerate  what  they  condemned,  this  con- 
venient attitude  of  mind  was  not  possible 
to  Anselm.  To  his  logical  and  sincere 
mind,  it  appeared  that  what  was  so  utterly 
wrong  as  to  deserve  the  condemnation  of 
a  council  ought  to  be  resisted  to  the  ut- 
termost. Another  excuse  for  Anselm  was 
the  past  conduct  of  the  Red  King.  He 
had  resisted  the  authority  of  the  pope,  but 
be  had  not  endeavored  to  substitute  for  it 
any  wholesome  authority  of  his  own.  As 
Mr.  Freeman  says,  "  .Men  had  come  to 
look  on  the  king  as  the  embodiment  of 
wrong,  and  on  the  pope  as  the  only  sur- 
viving embodiment  of  right.^' 

The  victory  of  Anselm  had  a  whole* 
some  effect  upon  the  Church  in  England. 
Henry  was  not  a  religious  or  a  scrupulous 
man,  but  he  was  wise  and  discerning,  and 
he  felt  that  a  public  opinion  had  been 
awakened  which  he  could  not  a£Eord  to 
despise;  and  instead  of  appointing  un- 
worthy clerks  to  bishoprics,  as  had  been 
the  custom,  he  took  counsel  with  religious 
men  regarding  his  appointments,  and 
avoided  appointments  calculated  to  create 
a  scandal. 

The  last  two  years  of  Anselm's  life  were 
spent  in  peace.  He  performed  all  his 
public  duties,  but  spent  what  time  he 
could  spare  from  them  among  his  monks 
at  Canterbury,  in  study  and  devotion.  His 
health  gradually  failed,  and  at  length  he 
became  so  weak  that  he  had  to  be  carried 
to  the  church  to  receive  the  sacrament. 
On  Palm  Sunday,  1109,  his  friends  saw 
that  he  was  sinking,  and  one  went  to  his 
bedside  and  said :  '*  Lord  Father,  we  are 
given  to  understand  that  you  are  going  to 
leave  the  world  for  your  Lord's  Easter 
Court  1  "  Anselm  replied  :  "  If  his  will 
be  so,  I  shall  gladly  obey  his  will.  But  if 
he  willed  rather  that  I  should  remain 
amongst  you,  at  least  till  I  have  solved  a 
question  which  1  am  turning  in  my  mind, 
about  the  origin  of  the  soul,  I  should  re- 
ceive it  thankfully,  for  1  know  not  whether 
any  one  will  finish  it  after  I  am  gone*" 


He  died  on  the  following  Wednesday,  the 
2ist  of  April,  1 109.  He  was  buried  in 
the  minster  of  Canterbury,  beside  fais 
friend  and  predecessor  Lanfranc.  His  re- 
mains were  afterwards  translated  to  the 
chapel  which  bears  his  name. 

It  was  a  faithful  indication  of  Anselna*s 
character  when  he  desired  on  his  death- 
bed to  live  a  little  longer  that  he  might 
finish  a  philosophical  argument.  Through- 
out his  life  he  was  more  devoted  to  study 
and  to  devotion  than  to  the  great  public 
offices  which  devolved  upon  him  as  a  lead- 
ing ecclesiastic.  Eadmer  says  that  when 
he  become  weary  in  the  arch i episcopal 
court,  over  which  he  had  to  preside,  his 
friends  were  wont  to  lead  him  away,  "to 
restore  him  with  a  passage  of  Scripture, 
a  theological  question,  or  some  other  spir- 
itual antidote."  He  preferred  the  society 
of  the  monks  of  Canterbury  to  anv  Other* 
and  he  likened  himself  to  an  owl,  which 
is  only  well  when  it  is  with  its  young  ones 
in  a  hole;  but  if  it  comes  out  among  the 
crows  and  ravens  it  is  distracted,  and 
knows  not  which  way  to  turn.  But  it  is 
an  error  to  speak  of  Anselm,  as  Deaa 
Hook  does,  as  a  mere  child  in  the  affairs 
of  the  world.  He  did  not  love  them,  and 
grudged  the  time  which  he  had  to  give 
to  them ;  but  when  he  reluctantly  applied 
his  mind  to  them,  his  logical  understand- 
ing, his  readiness  in  speech,  and  his  inflex- 
ible will  rendered  him  a  most  formidable 
opponent  to  the  strong,  sagacious  Norman 
kings  with  whom  he  measured  his  powers. 

It  is  upon  the  work  which  he  loved  — 
his  work  as  a  philosophical  theologian, 
that  Anselm*s  truest  fame  rests.  He  was 
not  absolutely  the  first  teacher  of  the 
Middle  Ages  who  vindicated  the  rights  of 
reason  in  the  religious  sphere.  John  Sco- 
tus  Erigena,  a  daring  and  original  genius^ 
had  already  laid  down  the  far-reaching 
principle  that  whatever  is  true  in  philos- 
ophy is  true  in  religion,  and  conversely.* 
But  Erigena  exercised  but  little  influence 
upon  his  contemporaries,  and  the  Church 
of  the  Middle  Ages  showed  no  disposi- 
tion to  accept  a  principle  which  would 
have  reduced  theology  to  the  position  of  a 
handmaid,  and  a  somewhat  superfluous 
handmaid,  of  philosophy.  Anselm,  not- 
withstanding his  strong  speculative  in- 
stincts, was  first  a  man  of  religion  and  of 
the  Church,  and  while  vindicating  the 
rights  of  reason,  he  was  careful  to  subor- 
dinate those  rights  to  what  he  considered 
the  paramount  claims  of  faith.     Faith,  he 

*  Conficitur  ind^  veram  esse  philoaophiam  reram 
religtonem,  conversimque  veram  religionem  c 
phiiosopluam.  ' 


THE   LIFE  AND  TIMES   OF  ST.  ANSELM. 


4^3 


^aid,  must  precede  the  attempt  to  under- 
.staod,  and  what  is  revealed  must  be  surelv 
believed,  although  not  yet  understooci. 
And  should  the    efforts    to   understand 

Crove  unsuccessful,  as  roust  sometimes 
e  the  case  owing  to  the  depth  of  the  di- 
vine mysteries,  the  obligation  to  believe 
still  remains.  The  principle  of  Anselm 
that  faith  must  precede  understanding 
was  much  discussed  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
and  in  later  times.  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  in  such  matters  the  principle  of 
a  priority  in  time  can  be  maintained. 
Some  amount  of  understanding  must  al- 
ways precede  faith ;  and  it  is  not  always 
the  deepest  reasons  for  our  convictions 
that  we  first  perceive.  Uut  Anselm  was 
substantiallv  right  in  affirming  that  the 
deepest  and  most  cogent  reasons  for  re- 
ligious faith  are  derived,  not  from  the 
logical  conclusions  of  the  understanding, 
but  from  those  sentiments  of  reverence 
and  trust  which  are  evoked  by  the  objects 
of  Christian  faith.  In  the  **  Monologion," 
and  subsequently  in  the  "  Proslogion,"  An-*; 
selro  endeavored  to  prove  that  the  Chris- 
tian conception  of  God  is  a  necessary 
truth  of  reason.  We  find,  he  says,  in  the 
world  a  variety  of  objects  endowed  with 
a  variety  of  excellences.  This  leads  us 
to  seek  for  some  common  principle  by 
virtue  of  which  they  are  excellent.  We 
are  thus  led  by  the  necessary  laws  of 
thinking  to  the  conception  of  a  supreme 
beauty,  supreme  goodness,  and  supreme 
cause,  from  which  all  other  existences 
derive  their  existence  and  their  excel- 
lences. In  the  **  Proslogtan  "  Anselm  at- 
tempted to  supply  a  shorter  argument. 
The  fool  saith  in  his  heart  there  is  no 
God.  While,  however,  he  utters  his  de- 
nial, there  passes  through  his  mind  the 
conception  of  a  being  than  whom  none 
more  perfect  can  be  imagined.  But  a 
being  supremely  perfect  must  have  exis- 
tence, or  he  would  want  one  characteristic 
of  perfection.  When,  therefore,  the  fool 
says  there  is  no  God,  by  thinking  of  God 
he  gives  proof  of  God's  existence.  The 
arguments  of  Anselm  were  assailed  dur- 
ing his  life  by  an  acute  monk  named 
Gaunilo,  who  pointed  out  that  if  the  exis- 
tence of  a  conception  proved  the  existence 
of  a  corresponding  reality,  we  should  be 
obliged  to  ascribe  reality  to  the  fables  of 
the  heathen  poets.  The  after  fate  of  An- 
selm*s  argument  is  singular.  It  was  not 
accepted  by  the  scholastic  theologians, 
notwithstanding  the  high  reputation  of 
the  author  in  the  schools  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  It  was  suffered  to  drop  into  obliv- 
ioQi  until  it  was  revived  by  Descartes,  the 


father  of  modern  philosophy.  Descartes 
made  no  allusion  to  Anselm,  and  it  is  un- 
certain if  he  had  any  acquaintance  with 
his  writings ;  but  Leibnitz  pointed  out  the 
similarity  between  the  reasoning  of  the 
two  philosophers.  Leibnitz  and  others 
employed  the  argument  in  a  slightly  al- 
tered form,  and  it  became  known  as  the 
ontological  argument  for  the  existence  of 
God. 

Upon  this  argument  Kant  made  a  fa- 
mous attack,  in  which,  unconsciously  foU 
lowing  in  the  wake  of  Gaunilo,  he  said 
that  if  the  conception  of  God  proved  his 
existence,  then  the  conception  of  a  hun- 
dred crowns  would  prove  that  they  exist- 
ed, and  men  would  be  able  to.  increase 
their  wealth  by  merely  conceiving  of 
wealth  in  imagmation.  The  ontological 
argument  was  somewhat  discredited  by 
the  arguments  of  Kant;  but  it  was  de- 
fended by  Hegel,  who  maintained  that 
while  Kant's  criticism  was  valid  with  re- 
gard to  all  other  conceptions,  it  did  not 
touch  the  conception  of  God,  for  by  the 
necessities  of  the  human  mind  we  must 
think  of  him  as  existent.  It  is  an  evi- 
dence that  Anselm  was  unconsciously  io 
sympathy  with  the  modern  spirit  that  his 
arguments  were  revived  by  leaders  of 
modern  thought.  He  is  spoKen  of  as  the 
father  of  the  schoolmen,  and  it  is  true  that 
by  advocating  the  use  of  the  understand- 
ing within  certain  limitations  on  matters 
of  religion,  he  gave  the  first  impulse  to 
the  movements  which  developed  the  scho- 
lastic philosophy  and  theology.  But  in 
his  own  methoas  of  thinking  he  recalls 
Plato  and  the  moderns,  rather  than  the 
syllogisms  of  the  schoolmen.  He  be- 
longed, indeed,  to  an  order  of  thinkers 
which  can  hardly  be  said  to  be  the  prop- 
erty of  any  century,  and  who  give  them* 
selves  to  the  permanent  questions  of 
humanity,  rather  than  to  the  special  ques- 
tions which  are  peculiar  to  an  age.  Such 
writers  always  appear  singularly  modern 
to  those  who  read  them.* 

Anselm's  most  important  contribution 
to  theology  is  contained  in  the  dialogue 
**  Cur  DcMS  Hotno,^^  In  this  dialogue,  in 
which  a  monk  named  Bosco  is  the  other 
interlocutor,  he  endeavored  to  demon- 
strate the  necessity  of  the  incarnation. 
The  reasoning  is  as  follows.  Man  was 
created  by  God  in  order  to  fill  the  place 
of  the  angels  who  had  fallen.     But  when 

*  M.  Bouchettt  quotes  the  following  saying  of  An- 
selm, and  remarks  regarding  it  that  it  seems  to  belong 
to  another  century:  "Cum  .  .  .  Christus  Veritas  et 
justitia  sit;  qui  pro  Justitia  et  veritate  moritur,  pro 
Christo  moritur." 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


464 

man  fell  into  sio  it  became  needful  for 
God  to  punish  him,  or  God  would  have 
manifested  an  indi£Ference  to  sin,  and 
would  have  ceased  to  be  a  righteous  moral 
governor.  It  behoved  that  man's  sin 
should  be  punished ;  but  had  the  punish-* 
ment  been  inflicted  upon  man,  the  punish- 
ment must  have  been  unending,  and  man 
would  never  have  fulfilled  the  end  of  his 
creation.  Thus  would  God's  honor  have 
suffered.  How  was  the  sin  of  man  to  be 
punished,  as  God's  honor  required,  and 
man  likewise  to  be  restored  to  God*s  fa- 
vor, and  the  place  of  the  angels  supplied, 
as  God's  honor  also  demanded  ?  No  cre- 
ated being  could  make  the  needed  atone- 
ment ;  for  no  created  being  could  offer  to 
God  anything  beyond  what  he  was  already 
bound  as  a  creature  to  offer.  It  remained 
that  the  task  must  be  undertaken  by  the 
God-roan,  who  alone  could  so  atone  for 
sin  that  man  should  be  restored  to  favor. 
Ansel m  nowhere  represents  God  as  in- 
flicting the  punishment  upon  Christ,  as  is 
done  in  popular  adaptations  of  his  theory. 
He  lays  special  emphasis  upon  the  volun- 
tary character  of  Christ's  sufferings,  and 
he  says  that  Christ  met  his  death  at  the 
bands  of  the  Jews  because  of  his  stead- 
fast adherence  to  righteousness. 

No  theological  theory  has  ever  exer- 
cised such  an  extensive  influence  upon 
the  faith  of  the  Church  as  the  argument 
of  the  "C«r  Deus  Homo^^    It  has  often 
been  termed  the  Catholic  doctrine  of  the 
atonement     It  fs,  however,  more  correct 
to  say  that  the  Church  has  received  with 
unanimity  that  part  of  it  which  represents 
it  to  be  impossible  that  God  should  be  in- 
different to  sin  ;  while  the  absolute  denial 
of  the  possibility  of  forgiveness  without 
atonement  has  been  regarded  as   more 
doubtful.    The  theory  has   an    interest 
personal    to  Anselm.    Before   his    time 
Christ    was   represented   as    having  re- 
deemed mankind  by  giving  his  life  as  a 
ransom  to  the  devil,  who  had  become  the 
lord  of  the   human   race.     Anselm  set 
aside  this  unworthy  conception,  which  was 
probably  a  reminiscence  from    heathen 
mythologies.     His  own  theory,  though 
somewhat  rigid  and  omniscient,  is  full  of 
grandeur.    The  majesty  of  law  is  main- 
tained.   The  governor  of  the  universe, 
even  while  he  shows  pity,  does  not  forget 
that  it  is  essential  to  the  moral  well-being 
of  his  creation  that  righteous  law  be  main- 
tained.   Anselm's  own  life  was  spent  in  a 
struggle  for  the  preservation  of  righteous- 
ness upon  earth,  and  he  often  found  that 
the  earthly  representatives  of  justice  were 
weak  or  unworthy.    His  courage  and  his 


persistence  were  derived  from  the  convic- 
tion that  there  was  righteousness  with 
God. 

John  Gibb. 


From  The  Sanday  Magaiinc 
THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


AM  BA8T-BND  STORY. 


BY   FLORA    L.    SHAW,    AUTHOR    OF   *'CA8TLK 

BLAIR,"  ET& 

CHAPTER  IIL 

She  never  heard  all  this  time  one  word 
about  her  mother.  Moggy  might  have 
been  dead  for  anything  Nixie  knew  to  the 
contrary.  One  day  she  returned  rather 
later  than  usual  from  an  expedition  to  the 
Commercial  Road,  to  find  Joe's  missis  ia 
a  specially  bad  temper.  She  had  wanted 
nK>re  sacks,  she  had  no  one  to  send  for 
them,  and  Nixie  no  sooner  entered  the 
house  than  she  began  to  vent  her  wrath 
on  her  bv  the  usual  medium  of  blows* 
The  chilcl  was  growing  so  accustomed  to 
them  that  she  took  them  without  an]f 
sound  but  a  groan  or  two.  Suddenly  she 
was  hurled  into  a  corner  with  such  via- 
lence  that  she  was  for  a  moment  stunned* 
When  she  opened  her  eyes  again  she  sav 
a  sight  whicn  made  her  cry  aloud.  Joe's 
missis  was  on  the  ground,  and  Mc^gv, 
her  own  mother,  knelt  upon  her,  thrash* 
ing  her  as  in  the  old  days  she  used  to 
thrash  all  Nixie's  tormentors. 

**  Mother  I  mother!  mother!*'  Nixie 
cried.  **0h,  mother,  you're  not  dead!" 
Till  then  she  hardlv  icnew  all  she  had 
feared.  Her  mother  looked  up,  and  Nixie 
ran  into  her  arms.  *'Come  away,  come 
home!  Let's  get  our  palliasse  oat  of 
pawn." 

But,  to  Nixie's  horror,  instead  of  an- 
swering her  mother  trembled  violently, 
the  red  flush  died  out  of  her  cheek,  show* 
ing  her  face  bleached  and  shrunken  with 
confinement,  and  she  staggered  into  a 
chair,  where  she  gasped  for  breath. 
Joe's  missis  rushed  forward  to  take  her 
revenge.  Nixie  flung  herself  between  the 
two,  and  she  and  her  mother  would  have 
suffered  together,  but  that  Joe  entered  at 
the  moment. 

^  Now  then,  what  are  you  at  ?  "  he  asked 
in  tones  of  sarcasm,  which  arrested  his 
wife's  onward  rush.  '*  Thrashing  a  sick 
woman  who's  hardly  fit  to  stand!  Just 
you  go  mind  your  sacks."  His  hands 
made  his  words  good,  and  turned  his  wife 
forcibly  away  from  Moggy,  diverting  the 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


correot  of  fury  to  himself.  But  he  seemed 
no  more  satisfied  with  one  woman  than 
with  the  other.  '*What  did  you  come 
here  for  ? "  he  growled  at  Moggy.  **  I 
told  you  your  old  place  was  all  ready  for 
you,  and  that  you  should  have  the  child. 
Well,  you  may  just  go  away  home  now  and 
shift  for  yourself.  I'll  have  nothing  more 
to  say  to  you  from  this  time  forth.** 

••Come,  mother.*'  Nixie  pulled  her 
mother's  dress.  "  Come  home."  And 
still  trembling,  still  without  a  word,  Mog- 
gy rose,  and  crept  out  of  the  door  very 
slowly,  leaning  on  Nixie  as  she  went. 
She  made  her  way  to  their  own  court. 

*•  Why,  Moggy,  the  hospital  don't  seem 
to  have  done  much  for  you,**  was  the  salu- 
tation of  the  neighbors  as  the  tall,  gaunt 
form  passed  by  supported  by  the  child. 
But  Moggy  vouchsafed  no  a'nswer.  She 
did  not  open  her  lips  till  they  were  within 
the  shelter  of  their  own  room  again. 
Their  room  — a  little  dirtier,  a  little  bar- 
er, for  the  table  had  not  come  back  — 
but  still  their  room  where  she  and  Nixie 
had  lived  together.  Then  she  sat  down 
upon  the  palliasse,  putting  her  elbows 
upon  her  knees,  and  her  hands  over  her 
face,  and  Nixie  nestling  close,  not  daring 
to  be  the  first  to  speak,  saw  tears  trickling 
between  the  wasted  fingers. 

**  Vm  done,  child,*'  she  said  at  last. 
••  I  can't  even  fight  for  j*ou  now.  Oh,  my 
God !  *'  And,  as  if  the  sight  of  Nixie 
were  too  bitter,  she  stretched  herself  upon 
the  palliasse  and  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall. 

This  was  the  home-coming,  and  Nixie 
found  herself  in  the  position  of  having 
her  sick  mother  to  take  care  of,  with  no 
food,  no  doctor,  and  no  money.  Joe  was 
not  to  be  thought  of.  He  had  cast  them 
off,  and  to  have  ventured  into  his  house 
on  such  an  errand  as  to  ask  for  help 
would,  Nixie  well  knew,  have  been  as 
useless  as  it  would  have  been  terrible. 
She  had,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  to 
thi  nk  of  what  was  best  to  do.  *'  My  moth- 
er's been  a  real  good  mother  to  me,  and  I 
want  to  be  a  real  good  girl  to  her,'*  she 
said  to  the  friendliest  of  the  neighbors 
whom  she  now  took  into  consultation. 

•'Well,  you  just  take  and  go  to  the  par- 
ish,*' was  the  advice  that  she  received,  and 
she  accordingly  went  to  the  parish.  But 
the  story  she  had  to  tell  was  not  a  very 
creditable  one.  Several  weeks  in  hospital 
as  the  result  of  one  fight,  renewed  illness 
immediately  on  leaving  hospital  as  the 
result  of  another.  A  notorious  drunkard 
and  brawler  always  in  trouble !  No  one 
to  speak  a  good  word  for  her  but  the  child, 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2266 


46s 

who  reiterated  gently,  **  She's  a  very  good 
mother  to  me,  sir !  **  It  was  not  a  case  to 
excite  much  sympathy,  and  perhaps  the 
child's  golden  hair  and  patient,  pleading 
eyes,  had,  more  than  anything  else,  to  do 
with  the  promise  presently  given,  that 
the  relieving  officer  should  look  in  very 
soon.  That  promise  was  enough  for 
Nixie.  She  went  home  content  to  sit 
quiet  on  a  corner  of  the  palliasse  till  he 
came.  He  came  and  the  parish  doctor 
looked  in  too.  There  was  a  comprehen- 
sive glance  round  the  room  and  at  the  sick 
woman  lying  in  the  corner.  The  doctor 
took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it.  He 
was  behind  time  in  his  rounds  that  day. 
A  few  questions  were  rapidly  asked. 
Nixie,  to  whom  all  this  was  new  experi- 
ence, listening  attentively.  She  gathered 
that  her  mother  was  very  ill. 

**  Any  father  ?  "  asked  the  doctor,  glanc* 
ing  at  her. 

»*  No  father." 

**  Means  of  livelihood." 

••  Sack-making." 

*'  You  can't  make  sacks  now,  eh  ?  " 

•'  No,  I  can't." 

'*  Complete  destitution ; "  and  he  looked 
at  the  relieving  officer. 

••  Case  for  the  house,"  replied  that  offi- 
cial, entering  something  in  a  note-book  as 
he  spoke.  *'  They  had  better  come  in  at 
once." 

But  Moggy  turned  round  fiercely  from 
the  wall.  "Not  I,"  she  said.  "I'll  not 
stir  out  of  this  again  till  I'm  carried  to  my 
grave.    That's  fiat." 

**  No !  no  I  "  and  Nixie  took  her  moth- 
er's hand. 

"  Well,  vou  know,  my  good  woman,  if 
you  won't  be  helped  according  to  the  rules 
of  the  parish  you  can't  be  helped  at  all." 

•*  Let  us  be.  We'll  make  a  shift  to  hold 
out  somehow." 

"  There's  never  any  knowing  with  these 
people  if  they  are  speaking  the  truth," 
said  the  relieving  officer  aside.  "Very 
probably  there  are  other  means  of  sub- 
sistence." 

"  There  is  no  question  of  the  truth  of 
the  fact  that  the  woman  will  never  be  well 
again." 

"We'll  keep  our  eye  upon  her,  and 
when  she's  dead  we'll  see  what  can  be 
done  for  the  child." 

Nixie  heard  and  partially  took  it  in. 
The  upshot  of  the  interview  was  that 
Nixie  was  told  to  come  and  fetch  some 
medicine  in  an  hour's  time.  She  fetched 
it.  Moggy  refused  to  touch  a  drop,  on 
the  ground  that  doctor's  stufiE  would  do 
her  no  good,  and  the  position  of  the  house- 


466 


THE   ROSE   OF   BLACK   BOY  ALLEY. 


hold  remained  very  much  what  it  had  been 
before  Nixie  went  to  the  parish.  The 
child  sat  down  then  to  think  a<;ain.  She 
had  never  heard  of  the  alleviation  that 
nursing  may  bring  to  a  dying  bed.  There 
was  no  pillow  for  her  to  turn,  no  bed- 
clothes for  her  to  smooth,  no  food  for  her 
to  prepare,  no  fan,  no  coolin<^  drinks,  no 
book  to  read.  Only,  in  dirt  and  darkness, 
a  bare  straw  bed,  and  stretched  upon  it  a 
mother  for  whom,  if  she  had  known  how, 
she  would  have  done  all  that  faithful 
hands  can  do.  All  through  the  stifling 
afternoon  she  sat  and  thought,  and  her 
sorrow  and  her  love  were  perhaps  more 
oppressive  than  the  sorrow  and  the  love 
of  those  more  fortunate  who  know  in  such 
moments  how  to  find  expression.  She 
knew  nothing  but  that  her  mother  suf- 
fered, her  mother  who  was  a  good  mother 
to  her. 

"Nixie." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Tm  very  bad." 

•*  Yes,  mother." 

Moggy  turned  round  from  the  wall  and 
looked  at  the  child. 

"  I  ain't  been  much  of  a  mother  to  you. 
But  whatever  will  you  do  when  I'm  gone, 
child  ?  " 

"I  dinno." 

"If  fighting  would  do  it  "  —  Moggy  sat 
for  a  moment  straight  up  in  bed —  "  if 
fighting  would  do  it,  Td  fight  to  the  last, 
and  rd  drive  this  sickness  out  of  me.  In 
the  hospital  I  thought  I  could,  but  I  can^t, 
I  can't.  It  has- gripped  me  now.  And 
when  I  think  of  them  beating  you  with 
none  to  give  them  a  blow  in  return  it 
pretty  well  drives  me  mad." 

"It  don't  hurt  so  very  much,  mother, 
when  you're  used  to  it." 

Moggy  had  dropped  back  Into  her  place. 
Nixie's  words  did  not  seem  to  give  her 
comfort.  An  impatient  movement  con- 
vulsed her  body.    Presently  she  spoke 


again. 
i« 


Nixie,  when  you  were  a  baby  you  used 
to  put  your  two  hands  together  of  a  night 
and  say  your  prayers." 

"  Used  I  ? " 

"  Ay !  Can  you  kneel  up  now,  and  put 
your  two  hands  together,  and  pray  ?" 

It  seemed  a  strange  request  to  Nixie. 

"Who  shall  I  pray  to,  mother?" 

"  To  God." 

"  Him  that  made  the  roses?" 

"  Him  that  made  the  roses." 

"  What  shall  I  pray  for  ? " 

"  That  he'll  take  care  of  you  when  I'm 
gone." 

Nixie  knelt  up,  and  put  her  hands  to- 


gether: "God  that  made  the  roses,  mj 
mother  says,  will  you  please  take  care  of 
me  when  she's  gone  ?  " 

Moggy  heaved  a  sigh  of  satisfactioo. 
"  I'm  glad  that's  done,  maybe  he'll  listea 
to  you." 

"  Can  he  hear,  mother?" 

"  Some  say  he  can,  some  say  he  can't. 
I  don't  know." 

Moggy  turned  once  more  to  the  wall. 
Before  Nixie  a  vision  had  passed  again  of 
the  garden  and  its  pink  flowering  tree.  A 
sudden  resolution,  a  sudden  hope,  lifted 
her  from  her  knees,  and  took  her  out  into 
the  streets. 

"Wherever  are  you  going.  Nixie?" 
asked  a  woman  who  saw  her  hurrying 
alone. 

"  To  get  something  that'll  do  my  mother 
good,"  she  joyfully  replied. 

How  she  was  to  achieve  it  she  did  not 
quite  know;  but  somehow  or  other  she 
intended  to  find  the  garden  and  to  bring 
some  of  those  pink  roses  home  with  her 
to  her  mother.  Evening  breezes  were 
beginning  to  circulate  through  the  stag- 
nant air  of  the  streets.  They  lifted  her 
hair  as  she  sped  along,  and  cooled  the 
flags  under  her  bare  feet.  Now  and  then, 
between  the  great  factories  and  wharves 
on  the  river-side,  she  had  glimpses  of  the 
gleaming  water,  gold  and  red,  under  sun- 
set reflections.  Even  the  dirtiest  and 
most  squalid  places  had  borrowed  some 
beauty  from  the  glowing  west.  Her  moth- 
er's desire  that  she  should  pray  had  deep- 
ly impressed  her.  The  God  who  made 
the  roses  had  become  nearer  and  more 
real ;  she  could  have  fancied  now  that  he 
beckoned  her  on. 

She  reached  the  garden.  Behind  it,  a 
little  to  the  left,  the  sun  was  sinking  in  a 
bed  of  clear,  bright  gold.  The  slantin;; 
rays  lit  on  the  railing  and  changed  it,  too, 
to  gold ;  the  tall  trees  biased  with  gold, 
the  stones  had  their  golden  setting,  the 
grass  threw  its  inflnite  tiny  shadows  upon 
a  pure  field  of  gold,  and  there  in  its  cor- 
ner, not  very  far  from  the  railing,  stood 
the  bush  which  Nixie  sought,  its  pink 
flowers  more  lovely  than  ever  in  the  won- 
derful light.  She  looked  round.  There 
was  no  one  in  sight,  and  the  opportunity 
was  not  to  be  lost.  Another  moment  and 
she  was  over  the  railing.  Her  feet  knew 
the  touch  of  grass.  She  was  at  the  tree. 
A  sort  of  ecstasy  had  taken  possession  of 
her.  Her  heart  beat  so  fast  as  she  put 
her  hand  out  to  pluck  a  flower  that  she 
scarcely  knew  what  she  did.  The  thorns 
pricked  horribly,  but  she  did  not  care,  she 
closed  her  hand  upon  the  branch   and 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


pulled.  The  branch  was  tough  but  it 
yielded  at  last;  she  held  one  Hower  in  her 
hand.  The  next  branch  was  even  touch- 
er. The  thorns  pricked  worse  than  be- 
fore. She  grasped  the  stalk  only  the 
more  tightly,  she  pulled  with  all  her  might 
till  to  her  utter  dismay  the  whole  bush 
gave  way.  At  about  the  middle  of  the 
main  stem  it  doubled  itself  over  and  the 
heavy  head  with  its  thorns  and  flowers 
fell  down  upon  her  feet. 

At  the  same  moment  a  policeman's 
hand  upon  her  shoulder,  a  policeman's 
voice  in  her  ears,  brought  her  back  to  real 
life  again. 

"  What  are  you  up  to,  you  little  vaga- 
bond? What  business  have  you  in  a 
churchyard,  eh  ?  Pulling  the  things  about. 
Lock  up's  the  word  for  you,  I  promise 
you.     Come  along." 

She  had  realized  the  position  only  just 
enough  to  conceal  her  one  flower  safely 
in  the  breast  of  her  dress  when  the  words 
"Lock  up*'  fell  upon  her  ears. 

"Sir,  sir,"  she  implored,  **  I  won't  do  it 
again  ;  you  can't  lock  me  up,  my  mother 
wants  me." 

"  Your  mother  should  keep  you  at  home 
if  she  wants  you." 

"She  can't,  she's  sick  in  bed." 

"More  shame  to  you  then  to  be  run- 
ning about  the  streets.  Why  don't  you 
stop  at  home  and  take  care  of  her  ?  " 

"  I  want  to,  I  want  to.  Oh,  I  must  get 
home." 

"Yes,  yes.  It's  a  likely  story.  You'll 
be  put  somewhere  now  where  you  can't 
run  out  when  you  feel  inclined." 

With  a  steady  grasp  upon  her  arm  the 
policeman  was  pushing  her  in  front  of 
him,  along  the  street.  Nixie  in  her  de- 
spair could  And  no  words,  and  -the  tears 
streamed  silently  over  her  white  cheeks. 
They  had  taken  her  mother  from  her; 
now  they  were  taking  her  from  her  moth- 
er, and  as  to  all  she  could  do  to  escape 
"they"  might  have  been  made  of  iron. 

"  Hullo,  little  Rose,  have  you  got  into 
trouble  ?     What's  she  been  at,  master  ?  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  her  teacher,  her 
long-expected  teacher. 

"She's  been  trespassing,  and  she's  go- 
ing where  trespassers  should." 

"Oh,  teacher,  teacher,  tell  him  I  ain't  a 
bad  one.  1  only  wanted  some  pink  roses 
for  my  mother.  I  never  meant  to  break 
the  tree." 

"Ah,  and  I  promised  you  I'd  bring  you 
a  rose.  So  I  will  some  day.  Where  do 
you  live?" 

But  the  policeman  had  relaxed  his  hold. 
Her  gratitude  could  not  make  Nixie  lose 


467 

the  chance.  She  darted  like  a  squirrel 
across  the  road  and  in  an  instant  was  out 
of  sight.  Had  she  heard  the  good-hu- 
mored laugh  with  which  the  policeman 
witnessed  ner  feat,  she  would  not  l\ave 
fled  with  such  terror  in  her  heart.  She 
would  perhaps  have  thought  she  had  been 
wiser  to  stay  and  give  her  address  to  her 
friend.  But  she  knew  nothing  of  the  law 
or  its  limits;  she  only  felt  that  she  and 
her  mother  were  hunted  by  people  who 
wanted  to  take  them  one  from  the  other, 
and  like  a  hunted  creature  she  fled  into 
those  streets  where  the  shadows  lay  deep- 
est. Once  out  of  the  policeman's  sight, 
however,  she  was  sustained  through  the 
painful  race  by  the  thought  of  the  flower 
which  pricked  her  breast.  She  had  suc- 
ceeded, she  was  bringing  her  mother 
what  would  make  her  well.  By  the  time 
she  entered  her  own  alley  she  had  forgot- 
ten all  but  that.  She  knelt  00  the  palli- 
asse beside  her  mother,  she  drew  out  the 
flower. 

"See,  mother,  see.  I've  brought  you  a 
rose." 

The  room  was  so  dark  that  Moggy 
could  hardly  see.  She  put  out  her  hand 
to  take  it.    . 

"  Why,  child,  it's  no  rose.  It's  a  this- 
tle!" 

CHAPTER  IV. 

The  neighbors  said  that  it  was  a  mar- 
vel how  Moggy  lived.  But,  rough  as  they 
were,  it  was  they  who  made  it  possible 
that  she  should.  Joe  came  near  her  no 
more.  Some  of  her  other  drinking  com- 
panions looked  in,  however,  from  time  to 
time,  and  if  they  had  money  gave  her  a 
little.  Sometimes  the  more  good-natured 
women  in  the  court  gave  Nixie  a  bit  of 
bread  or  a  piece  of  stale  flsh,  and  the  wild, 
rough  girls  who  made  sacks  faster  than 
any  one  else,  told  Moggy  to  send  for  her 
sacks  just  the  same,  and  did  the  extra 
work  between  them. 

So  day  after  day,  as  the  hot  month  of 
August  went  by,  found  Moggy  still 
stretched  upon  her  bed,  and  Nixie  still 
sitting  with  face  that  grew  more  and  more 
wistful,  watching  most  of  the  time  by  her 
mother's  side.  Not  always,  however,  was 
Nixie  there.  It  was  but  just  that,  when 
the  court  kept  her  mother,  Nixie  should 
do  what  she  could  for  the  court,  and  if  a 
baby  was  to  be  minded  or  a  message  to 
be  run,  or  —  rare  luxury  —  a  room  to  be 
scrubbed.  Nixie  was  called  upon  to  do  it. 
She  was  maid  of  all  work  to  a  court  which 
contained  almost  sixty  families.  It  was 
not  likely,  therefore,  that  she  should  eat 


468 


THE   ROSE   OF   BLACK   BOY   ALLEV. 


the  bread  of  idleness.  Leg^s,  back,  and 
head  ached  wearily  from  rooming  to  night, 
and  often  from  night  to  morning  again. 
The  miles  of  messages  she  ran  were  past 
any  computation  of  hers ;  but  she  scarcely 
minded  them  now.  She  had  her  mother 
to  come  back  to  when  she  was  done,  and 
there  was  always  the  hope  that  some  day 
she  would  meet  her  teacher  and  see  a  real 
rose  after  all.  Her  disappointment  of  the 
thistle  had  been  terrible;  but  she  had  re- 
covered from  it  a  little,  and  when  her 
mother  told  her  how  much  more  beautiful 
real  roses  were,  and  reminded  her  of  the 
scent,  her  desire  to  see  then!  become  only 
stronger. than  before. 

At  last,  one  day,  a  message  was  given 
her  which  took  her  up  to  the  Commercial 
Road.  She  had  delivered  the  message, 
and  with  the  old  longing  strong  upon  her, 
she  lingered  at  the  corner  to  watch  the 
arrival  of  the  'buses  and  trams.  It  was 
possible  that  there  were  teachers  among 
the  people  who  got  in  and  out  of  those 
vehicles  ;  but  there  was  no  teacher  among 
them  all  for  her  now,  carrying,  as  she 
hoped  her  teacher  would,  a  beautiful  pink 
blossom  in  his  hand.  She  was  turning 
away,  after  half  an  hour  of  fruitless  watch- 
ing, when  a  cry  fell  upon  her  ears  which 
she  had  never  heard  before,  — 

*'  Flowers,  all  ablowing  and  a-grow- 
ing!" 

She  looked  in  the  direction  from  which 
It  came,  and,  through  a  maze  of  omni- 
buses  and  tram-cars  and  barrows  and 
carts,  she  saw  a  blaze  of  scarlet  and  white 
and  blue  and  yellow,  which  seemed  like  a 
moving  garden.  It  was  a  low,  open  cart 
filled  with  flowering  plants,  and  walking 
by  the  head  of  the  pony  which  dre.w  it 
was  her  teacher.  Under  the  noses  of  the 
horses,  between  the  wheels  of  the  carts, 
she  darted  across.  Her  band  was  in  bis 
before  he  had  seen  her. 

"Teacher!  teacher!  I've  been  waiting 
for  you." 

**And  I've  been  lookin?  for  you,  I 
promise  you.  Look  what  Pve  got  here. 
This  is  the  third  day  Tve  put  it  in  the 
cart,  just  on  purpose  to  give  it  to  you,  and 
I  might  have  sold  it  twenty  times  over.** 

As  he  spoke  he  lifted  from  the  back  of 
the  cart  a  profusely  flowering  pink  rose- 
bush in  a  pot.  It  had  been  lately  watered, 
the  green  leaves  sparkled  in  the  sun,  and 
the  scent,  as  he  held  it  under  Nixie's 
nose,  surpassed  her  wildest  imaginings. 

She  could  not  speak ;  she  could  only 
look  at  him  with  such  a  sensitive,  Quiver- 
ing, grateful  face  that  he  also  found  noth- 
ing to  say. 


"  Did  God  give  it  to  you  ?  "  she  asked 
at  last. 

•*  Ay,  ay !  He  told  me,  anyway,  to  give 
it  to  you." 

"  He  is  good.  My  mother  will  be  glad. 
Oh,  teacher!  I  do  love  you."  She  had 
found  words  to  express  ner  thanks,  and 
now  they  flowed  freely  out  —  freely,  at 
least,  for  Nixie,  for  she  was  at  no  time  a 
very  great  talker.  She  told  him  of  her 
mother's  illness  and  great  desire  for  roses. 
In  a  few  shy  words  she  told  him,  too, 
what  she  had  been  doing  when  he  last 
met  her,  and  in  view  of  this  real  rose-tree 
she  was  able  to  smile,  when  she  came  to 
the  end,  and  **the  flowers  were  only  this- 
tles after  all."  Only  one  question  her 
sad  experience  of  disappointments  taught 
her.  "  Do  you  think  these  are  the  right 
kind  of  roses  my  mother  wants. to  make 
her  well?" 

"  I  can't  say,  my  dear ;  but  they  grow 
in  cuttings  Irom  just  such  a  tree  as  she 
told  you  about  ~  a  tree  that  stands  by  my 
own  cottage  door." 

When  the  rose-bush  was  placed  in  her 
arms  it  was  found  to  be  too  heavy  for  her 
to  carry  safely,  and  besides,  as  she  ob- 
served, the  boys  would  never  let  her  pass 
with  it  now  they  knew  her  mother  was 
too  sick  to  beat  them.  So  it  was  arranged 
that  she  should  follow  the  cart  awhile  ia 
its  rounds,  and  her  friend  promised  that 
by-and-by,  when  the  flowers  were  sold,  he 
would  drive  down  her  way  and  carry  the 
rose-tree  through  the  court  himself. 

"You're  pretty  tired,  ain't  you?"  he 
asked,  as  he  looked  down  at  the  face 
which  seemed  almost  transparent  with 
the  flush  of  excitement  upon  it. 

"  My  legs  ache,"  she  answered.  Bat 
her  eyes  followed  the  rose-tree,  and  legs 
seemed  a  matter  of  small  importance  m 
comparison  with  the  joy  of  roses. 

"And  how  are  you  going  to  walk 
through  London  after  the  cart?" 

She  smiled  confidently.  "  I  don't  mind 
aches." 

But  he  was  shifting  and  rearranging  his 
pots.  The  rose-tree  came  at  length  to  the 
front  of  the  cart,  and  beside  it  there  was 
an  empty  space,  into  which  he  thrust  an 
armful  of  straw. 

"Now,  then,  up  you  get;  you  shall 
have  a  ride  in  the  cart  as  we  go  along." 
And  actually  before  Nixie  could  take  in 
his  meaning  she  was  seated  amid  the 
flowers.  Behind  her  was  the  pure  white 
trumpet  of  an  arum,  at  her  side  her  own 
rose  tree ;  the  pungent  smell  of  geraniums 
saluted  her  nostrils;  a  fringe  of  bright 
blue   lobelia  was   close   beside  her  left 


THE  ROSE  OF  BLACK  BOY  ALLEY. 


elbow.  Wheo  the  cart  moved  on  she 
thought  that  she  really  must  be  id  a  good 
ciicam.  The  other  children  in  the  street 
looked  like  her.  As  for  herself,  there 
was  no  self ;  all  was  lost  in  these  marvel- 
lous flowers. 

"You'll  see  and  not  hurt  the  bloom," 
warned  her  friend,  who  went  forward  to 
the  horse's  head. 

Hurt  them!  Nixie  could  have  wor- 
shipped them  all. 

"Where  do  you  get  all  the  flowers 
from  ?  '*  she  asked  once. 

"  Tni  a  gardener  myself;  I  grow 
them." 

"What's  that?" 

"Well,  I  make  them  grow." 

"Oh,  I  thought  —  I  thought  you  said  it 
was  God  makes  the  flowers  grow  ?  " 

"So  he  does,  my  dear  —  so  he  does ;  I 
only  help  him,  so  to  speak." 

"  It  roust  be  nice  to  be  helping  God." 

There  was  no  lack  of  customers  for  the 
flowers.  In  those  hot,  grey  streets,  every 
one  who  had  a  few  pence  to  spare  was 
glad  to  secure  a  bit  of  freshness  and  color 
for  himself.  The  cart  emptied  rapidly, 
and  the  price  of  the  tose-tree  was  asked 
again  and  again.  Each  time  that  hap- 
pened there  was  a  smile  for  Nixie,  as  the 
answer  came  that  it  was  not  for  sale.  It 
was  hard  to  believe  at  flrst  that  what  others 
wanted  could  possibly  be  reserved  for  her, 
and  she  trembled  at  each  demand.  But  by 
degrees  she  grew  quite  confident,  and  it 
only  pleased  her  to  bear  it  admired.  One 
old  gentleman  was  very  persistent.  He 
must  have  it;  he  didn't  care  what  the 
price  was.  But  Nixie's  friend  was  per« 
sistent  too.  It  was  not  for  sale,  he  said  ; 
and  as  he  and  Nixie  exchanged  their  con- 
fidential smile  Nixie  laid  her  band  upon 
the  pot. 

"Ah,  you  have  given  it  to  your  little 
girl,  I  see.     Well,  I  wanted  it  for  mine." 

Nixie's  smile  became  one  of  amuse- 
ment at  the  notion  of  being  taken  for  the 
teacher's  little  girl;  but  he  answered 
gravely  enough,  — 

"She's  not  my  little  girl,  sir.  I  gave 
her  the  rose-tree  for  the  sake  of  one  I 
had." 

"  Ah,  ah  I  I  am  sorry  I  spoke.  She's 
so  like  you,  I  thought  she  was  yours." 
The  old  gentleman  bustled  o£f,  and  Nixie's 
friend  looked  at  the  child  with  a  curious 
searching  glance. 

"  Had  vou  a  little  girl  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes,  but  I  lost  her." 

"  Was  that  her  you  were  looking  for  — 
her  with  the  yellow  hair?  " 

"  No,  that  was  my  wife." 


469 

"  And  did  she  get  lost  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  through  my  own  fault  I  lost  her. 
I  did  something  I  shouldn't  have  done, 
and  we  quarrelled.  Then  1  went  off  to 
sea,  and  left  her.  For  years  and  years  I 
never  sent  her  a  word,  and  when  I  went 
home  she  was  gone." 

"  And  didn't  you  ever  And  her  since  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  and  Nixie  felt  that 
he  had  said  all  he  meant  to  say. 

At  last  all  the  flowers  were  gone  but  the 
rose. 

"Now,  tell  me  where  your  mother 
lives,"  he  said.  It  was  for  Nixie  to  point 
out  the  way.  They  stopped  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  court.     He  lifted  her  down. 

"  Oh,  teacher,  teacher ! "  she  exclaimed 
in  her  gratitude,  "  1  don't  believe  I  ever 
was  happy  before." 

He  placed  the  rose-bush  in  her  arms, 
and  when  the  children  of  the  court  rushed 
at  her  his  stalwart  form  warded  them  off. 
So  under  safe  guardianship  she  carried 
the  precious  burden  herself  to  her  moth- 
er. The  man  held  back  a  little  and  kept 
back  the  troops  of  inquisitive  children. 
Nixie  entered  alone. 

"  See,  mother,  see  ! "  she  cried.  "  This 
time  I've  brought  you  real  roses.  Grow- 
ing roses  all  over  the  tree." 

Moggy  had  been  asleep.  She  opened 
her  eyes  at  the  triumphant  voice ;  she  saw 
the  plant  set  down  at  her  head. 

"Why,  child!  why,  child!"  she  ex- 
claimed, "  they're  the  self-same  flowers  I 
told  you  of.  It's  home  come  to  me 
again." 

"  Molly,"  said  a  voice  at  the  door. 

"Tim." 

And  the  next  instant  Nixie  saw  her 
teacher  kneeling  upon  the  floor  with  her 
mother  caught  close  in  his  arms.  She 
scarcely  knew  what  followed  next.  The 
flrst  words  she  heard  distinctly  were 
these : — 

"Molly,  it  was  all  my  fault,  Many  a 
time  across  the  seas  I've  sworn  that  if 
ever  I  saw  you  again  these  should  be  the 
flrst  words  1  spoke;  but  I've  comeback 
to  the  old  place  now,  and  I've  taken  to 
better  ways." 

"  Ah,  Tim  1  and  I've  taken  to  worse." 

That  was  all  Nixie  ever  heard  of  the 
quarrel  which  had  parted  her  parents,  for 
the  time  they  had  together  was  short,  and 
by  one  accord  they  wiped  out  the  sadness 
of  the  past. 

"  1  shan't  trouble  you  long,"  Moggy 
said.  "It  seems  to  me  now  I  was  only 
waiting  for  you  to  fetch  the  child." 

She  turned  to  Nixie  and  bade  her  roll 
up  her  sleeve. 


47* 


LETTERS   FROM   GALILEE. 


Safed  is  its  position :  perched  upon  the 
summit  of  a  mountain  nearly  three  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  sea-level,  it  presents 
a  striking  appearance  from  all  parts  of 
the. country,  over  which  it  commands  an 
extensive  view.  Its  outward  aspect, 
which  is  somewhat  imposing,  is,  however, 
sorely  killed  by  its  internal  condition. 
The  streets  are  narrow  and  pestiferous, 
from  the  fact  that  each  contains  in  its 
centre  an  open  gutter  which  answers  the 
purpose  of  a  sewer,  and  one  finds  one*s 
self  to  one's  surprise  suddenly  trans- 
ported into  the  Ghetto  of  some  Polish  or 
Koumanian  town.  Not  merely  do  the 
smells  but  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the 
East  seem  to  have  departed.  Instead  of 
mingled  odor  of  burnt  manure,  tobacco, 
and  coffee,  which  usually  pervades  an 
Arab  village,  we  have  the  drain  pure  and 
simple.  Instead  of  turbans  and  shaved 
heads  and  flowing  robes,  we  have  high 
hats,  long  ear-curls,  and  greasy  gabar- 
dines. Instead  of  Arabic,  we  hear  gut- 
tural "jargon."  At  Tiberias  the  Jewish 
inhabitants  are  nearly  all  Sephardim,  wear 
Eastern  raiment,  ana  speak  the  language 
of  the  country  as  their  own.  Here,  about 
five-sixths  are  Ashkenazim,  and  retain  the 
language  and  costume  of  eastern  Europe. 
But  Safed  contains  a  larger  population, 
and  is  altogether  more  essentially  Jewish, 
than  Tiberias,  and  has  been  celebrated 
among  the  Jews  as  a  "holy  city"  even 
before  the  sixteenth  century,  when  it 
became  the  great  seat  of  ecclesiastical 
learning  and  bigotry.  Besides  several 
rabbinical  schools,  there  were  eighteen 
synagogues  and  a  printing-office  here. 
£xcept  Jerusalem  itself,  there  is  no  town 
anywhere  more  revered  bv  Jews.  In 
1837  the  place  was  destroyed  by  an  earth- 
quake, and  more  than  four  thousand  of 
the  population  perished.  For  many  years 
after  this  catastrophe  it  seemed  as  though 
It  would  never  regain  its  former  impor- 
tance, but  of  late  years  its  population  has 
been  increasing  rapidly,  —  so  much  so 
that  it  is  difficult  to  form  an  accurate  esti- 
mate of  its  present  total,  but  we  shall 
probably  not  go  far  wrong  if  we  put  it  at 
fourteen  thousand,  of  whom  half  are  Jews 
who  live  on  one  side  of  the  hill,  and  half 
Moslem  who  live  on  the  other.  The  sum- 
mit is  crowned  by  the  ruins  of  the  old 
crusading  castle,  built  on  the  foundations 
of  Josephus's  fortress,  and  the  town  al- 
most encircles  it.  The  crusading  remains, 
however,  have  in  their  turn  given  place 
to  a  more  modern  construction ;  and  the 
present  ruins  —  which  were  caused  by  the 
earthquake  nearly  fift^  years  ago  —  are 

^air 


those  of  the  castle  that  Daker  el*  Amr 
built  here  at  the  time  that  he  defied  the 
Turkish  government,  and  governed  this 
part  of  the  country  by  force  about  the 
middle  of  the  last  century.  After  the  de- 
cisive battle  of  Hattin  m  11S8,  Saladin 
took  Safed,  which  is  then  described  as  a 
strong  castle ;  but  it  was  given  up  to  the 
Christians,  and  rebuilt  by  the  Templars 
in  the  following  century,  only  to  be  speed- 
ily recaptured  by  Bibars.  The  remains 
of  the  fortress,  to  which  so  many  interest- 
ing associations  attach,  are,  however,  rap- 
idly disappearing,  as  the  people  of  Safed 
use  them  as  a  quarry,  and  I  saw  several 
new  houses  in  process  of  construction  in 
the  Jewish  quarter,  the  stones  of  which 
had  formed  part  of  the  old  castle. 

Safed  is  mentioned  in  the  Talmud  as  a 
place  fit  for  a  signal  station,  under  the 
name  of  Tzephath,  and  in  the  Book  of 
Tobit  as  Sephet.  It  is  evident  that,  from 
a  very  early  date,  Safed  was  venerated  by 
Jews,  probably  owing  to  its  proximity  to 
the  tombs  of  holy  men  and  learned  rab- 
bis, and  acquired  a  character  for  sanctity 
which  attracted  Jewish  pilgrims  thither. 
Thus  in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
centuries,  it  is  mentioned  by  several  Jew- 
ish writers  as  being  inhabited  by  a  large 
Hebrew  community.  Since  the  Russiaa 
atrocities  and  the  persecution  in  Rouma- 
nia  have  driven  so  many  of  this  race  to 
seek  a  refuge  in  the  Holy  Land,  this  com- 
munity is  steadily  increasing,  in  spite  of 
the  efforts  of  the  Turkish  government  to 
prevent  immigration;  and  unless  meas- 
ures are  taken  to  provide  them  with  suit- 
able occupation,  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
much  destitution  will  result,  and  that  the 
burden  of  the  Haluka,  or  fund  subscribed 
by  Jews  abroad  for  the  maintenance  in 
ialeness  of  their  co-religionists  who  flock 
to  Palestine  to  pray  and  die  in  the  country, 
will  be  augmented  by  the  necessitv  of 
supporting  all  those  members  who  have 
of  late  resorted  to  it  with  an  honest  desire 
to  work,  and,  if  possible,  to  live  there,  and 
who  will  continue  to  do  so. 

It  is  difficult  for  a  Christian  to  enter 
into  the  mind  of  a  Jew  upon  this  subject; 
but  it  must  ever  be  a  matter  of  great  in- 
terest to  Christians  to  know  what  Jews 
think  about  it.  It  is  a  remarkable  fact 
that  in  proportion  as  one  travels  west, 
does  the  opposition  of  Jews  to  the  Pales- 
tine colonization  movement  increase.  It 
is  nowhere  stronger  than  in  America. 
This  may  arise  partly  from  the  fact  that, 
owing  to  the  difference  in  the  material, 
and  political  surroundings  which  exists 
between  the  Jews  of  the  United  States 


LETTERS   FROM   GAULEE. 


473 


and  those  of  eastern  Europe,  the  former 
are  altogether  out  of  sympathy  with  their 
£astern  co-religionists ;  and  partly  in  con- 
sequence of  the  ignorance  which  prevails 
l^enerally  as  to  the  local  conditions  in  Pal- 
estine. This  induces  Western  Jews  to 
regard  the  scheme  as  fantastic  and  vision- 
ary. Were  there  no  prophecies  on  the 
subject,  it  would  not  excite  so  much  con- 
troversy; but  in  countries  where  there  is 
a  strong  tendency  on  the  part  of  the  Jew 
to  assimilate  himself  as  much  as  possible 
to  the  Christian,  and  to  identify  himself 
Mrith  the  institutions  of  the  nation  which 
be  has  adopted,  as  is  the  case  to  a  marked 
extent  in  America,  there  is  a  shrinking 
from  a  movement  which  is  acquiring  na- 
tional proportions,  lest  by  encouraging  it 
be  should  seem  to  be  a  oad  patriot,  and 
bave  other  aims  and  aspirations  than 
those  which  are  directly  connected  with 
the  land  of  his  adoption.  Yet  with  the 
American  Irishman  under  his  nose,  the 
American  Jew  need  not  fear  that  the  fact 
of  his  having  two  separate  nationalities 
would  operate  to  his  disadvantage.  If 
the  Irish  patriot  who  is  an  American  citi- 
zen loses  no  credit  with  his  fellow-citizens 
by  loudly  proclaiming  that  he  is  an  Irish- 
man first  and  an  American  afterwards,  and 
that  he  is  only  using  his  adopted  nation- 
ality as  a  temporary  vantage-ground  from 
which  it  can  more  conveniently  operate 
for  the  establishment  of  his  own  overt 
acts  of  violence,  the  Jew  certainly  would 
not  suffer  by  supporting  his  oppressed 
co-religionists  in  their  peaceable  enorts  to 
cultivate  the  soil  of  their  fathers;  nor 
need  even  the  creation  of  a  Jewish  nation- 
ality oblige  him  to  abandon  the  one  which 
be  has  made  his  own,  and  to  which  he 
may  feel  himself  bound  by  his  financial  or 
political  interests.  It  is  due,  however,  to 
many  of  the  Jews  who  are  opposed  to  the 
movement  to  say,  that  they  are  actuated 
by  no  selfish  motive,  but  by  a  religious 
sentiment  based  upon  the  belief  that  the 
return  of  the  Jews  is  to  be  accomplished 
by  a  direct  and  visible  intervention  of  the 
divine  hand,  which  should  not  be  precipi- 
tated by  human  means,  as  the  object  of 
the  dispersion,  —  which  was  to  serve  as 
a  permanent  manifestation  of  Jewish  doc- 
trines,—  the  mission  of  the  race,  would 
8u£fer  by  its  premature  settlement  in  Pal- 
estine. In  answer  to  all  this,  it  may  be 
said  that  the  encouragement  of  agricul- 
ture by  Jews  in  Palestine  does  not  neces- 
sarily conflict  with  the  miraculous  return 
expected  by  some  Jews,  while  it  need  still 
less  be  feared  by  those  who  are  sceptical 
on    this    latter  point.    It  would  be   as 


monstrous  to  refuse  assistance  to  a  few 
struggling  colonists,  for  fear  they  might 
prematurely  force  on  a  fulfilment  of  proph- 
ecy, as  to  aeny  it  to  them  on  the  ground 
that  they  might  form  the  nucleus  of  what 
might  become  a  new  and  inconvenient 
nationality.  For  the  present  the  contin- 
gency, though  it  may  ultimately  arise,  is 
too  remote  to  be  allowed  to  interfere  with 
a  pressing  charitable  obligation.  The 
yewish  Chronicle  —  the  most  able  repre- 
sentative of  Western  Jewish  thought  — 
has  treated  this'subject  in  a  spirit  at  once 
liberal,  impartial,  and  enlightened.  In 
discussing  the  opposition  which  the  es- 
tablishment of  Jewish  agricultural  colo- 
nies in  Palestine  has  encountered  among 
Jews  in  the  west,  it  remarks :  — 

Whatever  can  be  urged  against  the  encour- 
agement of  the  tendency,  —  however  unde- 
sirable the  movement  generally  may  be  consid- 
ered,—  it  is,  we  contend,  one  that  already 
attracted  a  large  number  of  Jews  who  have 
suffered  persecution  for  their  religion  ;  and 
for  this  reason,  if  for  no  other,  it  demands 
consideration  of  the  Jewish  public. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  the  motives 
which  lead  many  to  fear  entering  upon  the 
subject.  If  the  attempt  to  found  agricultural 
colonies  were  made  in  any  other  quarter  of  the 
globe,  there  is  no  doubt  it  would  receive  sym- 
pathetic attention.  The  experiments  of  a 
similar  kind  in  the  far  West  of  America  have 
already  received  very  substantial  encourage- 
ment from  the  leading  Jews  of  western  Eu- 
rope. But  when  the  movement  is  directed 
towards  Palestine,  the  subject  becomes  imme- 
diately submerged  in  a  much  larger  question. 
Such  IS  the  halo  of  tradition  round  the  Holy 
Land,  that  anything  connected  with  its  soil 
loses  at  once  its  independent  position,  and  be- 
comes involved  in  some  of  the  crucial  prob- 
lems which  affect  Western  Judaism.  The 
result  is  that  a  movement  towards  Palestinian 
colonization- ceases  to  be  treated  on  its  merits, 
and  becomes  involved  in  questions  of  much 
wider  import  and  bearing.  In  consequence 
there  is  always  a  latent  objection  to  treating 
the  question,  not  to  say  fairly,  but  to  treating 
it  at  all,  owing  to  a  fear  that  the  who  e  prob- 
lem of  the  future  of  Judaism  may  be  involved 
in  deciding  the  question  whether  a  few  Jews, 
who  have  displayed  self-denying  energy,  should 
be  assisted  with  small  loans  or  gifts  of  tools. . .  • 

The  Return  has  formed  the  aspiration  of  all 
the  noblest  sons  of  Israel  during  the  Disper- 
sion, and  it  is  not  strange  that  it  should  still 
retain  its  hold  on  those  who  inherit  their 
spirit  On  the  other  hand,  much  is  to  be  said 
for  the  opinion  that  any  premature  indulgence 
of  this  sentiment  is  likely  to  be  prejudicial  in 
view  of  anti-Semitic  accusations  of  want  of 
patriotism. 

At  Safed  itself  there  is  a  strong  party 
opposed  to  Jewish  colonization  on  a  still 


474 


LETTERS   FROM  GALILEE, 


more  selfish  ground.  These  are  the  rab- 
bis and  elders  of  the  ultra-orthodox  and 
Chassidiin  party,  who  think  they  perform 
an  act  of  piety  by  coming  here  to  spend 
the  last  years  of  their  lives  in  idleness,  in 
whose  mind  devotion  seems  to  be  insep- 
arable from  mendicancy,  who  consider 
they  have  a  sacred  claim  upon  the  alms  of 
their  co-religionists,  who  nevertheless  be- 
eet  children  who  are  driven  perforce  into 
following  the  example  of  their  parents, 
and  who  have  a  tendency  .to  grow  up  use- 
less members  of  society,  and  who  attach 
DO  degradation  to  the  idea  of  eating  the 
bread  of  idleness,  who  are  discouraged 
and  even  prohibited  by  their  clergy  from 
enlightening  their  minds  by  any  other 
education  than  that  of  the  narrowest  the- 
ology, and  who,  therefore,  form  a  commu- 
nity upon  whom  the  efforts  of  those  who 
desire  the  regeneration  of  their  race 
should  first  be  concentrated.  These  young 
and  able-bodied  men,  the  sons  of  men  who 
are  opposed  to  agricultural  colonies,  be- 
cause they  are  afraid  that  it  would  dimin- 
ish the  supply  of  charity  upon  which  they 
live,  are  those  who  should  be  forced  to 
labor  on  the  soil,  under  penalty  of  having 
that  supply  stopped.  They  would  be  per- 
fectly capable  as  farmers  to  support  their 
parents  ;  and  those  Jews  who  repudiate  as 
a  moral  and  religious  obligation  the  con- 
tribution to  the  Haluka  should  be  the  first 
to  contribute  to  a  fund  which  if  properly 
applied,  would  ultimately  prove  its  death- 
blow. Therefore  it  is  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Safed,  where  large  tracts  of  fer- 
tile land  can  be  bought  more  cheaply 
than  almost  anywhere  else  in  Palestine, 
that  agriculture  should  be  most  actively 
pushed.  I  was  offered  a  tract  of  fifteen 
hundred  acres  in  the  immediate  neighbor- 
hood of  the  town  for  a  sum  which  was 
returning  to  its  proprietor  an  average  in- 
come of  ten  per  cent,  on  the  price  he  was 
prepared  to  take,  nor  was  this  surprising, 
considering  that  the  legal  rate  of  interest 
is  twelve  per  cent.,  which  by  judicious 
loans  to  the  Fellahin  can  be  easily  dou- 
bled. The  grapes  which  are  produced  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Safed  are  among  the 
finest  in  Palestine  ;  and  the  country  round, 
which  is  well  watered,  is  celebrated  for  all 
descriptions  of  produce. 

Like  the  Jews  of  Tiberias,  those  of 
Safed  are  all  under  the  protection  of  some 
foreign  power.  The  consular  agents  who 
represent  those  powers  are  all  Jews  also, 
and  their  position  does  not  therefore,  in 
most  cases,  carry  that  weight  with  it  that 
it  would,  if  ihey  were  foreigners.  This 
is  notably  the  case  so  far  as  England  is 


concerned,  which  country  assumed  the 
protection  of  a  large  number  of  Jews  who 
fled  from  Russia  at  the  time  of  the  Cri- 
mean war.  During  the  foreign  adminis- 
tration of  Lord  Palmerston  they  had 
nothing  to  complain  of,  but  since  then, 
especially  during  the  present  administra- 
tion, every  attempt  is  being  made  to  shuffle 
out  of  our  responsibilities  in  regard  to 
them.  They  are  oppressed  and  perse- 
cuted by  the  Turkish  authorities  without 
hope  ot  redress,  and  the  British  consular 
agent  himself  has  never  even  been  fur- 
nished with  the  necessary  papers  which 
should  entitle  him  to  recognition  by  the 
Turkish  authorities.  It  is  necessary,  fa 
order  to  preserve  the  privilege  of  this 
nominal  protection  by  England,  to  which 
the  Jew  still  clings,  that  he  should  regis- 
ter himself  every  year  at  the  British  Vice- 
Consulate  at  Haifa,  and  pay  a  fee  of  five 
shillings.  This  entails  a  long  journey* 
It  has  been  hoped  by  the  Foreign  Office 
that  the  trouble  and  expense  would  result 
in  the  diminution  of  protif^is^  owing  to 
their  neglect  to  fulfii  the  required  condi- 
tions, and  any  assistance  which  might  be 
rendered  to  them  by  a  visit  of  the  consu* 
lar  authority  would  certainly  not  meet 
with  official  approval.  The  Jews  are  well 
aware  of  the  dislike  which  is  entertained 
by  the  British  government  of  the  obliga- 
tions involved  by  the  protectorate:  in- 
deed the  latter  do  not  suffer  them  to 
remain  under  any  delusions  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  our  policy  in  this  respect  forms 
a  curious  contrast  with  that  of  France 
and  Russia,  both  of  which  powers  ener- 
geticallv  espouse  the  cause  of  any  one 
whom  they  can  find  a  plausible  pretext  for 
protecting.  Thus  the  French  consular 
agent  at  Safed,  who  is  at  the  same  time 
the  chief  rabbi  of  the  Sephardim,  is  so 
well  backed  that  he  enjoys  more  influence 
than  any  other.  A  discussion  has  lately 
arisen  between  the  French  and  Turkish 
governments  with  respect  to  several  Tu- 
nisian Jewish  families  who  have  come  to 
Tiberias  and  Safed,  the  Turkish  govern* 
ment  claiming  them  as  Ottoman  subjects, 
and  refusing  to  acknowledge  the  right  of 
the  French  to  protect  them,  under  a  treaty 
made  with  the  bey  of  Tunis  to  which  the 
Porte  never  consented.  Indeed  the  en- 
ergy displayed  by  France,  in  adopting  as 
^r<7/^/r  all  sects  in  Syria  and  Palestine, 
whether  Christian,  Jew,  or  Moslem,  who 
are  willing  to  come  under  her  segis,  has 
recently  induced  the  Samaritans  to  apply 
for  the  privilege,  though  I  doubt  whether 
it  would  have  occurred  to  them  to  do  so 
had  the  idea  not  been  previously  sag- 


LETTERS   FROM  GALILEE. 


475 


gested  from  a  French  source.  In  the 
same  manner  the  Russian  government 
manifests  a  wonderful  solicitude  about  the 
despised  Jew,  when,  having  driven  him 
into  exile  by  persecution,  it  can  make  po- 
litical capital  out  of  him  abroad.  Thus  at 
Safed  a  refugee  Jew  who  had  been  burnt 
out  of  house  and  home  in  Russia,  and 
compelled  to  fly  across  the  frontier,  found 
as  he  supposed  a  resting-place  near  Safed, 
where  he  was  a  member  of  a  new  agricul- 
tural colony.  Unfortunately  a  Moslem 
youth  who  wanted  to  examine  a  revolver 
owned  by  the  Jew,  and  which  the  latter 
refused  to  show  him,  was  accidentally 
shot  in  the  struggle  for  it.  The  Jew  was 
accused  of  murder;  indeed  his  life  was 
barely  saved  from  an  infuriated  Moslem 
mob.  The  case  was  gone  into,  and  the 
circumstance  proved  to  have  been  acci- 
dental, and  a  proch  verbal  to  that  effect 
registered.  Still  the  man  was  detained  in 
prison,  notwithstanding  a  good  deal  of 
money  spent  in  backsheesh  to  procure  his 
release.  The  Russian  government  took 
up  the  cause,  as  he  proved  to  have  been 
under  age  at  the  the  time  he  went  through 
the  formality  of  adopting  the  Turkish  na- 
tionality, and  fought  his  battle  with  an 
earnestness  which  would  have  been  more 
appropriate  bad  he  been  a  cherished  mem- 
ber of  the  Muscovite  aristocracy.  Of 
course  this  astonished  the  Turkish  gov- 
ernment, which  is  at  a  loss  to  understand 
why  France  champions  the  cause  of  the 
identical  priests  she  has  driven  into  exile 
when  they  come  to  Syria  ;  or  why  Russia 
becomes  so  tender-hearted  and  humane  in 
Turkey,  in  regard  to  the  Turkish  race  who 
seek  a  refuge  there  from  the  atrocities  to 
which  they  have  been  subjected  at  home. 
When  1  was  at  Safed  the  Russian  govern- 
ment had  won  the  day  in  this  particular 
instance,  and  the  Jew  was  only  detained  in 
prison  until  enough  blood-money  had  been 
paid  to  the  deceased  Moslem's  relations, 
to  secure  him.  from  their  vengeance  as 
soon  as  he  should  be  set  at  liberty.  It  is 
also  a  significant  fact  that  the  Russian 
government  has  protested  against  the 
prohibition,  on  the  part  of  tlie  Turkish 
government,  of  emigrants  landing  in  Pal- 
estine. Lord  Edmund  Fitzmaurice,  in 
answer  to  a  question  by  Sergeant  Simon 
not  long  since,  declared  that  our  govern- 
ment had  done  the  same  ;  but  it  has  met 
with  the  usual  fate  of  British  protests,  so 
far  as  the  Turkish  government  is  con- 
cerned, and  has  been  treated  with  the 
same  contempt  which  has  characterized 
the  reception  of  our  remonstrances  in  the 
case  of  reforms  in   Armenia.     We  have 


been  supposed,  since  the  last  Russian 
war,  to  exercise  a  treaty  protectorate  over 
Asia  Minor  under  certain  conditions  —  a 
privilege  not  accorded  to  any  European 
power.  Practically  this  responsibility 
has,  in  the  case  of  England,  been  utterly 
ignored,  and  both  France  and  Russia, 
without  any  such  right,  are  incessantly 
attempting  to  enforce  a  similar  privilege 
in  regard  to  various  classes  of  Ottoman 
subjects.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
order  issued  by  the  Turkish  government 
to  the  authorities  in  Syria,  to  prevent  the 
landing  of  foreign  suojects  in  Palestine 
should  they  be  Jewish  emigrants,  is  in  di- 
rect defiance  of  their  treaty  obligations ; 
but  so  great  is  the  apathy  of  Europe,  and 
especially  of  England,  in  the  matter,  that 
to  this  day  the  Porte  is  allowed  to  in- 
fringe this  international  obligation  with  no 
more  serious  results  than  empty  protests. 
There  are  thousands  of  Jews  at  this  mo- 
ment, both  in  Russia  and  Roumania,  who 
are  living  there  under  the  most  severe 
pressure  for  existence,  and  who  are  pre- 
vented by  this  illegal  prohibition  from 
seeking  an  asylum  in  the  land  of  their 
forefathers,  and  neither  the  Jews  nor  the 
Christians  of  the  West  move  a  finger  in 
their  behalf.  A  society  has  indeed  been 
started  in  America,  which,  it  is  hoped, 
may  deal  with  this  flagrant  injustice ;  and 
the  American  government,  by  taking  un- 
der their  protection  eastern  European 
Jews  desirous  of  emigrating  to  Palestine, 
might  put  Europe  to  shame,  and  confer  a 
lasting  favor  on  a  large  and  oppressed 
class  of  humanity. 

The  importance  politically  to  England 
of  exercising  a  controlling  influence  in 
Palestine,  has  become  more  accentuated 
since  the  military  occupation  of  Egypt, 
and  its  virtual  government  by  Great  Brit^ 
ain.  The  influence  of  Egypt  on  Pales- 
tine is  very  direct.  The  recollections 
still  remain  of  its  conquest  and  annexa- 
tion by  Mehemet  Ali,  engraven  on  the 
memory  of  the  living  generation,  and  of 
its  government  by  Ibrahim  Pasha.  From 
time  immemorial  the  varied  conquests  of 
Palestine  by  Egypt  have  illustrated  the 
close  political  relations  which  must  ever 
subsist  between  these  two  contiguous 
countries,  separated  only  by  the  Suez  Ca- 
nal and  a  patch  of  desert  —  and  no  control 
of  our  communication  with  India  is  com- 
plete vvhich  does  not  embrace  a  Palestine 
as  well  as  an  Egyptian  protectorate.  The 
rebound  of  every  political  event  which 
happens  in  Egypt  is  felt  first  in  Palestine; 
and  there  can  oe  no  doubt  that  the  defeat 
of  the  British  arms  at  Tel  el  Kebir  would 


476 

have  been  immediately  followed  by  a  mas- 
sacre of  Cbristiaas,  and  especially  of 
British  subjects,  Id  Palestine  and  Syria. 
The  position  and  proceedings  of  England 
in  Egypt  are  now  narrowly  watched  here 
—  the  commonest  fellah  will  enter  upon 
a  discussion  on  the  subject ;  and  the  ab- 
solute neglect  of  our  interests  in  this 
country,  if  it  is  allowed  to  continue,  is 
telling  on  the  country  people,  who  con- 
trast it  with  the  activity  of  other  powers, 
and  cannot  fail  to  involve  consequences 
which  may  prove  disastrous.  It  is  not 
therefore  as  a  matter  of  sentiment,  but  as 
a  matter  of  interest,  that  the  condition  of 
the  Jews  in  Palestine  should  occupy  the 
attention  of  our  government.  They  are 
the  race  in  Palestine  which  of  all  others 
would  most  conveniently  fall  under  our 
2gis.  The  French  have  the  interests  of 
the  Catholic  faith  to  furnish  them  with  the 
necessary  excuse  for  interfering  with  the 
internal  administration  of  the  country, 
and  are  active  in  increasing  their  protec- 
torate responsibilities  among  other  races 
and  creeds.  The  Russians  have  the  in- 
terests of  the  Greek  Church  to  safeguard, 
and  the  four  or  five  thousand  Russian  pil- 
grims who  annually  flock  to  Jerusalem,  to 
supply  them  with  a  pretext  for  a  similar 
intervention.  We  who  are  most  deeply 
interested,  and  who  enjoy  by  treaty  cer- 
tain protectorate  rights,  are  under  special 
responsibilities,  dating  from  1861,  towards 
the  Druses,  and  towards  those  Jews  who 
came  under  our  protection  in  1854,  be- 
sides incurring,  owing  to  the  abuses  to 
which  both  Jews  desiring  to  come  to  the 
country  and  those  who  are  already  in  it 
are  exposed,  a  moral  obligation  to  inter- 
fere in  behalf  of  the  nation  generally. 
There  are  now  between  forty  and  fifty 
thousand  Jews  in  Palestine ;  and  this  num- 
ber, in  spite  of  the  obstacles  thrown  in 
their  way,  is  daily  increasing.  All  things 
are  pointing  to  a  crisis  in  the  destiny  of 
the  Ottoman  Empire;  and  the  geograph- 
ical and  political  position  of  Palestine  is 
such,  that  the  fate  of  that  province  must 
present  one  of  the  first  problems  for  solu- 
tion. Now  that  nearly  a  fifth  of  its  entire 
population  is  Jewish,  it  is  too  large  a  fac- 
tor to  be  left  out  of  account ;  and  consid- 
ering the  peculiar  conditions  which  at- 
tend their  position  in  the  country,  the 
traditions  which  connect  them  with  it 
from  the  earliest  times,  the  aspirations 
they  entertain  with  regard  to  it,  the  senti- 
ment which  prevails  on  the  subject  with  a 
large  class  of  people  in  England,  and  the 
vital  importance  it  is  to  England  that  the 
destiny  of  the  country  should  not  be  coa- 


LETTERS   FROM   GALILEE. 


trolled  by  any  other  European  power  —  it 
is  manifest  that  England  could  not  find 
a  leverage  upon  which  to  base  her  politi- 
cal action  more  powerful  than  that  which 
is  furnished  by  a  Jewish  immigration 
which  should  be  facilitated  by  her  protec- 
tion, and  by  specially  safeguarding  the 
interests  of  the  Hebrew  population  now 
in  Palestine. 

It  was  about  the  month  of  October  last 
year,  before  the  restrictions  against  Jew- 
ish immigration  were  severely  enforced, 
that  a  party  of  colonists,  consisting  of 
twenty-three  Roumanian  and  four  Russian 
families,  comprising  in  all  about  one  hun- 
dred and  forty  souls,  arrived  at  Safed 
with  a  view  of  establishing  themselves  in 
a  colony  in  its  neighborhood.  Here,  ow- 
ing to  the  exertions  of  the  Sephardim 
rabbi,  who  differs  from  the  majority  of 
his  local  co-religionists  in  the  aid  he  is 
affording  to  the  agricultural  instincts  of 
the  Jews,  about  a  thousand  acres  of  land 
were  bought  under  very  favorable  condi- 
tions at  a  Moslem  village  called  Jauna» 
situated  about  three  miles  from  Safed.  I 
started  early  one  morning  to  visit  this 
colony,  and  as  the  colonists  had  received 
no  notice  of  my  intention,  was  glad  of  the 
opportunity  thus  a£Eorded  of  taking  them 
d  rimproviste.  The  path  wound  round 
the  summitvof  the  hill  to  the  north,  be- 
neath the  ruined  walls  of  the  castle,  and 
the  view  over  the  rich  intervening  vales 
of  the  mountains  of  Galilee,  with  Jebel 
Termuk,  scarcely  five  miles  distant,  rising 
to  a  height  of  four  thousand  feet,  was 
very  grand.  As  we  got  round  to  the  east 
of  the  castle  we  skirted  a  portion  of  the 
Moslem  suburb  of  which  the  youth  to 
whom  I  have  already  alluded  as  having 
been  accidentally  shot,  was  a  native.  The 
feeling  on  the  subject  was  still  so  strong, 
that  some  of  the  Jews  who  were  accom- 
panying me  were  pelted  with  stones  as 
we  rode  through.  A  portion  of  the  Mos- 
lem population  of  Safed  are  Algerians, 
who  followed  the  late  Abd-elKader  into 
exile;  but  I  am  not  aware  whether  the 
young  man  in  question  belonged  to  this 
community. 

Leaving  this  hostile  neighborhood,  our 
path  lay  over  the  grassy,  breezy  shoulder 
of  the  mountain,  the  air  of  which  was  so 
pure  and  bracing  that  one  could  scarcely 
realize  the  near  proximity  of  the  odorifer- 
ous pig-stye  from  which  we  had  escaped. 
It  is  no  wonder  that  when  cholera  visits 
these  parts,  it  should  find  its  stronghold 
at  Safed.  There  is  no  town  in  Palestine 
more  healthily  situated,  or  more  adapted 
to  be  a  cool  and  pleasant  summer  resort. 


LETTERS   FROM  GALILEE. 


477 


were  it  only  kept  in  a  decent  condition  of 
cleanliness.  The  Jews  say  that  the  gov- 
ernment authorities  take  no  steps  in  the 
matter ;  but  they  probably  would  not  pre- 
vent the  inhabitants  undertaking  this  duty 
for  themselves,  and  sanitary  considera- 
tions render  it  urgently  necessary  that 
something  should  be  done  to  improve  the 
salubrity  of  the  place.  There  are  nearly 
always  cases  of  fever  lurking  in  its  slums ; 
and  were  it  not  for  the  extraordinary  nat- 
ural advantages  of  its  position,  it  would 
be  a  hotbed  of  typhus. 

From  the  highest  point  of  the  great 
basalt  plateau  on  which  we  now  stood,  we 
looked  north-west  over  a  range  of  country 
more  highly  cultivated  than  is  to  be  found 
anywhere  else  in  all  Palestine.  This  cen- 
tral part  of  Galilee  combines  more  advan- 
tages for  settlement  than  can  probably  be 
found  elsewhere.  It  enjoys  a  delightful 
climate  —  the  elevation  above  the  sea  va- 
rying from  two  thousand  to  twenty-five 
hundred  feet,  —  a  most  fertile  soil,  with 
plenty  of  water,  and  perfect  security  from 
Arab  incursion.  The  result  is,  that  it  is 
comparatively  well  populated,  and  the 
land,  for  any  colonies  wlych  might  be 
established  here,  would  have  to  be  pur- 
chased from  the  natives.  Nowhere  else 
have  I  seen  so  many  flourishing  villages, 
each  surrounded  with  immense  groves 
of  olives,  and  expanses  of  yellow  waving 
grain.  There  are  carefully  tended  gar- 
dens of  fruit  trees ;  the  vineyards  are 
well  looked  after,  and  produce  the  largest 
grapes  in  the  country;  and  good  crops 
are  obtained  almost  everywhere.  This 
prosperous  portion  extends  over  the  whole 
central  plateau  on  both  sides  of  the  wa- 
tershed. Among  the  villages  over  which 
I  was  now  looking  are  some  interesting 
historical  sites,  —  notably  Kades,  the  site 
of  Kadesh  Naphthali  or  Kadesh  in  Gali- 
lee, a  city  of  refuge,  and  where  there  are 
some  extensive  and  interesting  ruins, 
which  have  been  elaborately  examined 
and  reported  upon  by  the  Palestine  Ex- 
ploration Fund  Survey;  El  Jish,  the  Gis- 
cala  of  Josephus ;  Kefr  Birim,  where  some 
of  the  finest  remains  of  purely  Jewish 
architecture  in  Palestine  are  to  be  found; 
and  Meiron,  which  I  shall  describe  in  my 
next  letter,  as  it  was  to  be  my  next  stop- 
ping-place. In  half  an  hour  we  found 
ourselves  commencing  a  descent  so  steep, 
that  it  was  more  comfortable  to  dismount 
and  scramble  on  foot  down  the  mountain 
gorge  that  leads  to  Jatina.  A  magnificent 
view  now  suddenly  opened  upon  us  in 
exactly  the  opposite  direction  from  that 
ia  which  we  had  just  been  looking.    The 


valley,  or  rather  the  plain,  of  the  Jordan, 
from  the  Lake  Huleh  or  the  waters  of 
Merom  on  the  one  side  to  the  Lake  of 
Tit>erias  on  the  other,  lay  stretched  at  our 
feet  nearly  three  thousand  feet  below  us, 
with  the  mountains  of  Jaulan  attaining  an 
elevation  even  higher  than  those  on  which 
we  stood  bounding  the  view  eastward,  and 
Hermon  towering  away  to  the  north. 
Here  we  looked  over  a  flne  tract  of  rich 
land  at  present  lying  undeveloped,  but 
which  is  capable  of  being  made  immense- 
ly  productive.  This  is  the  plain  of  £1 
Keit,  which  is  about  six  miles  long  by 
four  miles  wide,  and  is  watered  by  the 
Wady  Hindaz  and  the  Wady  Wakkas,  — 
streams  which  run  into  the  Huleh,  on  the 
south-western  margin  of  which  lake  the 
plain  is  situated.  It  is  a  few  feet  below 
the  sea-level,  and  the  climate  in  summer 
is  therefore  oppressive,  while  it  is  liable 
to  incursions  from  the  Arabs,  who  use  it 
as  their  camping-grounds  now.  After  de- 
scending about  eight  hundred  feet  we 
came  upon  a  splendid  spring,  which 
gushed  from  the  rock  and  flowed  in  a  flne 
stream  down  the  valley,  fertilizing  the 
highest  gardens  of  the  village  of  Jauna, 
which  we  were  now  approaching.  This 
fine  source,  which  is  perennial,  belongs  to 
the  new  Jewish  colony.  Turning  the  cor- 
ner as  the  gorge  opened,  I  suddenly  came 
upon  some  twenty  men  and  women,  all 
Jews,  hard  at  work  hoeing  in  their  potato 
patches.  This  was  a  sight  at  once  novel 
and  encouraging;  and  as  nearly  all  the 
population  seemed  out  in  the  fields,  I  had 
to  wait  a  short  time  for  them  to  come  from 
their  several  occupations.  Then,  under 
the  guidance  of  the  managing  committee, 
who  had  in  the  course  of  six  months' 
field  work  developed  into  bronzed,  horny- 
flsted  farmers,  I  entered  the  principal 
house  of  a  neat  little  row  of  sixteen,  and 
discussed  their  immediate  necessities  and 
future  prospects.  In  doing  this,  I  was 
sorry  to  find  that  the  Roumanian  and 
Russian  Jews  would  have  to  be  consid- 
ered in  separate  categories.  This  arises 
from  the  aifficulty  of  establishing  a  thor- 
ough harmony  among  Jewish  colonists 
who  come  from  di£Eerent  localities,  and 
much  more  from  different  countries. 
From  my  experience  so  far  of  agricultural 
experiments  of  this  kind,  I  feel  convinced 
that  the  obstacles  to  success  will  not  be 
found  to  lie  in  the  incapacity  of  the  Jew 
for  agriculture,  so  much  as  in  the  jeal- 
ousies and  rivalries  which  exist  between 
them,  and  in  the  tendency  which  they 
manifest  to  intrigue  against  each  other, 
and  to  rebel  against  the  imposition  of 


478 


LETTERS   FROM   GALILEE. 


rules  and  regulations  by  which  all  should 
be  equally  bound.  There  are,  moreover, 
often  strong  divergences  oC  opinion  among 
them  on  theological  subjects,  all  which 
renders  it  very  difficult  to  combine  them 
for  united  action  of  any  kind,  or  to  use 
any  of  them  for  positions  of  responsibility 
or  authority.  In  fact,  these  Russian  and 
Roumanian  Jews,  who  have  suddenly  es- 
caped from  the  house  of  bondage,  are  like 
untrained  children  who  have  fled  from 
.  prison,  and  who  now,  without  any  expe- 
rience or  knowledge  of  the  world,  or  hab- 
its of  self  restraint,  find  themselves  free 
,  to  follow  their  own  devices,  and  to  obey 
•  the  first  impulses  which  may  act  upon 
their  ili-reguiated  natures.  We  have  only 
to  consider  the  conditions  of  their  exis- 
tence in  Russia  and  Roumania,  to  see 
bow  impossible  it  is  for  them  to  enter 
upon  communal  h'fe  as  farmers  without 
some  assistance  from  abroad,  and  some 
strong  hand  to  guide,  restrain,  and,  if 
need  be,  to  coerce.  Their  faults  are  not 
so  much  inherent  defects  of  character  as 
the  result  of  circumstances,  and  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that,  with  firm  and  judicious 
treatment,  what  appear  to  be  their  natural 
tendencies  could  be  modified  for  the  bet- 
ter. That  these  are  not  national  charac- 
teristics, is  evident  from  the  fact  that  a 
Russian  Jew  differs  as  much  from  an  En- 
glish one  as  a  Russian  does  from  an 
Englishman.  In  the  case  of  the  Jauna 
colony,  twenty-three  families  had  come 
from  one  place  in  Roumania,  and  were 
living  together  in  tolerable  harmony :  they 
were  in  tar  better  circumstances  than  the 
Russians,  and  were  in  communication 
with  a  local  committee,  from  whom  they 
derived  some  little  support.  The  Rus- 
sians, on  the  other  hand,  had  not  been  so 
well  off  at  first,  and  had  suffered  pecuni- 
arily from  the  unfortunate  accident  to 
which  I  have  already  referred.  Of  the 
Roumanians,  two-thirds  had  already  built, 
or  were  building,  their  houses;  but  the 
Russians  were  still  without  shelter,  and 
were  living  at  Safed.  As  they  had  both 
land  and  cattle,  they  were  conducting  their 
farming  operations  from  there.  1  went 
into  each  of  the  sixteen  houses  already 
built:  they  consisted  generally  of  two 
rooms,  in  one  of  which  there  was  nearly 
always  an  oven  for  baking  bread,  besides 
other  cooking  apparatus.  They  were  kept 
remarkably  clean,  and  the  whole  row  com- 
manded the  view  over  the  Jordan  plain  I 
have  already  described.  As  yet  no  farm 
buildings  had  been  put  up,  and  it  will 
probably  be  found  that  for  all  to  live  in  a 
single  street  will  be  attended  with  incon- 


veniences when  the  question  of  barns  and 
outhouses  has  to  be  considered.  So  far, 
the^have  manifested  an  energy  and  per- 
severance which  is  in  the  highest  degree 
praiseworthy ;  and  they  seemed  to  take  a 
real  delight  in  the  consciousness  of  the 
fact  that  they  had  become  landowners, 
and  declared  thatthev  much  preferred  the 
open-air  life  and  tne  manual  labor  in 
which  they  were  engaged,  to  the  Ghetto 
life  they  had  left.  One  of  the  houses  was 
set  apart  for  sacred  purposes,  in  which 
two  men  were  engaged  in  their  devotions 
when  I  entered  it. 

The  remainder  of  the  village  of  Jaana, 
which  has  not  been  purchased  by  the 
Jews,  is  owned  by  about  twenty  Moslem 
families,  who  have  so  far  maintained  the 
best  possible  relations  with  the  new- 
comers, offering  them  assistance  and  ad- 
vice, and  seeming  well  pleased  to  have 
them  among  them.  Their  houses  are  im- 
mediately contiguous  to  the  new  row  which 
has  just  been  built.  Besides  about  a 
thousand  acres  of  arable  land,  the  colo- 
nists have  some  fruit  and  vegetable  gar- 
dens in  the  gorge,  watered  by  the  little 
stream  that  gushes  from  the  spring  above. 
Jauna  does  no*t  seem  to  have  been  identi- 
fied as  a  Biblical  site;  but  some  broken 
pillars,  and  a  capital  with  ordinary  mould- 
ings, indicate  that  it  was  the  position  of 
some  Roman  city  of  greater  or  less  impor- 
tance. The  Jewish  colonists  have  given 
it  the  name  of  Rasch  Pina,  meaning  '*  the 
head  of  the  corner.'*  At  least  such  is  the 
translation  of  the  Hebrew  word  in  the 
verse  in  which  it  occurs:  "The  stone 
which  the  builders  rejected,  the  same  has 
become  the  head  of  the  corner."  By 
means  of  a  fund  supplied  to  me  by  the 
charity  of  benevolent  persons  in  England, 
who  take  an  interest  in  promoting  the 
welfare  of  the  Jews  in  Palestine,  by  as- 
sisting them  in  their  agricultural  efforts, 
I  was  able  to  afford  this  interesting  col- 
ony some  support ;  and  I  have  heard  since 
my  visit  that  they  are  likely  to  be  en- 
couraged in  their  efforts  by  the  Alliance 
Israelite  of  Paris — a  body  which  has 
hitherto  persistently  set  its  face  against 
Jewish  colonization  in  Palestine. 

Colonies  in  this  country  need  protection 
against  unjust  taxation  and  official  op- 
pression after  they  are  prosperous,  even 
more  than  pecuniary  assistance  in  the 
first  instance :  and  if,  through  the  medium 
of  the  Alliance,  the  French  government 
extends  its  aegis  over  Jewish  colonies  in 
Palestine,  as  well  as  over  the  Latin  holy 
places  and  monasteries  in  that  country, 
and  the  various  heretical  sects  who  have 


LETTERS   FROM   GALILEE. 


479 


applied  for  it,  a  convenient  excuse  will  be 
afforded  for  promoting  its  political  influ- 
ence. Considering  the  more  important 
interests  which  Great  Britain  has  in  the 
destiny  of  the  country,  this  is  a  duty 
which  I  should  have  rather  seen  under- 
taken by  the  Anglo-Jewish  Association  of 
England.  A  part  of  the  land  now  culti- 
vated by  the  colonists  of  Jauna  was  once 
farmed  by  some  of  the  Jewish  families  of 
Safed,  who  would  have  done  pretty  well 
here  had  they  not  been  unjustly  over- 
taxed, and  who  expressed  to  me  their 
great  regret  that  farming  operations, 
which  some  of  them  professed  to  under- 
stand thoroughly,  and  to  like  as  an  occupa- 
tion, were  attended  with  so  much  risk  of 
extortion  on  the  part  of  the  government 
officials,  that  they  had  been  compelled  to 
abandon  them.  Still  one  of  them  showed 
me  a  very  good  garden  at  Jauna  that  he 
still  possessed,  and  where  he  has  deter- 
mined to  return  and  establish  himself.  I 
was  assured  that  there  were  altogether 
two  hundred  Jewish  families  who  were 
acquainted  with  agriculture,  and  desirous 
of  earning  their  livelihood  bv  the  sweat 
of  their  brow.  They  needed,  first,  capi- 
tal, and  secondly,  protection ;  and  besides 
this,  I  was  informed  that  over  a  hundred 
Jews  in  the  place  worked  for  hire  on 
farms  belonging  to  Moslems  and  Chris- 
tians. If  this  be  so  —  and  one  of  the 
chief  rabbis  was  my  authority — it  goes 
far  to  disprove  the  oft-made  assertion, 
that  the  Jew  will  always  refuse  to  work  on 
the  soil.  The  fact  is,  that  the  Jew  is  in 
every  country  what  circumstances  make 
him.  In  the  mountains  of  Mesopotamia 
he  is  a  shepherd  ;  in  the  deserts  of  Yemen 
he  is  a  nomad,  living  in  tents  with  flocks 
and  herds ;  in  western  Europe  the  richer 
classes  engage  in  the  ordinary  pursuits 
and  occupations  of  civilized  life;  while 
the  poorer,  who  have  never  had  a  chance 
of  becoming  rural  peasantry  in  any  coun- 
try, and  have  in  many  cases  been  prohib- 
ited from  holding  land,  have  been  driven 
to  petty  commerce,  money  lending,  and 
peddling.  It  has  yet  to  be  proved  that  if 
the  Jew  is  placed  on  the  soil  which  was 
tilled  by  his  ancestors,  he  has  become  in- 
herently disqualified  to  enter,  by  his  own 
exertions,  once  more  into  the  ownership 
of  it,  or  that  he  prefers  carrying  a  pedlar's 
pack  to  following  a  plough. 

So  far  from  such  being  the  case,  my 
observation  has  led  me  to  arrive  at  an 
opposite  conclusion.  At  the  same  time, 
I  am  ready  to  admit  that  attempts  at 
colonization  in  this  country  can  only  be 
attended  with  success  if  they  are  under- 


taken under  certain  conditions;  and  that 
in  considering  what  these  are,  the  peculiar 
characteristics  of  the  Eastern  Jew  must 
be  taken  into  account,  as  well  as  the  varied 
obstacles  with  which  he  has  to  contend, 
in  undertaking,  in  a  country  where  all  the 
surroundings  are  new  to  him,  a  pursuit  of 
which  he  has  had  no  experience,  and 
which  he  can  only  prosecute  under  the 
disadvantage  of  a  government  which 
places  every  conceivable  obstacle  in  his 
way,  and  of  officials  who  lose  no  opportu- 
nity of  robbing  him.  Left  absolutely  to 
himself,  then,  with  his  limited  pecuniary 
resources,  and  with  no  foreign  protection 
to  relv  upon,  or  strong  hand  to  guide  and 
sustain  him,  it  is  quite  probable  that  he 
may  fail  to  establish  himself  so  securely 
on  the  soil  of  his  fathers  as  to  pave  the 
way  for  the  restoration  upon  it  of  a  Jewish 
peasantry;  but  this  consummation  is  both 
feasible  and  practicable,  if  it  is  really  de- 
sired either  by  the  Jews  or  the  Christians 
of  the  West,  and  if  they  are  prepared  to 
make  the  very  small  sacrifice  of  money 
and  of  time  and  of  influence  which  it 
would  involve. 

Meanwhile  the  fact  that  certain  colonies 
have  been. established  already  with  more 
or  less  success  in  Palestine,  has  kept  up 
the  desire  of  the  Jews,  especially  in  Rou- 
mania,  to  emigrate  to  this  country,  and 
they  continue  to  dribble  in,  in  spite  of  the 
government  prohibition.  Scarcely  a  week 
passes  without  some  fresh  arrivals ;  but 
the  fact  that  they  come  in  twos  and  threes, 
unsupported  by  any  organization  in  their 
own  country,  and  almost  destitute  of 
funds,  renders  it  hopeless  to  establish 
them  on  land  without  assistance.  They 
all  have  the  same  story  to  tell.  Life  has 
become  impossible  in  Roumania  —  they 
are  willing  to  do  work  of  any  description 
for  their  daily  bread ;  they  generally  pro- 
fess to  be  agriculturists,  but  probably  in 
most  cases  are  not,  and  unless  something 
is  done  for  them,  I  see  no  other  future 
for  ihem  and  their  wives  and  little  ones 
but  death  by  starvation  — oc  at  best  a  life 
of  mendicancy  at  Jerusalem  or  Safed,  if 
they  can  procure  for  themselves  a  share 
of  the  Haluka.  Sooner  or  later  the  ques- 
tion of  their  relief  will  force  itself  upon 
public  notice,  —  a  question  which  might 
have  taken  a  very  different  shape  had  the 
facts  of  the  case  been  better  understood 
from  the  first,  the  necessity  of  providing 
for  them  recognized,  and  had  an  organiza- 
tion been  formed  in  England  either  by 
Christians,  Jews,  or  both,  which  should 
have  included  Palestine  in  its  scheme  of 
operations.    The  word  was  introduced  by 


480 

the  Mansion  House  Committee  in  its  pro- 
gramme, it  is  difficult  to  say  exactly  with 
what  object  —  but  it  is  certain  that  any 
contributors  who  were  under  the  impres- 
sion that  any  large  amount  of  its  funds 
would  be  applied  towards  establishing 
Russian  Jews  in  this  country  have  been 
disappointed.  It  must  be  admitted,  how- 
ever, that  the  founding  of  colonies  either 
here  or  in  America  did  not  enter  directly 
into  the  scope  of  the  committee's  opera- 
tions. What  is  needed  in  England  is  the 
formation  of  a  society  for  protecting  the 
Jews  of  eastern  Europe  generally,  which 
should  protest  against  illegal  action  on 
the  part  of  the  Turkish  government,  which 
should  insist  in  behalf  of  foreign  Jews,  no 
matter  of  what  nationality,  upon  their 
legal  right  to  purchase  lancl  in  any  part  of 
Turkey  in  which  they  desire  to  settle 
without  necessarily  becoming  Turkish 
subjects,  which  should  aid  them  in  doing 
so  by  pecuniary  advances  upon  terms 
offering  the  necessary  guarantees,  and 
which  should  protect  them  by  its  influ- 
ence against  oppression  or  extortion. 
Such  a  society  would  have  power  to  con- 
trol the  emigration  within  proper  limits, 
to  choose  the  most  desirable  families,  to 
select  the  most  available  land,  and  to  in- 
sist upon  such  provisions  being  complied 
with  by  the  emigrants  as  might  best 
ensure  success,  and  avert  the  calamities 
which  an  unlimited  and  unprotected  paii- 
per  emigration  is  certain  to  involve. 
Sooner  or  later  the  force  of  events  will 
render  such  an  organization  necessary; 
the  only  effect  of  delay  will  be,  that  an 
immense  amount  of  unnecessary  misery 
will  have  to  be  endured,  and  an  increas- 
ing number  of  obstacles  will  have  to  be 
encountered.  < 


MADAME   DARBLAY. 


From  The  Comhill  Majcaiine. 
MADAME  D'ARBLAY. 

Within  the  last  year  or  two  Madame 
d'Arblay's  novels  have  been  r'^published 
with  an  appreciative  introduction,  and 
modern  readers  may  discover  for  them- 
selves whether  thev  can  understand  the 
raptures  with  which  the  author  was  wel- 
comed into  the  literary  woHd.  The  last 
edition  of  *'  Cecilia  *'  is  separated  by  just 
a  century  from  the  first ;  and  some  critics 
have  asserted  survival  for  that  period  is 
the  true  test  of  an  author's  title  to  be  a 
classic.  How  far  Madame  d'Arblay  de- 
serves that  name  is  problematical.  Even 
her  most  zealous  admirers,  however,  will 


scarcely  venture  to  place  her  in  the  £rst 
class.  Her  reputation  is  not  as  the  repu- 
tation of  Miss  Austen.  We  may  dissent 
from  the  orthodox  view  without  suffering 
excommunication.  If  we  do  not  read 
"  Evelina  "  simply  from  a  sense  of  duty 
we  require  the  stimulus  of  curiosity.  We 
seek  in  her  pages  for  illustrations  of  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  times  or  of 
the  development  of  a  literary  fashion. 
We  do  not  become  so  deeply  absorbed  in 
the  books  themselves  as  to  lorget  for  the 
time  all  extrinsic  interests.  No  book 
can  be  said  to  be  thoroughly  alive  which 
is  not  capable  of  blinding  us  for  the  time 
to  everything  outside  its  own  pages.  It 
must  be  whilst  we  read  our  whole  world 
—  the  sole  reality,  which  makes  all  outside 
tangible  things  mere  transitory  phantoms. 
When  reading  Miss  Austen,  we  can  be- 
lieve in  Emma  Woodhouse,  and  consider 
the  young  ladies  of  our  own  families  as 
characters  in  fiction.  But  no  such  illu- 
sion, no  inversion,  however  temporary,  of 
the  worlds  of  fact  and  fancy  is  possible 
to  the  student  of  "Evelina'*  and  "Ce- 
cilia."  The  "genial"  critic,  indeed,  still 
simulates  enthusiasm  and  calls  everybody 
a  dullard  who  dares  to  dissent.  Let  us 
hope  that  he  believes  in  his  own  utter- 
ance, ^nd  take  courage  to  admit  that  we 
would  rather  read  one  volume  of  "Ce- 
cilia "  than  five.  And  when  once  we  ad- 
mit that  the  novels  are  most  interesting 
chiefly  from  the  historical  point  of  view,  it 
becomes  a  question  whether  genuine  his- 
tory is  not  preferable. 

The  "  Diaries  "  and  "  Memoirs  of  Dr. 
Burney  "  are  fully  as  lively  as  the  novels ; 
and  we  prefer  portraits  of  Bos  well  and 
George  III.  to  Lord  Orville  and  Mr.  Del- 
ville,  who  are  less  interesting  in  theno- 
selves  and  whose  adventures  are  not  verv 
thrilling.  Miss  Burney,  however,  is  wortn 
a  study  in  more  ways  than  one.  We  can 
see  many  interesting  people  through  her 
eyes,  and  her  novels  mark  at  least  an  im- 
portant transition  in  the  art.  Her  per- 
sonal story  is  sufficiently  familiar  from 
Macaulay's  essay;  and,  whatever  be  Ma- 
caulay's  shortcomings,  we  always  have 
the  advantage,  in  following  him,  of  know- 
ing that  a  firm  and  distinct  outline  of  fact 
has  been  vigorously  put  down  in  unmis- 
takable black  and  white  on  his  readers' 
memories.  Macaulay's  article,  indeed, 
was  obviously  prompted  by  something  be- 
sides simple  zeal  for  Madame  d'Arblav. 
He  was  delivering  a  damaging  blow  at  his 
old  enemy  Croker:  and  it  is  worth  while 
to  look  back  at  the  articles  which  gave  the 
offence.    Poor  Madame  d*Arblay  under- 


MADAME   DARBLAY. 


took  in  her  old  age  to  publish  three  vol- 
umes of  memoirs  of  her  father,  Dr. 
Burney.  She  was  eighty  in  the  year 
(1832)  of  their  publication.  To  most  peo- 
ple it  would  seem  that,  if  her  dates  were 
rather  vague,  and  that,  if  her  own  figure 
appeared  rather  prominently  in  the  fore- 
ground of  her  own  recollections,  the  weak- 
ness was  natural  and  pardonable  enough. 
Croker,  however,  fell  upon  her  in  one  of 
those  fine  slashing  articles  which  are  hap- 
pily less  common  than  of  old ;  he  hit  upon 
an  expedient  well  adapted  to  give  pain  to 
his  victim. 

It  had  been  reported  —  where  or  when 
it  does  not  appear  (probably  from  a  hasty 
identification  of  the  author  with  her  her- 
oine)—  that  ** Evelina"  was  written  at 
the  surprisingly  early  age  of  seventeen. 
Madame  d*Arblay  did  not  say  so  herself; 
but  neither  did  she  deny  it.  Still  the 
vagueness  of  her  dates  might  seem  to 
give  some  color  to  the  statement,  suppos- 
ing it  to  have  been  made;  and  undoubt- 
edly she  does  lav  a  good  deal  of  stress 
upon  her  youth  fulness  at  the  time  of  com- 
position. Accordingly  Croker,  so  it  is 
said,  put  himself  into  a  post-chaise  and 
went  all  the  way  to  Lynn  to  examine  the 
parish  registers.  He  discovered,  to  his 
unspeakable  triumph,  that  Frances  Bur- 
ney had  been  christened  in  1752.  Be- 
yond all  doubt,  then,  she  was  twenty-five 
when  **  Evelina'*  actually  appeared  at  the 
beginning  of  1778.  He  came  back  over- 
flowing with  virtuous  complacency.  He 
felt  as  one  who  had  unmasked  a  wicked' 
impostor.  He  was  not  the  man  to  bring 
out  this  great  discovery  incidentally  or 
modestly,  or  to  spare  the  feelings  of  an 
old  woman  whose  guilt  he  had  laid  bare. 
He  wrote  an  article  in  which  the  criticism 
of  the  book  is  merely  by  the  way,  and  the 
whole  pith  and  point  of  which  is  this 
mighty  revelation.  A  hint  of  it  is  given 
in  the  opening  pages;  but  it  is  not  yet  to 
be  set  forth.  It  must  be  duly  emphasized 
with  a  sufficient  blast  upon  the  critical 
trumpet.  We  have  to  look  at  Madame 
d'Arblay's  vanity  from  di£Eereiit  points  of 
view  to  prepare  us  for  believing  in  her 
atrocitv.  It  must  be  shown  that  the  suc- 
cess of  *' Evelina"  was  due  chiefly  or  ex- 
clusively to  the  belief  in  the  youthfulness 
of  the  author ;  and  then,  when  all  is  ripe, 
this  crushing  disclosure  is  brought  forth 
as  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  of  a 
criminal  produces  the  clenching  and  damn- 
ing bit  of  evidence  which  is  to  make  de- 
fence impossible. 

When,  some  years  later,  the  posthu- 
mous   diaries    were    published,    Croker 

UVING   AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2267 


481 

returned  to  the  charge,  and  once  more 
exulted  in  his  discovery.  Certainly  one 
can  understand  Macaulay's  desire  to  re- 
taliate ;  though  his  angry  retort  —  namely, 
that  Croker  was  a  bad  writer,  whose  spite 
Madame  d*Arblay  ^  had  provoked  by  not 
furnishing  him  with  materials  for  a  worth- 
less edition  of  Boswell's  '  Life  of  Johnson,* 
some  sheets  of  which  our  readers  have 
doubtless,  seen  round  parcels  of  better 
books"  —  strikes  one  as  being  slightly 
irrelevant.  Croker's  mighty  discovery 
might  have  been  met  by  quiet  contempt. 
Miss  Burney,  as  her  diary  shows,  did  ki 
fact  get  a  good  deal  of  credit  for  her 
youthfulness.  Mrs.  Thrale,  talking  to 
Johnson,  quoted  the  precedent  of  Pope's 
•'Windsor  Forest,"*  which  is  rather 
oddly  ambiguous;  for.  Pope  published 
this  poem  at  twenty-five,  but  claimed  to 
have  written  the  chief  part  of  it  at  sixteen. 
Mrs.  Thrale  would  probably  have  this 
claim  in  her  mind  when  referring  to  the 
poem  as  a  precedent  of  precocity ;  but  it 
is  also  certain  that  she  knew  her  young 
friend  to  be  over  twenty  in  1779;  and, 
indeed,  could  hardly  be  so  far  wrong  as«to 
suppose  her  to  be  anything  like  seventeen 
at  the  time  of  publication. 

Madame  d'Arblay's  own  account  is  that 
she  burnt  all  her  childish  manuscripts  on 
her  fifteenth  birthday,  and  ^continued  in 
her  head  one  of  the  destroyed  stories 
which  ultimately  became  **  Evelina."  The 
com  position/ jis  thus  extended  over  a  very 
indefinite  period,  the  final  redaction  tak- 
ing place  some  time  before  the  actual 
publication  in  her  twenty- sixth  year. 
That  her  friends  and  she  herself  should 
be  rather  inaccurate  is  natural  enough ; 
and  if  in  her  old  age  she  inclined  to  favor 
the  more  flattering  hypothesis,  nobody 
but  the  bloodthirsty  reviewers  of  her 
period  would  have  cared  to  dwell  upon 
such  a  trifle. 

The  error  would  tend  to  prove,  indeed, 
that  Madame  d'Arblay  had  a  certain  share 
of  vanity.  Nobody  who  reads  her  books 
can  have  very  much  doubt  upon  that  point. 
She  was  most  unmistakably  vain ;  but  her 
vanity  need  hardly  ofiEend  the  most  morose 
of  critics.  It  is  the  vanity  which  goes 
with  good-nature,  and  implies  a  sort  of 
touching  confidence  in  her  readers.  How 
could  she  be  otherwise  than  vain?  No 
young  author  was  ever  exposed  to  a  more 
intoxicating  chorus  of  admiration.  Rich- 
ardson's great  success  was  not  achieved 
till  he  was  past  middle  life ;  Sterne  pub- 

*  It  is  fully  diacusaed  by  her  last  editor ;  who  is  not 
perfectly  fair,  however,  in  considering  the  reference  to 
'■*  Windsor  Forest" 


482 

lished  the  first  volumes  of  ^'Tristsam 
Shandy"  at  the  ripe  age  of  forty-five; 
Scott  was  well  past  thirty  when  he  pub- 
lished "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel," 
and  past  forty  when  he  published  '*  Wa- 
verley."  To  find  any  instance  of  a  sud- 
den youthful  popularity  equal  to  hers  we 
must  go  back  to  Pope,  or  onwards  to  Byron 
or  Dickens.  Now,  with  the  exception  of 
Scott,  none  of  these  famous  authors  have 
escaped  the  charge  of  excessive  vanity; 
and  more  than  one  of  them  showed  un- 
mistakable signs  of  moral  deterioration  of 
a  more  serious  kind. 

If  Fanny  Burney*s  celebrity  was  not 
quite  so  wide  as  in  their  case,  the  want  of 
quantity  was  amply  made  up  by  the  qual- 
ity. She  seems  to  have  been  still  treated 
as  a  girl  up  to.  the  time  of  her  celebrity. 
Her  father,  who  was  strikingly  like  her- 
self—  an  excitable,  vivacious,  sociable, 
impulsive  creature  —  had  been  for  years 
popular  in  London  society.  He  knew  ail 
the  wits,  and  was  petted  in  the  great 
houses.  "  To  enumerate  the  friends  and 
acquaintance  with  whom  he  associated  in 
the  world  at  large,"  says  his  daughter, 
"would  be  nearly  to  ransack  the  Court 
Calendar,  the  list  of  the  Royal  Society,  of 
the  Literary  Club,  of  all  assemblages  of 
eminent  artists ;  and  almost  every  other 
list  that  includes  the  celebrated  or  active 
characters  then  moving,  like  himself,  in 
the  vortex  of  public  existence."  But 
Fanny  had  scarcely  emerged  from  the 
nursery;  she  had  been  left  to  pick  up  her 
education  for  herself;  her  proposal  to 
publish  a  novel  had  been  treated  as  a 
schoolgirl's  joke;  she  had  ventured  only 
to  the  extreme  edge  of  the  "  vortex ; "  she 
had  seen  Garrick  when  he  came  to  play 
with  the  children ;  gone  on  a  visit  with 
her  father  to  the  opera,  or  taken  a  back 
seat  at  the  concerts  which  he  sometimes 
gave  in  his  own  house.  She  had  looked 
on  in  reverent  awe  when  for  the  first  time 
the  gigantic  Johnson  rolled  himself  into 
their  drawing-room,  and  twitched  and 
twirled  and  fell  into  brown  studies,  and 
bestowed  a  huge  smack  upon  her  elder 
sister,  and  scandalized  the  musical  circle 
by  asking  whether  Bach  was  a  piper. 
Suddenly  she  became  the  centre  of  all 
admirers.  Johnson  did  her  homage  after 
his  elephantine  fashion,  compared  her 
advantageously  to  Richardson  and  Field- 
ing, quoted  his  favorite  passages,  and 
actually  mimicked  the  characters;  Rey- 
nolds forgot  his  dinner,  and  had  to  be  fed 
whilst  reading;  Burke  sat  up  over  it  all 
night;  Sheridan  offered  to  take  a  comedy 
from  her  pen  without  even  reading  it  — a 


MADAME   DARBLAY. 


proposal  as  characteristic,  perhaps,  of 
Sheridan's  carelessness  as  of  his  admira- 
tion; ''all  the  Streathamites  "  emulated 
each  other  in  compliment;  and  the  mag- 
nificent Mrs.  Montagu  condescended  to 
bestow  some  notice  upon  this  new  orna- 
ment of  her  sex.  H  she  danced  round 
the  mulberry-tree  in  Mr.  Crisp's  garden 
upon  hearing  such  news,  and  kept  a  diary 
to  record  the  multitudinous  fine  things 
that  were  pouring  in  upon  her  from  all 
the  recognized  literary  authorities  of  the 
day,  it  is  certainly  not  surprising. 

Clearly  a  young  lady  who  could  have 
kept  her  head  under  such  a  welcome  from 
men  to  whom  she  had  hitherto  looked  up 
from  an  indefinite  distance  as  the  intel- 
lectual sovereigns  of  her  world  would 
have  been  more  than  human.  But  this 
does  not  by  any  means  prove  that  her 
head  was  not  turned ;  only  that  the  turn- 
ing implied  no  inordinate  vanity  as  a  pre- 
vious condition.  It  is,  in  fact,  evident 
enough  that  Miss  Fanny  did  begin  to 
think  herself  a  very  wonderful  person 
indeed.  She  collected  all  the  sugarplums 
for  the  benefit  of  her  family,  and  of  good 
Mr.  Crisp,  the  amiable  misanthropist,  who 
was  as  much  a  father  to  her  as  Dr.  Bur- 
ney.  We  can  doubtless  count  upon  our 
innermost  circle  for  honoring  certain 
drafts  upon  their  admiration  which  seem 
rather  extravagant  when  presented  to  the 
outside  world;  and  yet  that  innermost 
circle  has  its  terrors  for  a  modest  person. 
Miss  Austen,  one  fancies,  with  her  keen 
eyes  for  humbugs  of  various  kinds,  would 
have  made  certain  deductions  from  such 
flatteries,  had  she  been  unlucky  enough 
to  receive  them,  and  even  when  passing 
them  on  to  her  sister  or  her  brothers, 
have  allowed  a  sub-sarcastic  smile  to  ap- 
pear upon  her  face.  Some  little  reserva* 
tion,  some  admittance  of  the  possibility 
that  praise  may  be  not  entirely  sincere,  is 
necessary  —  much  as  most  of  us  enjoy 
flattery  —  before  we  can  make  up  our 
minds  to  relish  its  sweetness,  even  when 
we  are  passing  it  on  to- our  second  selves. 
We  wish,  it  may  be,  to  propitiate  the  jeal* 
ous  gods  who  punish  excessive  compla- 
cency, and  to  take  some  precautions  for 
breaking  our  fall  in  case  the  shrine  upon 
which  we  are  elevated  should  not  be  com- 
posed of  thoroughly  sound  materials. 
But  Miss  Burney  shows  no  signs  of  mis- 
giving. She  swallows  the  flattery  whole. 
Page  after  page  of  the  diary  is  full  of 
conversations,  in  which  all  the  brilliant 
wits  and  intellectual  ladies  are  constantly 
circling  round  "  Evelina;  "  resort  to  it  for 
telling  illustrations ;  ridicule  any  luckless' 


MADAME   D  ARBLAY. 


483 


wight  who  does  not  immediately  take  an 
allusion  to  the  Branghtons  or  Madame 
Duval;  unite  to  make  him  ashamed  of 
his  ignorance ;  take  Miss  Burney  aside  to 
pour  out  the  fulness  of  their  hearts ;  or 
carry  on  little  discussions  in  her  presence 
as  to  their  favorite  passages.  In  her  old 
age  Madame  d'Arblay  had  developed  the 
peculiar  style  which  alone  could  do  justice 
to  the  subject.  ••  The  climax  of  her  glory 
was  reached,"  she  says,  **  when  Johnson 
and  Burke  vied  in  praising  *  Cecilia/ eaoh 
animated  by  the  spirit  of  the  other  in  the 
noblest  terms  that  our  language,  in  its 
highest  glory,  is  capable  of  emitting.*' 
.  .  .  '*  Thus,  radiant  with  a  warmth  which 
Sol  in  his  summer's  glory  could  not  deep- 
en," she  says,  "had  gone  on  the  winter  to 
1783,  through  the  glowing  suffrage  of  the 
two  first  luminaries  that  brightened  the 
constellation  of  genius  of  the  reign  of 
George  III.  —  Dr.  Johnson  and  Edmund 
Burke." 

Miss  Burney,  however,  had  not  adopted 
this  strain  of  eloquence  at  the  time.  Her 
diaries  explain  the  process  by  which  her 
style  was  being  spoilt,  but  are  not  them- 
selves the  worse  for  it.  In  the  early 
volumes  we  have  a  vivid  portrait  of  the 
society  in  which  Bos  well  has  made  us  at 
home  as  Boswell  would  himself  have 
given.  We  can  hardly  admit  that  she 
makes  Johnson  himself  better  known  to 
us;  though  Miss  Burney  must  have  been 
a  very  inferior  artist  had  she  not  caught  a 
telling  likeness  of  his  features.  But  the 
little  pictures  of  Streatham  society,  of 
shrewd,  social  Mrs.  Thrale  in  particular, 
worthily  fill  up  gaps  in  Boswell's  descrip- 
tion; and  such  glimpses  as  that  of  the 
society  at  Brighton,  with  the  quaint,  blus- 
tering, gallant  old  Irish  dandy,  Mr.  B — y^ 
are  at  least  as  spirited  as  anything  m 
"Evelina."  Unfortunately,  we  can  trace 
the  approach  of  the  catastrophe  which 
was  to  ruin  the  author.  Nobody  who 
made  so  brilliant  a  start  has  ever  ended 
10  so  lamentable  a  failure. 

"  Evelina,"  whatever  its  shortcomings, 
when  put  beside  the  best  work  in  its  class, 
can  at  least  be  read  with  an  understanding 
of  its  astonishing  success.  It  would  be  a 
mistake  to  say  that  "  Cecilia  "  succeeded 
because  it  was  by  the  author  of  **  Eve- 
lina;" for  it  contains,  especially  in  the 
earlier  part,  a  great  deal  of  writing  which 
is  equal  to  "Evelina"  in  style  and  spirit, 
and  the  story  is  far  more  carefully  worked 
out.  But  it  is  also  true  that  a  great  deal 
of  *'  Cecilia  "  is  now  intolerable ;  the  style 
at  once  slipshod  and  pompous,  and  the 
sentiment   absurd.      Her   later  writings 


were  a  tragedy  which  failed  and  was  never 
printed ;  the  **  Camilla  "  which  some  peo- 
pie  are  believed  to  have  read,  and  report 
as  full  of  extravagant  sentimentalism,  and 
"The  Wanderer,"  of  which  there  is  not 
even  a  tradition  that  anybody  ever  got  be- 
yond the  first  pages.  Many  people  have 
failed  to  follow  up  a  first  success ;  but  so 
complete  a  decline,  so  sheer  and  hopeless 
a  fall  from  the  heights  of  popularity  to 
utter  unreadability  is  scarcely  to  be  par- 
alleled. The  failure  does  not  appear  to 
have  been  due  to  any  want  of  care. 

"The  Wanderer,"  according  to  Ma- 
dame d*Arblay,  was  the  result  of  ten 
years*  labor,  and  "  Camilla  "  seems  to  have 
been  elaborated  as  carefully  as  "  Cecilia." 
We  might,  if  we  pleased,  attribute  it  to' 
the  miserable  years  passed  in  her  splen- 
did house  of  bondage.  Undoubtedly  one 
can  hardly  imagine  a  more  unfavorable 
condition  for  the  development  of  her  pow- 
ers. She  had  quite  sufficient  acuteness 
to  see  the  ludicrous  side  of  her  position. 
She  reads  a  description  of  herself  in  a 
French  newspaper,  where  she  is  said  to 
be  "a  person  whose  most  extraordinary 
literary  talents  had  so  fascinated  sa  Afa- 
jesU  la  Reine  de  la  Grande  Brela^ne  that 
she  had  appointed  her  surintendante  of 
all  her  wardrobe."  "It  really,"  says  Miss 
Burney,  "read  so  Irish  a  compensation 
stated  in  that  manner  that  I  could  scarce 
read  it  with  gravity ; "  and  yet  the  state- 
ment was  substantially  accurate.  Miss 
Burney  was  rewarded  for  "  Evelina  "  and 
"  Cecilia  "  by  the  place  of  lady's  maid  to 
the  queen. 

Her  duties  were  attending  her  mis- 
tress's toilette,  and  her  pleasures  the  so- 
ciety of  an  illiterate  and  preposterous 
old  German  lady,  representing  her* own 
Madame  Duval  so  absurdly  that,  but  for 
the  dates,  one  might  have  supposed  an  in- 
tended portrait,  and  of  half-a-dozen  equer- 
ries and  other  sublime  domestics.  Others 
besides  Croker  have  condemned  poor 
Miss  Burney  for  her  lamentations.  She 
ought,  it  is  said,  to  have  known  perfectly 
well  what  to  expect.  Her  duties  were 
clearly  explained  to  her ;  and  she  was  past 
thirty  when  she  went  into  service  with  her 
eyes  open.  She  grumbled,  it  is  said,  be- 
cause she  did  not  receive  the  admiration 
for  which  she  thirsted.  She  expected  to  be 
surrounded  by  adorers,  and  unluckily  most 
of  the  gentlemen  whom  she  saw  were 
already  married,  and  the  one  equerry  — 
called  "Fairly"  in  the  diary  and  really  a 
certain  Colonel  Digby  —  with  whom  she 
got  up  a  kind  of  flirtation  failed  her  cru- 
elly.    He  was  a  widower,  and  used  to 


484 


MADAME   DARBLAY. 


come  and  pour  his  sorrows  into  her  will- 
ing ears;  and  find  opportunities  to  en- 
large upon  the  consolations  of  religion, 
and  to  read  Akenside's  **  Pleasures  of  the 
Imagination,"  and  other  substitutes  for 
Tennyson  and  Browning  current  in  those 
days.  Unfortunately  he  consoled  himself 
more  effectually,  to  her  evident  vexation, 
by  marrying  another  lady  (called  **Fuzi- 
lier"  in  the  diary),  and  after  that  time 
poor  Miss  Burney  broke  down  completely, 
and  had  no  resource  against  the  scoldings 
and  petty  tyrannies  of  the  Schwellenberg. 
If,  as  certainly  seems  probable,  Miss  Bur- 
ney had  a  little  tenderness  for  Colonel 
Digby,  and  was  bitterly  depressed  by  the 
end  of  her  flirtation,  she  may  perhaps  be 
thought  to  deserve  rather  compassion 
than  condemnation.  Most  readers,  in  fact, 
will  sympathize  unreservedly  with  Macau- 
lay's  indignant  denunciation  of  the  selfish- 
ness of  the  **  sweet  queen  "  who  allowed 
a  woman  of  education  and  genius  to  wear 
herself  out  in  menial  duties,  and  still 
more  in  condemning  the  easy-going  father, 
who  evidently  thought  that  a  daughter  at 
the  palace  might  do  him  some  useful  of- 
fices, and  who,  even  when  he  saw  her 
health  breaking  down  and  her  spirits  de- 
stroyed, could  hardly  be  persuaded  by  the 
indignant  remonstrances  of  Burke  and 
Windham  and  Boswell  and  the  whole  Lit- 
erary Club  to  allow  of  her  resignation. 

It  is,  however,  not  quite  so  easy  to 
judge  of  Miss  Burney  herself.  Are  we  to 
regard  her  worship  of  the  royal  family  as 
a  beautiful  example  of  old-fashioned  loy- 
alty lingering  into  uncongenial  times,  or 
as  marking  the  period  at  which  loyalty 
was  transforming  itself  too  easily  into 
contemptible  flunkeyism?  Perhaps  the 
line  was  never  quite  so  easily  drawn  as 
we  fancy.  The  grand  old  cavalier  who 
gave  his  life  in  the  loftiest  spirit  of  un- 
selfish devotion  might  be  more  easily 
corruptible  than  we  could  wish  in  the 
unwholesome  atmosphere  of  Whitehall. 
Miss  Burney,  we  fancy,  was  not  altogether 
as  clear-headed  in  this  matter  as  she 
might  have  been.  She  could  see  the  foi- 
bles of  her  royal  master  as  clearly  as 
anybody.  The  diary  gives  us  a  portrait 
of  George  1 1,  which  exactly  falls  in  with 
the  wicked  fun  of  Peter  Pindar  or  of  the 
Probationary  Odes  (in  the  "Rolliad"). 
«*Methinks  I  hear,"  says  one  of  those 
bards  — 

Methinks  I  hear, 
In  accents  clear. 
Great  Brunswick's  voice  still  vibrate  on  my  ear : 
"What?  what?  what? 
Scott  1  Scott!  Scott  1 


Hot  I  hot !  hot ! 
What  ?  what  ?  what  ?  " 
O  fancy  quick  !    O  judgment  true ! 
O  sacred  oracle  of  regal  taste  I 
So  hasty  and  so  generous  too  1 
Not  one  of  all  thy  questions  will  an  answer 
wait  I 

So,  on  her  first  interview  with  the  king, 
the  great  man  cross-examined  her  about 
"Evelina:"  — 

"•But  what?  what?  —  how  was  it?* 
•Sir,*  cried  I,  not  well  understanding  him. 
*  How  came  you  —  how  happened  it  — 
what ?  —  what ? *  'I  —  I  only  wrote,  sir, 
for  my  own  amusement  —  only  at  some 
odd  idle  hours.  That  was  only,  sir,  only 
because **  I  hesitated  most  abomi- 
nably, not  knowing  how  to  tell  him  a  long 
story,  confused  at  these  questions;  be- 
sides, to  say  the  truth,  his  own  •What? 
what  ? '  so  reminded  me  of  those  vile  Pro- 
bationary Odes,  that,  in  the  midst  of  all 
my  flutter,  I  was  really  hardly  able  to 
keep  my  countenance.*'  She  was  obvi- 
ously in  a  false  position ;  the  poor  little 
satirist,  brought  lace  to  face  with  her  idol, 
and  unable  to  dull  her  own  perceptions,  is 
throughout  like  a  worshipper  seized  with 
a  sense  of  the  ludicrous  in  church.  She 
had  indeed  to  go  through  some  genuine 
tragedy,  when  the  poor  king  went  out  of 
his  mind;  but  all  through  her  story  we 
see  the  keen-eyed  observer  painfallv 
united  in  a  single  person  with  the  woula- 
be  abject  adorer.  To  be  brought  into  the 
very  innermost  shrine,  and  see  the  object 
of  your  aspiration  a  kindly,  commonplace, 
and  thoroughly  stupid  old  gentleman  —  to 
be  forced  into  the  proverbial  position  of 
valet  to  a  hero,  is  clearly  a  most  uncom- 
fortable state  of  things.  On  the  whole, 
we  must  say  that  in  this  struggle  between 
the  two  selves,  the  abject  worshipper 
rather  gets  the  best  of  it.  Miss  Burney 
contrived  to  make  Madame  Schwellen- 
berg the  scapegoat  for  all  the  satirical  im- 
pulses generated  by  her  position.  The 
king  and  queen  can  never  ao  wrong ;  they 
are  always  excusable  for  overlooking  the 
sufferings  of  their  dependent;  they  can- 
not be  expected  to  manifest  a  considera« 
tion  to  which  they  were  never  educated ; 
if  they  show  a  touch  of  human  feeling,  play 
with  their  little  child,  or  say  a  civil  thing 
to  an  inferior,  it  is  a  proof  of  their  angelic 
condescension;  if  a  young  prince  drinks 
too  much  and  forces  others  to  drink,  it  is 
delightful  affability;  and  if  some  consti- 
tutional question  has  to  be  decided  about 
their  dignity,  the  fate  of  Europe  hangs 
trembling  in  the  balance.  Even  Macau- 
lay  is  rather  indignant  when  Miss  Burney 


MADAME   D  ARBLAY. 


attends  the  impeachment  of  Warren  Has- 
tings, and  presumes  to  be  cold  to  her 
father's  warm  friend,  Burke,  for  taking  the 
wrong  side.  We  have  often  wished,  it 
may  be  said,  in  passing,  that  some  keen 
satirist  would  show  us  the  reverse  side  of 
that  great  scene  in  Westminster  Hall, 
described  in  a  famous  *' purple  patch  "  in 
Macaulay*s  essay  on  Warren  Hastings. 
We  should  like  to  know,  for  example,  how 
raanv  of  the  actors  in  all  that  splendid  as- 
semblage were  better  qualified  to  have 
any  opinion  in  the  matter  than  Miss  Bur- 
ney  herself.  Magnificent  as  the  spectacle 
may  have  been,  was  it  not  in  substance  a 
solemn  dramatic  enthronement  of  utter 
ignorance,  hopeless  prejudice,  or  bigoted 
self-interest  upon  matters  which  were  en- 
tirely beyond  the  sphere  of  knowledge  of 
the  performers  ?  As  for  Miss  Burney,  it 
was  of  course  enough  for  her  that  the 
court  was  supposed  to  be  on  the  other 
side.  She  knew,  as  well  as  anybody 
knows  now,  that  George  III.  was  not  a 
Solomon.  But  her  instincts  of  loyalty  or 
servility  told  her  that  whatever  cause  he 
approved  must  be  the  cause  of  justice  and 
virtue ;  and  how  many  people  have  better 
reasons  for  their  judgments  in  our  en* 
lightened  period?  When  this  or  that 
young  lady  sympathized  with  Napoleon 
ill., or  Garibaldi,  or  Abraham  Lincoln,  or 
Jefferson  Davis,  and  felt  indignant  with 
Mill  or  Carlyle  for  taking  the  opposite 
side,  were  they  more  or  less  foolish  ?  In 
any  case,  would  thev  deserve  any  solemn 
objurgation  for  their  rash  little  outbursts 
of  enthusiasm?  Miss  Burney  no  doubt 
took  up  all  the  prejudices  ot  the  atmo- 
sphere in  which  she  lived;  not  the  less 
keenly  because  she  felt  it  to  be  unwhole- 
some in  some  ways  for  herself,  and  could 
even  see  very  clearly  the  weak  side  of  the 
sacred  personages  whom  it  surrounded. 
In  those  early  days  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution, such  an  indiscriminating  enthusi- 
asm was  too  natural  to  justify  any  severe 
judgment.  We  need  only  say  that  she 
was  an  impetuous  little  loyalist,  and 
loathed  everything  connected,  however 
remotely,  with  Robespierre  and  Tom 
Paine.  Probably  her  descendants  are  not 
much  profounder. 

And  yet,  it  must  be  added  that  we  can- 
not altogether  admire  her  sentiments. 
She  crouches  rather  too  exuberantly  be- 
fore her  royal  mistress.  Her  father  gets 
most  of  the  blame  for  not  removing  her 
from  her  bondage.  Perhaps  he  deserves 
it.  But,  to  say  the  truth,  they  seem  to 
have  been  uncommonly  alike  in  tempera- 
ment.   They  had  an  amazing  supply  of 


4SS 

fine  sentiment   always  on  hand,  which 
somehow  does  not  impress  upon  one  a 
conviction  of  its  reality.    They  meet  with 
ecstasy  and  correspond  with  effusion  ;  but 
they  seem  to  part  with  perfect  ease  and 
go  their  own  separate  ways.    The  father 
lets  his  daughter  pick  up  an  education 
anyhow;  cares  nothing  about  her  book 
till  it  succeeds ;  leaves  her  in  the  palace 
till  everybody  but  himself  sees  that  she  is 
seriously  weakened ;  disapproves  of  her 
marriage  to  a  ruined   French  emigrant, 
and  is  reconciled  just  as  easily  when  he 
can't  help  it;  ancl  never  interferes  with 
her  conduct  except  to  prevent  her  produc- 
ing a  play,  when  he  anticipates  a  ludicrous 
failure.    They  keep  up  all  the  language  of 
the  most  affectionate  father  and  daughter; 
but,  what  with  his  musical  parties  and  his 
social  engagements,  and   the  claims  of 
other  members  of  his  family,  they  seem 
to  have  lived  perfectly  independent  lives. 
She  stays  with  her  second  "daddy,"  Mr. 
Crisp,  or  with  Mrs.  Thrale,  or  Mrs.  De- 
lany,  or  whoever  it  might  be,  and  remem- 
bers at  intervals  that  she  is  the  most 
affectionate  of  daughters,  and  writes  a 
letter  in  character.    He  remembers  her 
when  it  strikes  him  that  her  talents  or 
reputation  may  be  useful   to   him,  and 
poses  with  perfect  complacency  as  the 
affectionate  parent,  though  the  most  self- 
ish could  not  have  behaved  worse.    The 
conversation  in  which,  after  seeing  next 
to  nothing  of  him  for  four  years,  she  has 
a  long  talk  with  her  "dearest  father  "  is  a 
charming  specimen  of  their  relations.   He 
is  full  of  gaiety,  but  complains  that  some 
distinguished    foreigners    have   attacked 
him  for  not  introducing  them  to  his  daugh- 
ter.    His  excuses  brought  out,  to  their 
astonishment,  the  fact  that  she  had  no 
holidays.     He  apparently  then  began  to 
think  himself  that  in  fact  it  was  rather 
odd.    Poor  Miss  Burney  hereupon  breaks 
out  as  to  all  her  miseries ;  and  he  nobly 
says,  after  a  stru^^le,  that  if  she  is  forced 
to  resign,   he  will  —  receive  her  in -his 
house.    "The  emotion  of  my  whole  heart 
at  this  speech  —  this  sweet,  this  generous 
speech  —  oh,  my  dear  friends,  I  need  not 
say  it.**    It  was,  she  declares,  her  "guar- 
dian angel,  it  was  providence  in  its  own 
benignity,  that  inspired  him  with  such 
goodness  I " 

The  noble  being  having  actually  con- 
sented to  receive  his  own  daughter,  if  her 
health  made  it  absolutely  necessary,  she 
succeeded  in  little  more  than  a  year  in 
bringing  him  up  to  the  mark  of  definitely 
approving  her  resignation ;  and,  on  re- 
gaining her  freedom,  seems  to  have  taken 


486 


MADAME   D'ARBLAY. 


up  her  abode  with  her  married  sisters  and 
other  friends.  If  we  are  left  to  wonder 
whether  Miss  Burney's  loyalty  was  such 
as  entirely  to  blind  her,  we  are  constrained 
to  ask  whether  her  filial  affection  was 
equally  powerful.  Dr.  Burney  in  her 
memoirs,  is  never  mentioned  without  su- 

Eerlatives  of  the  most  glowing  panegyric; 
ut  somehow  the  impression  is  conveyed 
that  he  was  a  proficient  in  that  valuable 
art  of  life  which  enables  a  man  to  ^et  all 
possible  comforts  out  of  his  domestic  re- 
lations, and  to  take  the  responsibilities 
with  marvellous  light-heartedness.  No- 
body could  be  a  pleasanter  companion; 
and  the  flow  of  affectionate  sentiment 
broke  out  again  at  any  moment,  just  as 
freely  after  interruptions  borne  without  a 
sign  of  discontent.  The  daughter  appears 
to  have  been  perfectly  satisfied,  and  to 
have  gone  her  own  way  with  equal  com- 
placency. 

In  short,  we  can  partly  understand  the 
view  which  some  of  her  contemporaries 
seem  to  have  taken,  that  she  was  an  ac- 
complished little  flatterer,  who  could  make 
herself  charming  by  an  exuberant  display 
of  enthusiasm,  not  very  serious  or  very 
deeply  rooted.  To  make  such  a  judgment 
at  all  fair,  we  should  doubtless  have  to 
add  that  she  was  a  good  wife  and  mother, 
and  of  a  really  kindly  though  sufficiently 
vain  nature,  who  was  quite  as  much  the 
dupe  of  her  own  fine  sentiments  as  any- 
body else,  and  probably  the  last  to  see 
through  them.  If  this  should  seem  a  little 
harsh^  we  must  notice  that  it  is  the  only 
explanation  of  her  literary  deterioration. 
Macaulay,  who  dwells  rather  solemnly 
upon  the  defects  of  her  later  style,  seems 
to  ascribe  her  weakness  to  an  imitation  of 
Johnson.  He  thinks  that  Johnson  act- 
ually assisted  her  in  "Cecilia;''  though 
he  must  surely  have  overlooked  the  pas- 
sage in  the  diary  (November  ii,  1782)  in 
which  Johnson  expressly  denies  that  he 
had  seen  one  word  of  the  book  before  it 
wasprinted.  The  resemblance  is  easily 
explicable  by  an  imitation  of  the  standard 
authority  of  the  time.  Her  latest  editor 
accounts  for  her  degeneracy  by  saying 
that  her  English  was  not  based  upon 
Latin.  To  us  it  seems  quite  as  likely  that 
Latin  studies  would  have  corrupted  her 
early  style  as  that  they  would  have  pre- 
served its  purity.  In  any  case,  the  bad 
style  is  surely  a  symptom  of  something 
more  serious  than  this.  The  memoirs  of 
Dr.  Burney  are  written  in  a  marvellous 
mixture  of  stilted  and  pure  English  — the 
latter  being  chiefly  the  reproduction  of 
early  letters  and  diaries  —  which  Macau- 


lay  gravely  denounces,  but  which  we  are 
rather  inclined  to  call  delicious.  One 
phrase  may  be  given  as  a  sufficient  illus- 
tration: *' If  beneficence  be  judged  by 
the  happiness  which  it  diffuses,  whose 
claim,  by  that  proof,  shall  stand  higher 
than  that  of  Mrs.  Montagu,  from  the  mu- 
nificence with  which  she  celebrated  her 
annual  festival  for  those  hapless  artificers 
who  perform  the  most  abject  offices  of 
any  authorized  calling,  in  being  the  active 
guardians  of  our  blazing  hearths  ?  "  This 
is  translated  in  a  footnote :  "  Every  May- 
day Mrs.  Montagu  gave  an  annual  break- 
fast, in  front  of  her  new  mansion,  of  roast 
beef  and  plum  pudding  to  all  the  chimney- 
sweepers of  the  metropolis.'*  We  may 
surely  read  the  verbiage  of  the  text  in  the 
spirit  in  which  we  study  that  remarkable 
work  "  English  as  She  is  Spoke,"  and  put 
off  for  the  moment  our  judicial  robes. 
Three  volumes  of  such  magniloquence 
are,  it  is  true,  a  rather  large  allowance; 
but,  as  they  are  mixed  with  a  good  deal 
of  lively  writing  of  the  old  kind,  they  are 
really  —  in  a  slightly  equivocal  sense  — 
worth  the  reading. 

It  is  certainly  rather  melancholy  that 
the  author  of  ** Evelina'*  should  be  said 
to  be  the  author  of  such  twaddle  as  fills 
many  pages  of  the  memoirs.  But  we  can 
now  see  clearly  enough  the  ominous  signs 
which  might  have  revealed  themselves  to 
a  judicious  adviser.  The  charm  of  '*  Eve- 
lina "  is,  in  one  sense,  what  Croker  took  it 
to  be.  Readers,  indeed,  were  not  delighted 
with  an  otherwise  inferior  book  because 
they  supposed  it  to  be  written  by  a  girl 
of  seventeen.  Such  a  belief  counts  for 
very  little  in  the  success  of  any  perform- 
ance ;  a  novel,  otherwise  dull,  would  not 
be  long  read  even  if  we  knew  it  to  have 
been  written  by  a  child  of  seven;  and, 
moreover,  the  book  had  achieved  success 
before  the  authorship  had  ceased  to  be  a 
secret.  It  was  the  youthful ness  of  the 
book,  not  the  youthfulness  of  the  author, 
which  constituted  the  charm.  It  pro- 
fessed to  give  the  i  mpressions  of  a  **  young 
female,  educated  in  the  roost  secluded  re- 
tirement," who  '*  makes,  at  the  age  of 
seventeen,  her  first  appearance  upon  the 
great  and  busy  stage  of  life."  The  fresh- 
ness, the  naiveU^nd  sincerity  of  the  im- 
pressions is  preserved,  though  the  author 
was  just  old  enough  to  give  them  literary 
form,  and  to  be  capable  of  interpreting 
the  feelings  from  the  vantage-ground  of 
the  next  stage  in  life.  She  was,  like  some 
greater  artists,  summing  up  an  experience 
still  vivid  in  recollection,  though  not  ac- 
tually present.    In  doing  this,  she  bad 


MADAME   DARBLAY. 


nnconsciously  made  a  great  literary  dis- 
covery. It  had  been  known  from  an  early 
period  that  young  ladies  could  be  very 
charming;  and  that  fact  had  been  very 
generally  turned  to  account  by  poets,  nov- 
elists, and  others.  But  the  charming 
young  lady  who  appears  in  the  novels  of 
the  preceding  g^eneration  is  obviously  de- 
scribed from  without.  Amelia  and  Sophia 
Western,  and  even  Clarissa  Harlowe, 
though  she  is  supposed  to  be  speaking 
for  herself,  are  felt  to  be  the  creations  of 
the  masculine  imagination,  if  such  a  word 
can  be  applied  to  Richardson ;  and  are  at 
least  placed  in  a  world  seen  from  a  mas- 
culine point  of  view. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  any  one  capable 
of  giving  effect  to  the  thought  that  the 
world  seen  through  a  young  woman*s  eyes 
and  described  with  thorough  frankness 
and  spontaneity  could  be  worth  a  tempo- 
rary visit.  The  feminine  writers  of  plays 
and  novels  —  of  whom,  of  course,  there 
had  been  plenty  —  had  tried  to  imitate 
the  procedure  of  their  male  relations. 
Sarah  Fielding  had  endeavored  to  tread 
in  the  steps  of  her  big  brother;  and  an 
earlier  race  had  been  disciples  in  the 
school  of  Wycherley  and  Congreve,  and 
had  begun  by  throwing  aside  some  quali- 
ties which  we  generally  associate  with 
feminine  excellence.  But  in  **  Evelina  " 
we  have  for  the  first  time  the  genuine 
young  woman  coming  forwards  and  claim- 
ing a  hearing  on  her  own  merits.  She  is 
not  going  to  affect  a  kind  of  knowledge 
which  she  cannot  possess  except  at  sec- 
ond hand,  or  at  the  price  of  losing  her 
distinctive  e/cellence.  She  admits  her- 
self to  be  perfectly  simple-minded,  no 
scholar  or  philosopher,  deficient  of  all  that 
knowledge  of  human  nature  which  Tom 
Jones  and  his  like  had  acquired  in  rough 
contact  with  the  uglier  facts  of  life,  and 
yet  she  presumes  to  think  that  her  little 
impressions  may  have  an  interest  of  their 
own.  Many  later  writers  have  appropri- 
ated this  discovery;  we  have  been  told 
with  such  fulness  and  minuteness  what 
are  the  views  of  young  ladies  about  things 
in  general,  from  the  earliest  period  at 
which  they  issue  from  their  nurseries, 
that  we  scarcely  do  justice  to  Miss  Bur- 
ney  as  the  first  to  make  what  was  then  a 
daring  experiment.  Ladies  who  wished 
to  put  forwards  the  claims  of  their  sex  to 
some  equality  of  intellect,  when  they  did 
not  belong  to  the  genus  adventuress,  took 
ponderous  airs  of  learning.  They  trans- 
lated Epictetus,  or  wrote  essays  upon 
Shakespeare  after  the  manner  of  the  great 
lexicographer ;  and  obtained  that  kind  of 


487 

admiration  which  Johnson  described  too 
accurately  by  the  parallel  of  the  "  dancing 
dogs  ''  —  a  wonder,  not  that  they  could  do 
it  well,  but  that  they  could  do  it  at  all. 
Under  the  conditions  of  the  time  even 
such  wonder  was  perhaps  legitimate  and 
worth  accepting.  But  Miss  Burney  had 
gallantly  come  forwards  to  show  that  there 
was  one  thing,  at  least,  which  women 
could  not  only  do,  but  do  incomparably 
better  than  men  —  namely,  express  their 
own  sentiments  and  draw  their  own  por- 
traits. 

It  seems,  indeed,  that  Miss  Burney, 
much  as  she  had  been  kept  in  the  back- 
ground, must  have  seen  a  good  deal  more 
of  the  world  than  most  young  women  of 
her  position.  Her  father's  profession  was 
socially  ambiguous;  as  a  music-master  he 
belonged  to  a  class  not  very  highly  es- 
teemed by  our  ancestors,  and  scarcely 
regarded  as  respectable  by  the  solid,  pros- 
perous tradesmen  against  whom  she  levels 
a  good  deal  of  satire  in  "  Evelina;  "  as  a 
music-master  of  an  unusual  Jcind,  he  was 
at  the  same  time  welcomed  and  petted  by 
all  the  connoisseurs  and  patrons  of  the 
fine  arts.  *'  Evelina"  is  devised  so  as  to 
make  the  young  lady  alternate  between 
the  grand  society  of  Lord  Orville  and  the 
coarse  tradesmen  who  kept  shops  and 
took  in  lodgers.  We  may  doubtless  trace 
some  reflections  of  Miss  Burney's  per- 
sonal experiences  in  this  matter.  In  her 
memoirs  she  dwells  chiefly  upon  the  no- 
ble patrons  who  admitted  her  father  to 
their  houses;  but  she  had  had  more  than 
glimpses  of  their  social  inferiors;  and 
her  father's  best  anecdote  about  her  de- 
scribes her  as  playing  with  the  daughters 
of  his  next-door  neighbor,  a  wig-maker, 
and  spoiling  one  of  his  wigs  by  immer- 
sion in  a  water-tub.  Clearly  she  had  orig- 
inals for  those  portraits  of  the  Branghton 
circle,  which  so  much  delighted  the  crit- 
ics of  Streatham;  and,  without  putting 
her  down  as  a  full-blown  snob,  we  must 
say  that  she  had  a  very  strong  conviction 
that  the  loftier  natures  were  generally  to 
be  found  in  aristocratic  circles.  The 
tradesmen  and  their  friends  who  figure  in 
her  pages  are  treated  with  merciless  ridi- 
cule, and  she  plainly  prefers  even  the 
immoral  fine  gentleman  who  has  a  due 
knowledge  of  the  ways  of  good  society. 

With  that,  however,  we  need  not  trouble 
ourselves.  Her  critics  were  agreed  — 
and  it  is  idle  to  argue  so  superfluous  a 
point  —  that  she  does  not  describe  indi- 
viduals after  the  fashion  of  the  immortal 
Shakespeare  and  others,  but  abstract 
types,  mere   general  likenesses  of  the 


488 

mean  tradesman,  the  perfect  gentleman, 
the  proud  aristocrat,  the  reckless  prodi- 
gal, and  so  forth.  Each  character  is  an 
embodiment  of  some  "humor"  —  in  the 
Ben  Jonson  sense  —  and  never  comes 
upon  the  stage  except  to  illustrate  his 
peculiar  weakness  in  every  speech  he 
utters.  We  are,  in  fact,  properly  speak- 
ing, in  the  reign  of  light  comedy;  we 
must  not  ask  for  profound  insight  or  for 
delicate  observation ;  a  brilliant,  boldly 
sketched  portrait  of  some  tolerably  obvi- 
ous type  is  all  that  we  can  fairly  de.mand ; 
and  such  portraits  are  abundant  and  lively 
enough  to  explain  the  general  impression 
of  her  friends,  sanctioned  by  Sheridan 
and  Murphy,  that  her  natural  talents 
would  come  out  in  writing  for  the  stage. 
Perhaps  the  point  which  strikes  us  most 
in  this  series  of  social  sketches  is  rather 
different  from  what  the  ordinary  criticisms 
seem  to  imply.  Thackeray,  in  one  of  the 
••Roundabout  Papers"  (the  "Peal  of 
Bells  "X  quotes  a  passage  from  "  Evelina," 
in  which  Lord  Orville  makes  an  offer  to 
the  heroine,  and  contrasts  this  "old  per- 
fumed, powdered  D'Arblay  conversation  " 
with  a  bit  of  modern  slang.  Undoubt- 
edly, when  Miss  Burney  wanted  to  de- 
scribe a  Grandison  of  her  own,  she  put 
into  his  mouth  the  courtly  compliment 
which  might  still  go  with  laced  coats  and 
diamond  buckles.  But  it  is  curious  to 
observe  what  one  must  almost  call  the 
blackguardly  behavior  of  the  fine  gentle- 
men as  a  class.  Evelina  goes  about  with 
the  vulgar  relations  with  whom  she  is 
doomed  to  associate  to  the  various  amuse- 
ments of  the  day.  They  visit  the  opera 
as  a  strange  region  set  apart  for  a  loftier 
order  of  beings;  and  are  grossly  inatten- 
tive to  music  which  Dr.  Burney's  daugh- 
ter could  of  course  appreciate.  But  they 
seem  to  be  quite  at  home  when  visiting 
Vauxhall  and  Ranelagh  and"  Marylebone 
Gardens,"  and  "  the  long  room  at'  Hamp- 
stead,"  where  the  middle  classes  appear 
to  have  enjoyed  themselves  very  heartily 
with  dances  and  fireworks  and  other  en- 
tertainments. In  such  places  she  meets 
with  the  fine  young  gentlemen  who  suc- 
ceeded to  the  Lovelaces  of  a  previous 
period,  and  preceded  the  bucks  and  dan- 
dies of  the  Tom  and  Jerry  period.  Eve- 
lina is  always  getting  separated  from  her 
party,  falling  into  the  most  questionable 
company,  receiving  the  rudest  attentions 
from  these  young  men  of  fashion,  and 
being  rescued  by  the  chivalrous  Lord  Or- 
ville, who,  however,  seems  to  be  more 
shocked  than  surprised.  At  her  first  ball. 
Sir  Clement  Willoughby,  who  is  supposed 


MADAME  D  ARBLAY. 


to  be  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  fashion, 
persecutes  her  to  dance  —  never  having 
been  introduced  to  her  —  with  a  continu- 
ous impertinence  almost  inconceivable  in 
what  is  meant  for  decent  society,  yet  most 
insufficiently  resented.  She  welcomes 
him  afterwards  as  a  pleasant  contrast  to 
the  coarse  manners  of  her  friends;  he 
takes  part  in  a  brutal  practical  joke  upon 
her  grandmother  in  order  to  ingratiate 
himself  with  one  of  her  guardians ;  he 
tries  to  persuade  her  to  elope  with  him 
out  of  hand  in  his  carriage  on  the  return 
from  Vauxhall;  forges  an  insulting  letter 
to  her  from  Lord  Orville;  and,  though  he 
is  meant  to  be  wicked,  he  does  not  ap- 
parently cease  to  be  regarded  as  a  finished 
gentleman.  Two  of  his  friends  show  their 
good  taste  by  getting  up  a  race  between 
two  decrepit  old  women  of  eighty;  all  the 
ladies  attend  to  see  the  event  decided; 
and  Lord  Orville  shows  unparalleled 
humanity  by  picking  up  one  of  the  poor 
old  creatures  who  has  fallen,  in  spite  of 
the  protests  from  the  backer  of  her  com- 
petitor. It  must  be  said  that,  if  this  be  a 
fair  picture  of  the  men  of  fashion  of  the 
day,  the  impressions  of  a  girl  of  seven- 
teen, brought  up  in  the  strictest  seclu- 
sion, upon  her  first  entrance  into  the 
world  must  occasionally  have  been  start- 
ling. 

Readers  of  Horace  Walpole  or  Geor<;e 
Selwyn  will  certainly  not  be  inclined  to 
doubt  that  courtliness  of  manner,  such  as 
Chesterfield  would  have  approved,  might 
be  a  mere  varnish  over  coarseness  and 
profligacy.  In  her  portraits,  of  this  kind, 
however,  we  suspect  that  Miss  Burney 
was  eking  out  the  limited  experience  of  a 
young  lady  by  second-hand  characters. 
Grandison  and  Lovelace  were  the  models 
from  whom  she  was  drawing  rather  than 
any  of  the  gentlemen  who  visited  Dr.  Bar- 
ney's musical  parties.  The  discovery 
which  she  had  made  was  not  fully  realized 
even  by  herself.  It  is  pleasant  to  enter  a 
young  lady's  world,  but  we  must  add  the 
condition  that  it  should  be  the  world 
which  a  young  lady  can  really  understand. 
"Evelina "implies  at  most  a  partial  rec- 
ognition of  this  condition.  Miss  Austen's 
instinctive  tact  made  her  confine  herself 
strictly  to  the  little  incidents  of  domestic 
history,  which  the  voung  lady  not  only 
understands,  but  understands  better  than 
any  one.  The  men  who  enter  her  stories 
show  only  those  aspects  which  are  visible 
to  their  sisters.  We  never  see  them  ex- 
cept at  a  tea-table,  or  taking  a  lady  for  a 
drive  in  their  curricles.  Miss  Burney  is 
not  quite  so  discreet.    She  doe^  not,  in- 


MADAME  D  ARBLAY. 


deed«  venture  to  accompany  ber  mascu- 
line characters  into  regions  beyond  the 
female  view ;  but  she  talces  her  heroines 
into  scenes  where  the  fine  gentleman  dis- 
ports himself  with  considerable  freedom; 
and  we  feel  that  the  heroine  is  giving  her 
impressions  of  men  and  things  not  really 
intelligible  to  her,  and  is  forced  to  supple- 
ment them  by  drawing  upon  the  common 
stock  of  previous  novelists. 

Her  men  are  apt  to  be  even  more  con- 
ventional than  the  ordinary  male  cousins 
of  a  feminine  imagination.  This,  indeed, 
does  not  seriously  injure  the  general 
effect  of  "Evelina."  The  portraits  of 
the  vulgar  Branghtons  and  their  circle 
seem  to  have  been  generally  regarded  as 
the  most  successful  parts  of  the  book; 
and  these  we  can  admire  without  stint. 
Taking  them  as  they  are  meant,  for  bright, 
telling  social  caricatures,  and  not  asking 
for  the  delicacy  or  insight  of  a  higher  art, 
we  must  admit  that  they  are  dashed  off 
with  admirable  vivacitv,  and  that  we  see 
for  the  first  time  the  keen  little  feminine 
satirist  with  a  charming  quickness  of  per- 
ception for  the  foibles  of  her  "social  en- 
vironment." This  is  the  really  new  ele- 
ment in  our  literature:  the  discovery  of 
a  vein  of  ridicule  not  worked  by  any  of 
her  predecessors.  The  rapid  glancing 
intuitions  of  the  feminine  observer  are 
now  being  for  the  first  time  turned  to 
account  to  give  a  brilliant  picture  of  one 
aspect  of  human  nature.  Before  her 
time,  talent  of  a  similar  kind  must  have 
been  wasted  in  the  kind  of  feminine  gos- 
sip which  was  treated  with  supercilious 
good-nature  by  writers  in  "The  Specta- 
tor." Miss  Burney  discovered  that  it  had 
a  value  of  its  own,  and  could  be  embodied 
in  literary  form. 

Unluckily  she  mistook  her  own  gifts. 
Admiration  of  her  novel  took  its  usual 
form.  People  talked  about  her  insight 
into  the  human  heart,  her  extraordinary 
capacity  for  penetrating  or  representing 
character,  and  so  forth.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  Miss  Burney  took  herself  too  seri- 
ously, and  mistook  her  admirable  facility 
for  rapid  sketching  for  a  power  of  grand 
historical  painting.  When  a  judicious 
admirer  of  Miss  Austen's  suggested  to 
her  that  she  should  write  a  romance  illus- 
trative of  the  history  of  the  house  of 
Brunswick,  Miss  Austen  received  the 
suggestion  in  a  manner  worthy  of  her 
good  sense.  One  cannot  help  fancying 
that  Miss  Burney  would  have  caught  at 
the  proposal ;  unless,  indeed,  she  had  felt 
herself  to  be  rather  too  familiar  with  some 
members   of   that   ooble   family.      The 


489 

weakest  part  of  "Evelina"  is  a  bit  of 
melodrama  with  a  romantic  Scotchman, 
saved  from  suicide  by  the  expostulations 
of  the  heroine,  who  turns  out  to  be  some- 
body else,  whilst  she  herself  has  been 
more  or  less  changed  at  nurse.  It  does 
not  appear  that  anybody  had  the  kindness 
to  tell  her  that  this  part  of  the  story,  for- 
tunately not  one  which  occupies  much 
space,  was  rubbish,  or  that  the  elderly 
benevolent  parson  who  does  the  heavy 
moralizing  was  an  old  bore.  She  proba- 
bly fancied,  like  most  young  authors,  that 
she  was  at  her  best  when  most  preten- 
tiously solemn  and  didactic.  In  her  next 
story,  "  Cecilia,"  she  according  takes  the 
airs  of  a  solemn  moralist,  which  do  not  sit 
upon  her  quite  so  easily  as  might  be 
wished.  She  desires  to  be  not  merely  the 
lively  describer,  but  the  judicious  mentor 
of  society,  worthy  to  be  ranked  with  those 
distinguished  females,  Mrs.  Montagu, 
Mrs.  Carter,  and  Mrs.  Chapone,  and, 
drawing  her  sentiments  and,  to  some  de- 
gree, her  style  of  writing  from  that  reper- 
.  tory  of  eighteenth-century  wisdom,  "  The 
Rambler,"  which,  indeecf,  deserves  more 
respect  than  it  always  received  for  its  own 
merits,  but  which,  as  diluted  through  the 
brain  of  a  clever  young  lady,  anxious  to 
be  a  good  deal  wiser  and  more  solemn 
than  nature  permits,  becomes  decidedly 
tedious  when  it  escapes  being  uninten- 
tionally comic.  "  Cecilia,"  indeed,  is  by 
no  means  entirely  ruined  by  the  infusion 
of  the  superlatively  sententious.  Miss 
Burney  had  learnt  a  good  deal  in  the 
Streatham  society  during  the  period  of 
composition ;  and,  so  long  as  she  is  dis- 
charging her  natural  function,  her  percep- 
tion shows  no  signs  of  falling  off. 

The  story,  though  of  the  elaborate  and 
conventional  kind  intended  to  give  effect 
to  a  particular  moral  application,  has  at 
least  been  thought  out,  and  is  developed 
with  a  good  deal  of  spirit,  though  with  a 
rather  superfluous  effusion  of  fine  senti- 
ment. Though  "  Evelina  "  appears  to  us 
to  be  greatly  superior,  in  proportion  as  it 
is  more  spontaneous,  we  can  believe  that 
the  readers  of  "  Cecilia  "  might  still  enjoy 
the  old  qualities  and  take  the  ominous  in- 
crease of  pomposity  as  implying  merely 
the  riper  reflectiveness  of  later  life.  The 
worst  symptom  is,  however,  that  Miss 
Burney  evidently  relishes  her  most  stilted 
performances  best,  and  brings  in  the  more 
comic  scenes,  in  which  she  condescends 
to  be  amusing,  with  an  air  of  apology. 
The  critical  part  of  the  story,  which  is 
reached  in  the  fourth  volume,  is  suffi- 
ciently characteristic    Cecilia  loves  Mor- 


490 


MADAME   DARBLAY. 


timer  Delville,  and  Mortimer  Delville 
loves  Cecilia  Beverley.  He  is  the  son  of 
a  proud  Delville,  or  rather  of  a  Delville 
who  is  nothing  but  pride,  and  whose  for- 
tunes are  ruined.  Cecilia  has  3,000/.  a 
year  and  all  the  virtues.  Why  should  they 
not  marry?  Because  Mortimer  would 
have  either  to  take  the  name  of  Beverley 
or  to  abandon  Miss  Beverley's  fortune. 
The  young  pair,  to  do  them  justice,  are 
willing  that  he  should  call  himself  Bever- 
ley instead  of  Mortimer;  but  the  stern 
parents,  Mr.  Delville  and  his  obedient 
wife,  decline  to  permit  such  a  sacrifice. 
Mrs.  Delville,  the  mother,  calls  upon 
Cecilia  to  explain  the  wickedness  of  grati- 
fying her  love  at  the  expense  of  Delville's 
family.  She  takes  the  highest  possible 
moral  tone.  "  To  your  family,  I  assure 
you,  whatever  may  be  the  pride  of  your 
owtityou  being  its  offspring,  we  would  not 
object.  With  your  merit  we  are  all  well 
acquainted,  your  character  has  our  high- 
est esteem,  and  your  fortune  exceeds  our 
most  sanguine  desires.  Strange  at  once 
and  afflicting !  Now  not  all  these  requi- 
sites for  the  satisfaction  of  prudence,  not 
all  these  allurements  for  the  gratification 
of  happiness,  can  suffice  to  fulfil  or  to 
silence  the  claims  of  either!  There  are 
other  demands  to  which  we  must  attend, 
demands  which  ancestry  and  blood  call 
upon  us  aloud  to  ratify  !  Such  claimants 
are  not  to  be  neglected  with  impunity; 
they  assert  their  rights  with  the  authority 
of  prescription  ;  they  forbid  us  alike  either 
to  bend  to  inclination  or  stoop  to  interest, 
and  from  generation  to  generation  their 
injuries  will  call  out  for  redress,  should 
their  noble  and  long  unsullied  name  be 
consigned  to  oblivion." 

The  admirable  Cecilia  does  not  intimate 
to  Mrs.  Delville,  in  the  politest  way  pos- 
sible, that  she  is  an  old  fool,  but  admits 
the  claim  expounded  in  this  and  a  good 
deal  more  of  similar  eloquence,  and  de- 
termines to  give  up  the  son.  The  young 
gentleman  is  not  quite  so  reasonable  in 
his  remonstrances,  causes  his  mother  to 
break  a  blood-vessel,  and  leads  to  various 
agonies  protracted  through  a  volume  and 
a  half  before  the  great  problem  is  happily 
resolved.  **  The  whole  of  this  unfortunate 
business,*'  as  a  sage  physician  sums  up 
the  moral  of  the  work,  "  has  been  the  re 
suit  of  Pride  and  Prejudice  ; "  though, 
as  he  adds,  **  so  wonderfully  is  good  and 
evil  balanced  that  to  Pride  and  Preju- 
dice you  will  also  owe  the  termination  " 
of  your  miseries.  How  that  happens  may 
be  discovered  from  the  book. 


It  is  superfluous  to  observe  that  it  is 
not  by  such  twaddle  as  we  have  quoted 
that  "  Pride  and  Prejudice  "  has  become 
a  familiar  phrase  to  us,  and  that  it  is  not 
through  Miss  Burney's  achievements  in 
the  direction  of  the  old  fashioned  romance 
that  she  has  any  claim  to  be  a  founder  of 
a  modern  novel.  In  fact,  when  we  read 
these  stilted  declamations,  uttered  appar- 
ently in  a  bona  fide  conviction  that  she  is 
presenting  a  grand  moral  problem,  and 
observe  further  that  her  friends  admired 
her  wonderful  skill  in  making  Mrs.  Del- 
ville lovable  in  spite  of  her  pride,  we  can 
understand  how  Miss  Burney  fell  a  victim 
to  the  fascinations  of  the  royal  palace. 
She  could  ridicule  vulgarity  with  admira- 
ble quickness ;  but  when  she  becomes 
solemn  and  didactic,  she  does  not  see  the 
difference  between  humbugs  and  realities. 
She  gets  altogether  out  of  her  depth,  and 
uives  us  the  emptiest  of  lay  figures,  ges- 
ticulating and  perorating,  instead  of  any 
real  representation  of  human  passion. 
There  is  an  old  semi-lunatic  in  "Cecilia," 
who  goes  about  declaiming  on  the  virtues 
of  the  poor  and  the  selfishness  of  the  rich, 
who  is  evidently  intended  to  be  a  striking 
study  of  halfwitted  benevolence.  Really 
he  strikes  one  chiefly  as  an  embodiment 
of  that  vein  of  insincere  declamation  into 
which  Miss  Burney  afterwards  diverged, 
and  which  takes  such  comic  proportions 
in  the  memoir  of  her  father.  First  discov- 
erers aretipt  to  misunderstand  the  nature 
of  their  own  discovery;  and  the  worst 
that  can  be  said  of  Miss  Burney  is  that 
after  hitting  upon  a  really  new  and  excel- 
lent literary  novelty,  she  knew  so  little 
what  she  had  done  that  she  sank  into 
Madame  d'Arblay.  A  tract  which  she 
published  in  behalf  of  the  emigrant 
French  priests  is  an  amusing  example  of 
the  same  tendency.  She  evidently  thought 
that,  as  she  had  adopted  Johnsonese  in 
"  Cecilia,"  she  might  try  to  rival  Burke  in 
declamations  upon  revolutionary  wicked* 
ness. 

To  overlook  this  weakness  would  be 
impossible ;  and,  indeed,  it  gives  the  only 
explanation  of  the  complete  failure  to 
sustain  her  early  reputation.  Her  dis- 
covery, however,  though  she  was  herself 
unconscious  of  its  true  nature,  was  to 
bear  fruit  in  later  hands.  She  generally 
receives  credit  as  the  first  writer  who 
made  the  novel  decent.  Macaulay  com- 
pares the  reform  which  she  broug^it  about 
with  the  reform  of  the  stage  at  the  time 
of  Collier.  Without  examining  the  prec- 
edent, we  must  say  that  there  is  some 


MR.   EDWIN   COLE, 


491 


truth  in  this,  if  decency  is  to  be  identified 
uoreservediy  with  morality.  Some  books, 
however,  were  really  moral  in  a  high  de- 
gree which  offend  modern  notions  of  de- 
corum, and  some  books  are  very  distinctly 
the  reverse  which  pay  the  most  scrupu- 
lous respect  to  our  modern  regulations. 
Miss  Burney's  novels  are  no  doubt  inof- 
fensive in  this  respect,  and  may  possibly 
be  regarded  as  edifying;  but  the  true  in- 
ference, as  it  appears  to  us,  is  rather  more 
limited.  They  were,  no  doubt,  one  of 
the  first  precedents  for  that  kind  of  lit- 
erature which  is  intended  to  be  read  by 
voung  ladies,  and  which  can  therefore 
be  provided  most  effectually  by  young 
ladies.  In  the  previous  generation,  Rich- 
ardson and  Fielding  and  their  friends 
were  fond  of  arguing  the  question  whether 
young  women  ought  to  be  allowed  to  learn 
Latin,  or  should  find  a  sufficient  outlet  for 
their  energies  in  cooking  their  husband's 
dinner  and  mending  his  shirts.  Ladies 
who  had  courage  enough  to  break  through 
the  conventional  rules  acted  under  pro- 
test; and  were  rather  apt  to  assume  a 
preternatural  pomposity  by  way  of  a  faint 
apology  for  their  audacity.  Their  inten- 
tions were  so  very  good  that  they  must 
be  pardoned  for  infringing  the  ordinary 
regulations.  In  our  own  time  we  have 
shaken  ofiE  so  many  prejudices  that  the 
sentiment  is  scarcely  intelligible.  Miss 
Burney's  career  as  an  authoress  came  at 
the  time  when  the  change  was  beginning. 
She  broke  ground  in  a  field  afterwards  to 
be  cultivated  by  such  a  host  of  successors 
as  showed  something  of  its  capabilities. 
But  when  she  had  made  her  success,  she 
misinterpreted  its  meaning,  and  set  up  as 
a  professor  of  the  fine  old  vein  of  didactic 
sentimentalism.  She  could  not  under- 
stand the  value  of  her  spontaneous  and 
natural  perceptions ;  and  thought  that,  in 
spite  of  nature,  she  must  set  up  as  a 
successor  to  Richardson,  full  of  moral 
saws  and  edifying  reflections.  Mean- 
while, however,  she  had  given  an  impulse 
to  her  successors,  which  no  doubt  encour- 
aged Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Edgeworth, 
and  through  them  a  whole  host  of  literary 
descendants.  It  is  clear  enough  that  one 
result  has  been  the  production  of  a  whole 
literature,  which  has  at  least  the  negative 
merit  of  freedom  from  certain  stains 
which  exclude  Fielding  and  even  the  edi- 
fying Richardson  from  the  list  of  univer- 
sally readable  books.  But  to  judge  of  it 
as  a  whole  and  pronounce  upon  its  value, 
either  ethically  or  aesthetically,  would  be 
to  enter  a  wide  and  debatable  field  of  in- 
quiry. 


From  Tlie  Sunday  Magazine. 
MR.   EDWIN  COLE. 

A  STORY. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  EPISODES  IN  AN  OBSCURE 

LIFE." 

CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  November  —  November  in  Lon- 
don—  and  yet  a  sky  of  almost  cloudless 
blue  arched  over  the  old  square,  and  the 
sunlight  that  fell  upon  the  still  fresh  grass, 
and  the  trees,  not  quite  stripped  of  their 
leaves,  in  the  square  garden,  was  as  bright 
as  any  that  fell  in  England.  A  fresh 
wind  had  dried  and  whitened  the  road- 
ways and  pitted  foot-pavements ;  the  liv- 
ing leaves  danced  merrily  in  it,  and  the 
drifts  of  dead  leaves  woke  up  from  their 
aromatic  basking  in  the  sunshine,  and 
chased  one  another  round  and  round  and 
in  and  out  between  the  rusty,  broken  gar- 
den palisades  and  the  blistered  area  rails 
with  a  cheerful  rustle. 

Spring  sunshine  would  have  mocked 
the  faded  old  square,  but  it  looked  its 
best  in  the  autumn  brightness.  Its  pep- 
per-and-salt stone  fronts,  its  dim  brick 
facades,  here  and  there  furbished  up  into 
a  ruddiness  fated  speedily  to  tone  down 
again  into  harmonious  drab,  had  lost  their 
wonted  look  of  depression  —  seemed  no 
longer  to  be  regretting  the  bygone  days, 
when  the  square  blazed  with  footmen's 
liveries  and  the  still  gayer  costumes  of 
their  masters,  and  links  were  put  out  in 
the  great  extinguishers  which  here  and 
there  still  protrude  beside  the  fluted  door- 
posts, like  dumb  trumpets  of  departed 
greatness. 

The  sombre  effigy  of  warrior  or  states- 
man, once  famous  but  now  unknown,  who 
sits  like  Theseus  in  the  middle  of  the 
garden,  frequented  only  by  smoky  spar- 
rows, still  looked  like  a  genius  loci  in 
mourning,  as  grimy,  ragged  little  children 
from  neighboring  slums  (who  make  the 
square  their  playground)  peered  in  at  him 
between  the  palisades,  and  even  presumed 
to  pelt  **the  black  man;''  but,  after  all, 
there  is  little  reason  for  his  sulks.  The 
square,  converted  for  the  most  part  into 
omces  and  institutions,  does  far  more 
good  in  the  world  than  when  it  was  a  but- 
terfly vivarium. 

Whether,  however,  the  Lisbon  Earth* 
quake  Relief  Fund  did  much  good  to  any- 
body except  himself  and  family  was  a 
question  that  had  often  exercised  the 
mind  of  its  secretary,  good-natured  Teddy 
Cole,  a  little  man  of  few  resources  and 
many  children  —  children  so  many  that  he 
bad  put  his  conscience  in  his  pocket  when 


492 


MR.  EDWIN  COLE. 


the  appointment  was  offered  bim«  He 
appeared  in  print  as  — 

Sitctttsccj^ 
Mr.  Edwin  Cole. 

Letters  were  addressed  to  him  as 
«*  Edwin  Cole,  Esq.** 

He  signed  himself  Edwin,  but  almost 
everybody  who  knew  him  spoke  of  him 
as  Teddv.  His  children  did  so  to  his 
face,  ana  the  small  servants  who,  one  at 
a  time,  waited  on  his  large  family,  did  so 
behind  his  back.  His  wife  was  nearly 
the  only  person  that  knew  him  intimately 
who  called  him  **  Mr.  Cole,"  and  she  did 
it  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  he  had 
done  her  a  great  injury  in  inducing  her  to 
become  Mrs.  Cole  —  that  the  illus*ion 
which  had  once  led  even  her  to  fondle 
him  with  his  abbreviated  Christian  name 
had  long  since  vanished  like  a  morning 
mist,  not  dissipated  by  summer's  sun- 
shine, but  ending  in  steadily  downpouring 
rain. 

Mrs.  Cole  was  a  good  little  woman  in 
her  way :  adroitly  stretched  her  husband's 
narrow  income  to  meet  the  necessities  of 
his  superabundant  household;  became 
affectionate  to  him  a^ain  when  she  had  to 
nurse  him;  and  sacrificed  herself  for  her 
children,  whether  sick  or  well.  Neverthe- 
less, Teddy,  who  had  done  the  best  he 
could,  poor  little  chap,  for  those  belong- 
ing to  him,  and  spent  scarce  a  penny  on 
himself,  got  rather  weary  sometimes  of 
being  reminded  of  the  poor  figure  he  had 
cut  in  the  world,  twitted  with  the  utter 
improbability  of  his  ever  doing  any  better, 
reproached  for  the  iniquity  of  which  he 
had  been  guiltj  in  bringing  a  family  into 
existence  (in  which  crime  Teddy  could 
not  help  thinking  his  rebuker  must  have 
been  in  some  degree  a  ffarticeps\  and 
made  miserable  by  predictions  of  an  im- 
pending workhouse. 

**  As  for  myself,"  his  wife  would  exclaim, 
**  it  does  not  matter.  When  I  can  work 
no  longer,  I  can  starve.  Hard  enough 
Tve  had  to  work  for  you  and  yours.  But 
it  does  seem  sad  —  a  downright  shame  I 
call  it !  —  that  these  poor  innocents  should 
be  made  paupers  of  just  because  their 
father,  that  pretends  to  be  so  fond  of 
them,  and  they're  so  fond  of,  can*t  make 
a  way  for  himself  in  the  world.  How  do 
other  men  get  on,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  '* 

According  to  Mrs.  Cole,  all  other  men 
were  getting  on.  Teddy  was  the  only  one 
she  had  known  in  her  young  days  who 
was  not  in  affluent  circumstances.    There 


was  So-and-so,  who  kept  forty  clerks  and 
two  footmen;  Sucb-a-one,  who  had  just 
built  himself  a  mansion  of  a  house ;  and 
Such-another,  who  gave  his  wife  a  pony- 
chaise  and  pair  on  their  *Mast  wedding* 
dav,"  though  she  had  two  carriages  to 
ncfe  in  before  —  as  Mrs.  Cole  might  have 
had  if  she  had  not  been  foolish  enough  to 
throw  away  good  chances  through  listen* 
ing  to  delusive  promises  not  one  of  which 
had  been  kept.  As  Teddy,  who  remem* 
bered  nothing  of  those  splendid  promises, 
and  before  his  marriage  had  never  heard 
of  those  fine  chances,  would  have  been 
pleased  enough,  for  his  own  sake  as  well 
as  his  wife's  and  his  children's,  to  enjoy 
prosperity,  he  could  not  but  think  it  hard 
that  he  should  be  rated  as  if  he  had  wil- 
fully rejected  it. 

From  what  has  been  said  it  may  be  8Up> 
posed  that  Teddy  was  willing  enough  to 
accept  the  Lisbon  Relief  Fund  secretary* 
ship  when  an  old  schoolfellow,  who  hsid 
become  chairman,  offered  it  to  him ;  and 
that,  domestic  little  man  though  he  was, 
there  were  times  when  he  was  by  no 
means  sorry  to  exchange  his  hearth  at 
Hackney  for  his  quiet  little  office  in  the 
square. 

For  economy  as  well  as  exercise*  sake 
he  walked  there  and  back,  and  for  another 
reason  —  while  so  doing  he  could,  for  a 
longer  time  than  if  he  had  ridden,  fancy 
that  he  was  going  to  or  returning  from 
business;  but  when  he  was  in  his  office, 
and  had  answered  joyfully  an^  letter  —  a 
very  rare  arrival  —  which  required  a  reply, 
he  'was  sorely  puzzled  as  to  his  official 
raison  d^itrg.  He  went  to  his  office  tvtrf 
week-dav,  and  made  his  office  hours  from 
ten  to  tour,  giving  himself,  with  great 
gravity,  a  half-holiday  on  Saturdays ;  but 
as  for  anything  there  was  to  do,  he  might 
often  have  stayed  away  from  week's  end 
to  week's  end,  for  many  months  together. 
The  Fund  was  under  the  control  of  a 
committee,  of  whose  few-and-far-betweea 
meetings  Teddy  took  roost  minute  min- 
utes, copying  them  out  afterwards  in  his 
most  carefully  elegant  handwriting;  he 
conducted  the  Fund's  correspondence  un- 
der the  direction  of  the  chairman,  and 
kept  its  accounts  under  the  supervision  of 
the  honorary  treasurer ;  but  the  remnant 
of  the  obsolete  relief  left  for  distribution, 
when  his  small  salary  was  paid,  amongst 
any  beneficiaries  the  ingenuity  of  its  man- 
agers could  pitch  upon,  wassodiminutivet 
that  Teddy  could  not  stifle  a  conviction 
that  he  had  no  right  to  take  his  compara- 
tively  heavy  percentage  on  the  monev, 
and  that  the  ghosts  of  its  defunct  cootrib- 


MR.   EDWIN  COLE. 


493 


Qtors,  if  they  beheld  him  at  his  no-labors, 
must  consider  him  a  humbug. 

As  the  little  man  was  honest  in  inclina- 
tion, at  any  rate,  and  wished  to  be  of  some 
real  use  to  his  fellow-creatures,  even  the 
consciousness  of  having  obtained  at  last 
a  definite  post  conventionally  regarded  as 
**  respectable,'*  and  the  comfort  of  being 
able  to  look  forward  to  quarterlv  payments 
o£  an  income  —  small,  indeed,  but  still  as 
certain  as  the  coming  round  of  quarter- 
days —  could  not  quite  reconcile  him  to 
his  circumstances.  He  had  to  quiet  his 
conscience  as  best  he  could,  like  many 
another  impecunious  man  analogously 
placed,  with  the  reflection  that  his  wife 
and  children  ought  to  be  his  first  con- 
sideration, and  that,  therefore,  he  was  not 
morally  bound  to  throw  up  an  appoint- 
ment which  kept  some  kind  of  a  roof  over 
their  heads,  and  supplied  them  with  a  fair 
amount  of  bread  and  butter. 

But  on  this  bright  November  morning 
the  crispness  of  the  air  and  the  clearness 
of  the  light,  together  with  the  fact  that  he 
had  left  Mrs.  Cole  in  a  slightly  less  dole- 
ful and  bodeful  mood  than  usual,  had  so 
raised  Teddy's  spirits  that  he  continued 
to  be  cheerful  after  entering  the  open 
front  lobby  of  the  old  house  in  the  square 
which  contained  his  office,  instead  of  tak- 
ing up  the  little  load  of  casuistical  ques- 
tioning which  he  generally  carried  up- 
stairs with  him  thence. 

Fearing,  perhaps,  that  Mrs.  Cole's 
mood  was  too  good  to  last,  he  had  started 
while  her  spirits  were  at  their  highest 
flood,  or  least  low  ebb,  and  so  had  arrived 
at  the  square  so  early  that  the  old  woman 
who  looked  after  the  old  house  within 
whose  walls  he  led  his  official  existence 
was  still  engaged  in  sweeping  the  inner 
lobby,  floored  with  cracked  stone  in  blac)c 
and  white  chequers. 

Mrs.  Slack  had  a  faint  liking  for  Teddy, 
strongly  flavored  with  contempt.  He  gave 
her  less  trouble  and  civiller  words  than 
any  one  else  she  had  to  do  for;  but  if  she 

fot  no  bother  and  no  blowings  up  from 
im,  she  also  got  no  tips;  and  if  these 
were  liberal,  she  did  not  mind  how  much 
she  was  abused,  and  could  perform  extra 
work  put  upon  her  at  her  perfunctory 
pleasure. 

**  Mornin',  *'  she  said,  in  reply  to  the  lit- 
tle secretary's  greeting;  she  did  not  call 
him  Teddy,  but  she  never  called  him  sir. 
"You're  afore  your  time.  It  beats  me,  it 
do,  why  you  come  to  business  so  ree'lar, 
when  youVe  got  sich  a  precious  little  on 
it  to  do.  Why,  if  you  was  to  stay  away 
every  day,  'cept  'mittee  days,  who'd  know  ? 


An*  I  don't  expect  there's  many  as  would 
care." 

Teddy,  although  very  polite  to  Mrs. 
Slack,  generally  snrank  from  entering  into 
conversation  with  her,  having  a  shrewd 
suspicion  that  she  had  taken  his  measure 
as  a  business  man,  and  looked  upon  him 
as  a  sham.  And,  indeed,  outside  his  own 
little  province,  which,  after  all,  was  only 
playing  at  business,  with  a  chairman  and 
a  treasurer  to  keep  him  from  going  wrong 
—  driving  a  tram  car,  so  to  speak,  with 
one  man  to  blow  the  whistle  for  him  and 
another  to  put  on  the  break  —  Mrs.  Slack 
certainly  had  a  much  greater  knowledge 
of  affairs  than  Teddy.  She  had  waited 
on  business  men  of  various  kinds,  had 
been  sent  out  to  purchase  stamps  and  on 
such  like  errands ;  and  so  had  picked  up 
a  variety  of  scraps  of  information,  legal 
and  mercantile,  which  made  Teddy  feel 
abashed  in  her  presence.  As  she  stood 
leaning  on  her  broom,  with  her  bonnet  on 
the  back  of  her  head,  looking  somewhat 
like  a  fully-carved  bishop  on  a  giant's 
chess-boara,  Teddy  cowered  under  her 
satiric  eye,  and  once  more  lost  belief  in 
himself.  He  tripped  over  the  black  and 
white  squares  with  timid  speed,  and  trot- 
ted up  the  broad,  balustraded,  wainscoted 
oak  staircase  as  if  he  were  afraid  that 
Mrs.  Slack  was  going  to  fling  something 
at  him. 

When  he  reached  the  top  landing;,  the 
sight  of  **  Lisbon  Earthquake  Relief 
Fund,"  in  black  letters  upon  the  wall  and 
zinc-plated  on  his  front  door,  somewhat 
revived  his  spirits.  They  looked  quite  as 
official  as  any  other  inscription  on  the 
landing.  The  "Secretary's  Office"  on 
the  door  of  his  own  room,  and  the  **  Pri- 
vate **  on  that  of  the  "  Board,"  also  had 
an  orthodox  appearance;  and  when  he 
opened  his  letter-box,  his  eyes  were  glad- 
dened by  a  little  sheaf  of  most  official- 
looking  long  envelopes. 

He  examined  his  "correspondence*' 
most  deliberately,  wishing  to  make  the 
most  of  an  official  occupation  ;  but,  alas ! 
not  one  of  the  missives  required  an  an- 
swer. They  were  all  prospectuses  of  one 
kind  and  another,  and  he  could  not  per- 
suade himself  that  he  would  be  justified  in 
writing  official  "Sir, —  I  am  directed  by 
my  committee"  acknowledgments  of  the 
receipt  of  invitations  to  take  shares  in 
Dutch  Waterworks  and  Mesopotamian 
Railways.  When  wine-merchants  and 
cheap  tailors  sent  him  their  circulars,  he 
did  sometimes  reply  in  official  style, 
gravely  explaining  that,  the  fund  having 
fulfilled  its  original  purpose,  his  commit* 


494 


MR.  EDWIN   COLE. 


tee  no  lonorer  gave  relief  in  kind ;  adding, 
in  his  replies  to  the  wine-merchants,  that 
even  if  this  had  not  been  the  case,  his 
committee,  with  every  desire  to  further 
the  interests  of  their  fellow-citizens,  being 
bound  to  administer  the  fund  at  their  dis- 
posal on  principles  of  rigid  economy, 
would  have  considered  it  advisable  to 
purchase  wine  on  the  spot  in  Portugal. 
Having  spread  out  his  ^*  correspondence  '* 
on  the  office-table,  to  catch  the  eye  of  any 
one  who  might  chance  to  call,  he  sat  down 
before  the  ^re  to  read  his  paper  —  which 
also  he  considered  to  be,  in  a  sense,  an 
official  duty. 

Such  portions  in  his  journal  as  inter- 
ested him,  and  some  which  did  not  (in- 
cluding the  City  article,  read  only  from  a 
sense  of  official  propriety),  having  been 
very  leisurely  perused,  Teddy  wrote  a 
private  letter.  He  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  the  office-addressed  paper 
and  envelope ;  but  though  he  carried  on 
his  private  correspondence  at  the  office, 
he  was  too  scrupulous  to  charge  it  with 
his  privately  used  postage  stamps.  Then 
Teddy  glanced  at  the  dusty  yellow  map  of 
Spain  and  Portugal,  which  hung  upon  a 
side  wall,  and  studied,  for  the  thousandth 
time,  the  dim,  blotched,  and  freckled  view 
of  Lisbon,  which  held  the  place  of  honor 
over  the  mantel  piece. 

That  faded  old  print  had  a  fascination 
for  Teddy,  since  he  seemed  really  to  be- 
long to  Lisbon  rather  than  to  London ;  if 
the  office  had  been  located  on  the  banks 
of  the  Tagus  instead  of  on  those  of  the 
Thames,  Teddy  used  to  fancy  that  it  and 
he  could  have  asserted  a  better  right  to 
be.  He  was  not  much  of  a  student,  but 
he  had  carefully  got  up  the  history  of  the 
great  catastrophe  to  which  he  was  indebt- 
ed for  his  official  existence ;  and  had  so 
frequently  related  its  thrilling  incidents  to 
his  children  that  some  of  the  younger 
ones,  not  troubled  by  considerations  of 
chronology,  had  a  hazy  faith  that  their 
father  had  narrowly  escaped  being  swal- 
lowed up,  either  by  soil  or  sea,  during  the 
earthquake.  Musing  over  the  mystery  of 
the  **  Providence  "  by  which,  owing  to  the 
destruction  of  thousands  on  that  distant 
bright  November  day,  he  and  his  were 
provided  with  food  on  the  bright  No- 
vember day  that  was  passing  by,  he 
remembered  that  it  was  time  for  his 
midday  meal,  and  accordingly  produced 
from  his  little  black  bag  a  little  newspaper 
packet  of  home  provender,  which  he  ate, 
so  to  speak,  upon  the  sly;  keeping  the 
bag  beside  him  with  still  open  jaws,  in 
readiness  to  bide  from  view  the  very  un- 


official looking  refreshment,  in  case  any 
one  should  knock  at  the  door.  Teddy 
always  brought  his  ** dinner"  with  him 
from  home,  and  it  was  always  cold ;  bat 
on  rare  occasions,  when  it  was  of  a  little 
less  miscellaneous  nature  than  usual, 
Teddy  laid  a  cloth  —  /'./.  spread  his  news- 
paper—on the  Board-room  table,  carried 
in  the  office  water-bottle  and  glass,  and 
took  his  repast,  as  being  secure  from  in- 
terruption, in  a  slightly  more  dignified 
and  comfortable  fashion.  One  of  his  win- 
dows opened  on  a  leaden  gutter,  much 
frequented  by  sparrows.  As  usual,  Teddy 
threw  out  his  crumbs  to  them  ;  they  were 
the  only  pensioners  to  whom  he  could 
afford  to  be  liberal  on  a  large  scale,  and 
he  took  great  delight  in  this  daily  bene- 
faction. And  then,  suspending  from  his 
bell-pull  a  card  which  announced  that  he 
would  be  *^  back  in  an  hour,"  he  started 
for  a  walk. 

Wet  or  fine,  he  took  this  walk  between 
one  and  two.  Although  he  would  often 
much  rather  have  stayed  within  doors, 
since  he  had  plenty  of  walking  between 
the  office  and  his  home,  he  thought  it 
necessary  for  the  preservation  of  his  offi- 
cial respectability  to  go  out  regularly  at 
this  time,  in  order  that  he  mio^ht  impress 
Mrs.  Slack  and  his  co-inmates  with  a  be- 
lief that  he  took  luncheCn  or  dinner  at  a 
restaurant. 

Teddy  walked  to  St.  Paul's  Churchyard, 
and  dined  with  Duke  Humphrey.  The 
fine,  full  shops,  the  towering  warehouses, 
the  crush  of  vehicles,  the  crowds  of  busy 
passengers  — in  short,  the  signs  of  wealth 
and  earnest  work  he  saw  while  he  was  out, 
again  made  him  dissatisfied  with  his  own 
pmched,  make-believe  life.  When  he  had 
taken  down  his  card,  opened  his  letter- 
box and  found  it  empty,  and  again  seated 
himself  before  the  fire  with  his  paper  in 
his  hand,  he  felt  as  sour  as  it  was  possi- 
ble for  so  kindly-natured  a  little  man  to 
be. 

Perhaps  because  he  had  so  seldom  an 
opportunity  of  indulging  in  it,  he  thoujg^ht 

fiving  about  the  greatest  luxury  in  life, 
le  was  very  fond  of  his  children,  and  he 
was  calling  to  mind  how  he  had  seen  a 
little  posse  of  toy-laden  children  issuing 
from  the  shop  at  the  corner  of  Paternoster 
Row,  accompanied  by  a  smiling  lady,  also 
toy-laden,  who  might  have  been  their 
mamma,  and  a  florid,  broad-smiling  gentle- 
man with  bulged-out  pockets,  turned  into 
a  beast  of  burden  for  boxes  and  balls,  who 
might  have  been  their  bachelor  uncle  from 
the  country. 
"  Ah  !  I  wish  I  could  give  my  children 


MR,   EDWIN   COLE, 


49S 


toys  like  that,"  thought  poor  h'ttle  Teddy. 
"  I'm  as  fond  of  'em  as  any  man  can  be  of 
his  kids ;  but  it's  precious  little  I  can 
give  'em,  except  rides  on  my  back.  Well, 
anyhow,  I  might  cut  them  out  something." 

Selecting  some  of  the  stoutest  prospec- 
tuses lying  on  his  table,  he  tore  off  the 
blank  leaves,  took  a  pair  of  scissors  out 
of  his  drawer,  and  proceeded  to  fashion 
horses,  donkeys,  dogs,  and  cows  with  split 
heads  and  tails,  elephants  with  double 
trunks,  beaux  with  two  walking-sticks, 
belles  with  two  parasols,  sailors,  High- 
landers, and  rows  of  verv  dumpy  little 
boys  and  girls,  dancing  hand  in  hand, 
some  of  whom  would  persist  in  coming 
into  existence  with  but  one  leg  and  arm, 
and  only  half  a  head.  He  was  so  ab- 
sorbed in  inking  in  saddles  and  bridles, 
kilts,  plaids,  belts,  neckerchiefs,  curls, 
eyes,  and  other  features,  that  when  a 
knock  came  at  the  door  he  unthinkingly 
answered,  "  Come  in,*'  without  looking  up 
from  his  work. 

'*  I  hope  I  don't  intrude;  you  seem 
busy,"  said  a  voice  that  made  Teddy  start 
and  hastily  pull  his  newspaper  over  his 
very  unofficial  specimens  of  penmanship. 

It  was  not  exactly  an  unkind  voice,  but 
very  cool,  keen,  and  direct  in  its  utter- 
ances —  a  '*  no-nonsense  "  voice  that  made 
Teddy  wince  when  he  heard  it. 

He  had  often  thought  that  one  day  or 
other  the  sham  of  his  secretaryship  would 
be  publicly  exposed,  and  now  he  felt  al- 
most sure  that  it  had  come. 

"  I  will  wait,  if  you  are  very  much  oc- 
cupied, or  call  again;  mine  is  not  exactly 
office  business,'*  said  the  new-comer  in  a 
tone  that  was  still  ironical,  but  still  a  little 
kindlier  than  before,  as  if  he  had  found  a 
more  harmless,  helpless  species  of  hum- 
bug than  the  one  he  had  expected,  and 
felt  a  little  compunction  at  the  thought 
that  he  had  come  with  the  intention  of 
convicting  it  out  of  its  own  mouth.  ."The 
fact  is,  Mr.  Cole,"  he  went  on,  when  he 
had  taken  the  chair  which  Teddy  deferen- 
tially offered  him,  **  I'm  an  old  bachelor, 
with  so  little  business  of  my  own  to  mind, 
perhaps  unfortunately,  that  to  fill  up  my 
time  1  am  obliged  to  mind  other  people's. 
My  name  is  Spott,  Francis  Spott,  No.  5, 
Sepulchre  Buildings,  Outer  Temple.  I've 
a  craze  for  charitable  archaeology  ;  at  any 
rate,  the  history  of  ancient  charities  — 
doles  paid  down  on  old  tombstones,  money 
left  to  free  slaves  in  Barbary,  and  'pren- 
tice parish  boys  and  portion  servant  girls, 
and  things  of  that  sort.  It  was  only  very 
lately  that  I  heard  that  your  Fund  was  in 
ei(istence.    Do  you  publish  any  report  ?  *' 


"  No,"  Teddy  explained,  "  because  we 
have  no  subscribers." 

**A11  dead  and  buried  long  ago,  eh?" 
said  Mr.  Spott  with  a  laugh.  *'  But  don't 
you  give  any  account  of  your  steward- 
ship?" 

"Oh  yes,  sir,"  answered  Teddy  eagerly, 
"  By  the  direction  of  my  committee  1  draw 
up  every  year,  and  have  printed,  an  ac- 
count of  the  wav  in  which  the  doles  have 
been  distributea." 

"For  whose  inspection?"  asked  Mr. 
Spott. 

"For  that  of  any  one,  sir,"  replied 
Teddy,  "  who,  like  yourself,  may  chance 
to  take  an  interest  in  the  working  of  the 
charity.     Here  is  our  last  list." 

"Hum— hah,"  said  Mr.  Spott;  "and 
are  these  small  sums  all  that  you  have  to 
give  away  ?  " 

"  Every  penny  of  the  fund  is  expended, 
sir,"  loftily  answered  Teddy.  "  The  gen- 
tlemen of  the  committee  sometimes  kindly 
supplement  the  gifts  out  of  their  own 
pockets." 

"Hum  —  hah!"  again  said  Mr.  Spott. 
"  Exceedingly  kind  of  them,  no  doubt. 
May  I  ask  to  see  a  few  back  lists  ?  " 

"  Here  they  are,  sir,  for  the  last  ten 
years,  drawn  up  by  my  own  hand ;  so  I 
can  vouch  for  them,"  said  Teddy,  as  he 
took  from  a  drawer  the  lists  referred  to, 
with  a  proud  sense  of  unexpectedly  pub- 
lished authorship. 

Mr.  Spott  once  more  said,  "Hum^ 
hah  "  as  he  ran  over  them,  and  then  re- 
marked, — 

"  Not  much  difference  in  the  names,  I 
notice.  These  gifts,  1  take  it,  are  little 
pensions.  May  1  ask  who  has  the  grant- 
ing of  them?" 

"  Each  member  of  the  committee  can 
recommend  one  poor  person  every  year ; 
chairman  and  treasurer  two  additional," 
said  Teddv. 

"  I  see,''  replied  Mr.  Spott, "  and  renew 
the  recommendation  annually,  benevo- 
lently supplementing  the  gift  out  of  their 
own  pockets.  Your  committee  manage 
their  charity  very  economically,  Mr. 
Cole." 

Teddy  thought  that  he  meant  charity 
with  a  big  C,  and  bowed  in  delighted  rec- 
ognition of  the  compliment. 

"  But  1  don't  see  anything  about  office 
expenses,"  Mr.  Spott  went  on.  "You 
pay  rent  for  these  rooms,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Teddy,  mention- 
ing the  sum. 

"  And,  excuse  me,"  still  the  inquisitive 
Mr.  Spott  went  on,  "your  committee,  no 
doubt,  all  give  their  services  for  love ;  but 


MR.  EDWIN  COLE. 


496 

I  doQ^t  see  honorary  before  your  name  in 
the  list  here." 

**Oh  no,  sir,  I  receive  a  salary,"  said 
Teddy.  ♦•  If  I  could  afford"  — he  had 
been  ^oin^  to  say  that  if  he  could  have 
afforded  to  give  his  services  gratuitously 
to  the  Fund,  he  would  have  done  so ;  but 
the  conviction  that  if  he  could  have  made 
his  living  in  an^r  other  way  he  would  never 
have  had  anything  to  do  with  the  Fund, 
flashed  upon  him,  and  he  stopped  abrupt- 
ly, lookiug  more  shamefaced  than  he  had 
any  need  to  be. 

"  Ah,  well,"  replied  Mr.  Spott,  after  re- 
garding him  with  a  suddenly  sharp  look  of 
suspicion,  which  soon  changed  again  into 
his  former  half-contemptuous,  half-kindly 
gaze  of  forbearance,  *'  1  will  not  ask  what 
the  amount  is.  I  suppose  I  have  no  right 
to,  though  charitable  funds,  I  think,  ought 
to  be  explicit  as  to  their  expenses,  even 
when  the  living  public  does  not  subscribe 
to  them.  Still,  may  I  inquire,  without 
offence,  how  you  obtained  your  appoint- 
ment, Mr.  Cole?" 

/*  My  kind  friend,  the  chairman,"  Teddy 
answered  readily  enough. 

•'  An  old  friend  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Spott. 

"  Very  old,"  replied  Teddv.  "  We  were 
at  school  together.     My  father  was  in 

food  circumstances  then— could  help 
iSj'  and  he  kindly  remembered  that  when 
my  present  post  fell  vacant.  He  had 
known  for  some  time  before  that  I  was 
in  want  of  an  appointment;  circumstances 
bad  compelled  me  to  apply  to  him  on  sev- 
eral occasions,  and  he  most  kindly  thought 
of  me  at  once." 

*'  Ah,  I  see,"  assented  Mr.  Spott. 
**  Most  kind  of  him,  I'm  sure,  to  get  you 
this  little  berth.  Tm  afraid  you  will  think 
me  very  rude,  but,  excuse  me,  Mr.  Cole, 
the  emoluments  are  not  overpowering,  are 
they?  If  you  were  to  forget  to  pay  in- 
come-tax one  year,  you  wouldn't  have  to 
send  the  chancellor  of  the'  exchequer  a 
three-figure  bank  note,  would  you,  to  quiet 
your  conscience  and  restore  its  tone,  to 
the  depleted  revenue  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  answered  Teddy,  with  an 
uneasy  little  laugh,  for  he  was  getting 
more  and  more  puzzled  what  to  make  of 
Mr.  Spott,  "  I  could  spend  more  money,  if 
I  had  it,  like  most  people,  but  I  am  thank- 
ful to  have  got  the  little  income  I  have. 
I'm  a  family  man,  and  a  certaintv,  big  or 
small,  is  a  great  consideration  under  those 
circumstances." 

**  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Spott, 
still  half  keenly,  half  kindly.  ''But  I 
should  say  you  need  not  break  your  heart 
If  by  any  chance  you  lost  this  appoint- 


ment. Your  kind  friend  might  surely 
give  you  something  better  in  his  own  ser- 
vice, or  get  it  for  you.  I'm  much  obliged 
to  you  for  these  papers,  and  the  informa- 
tion you  have  been  good  enough  to  ^ive 
me.  If  you  should  ever  want  a  reference, 
apply  to  me,  and  I  shall  be  most  happy 
to  give  you  an  excellent  character  for 
frankness,  at  any  rate.  Good-day,  Mr. 
Cole." 

The  day  had  not  only  drawn  in,  but  also 
clouded  over,  while  Mr.  Spott  was  in  the 
office.  Darker  it  grew,  when  he  was  gone, 
and  darker  fears  came  over  Teddy's  troub- 
led mind,  as  he  sat  at  home  by  his  dying 
fire,  meditating  on  the  recent  interview. 
It  soon  became  apparent  to  him  that  he 
had  been  pumped,  and  he  could  not  sup- 
press a  fear  that,  notwithstanding  the 
slight  kindly  feeling  which  Mr.  Spott 
seemed  to  have  contracted  for  Teddy  per- 
sonally, he  harbored  hostile  intentions 
against  Secretary,  Mr.  Edwin  Cole. 

Now,  if  Teddy  had  given  no  hostages 
to  fortune,  he  might  not,  perhaps,  have 
greatly  regretted  ejectment  from  a  post 
which  had  sorely  troubled  his  peace  of 
mind  by  wounding  his  sense  of  self-re- 
spect. But  he  had  given  such  hostages ; 
it  was  for  their  sake  he  had  taken  the 
post,  and  the  thought  of  losing  it  while 
they  were  dependent  upon  it  —  losing  it, 
perhaps,  through  his  own  admissions  — 
was  terrible  to  Teddy. 

"After  all,  though,"  he  thought,  "I 
must  have  told  lies,  if  I  bad  said  anything 
different,  and  I  couldn't  sit  still  and  say 
nothing.  I  ain't  a  Deaf-and-Dumb  secre- 
tary." 

Little  Teddy  laughed  at  his  own  little 
joke,  and  the  laugh  did  him  a  little  good. 
Nevertheless,  he  muttered  aloud  anxious* 
Iv,  '*  I  mustn't  say  anything  about  this  to 
Amanda." 

Mrs.  Cole  was  Teddy's  Amanda,  and, 
no  doubt,  she  was  "  meet  or  worthy  to  be 
loved."  Indeed,  she  was  still  Teddy's 
Amata  also,  but  his  affection  for  her  was 
not  that  perfect  love  which  casteth  out 
fear.  The  lot  which  they  had  shared  in 
life  had  been,  in  her  opinion,  so  unlucky, 
that  she  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
that  her  husband  was  a  born  feckless  un- 
fortunate —  that  nothing  he  might  do  on 
his  own  responsibility  could  possibly  tend 
to  good  —  that  the  chances  were  ten  to 
one  that  it  would  lead  immediately  to  evil, 
precipitate  that  familv  exodus  from  home 
to  the  "  house,"  which  sooner  or  later  was 
inevitable. 

No  wonder,  therefore,  Teddy  thought  it 
unadvisable  to  mention  Mr.  Spott's  visit 


MR.   EDWIN  COLE. 


btsr 

iciT: 

Mern: 
atr 

ij . 
b: 


497 


X»! 


to  his  wife.  Having  slipped  his  elephants 
and  other  works  of  art  into  an  envelope, 
and  put  it  into  his  breast-pocicet,  he  left 
his  office  a  good  deal  less  lively  than 
when  he  had  entered  it  in  the  morning. 
Then  the  withered  leaves  fluttering  as 
thev  fell,  golden  yellow  in  the  sunshine, 
haa  made  him  think  of  butterflies,  but 
DOW  as  they  zi<::zagged,  dim  in  the  dusk, 
they  made  him  think  of  bats. 

However,  he  brightened  up  again  as  he 
neared  his  home.  He  was  sure,  at  any 
rate,  of  a  cheerful  greeting  from  his  chil- 
dren, who  welcomed  him  daily  on  his  re- 
turn as  if  he  had  just  come  back  after  two 
winterings  in  the  Arctic  regions. 

CHAPTER  II. 

When  he  had  been  tempted  for  a  mo- 
ment to  envy  the  snugness  and  freedom 
from  care  about  the  morrow  of  an  old 
bedesman  whom  he  had  seen,  when  pass- 
ing the  almshouses  in  Goldsmith's  Row, 
tottering  on  to  his  cushioned  armchair 
beside  his  brightly  burning  little  fire. 
Cole  had  the  next  moment  scoffed  at  the 
notion  as  preposterously  absurd.  '*  Poor 
lonely  old  chap!'*  he  had  muttered. 
*'Why,  he's  glad  to  get  a  good-morning 
even  from  me  when  I  go  by  !  *' 

Teddy's  youngest  two,  a  little  girl  and 
a  smaller  boy,  were  standing  on  the  tiny 
steps  of  his  pill-box  of  a  house  on  the 
other  side  of  London  Fields,  on  the  look- 
out for  their  father.  Forth  they  raced, 
bareheaded,  to  meet  him,  as  soon  as  they 
made  him  out,  the  little  girl  carrying  a 
little  tabby  cat  cuddled  in  her  arms. 

"It's  Bluey's  birthday,  pap-pa,"  she 
cried,  **  and  you  went  away  this  morning 
without  even  wishing  her  many  happy 
returns  of  the  day.  I  bought  her  a  ha'- 
p'orth of  milk  for  a  birthday  present  out 
of  my  own  money  box." 

Even  the  little  Coles  had  money-boxes, 
and  little  as  they  held,  it  was  sometimes 
proudly  lent  to  eke  out  the  contents  of 
the  family  purse  when  at  the  lowest  ebb. 

•'  Dear,  dear,  dear,"  said  Teddy,  pro- 
fessing to  feel  greatly  rebuked  by  his  lit- 
tle daughter's  reproach.  "But  what  a 
pretty  keepsake  you  gave  her  —  how  long 
did  she  keep  it,  Sissy  ?  " 

••Why,  she  drank  it  — so,  of  course, 
she's  got  it  now,  you  silly  man  !  "  retorted 
the  little  girl  with  triumphant  logic. 

*•  Give  me  a  ride  home,  paps  ! "  shouted 
the  little  boy,  swarming  up  his  parent  as 
if  he  had  been  a  pole. 

With  Master  Bobby  on  his  shoulder, 
and  Sissy  and  Bluey  on  his  arm,  Teddy 
proceeded  to  his  home.    His  wife  came 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2268 


out  of  the  little  front  parlor  as  he  stag- 
gered up  the  steps. 

"  Get  down,  Bobby,  get  down  at  once, 
sir,  or  you'll  break  your  neck,"  she  said. 
"Really,  Sissy,  I'm  astonished  at  you,  a 
great  girl  like  you,  behaving  in  that  way 
out  of  doors.  What  will  the  neighbors 
think  ?  Ah,  Mr.  Cole,  you  ought  to  exert 
yourself  for  your  children.  They're  fond 
enough  of  you,  poor  dears  —  fonder  than 
they  are  of  me  that  am  always  slaving  for 
them.  I  don't  grudge  you  their  love  — 
though  when  things  come  to  the  worst, 
they'll  soon  find  out  who  they've  got  to 
look  to ;  but  it  ought  to  stir  vou  up  to  do 
something  for  them  —  it  really  ought,  Mr. 
Cole." 

Little  Teddy,  who  had  been  doing  his 
poor  little  best,  lengthened  his  counte- 
nance at  this  reproof,  whereupon  Bobb^", 
who  did  not  approve  of  any  one  of  hi» 
grender  being  scolded  by  the  other  sex, 
strove  to  cheer  his  fellow-sufferer  by  whis^ 
pering,— 

"Never  mind,  Teddy,  /  ain't  angry 
with  you." 

After  lea  the  elephants,  etc.,  were 
brought  out,  and  the  little  ones  were  to 
the  full  as  delighted  with  them  as  the 
children  Teddy  had  seen  in  Paternoster 
Row  could  have  been  with  their  costly 
toys.  These  prodigies  of  humorous  art, 
indeed,  were  more  precious  to  Sissy  and 
Bobbv  than  any  mere  bought  playthings 
woula  have  been.  Any  one  who  had 
money  enough  could  have  purchased 
those,  but  these  had  been  made  expressly 
for  them,  and  by  their  own  wonderful 
genius  of  a  papa,  who,  although  he  was 
not  at  all  an  august  being  in  theu*  eyes, 
like  mamma,  was  pronounced  by  these 
young  critics  to  be  able  to  do  "some 
things  better"  even  than  that  majestic 
personage,  and  whom  they  did  not  like 
the  less  because  they  could  make  a  play- 
fellow of  him,  a  playfellow  altogether  such 
a  one  as  themselves,  inasmuch  as  he,  like 
themselves,  was  liable  to  scoldings. 

Whilst  the  other  children  got  up  their 
next  dav's  lessons,  Bobby,  Sissy,  Bluey, 
and  Tecidy  sprawled  on  the  hearthrug  and 
put  the  elephants,  cows,  horses,  donkeys, 
dogs,  Highlanders,  sailors,  beaux,  belles^ 
and  hand-in-hand  infantry  through  a  curi- 
ous variety  of  evolutions,  Teddy  taking 
quite  as  much  interest  in  them  as  any  of 
his  playmates,  and  forgetting  for  the  time 
his  fears  about  the  future. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Cole,  with  a  pyramid 
of  hosiery  before  her,  severely  darned 
stockings. 

She  was  pleased  that  her  little  ones 


498 


MR,  EDWIN  COLE, 


were  amused,  but  still  she  could  not  re- 
frain from  regarding  their  amuser,  when 
her  eyes  condescended  to  fall  upon  him, 
with  a  cold  look  of  scornful  rebuke. 
*'  How  did  I  ever  come  to  wed  that  heed- 
less, trifling  baby  ?  *'  she  seemed  to  be  ask- 
ing herself.  Teddy  chanced  once  to  catch 
this  look  in  the  midst  of  his  play,  and 
smitten  with  compunction  by  his  wife's 
industry,  he  entreated  her  to  put  by  her 
work  and  read  the  newspaper  which  he 
had  brought  home.  "And  will  you  mend 
the  stockings,  Mr.  Cole? "she  inquired  in 
a  solemnly  sarcastic  voice. 

Poor  little  Teddy  almost  wished  he 
could.  He  had  a  very  humble  opinion  of 
his  utility  in  the  world,  and  his  wife  had  a 
knack  of  making  it  still  humbler. 

Even  when  the  children  had  gone  to 
bed,  and  the  pile  of  stockings  had  been 
finished,  Mrs.  Cole  got  out  a  garment  of 
some  kind  and  went  on  plying  her  needle 
with  grim  persistency,  declining  her  hus- 
band's offer  to  read  to  her  on  the  ground 
that  she  was  too  much  racked  with  anx- 
iety as  to  the  fate  of  her  dear  children^ to 
have  any  time  to  attend  to  such  frivolous 
matters  as  politics  and  general  intelli- 
gence, or  idle  stories  written  for  idle 
people. 

After  that  Teddy  could  no  longer  enjoy 
the  book  he  had  taken  up.  At  any  rate, 
to  read  it  under  the  severe  eyes  of  a  wife 
plying  her  needle,  thread,  and  scissors, 
like  the  three  Fates  rolled  into  one, 
seemed  to  him  next  door  to  a  crime.  Ac- 
cordingly he  soon  slipped  off  to  bed,  feel- 
ing very  much  ashamed  of  himself  for 
being  ot  so  little  use  in  the  world.  *'  Why, 
what  CQuld  1  do,"  thought  Teddy,  "  if  I 
were  to  lose  the  Lisbon  ?  And  perhaps 
I  shall.  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  have 
some  real  work  to  do.  I  should  feel  more 
like  an  honest  man  than  I  do  now.  But 
then  it  wouldn't  be  a  comfort  to  have 
nothing  at  all  to  do,  with  such  a  family  as 
I've  got ;  and  I  shouldn't  feel  a  bit  more 
honest  if  I  must  either  steal  or  let  my 
children  starve." 

Teddy  generallv  woke  in  a  cheerful 
mood,  however  doleful  had  been  his  state 
of  mind  when  he  went  to  bed.  As  usual, 
next  day,  he  delighted  Sissy  by  feeding 
Bluey  at  breakfast  time  with  scraps  of  his 
own  toast.  Sissy  was  not  allowed  to  feed 
her  cat  at  meal-times,  and  Teddy  did  it 
half  upon  the  sly,  as  if  not  quite  sure 
whether  or  not  he  had  a  right  to  do  as  he 
liked  with  his  own  bread  and  butter.  He 
enabled  Bobby,  as  usual,  to  take  horse 
exercise  in  his  own  grounds,  giving  him, 
before  going  to  business,  a  ride  round  the 


back  garden,  as  big  as  a  decent^sized 
dinner-table,  and  the  front  garden  rather 
bigger  than  a  large  hearthrug.  He  gave 
a  cheery  good -morning  to  his  old  ac« 
quaintances  in  Goldsmith's  Row  as  be 
went  by,  but  when  he  reached  the  square 
his  spirits  felL  He  had  scarcely  got  in- 
side the  lobby  before  Mrs.  Slack  in&rmed 
him,  "There  was  a  gen'leman  a-axin*  for 
ve  arter  hoffice  hours,  an'  a-wantin'  to 
know  where  ye  lived  when  you  was  at 
'ome.  I  couldn't  tell  him,  in  course,  for 
blest  if  I  know,  for  all  the  time  you've 
been  'ere." 

Teddy  did  not  tell  her,  he  was  too  anx- 
ious to  learn  what  the  inquisitive  gentle- 
man was  like;  and  when  he  ascertained 
from  her  description  that  it  must  have 
been  Mr.  Spott,  he  went  up-stairs  with  a 
heavy  heart,  although  with  a  springier 
tread  than  usual,  as  if  trving  to  convince 
himself  that  he  would  find  in  his  letter- 
box a  better  raison  d^itre  than  usual. 

But  the  letter-box  was  emptv,  and  the 
« social  leader"  in  his  paper  (Teddv,  to 
pass  away  the  time,  always  reserved  the 
long  portions  of  his  journal  for  office  con- 
sumption, glancing  at  telegram  headings 
and  the  briefest  paragraphs  only  at  break- 
fast time)  chanced  to  be  on  the  misuse  of 
charities.  No  mention  was  made  of  the 
Lisbon  in  that  incisive  essay,  and  yet 
Teddy  could  only  half  persuade  himself 
that  he  was  not  personally  pointed  at  in 
the  following  paragraph  :  "Charity,  ver- 
ily, in  such  cases  begins  at  home ;  in  the 
hall  or  passage,  that  is,  x>r  on  the  door- 
step, where  a  poor  friend  or  relative  is 
waiting,  hat  in  hand.  We  have  heard  of 
an  old  gentleman  so  tender-hearted  that 
he  could  not  bear  to  scrunch  a  snail,  and, 
therefore,  he  pitched  those  that  he  found 
feeding  on  his  own  cabbages  over  the  wall 
into  his  neighbor's  garden.  There  are 
many  such  benevolent  old  gentlemen 
amongst  the  managers  of  our  benevolent 
institutions.  They  do  not  choose  that  the 
slimy  snails  which  obtrude  themselves 
upon  them  should  spoil  their  own  gardens, 
and  so  they  tenderly  drop  them  over  the 
wall  into  Charity's.  To  change  the  figure, 
thev  lift  lamed  or  lazy  locusts  on  to  any 
little  bit  of  greenmeat  within  their  reach, 
which  does  not  belong  to  themselves,  and 
then  walk  on  complacently  murmuring, 
*  Charity  never  faileth.' " 

"  Have  I  lived  to  be  called  a  slimy 
snail,  a  lazy  locust,  and  not  to  be  quite 
sure  whether  I  ain't?"  thought  Teddy; 
and  the  poor  little  fellow  almost  burst  into 
tears. 

As  usual,  on  his  half  holiday,  Teddy 


MR.   EDWIN   COLE. 


499 


took  Sissy  and  Bobby  on  to  the  Downs, 
and  at  first,  being,  barring  his  responsi- 
bilities, almost  as  big  a  baby  or  as  little 
a  child  as  his  youngsters,  he  was  as 
pleasec^  as  they  were  with  the  boisterous 
sport  of  tlj?  pai*ti -colored  football  players, 
and  the  games  in  which  the  three  them- 
selves indulged. 

But  after  a  time  Teddy's  spirits  flagged, 
and  instead  of  running  he  began  to  walk 
with  so  sedate  a  gait  that  Bobby  was  dis- 
gusted, and  leaving  his  father  and  sister 
to  pursue  the  even  tenor  of  their  way,  hov- 
ered around  them  and  made  dashes  at 
tbein  ?ike  a  Bedouin  with  hostile  inten- 
tions a^ains^  a  slowly  moving  caravan. 

"  Why  have  they  put  wire  round  the 
lamps?"  CFked  Sissy  as  they  passed  a 
lamp-post. 

*'  Becau-.j  the  naughty  boys  used  to 
throw  stones  and  break  the  glass,'V  an- 
swered Teddy, 

"  And  the  naughty  girls  too  !  No,  they'd 
have  been  afraid  of  the  policemen,"  cried 
Bobby,  who  just  then  ran  up,  and  who  was 
in  the  habit,  when  he  heard  boys  blamed 
for  anything,  of  first  asserting  that  the 
other  sz:x  were  equally  to  blame,  and  then 
of  finding  in  the  misdeed  proof  of  a  vir- 
tue be) cud  the  reach  of  womankind. 

"Ah  Kcbby,"  said  his  father,  "  Tm 
afraid  womcu  are  the  best.  Anyhow,  I 
hope  you* /J  I  If  ^\  up  to  be  some  good  in 
the  world.    /ainU  much." 

*'  You're  the  best  old  paps  that  ever 
was,"  shouted  Bobby  indignantly,  as  he 
darted  off  once  more,  leaving  Sissy  to 
enjoy  the,  in  his  eyes,  very  tame  delight 
of  recounting  all  the  marvellous  exploits 
which  Bluey  had  performed  since  the 
morning.  Bobby  was  very  fond  of  his 
little  sister,  and  never  tormented  her  kit- 
ten intentionally,  but  still  he  looked  upon 
them  both  as,  in  different  measures, 
Jnferio!.  animals.  Positive  —  cat;  com- 
parative —  girl ;  superlative  —  boy ;  were 
Bobby's  dwgrees  of  comparison. 

Genetally  Sunday  was  a  bright  day 
with  Teddy.  He  could  spend  the  whole 
day  with  his  family  without  any  prickings 
of  conscience.  On  other  days  he  felt  in- 
ferior to  his  male  neighbors  who  were 
getting  on  in  the  world  indefinitely  useful 
callings,  but  on  that  day  he  could  do  at 
least  as  much  for  his  children  as  any  of 
them  could  do  for  theirs.  Even  Mrs. 
Cole  made  Sunday  a  iiics  non  to  care. 
The  day  was,  so  to  speak,  a  little  island 
in  the  poor  woman's  life,  on  which  she 
reposed  gratefully  after  her  tossing  on 
the  week<iay  sea.  Stockings  then  ceased 
from  troubling,  snd  account-books  were  at 


rest.  She  and  hers  could  worship  God 
on  equal  terms  with  their  most  prosperous 
neighbors;  and  on  Sundays  it  was  not 
necessary  to  keep  up  her  usual  silent  or 
hinted  protest  ag^ainst  the  uselessness  of 
her  husband.  It  could  stand  at  ease  until 
Monday  morning  came.  He  could  not  be 
working  for  his  family  on  Sunday,  poor 
fellow. 

This  change  of  attitude  was  very  agree* 
able  to  Teddy,  who  for  six  days  and  nights 
had  constantly  to  be  on  his  guard  lest  he 
should  provoke  .the  looked  or  uttered 
scorn  of  the  **  porcupine  "  he  had  taken  to 
his  bosom  —  as  Teddy  sometimes,  men- 
tally only,  characterized  Mrs.  Cole,  when 
his  wife's  behavior  had  stung  him  into  a 
secret  outburst  of  poetry,  or  at  least  im- 
passioned prose.  But  on  this  Sunday 
Mrs.  Cole  happened  to  be  so  especially  — 
not  exactly  cheerful,  but  non-gloomy,  that 
Teddy  lost  much  of  the  peace  of  bis  Sun- 
day, owing  to  his  compunction  at  the 
thought  of  the  fresh  trouble  which  he  felt 
sure  was  hanging  over  her  and  every  one 
belonging  to  him. 

Before  the  year  was  out  his  forebod- 
ings were  verified.  Teddv  received  pay 
for  two  quarters  instead  of  one  on  Christ- 
mas Eve,  and  an  intimation  that  his  com- 
mittee no  longer  required  his  services. 
Mr.  Spott  had  been  making  himself  most 
unpleasantly  —  most  impertinently,  the 
committee  thought  —  busy  in  his  inqui* 
ries  into  the  administration  of  the  Fund, 
and  they  had  determined,  at  any  rate,  to 
get  rid  of  their  secretarv.  When  the 
chairman  gave  his  old  friend  his  dis- 
missal, he  spoke  in  an  annoyed,  distant 
tone,  which  made  Teddy  afraid  to  ask 
him  to  use  his  influence  to  procure  him 
another  situation. 

Teddy  looked  very  terrified  when  he 
first  learned  that  he  was  to  be  sent  adrift ; 
then  he  felt  glad  that  he  was  free  from  the 
Lisbon,  anyhow,  once  more  an  honestly 
hard-working  man  in  passe;  then  doubts 
troubled  him  as  to  the  in  fore^  and  he 
once  more  became  downcast;  and  then 
the  thought  that  when  he  had  paid  his 
Christmas  bills  —  at  least,  such  propor- 
tion of  them  as  he  usually  paid  on  ac- 
count —  he  would  still  have  a  quarter's 
salary  in  his  pocket,  once  more  raised  . 
his  spirits,  and  he  determined  to  say  noth- 
ing about  what  had  happened  until  his 
little  Christmas  holidays  were  over.  The 
frosty  air,  plus  money  not  immediately 
wanted,  braced  him  up. 

"  Who  can  tell  what  may  happen  before 
then?  *It's  a  poor  soul  that  never  re- 
joices,' "  said  Teddy;  and  on  the  strength 


Soo 


MR.   EDWIN   COLE. 


of  his  quarter's  salary  in  Ilea  of  a  quarter's 
notice,  he  bought  his  wife  and  children 
Christmas  presents  which  astonished 
them,  and  gave  his  little  maiden  of  the 
period,  when  she  was  summoned  into 
the  little  parlor  on  the  stroke  of  twelve 
to  drink  to  Father  Christmas's  arrival  a 
glassful  of  hot  elder  wine,  a^vChristmas 
box  which  made  her  reproach' herself  for 
having  ever  called  him  Teddy  in  con- 
tempt, however  kindly.  But  as  the  end  of 
his  regular  holiday  drew  near,  and  Teddy 
called  to  mind  how  long  his  vacation 
might  continue,  he  could  no  longer  keep 
up  his  Christmas-  cheeriness.  The  even- 
ing before  the  day  on  which,  in  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  things,  he  would  have 
returned  to  business,  he  was  so  low-spir- 
ited that,  when  the  children  had  gone  to 
bed,  his  wife  cross-examined  him,  and 
discovered  the  secret  of  his  depression. 

"  My  words,  then,  have  come  true,  Mr. 
Cole,"  she  exclaimed.  "  We  may  as  well 
hand  over  the  little  money  we  have  left  to 
the  parish,  and  go  into  the  house  at  once. 
To  think  that  a  man  with  a  wife  and  fam- 
ily, who  has  lost  his  situation  through  his 
own  fault,  should  for  a  whole  fortnight 
have  been  playing  like  a  baby,  instead  of 
rushing  about,  leaving  no  stone  unturned 
to  get  a  crust  to  save  his  poor  children 
from  starving !  After  all,  though,  it  does 
not  matter ;  it  would  have  done  no  good. 
It  is  plain  to  me  that  you  will  never  get  a 
situation  again,  now  that  you  have  thrown 
away  the  one  you  had.  I  alwavs  said 
how  it  would  be,  and  now  my  woras  have 
come  true." 

"  Make  a  good  breakfast  whilst  you  can 
get  one,  my  poor  children,"  said  Mrs. 
Cole  next  morning,  looking  sternly  at 
Teddy,  who  had  been  feeding  Bluey,  as  if 
the  toast  he  gave  her  were  bread  literally 
taken  out  of  his  children's  mouths. 

The  children  looked  puzzled. 

*' Your  father  is  not  going  to  business 
to-day,"  Mrs.  Cole  explained. 

"Hooray!"  shouted  Bobby.  "Then 
you  can  rig  my  ship,  paps ! " 

"  Your  lather  has  no  business  to  go  to 
any  longer,  unfortunate  child,"  Mrs.  Cole 
further  explained. 

Poor  little  Teddy  soon  rushed  out  in 
search  of  one. 

For  some  weeks  Teddy  kept  up  his 
heart  and  hope,  and  zigzagged  about  like 
a  cracker,  in  search  of  situations.  As  a 
hen  will  ruffle  up  her  feathers  against  a 
hawk  in  defence  of  her  young  ones,  so 
Teddy,  to  find  food  for  his,  although  nat- 
urally one  of  the  quietest  and  most  modest 
of  little  men,  plucked  up  courage  to  go  in 


for  appointments  the  most  inharmonious 
with  his  idiosyncrasy  and  accomplish- 
ments. A  county  chief  -  constableship, 
with  a  horse  and  forage,  a  City  editorship, 
a  West  End  club  secretaryship,  and  a 
West  Coast  of  African  Education  direc- 
torship, were  some  of  the  posts  he  applied 
for.  He  was  very  disappointed  when  he 
did  not  get  the  last.  The  climate  was  so 
deadly  that  he  thought  he  would  have  no 
competitors,  and  get  a  comfortable  pen- 
sion for  his  wife  and  children,  who  were 
to  be  left  at  home  during  his  brief  tenure 
of  office  — perchance,  if  exceptionally  for- 
tunate, might  obtain  a  retiring  pension 
which  he  could  share  with  them  ;  and  he 
had  thought  also  that,  however  limited 
his  literary  acquirements  might  be,  he 
could,  at  any  rate,  see  that  little  black 
boys  got  their  ABC  taught  them  prop- 
erly. 

But  as  his  money  melted  away,  together 
with  the  snow,  he  lost  his  hopefulness. 
The  promise  of  spring  brought  him  no 
promise  of  employment.  He  had  tried 
for  it  right  and  left  in  vain.  It  seemed 
no  good  to  go  out  any  more,  and  yet  what 
good  could  he  do  by  staying  at  home? 
He  moped  too  much  now  to  be  any  amuse- 
ment to  the  children,  and  felt  doubly  use- 
less when  sitting  still  in  the  presence  of 
his.  wife,  whose  hands  were  never  idle. 

One  day  he  was  mooning  along  in  the 
Strand,  glancing  enviously  at  the  scores 
who  passed  him  rapidly  on  business  er- 
rands, when  whom  should  he  see  but  Mr. 
Francis  Spott ! 

When  first  dismissed,  with  money  m 
his  pocket  and  hope  in  his  heart,  Teddy« 
it  has  been  said,  had  felt  almost  grateful 
to  that  gentleman  for  having  been  the 
means  of  delivering  him  from  his  false 
position  in  the  office  of  the  Lisbon,  but  it 
was  with  very  different  feelings  that  he 
now  regarded  him. 

Mr.  Spott,  however,  recognized  and 
spoke  kindly  to  Teddv,  and  tinding  how 
matters  stood,  invitee!  him  to  step  to 
Sepulchre  Chambers,  hard  by. 

"Why  didn't  you  apply  to  me,  Mr. 
Cole?"  said  .Mr.  Spot t.  "Don't  you  re- 
member 1  told  you  to  refer  to  me  ?  I  took 
for  granted  that  your  friend  had  given  or 
found  you  a  new  situation  long  ago.  Well, 
as  I  was  the  means  of  your  losing  your 
last,  I  should  have  been  glad  under  any 
circumstances  to  have  fallen  in  with  you, 
and  just  now  it  is  a  great  convenience  to 
me.  Minding  other  people's  .business 
involves  me  in  a  great  deal  of  correspon- 
dence. I'm  not  big  gun  enough  to  talk 
about  keeping  a  private  secretary,  but  I 


SIR   MOSES   MONTEFIORE. 


sot 


waDt  a  confidential  corresponding:  clerk, 
and  you  would  be  just  the  man  for  me,  if 
you  would  take  the  place.  Mind,  it  isn't 
made  for  you ;  I  shall  expect  good  dona 
fide  work  —  longtsh  hours  at  times  —  but 
I  can  afford  to  give  you  a  trifle  more  than 
you  got  from  your  Relief  Fund.  You  can 
begin  to-day  —  at  once,  if  you  like." 

1  scarcely  need  add  that  Teddy's  pen 
was  soon  scratching  on  Mr.  Spott's  paper. 
When  office  hours  were  over,  he  trotted 
to  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.  Mrs.  Cole  had 
long  pointed  out  with  martyr  like  resigna 
tion  the  shabbiness  of  her  bonnet,  and  in 
a  shop  in  the  Churchyard  Teddy  had  no- 
ticed one  which  had  excited  his  wish  to 
buy  it  for  her,  much  as  he  might  have  de- 
sired to  purchase  a  bright  particular  star. 

Now,  however,  Teddy  bore  it  off  in  a 
box  in  triumph,  and  bearing  also  a  bag  of 
buns,  almost  as  big  as  a  small  corn-sack, 
for  the  youngsters,  he  indulged  in  the 
farther  extravagance  of  taking  an  omni- 
bus from  the  city.  When  Teddy  emptied 
the  bun-bag  like  a  shower-bath  on  the 
tea-table,  and  hung  the  peerless  bonnet 
on  his  wife's  comb,  she  thought  he  had 
gone  mad. 

**  And  have  you  actually  been  spending 
money  on  bonnets  and  buns,  when  your 
poor  children  may  soon  be  wanting  bread, 
Mr.  Cote.^"  she  exclaimed. 

*'A11  right,  my  dear!"  he  answered, 
with  unwonted  confidence,  feeling  himself 
master  of  the  situation.  "  I'll  look  after 
the  children.  Here's  a  bun  for  Bluey, 
Sissy;  and  now  put  the  bonnet  on  prop- 
erly, my  dear,  and  tell  me  how  you  like  it." 

But  tirst  Teddy  had  to  tell  his  news. 

*'  Oh,  thank  God ! "  sobbed  his  poor 
wife;  and  for  the  first  time  during  her 
married  life,  she  indulged  in  the  weakness 
of  a  public  flood  of  tears. 

Although  it  was  stocking-darning  night, 
and  the  stockings  were  not  neglected,  it 
seemed  to  Teddy  as  if  old  times  had  come 
again,  as  he  sat  chatting  with  his  wife 
over  the  imposing  but  gradually  sinking 
pile.  Richard  Rowe. 


From  The  Times,  Oct.  aa  and  aj. 
SIR  MOSES  MONTEFIORE. 

On  Wednesday  next,  the  24th  inst.  Sir 
Moses  Montefiore  enters  on  his  hun- 
dredth year.  It  is  nearly  flfty  years  since 
he  was  sheriff  of  London,  an  important 
distinction  in  his  case,  in  1837,  in  theflrst 
year  of  the  queen's  reign,  when  Catholic 
emancipation  was  only  eight  years  old, 


and  Jewish  Parliamentary  disabilities  had 
still  before  them  a  twenty-one  years'  lease 
of  life.  Although  Sir  Moses  Montefiore 
earned  half  a  century  ago,  by  his  personal 
activity,  the  right  to  be  honored,  not  only 
as  a  philanthropist,  but  as  among  the  flrst 
who  proved  that  the  Hebrew  religion  was 
no  bar  to  positions  of  public  usefulness, 
he  has  now  lived  to  so  great  an  age,  en- 
joying universal  respect,  that  it  is  his  lon- 
gevity which  most  strikes  the  mind. 

Whatever  may  be  the  history  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  Monteflores  to  Italy,  the  flrst 
fact  as  to  which  the  tradition  of  the  family 
is  clear  and  undoubting  is  that  they  settled 
in  Leghorn.  The  wise  tolerance  of  the 
Medici  had  raised  this  city  from  an  ob- 
scure town  to  one  of  the  greatest  ports  of 
Italy;  and  the  Jews  were  so  influential  in 
its  markets  that  a  writer  in  the  early  part  of 
the  eighteenth  century  could  relate  that 
the  inhabitants  generally,  Jew  and  Gentile, 
observed  the  Jewish  Sabbath  as  a  day  of 
rest  from  business.  The  Jews  had  their 
cemetery  near  the  glacis,  where  Protes- 
tants and  Turks  were  also  permitted,  by 
the  unusual  favor  of  the  Catholic  rulers,  to 
bury  their  dead.  Israelites  wore  no  yel- 
low gaberdine  or  other  distinctive  badge, 
an  exemption  noted  by  travellers  of  those 
days  who  could  not  And  a  parallel  to  it 
anywhere,  except  in  Amsterdam  and  Lon- 
don. The  Jewish  population  pf  Leghorn 
was  estimated  at  ten  thousand  towards  the 
end  of  the  seventeenth  century ;  in  our 
own  time  the  Leghorn  Jews  have  migrated 
to  other  parts  of  free  Italy,  but  still  num- 
ber seven  thousand  in  the  Tuscan  port. 
The  birth  of  Moses  Monteflore  in  Leg- 
horn on  October  24,  1784,  is  attested  by 
the  register  of  the  congregation,  which, 
according  to  the  copy  of  it  recently  quoted 
by  us  from  the  ytwish  Chronicle^  places 
it  on  the  9th  of  the  Hebrew  month  Hesh- 
van  in  that  year.  The  venerable  baronet 
himself  is  accustomed  to  celebrate  his 
birthday  on  the  8th  of  the  same  month, 
and  the  discrepancy  is  explained  by  sup- 
posing that  he  was  born  after  the  hour  of 
sunset  on  the  8th.  It  appears  from  the 
entry  that  the  philanthropist's  full  name 
was  Moses  Haim  Monteflore.  Monte- 
flore's  grandfather,  Moses  Vita  Monte- 
flore, had  already  settled  in  England,  the 
father  and  mother  of  the  philanthropist 
lived  in  London  and  were  in  Italy  merely 
on  a  journey  when  their  eldest  son,  Moses, 
was  born  to  them  at  Leghorn.  The  sec- 
ond name  of  the  grandfather  (Vita)  is  a 
translation  of  the  same  common  Jewish 
name  Haim,  or  Hyam  (in  English  *'  Life  '*) 
which  was  the  grandson's  second  name. 


S02 


SIR  MOSES  MONTEFIORE. 


Moses  Vita  Montefiore,  the  grandfather 
of  Sir  Moses,  married  a  young  wife  in 
Leghorn  in  1752,  and  settled  in  England 
as  a  merchant  trading  with  Italy.  He 
lived  and  died  in  Philpot  Lane  in  the 
heart  of  the  city  of  London,  after  having 
become  the  father  of  a  family  worthy  of 
the  patriarchs  —  seventeen  children.  He 
had  a  country  retreat  in  the  then  suburban 
district  of  Bethnal  Green.  The  most  fa- 
mous of  the  children  of  Moses  Vita  Mon- 
tefiore  was  Joshua  Montefiore,  who  served 
in  the  British  army,  took  part  in  the  unfor- 
tunate expedition  to  Bulam,  Sierra  Leone, 
became  a  notary,  wrote  the  "  Commercial 
Dictionary,"  and  other  notarial  and  legal 
works,  and  settled  in  the  United  States. 
Joseph  Elias  Montefiore,  another  of  the 
sons,  was  a  merchant  in  London,  dealt 
chiefly  with  Italy,  and  had  a  specialty  for 
Leghorn  straw  bonnets.  He  married 
Rachel,  daughter  of  Abraham  Mocatta, 
one  of  a  well-known  family  of  Hispano* 
Moorish  Jews„  founders  of  the  bullion 
house  of  Mocatta  and  Goldsmid.  Joseph 
Elias   Montefiore  went  to   Italy  to  buy 

foods ;  his  young  wife  persuadea  her  hus- 
and  to  take  her  with  him.  Moses  Mo- 
catta, her  brother,  accompanied  them. 
Mrs.  Montefiore  gave  birth  at  Leghorn 
(on  the  24th  of  October,  1784)  to  Moses 
Montefiore,  who  was  the  eldest  of  a  family 
of  eight  children.  The  parents  of  Moses 
Montefiore  were  persons  of  moderate 
means ;  he  left  school  earl^,  and  went  into 
business  in  the  City.  His  parents  lived 
at  Kennington,  and  young  Montefiore,  in 
the  days  when  the  French  invasion  was 
thought  imminent,  enrolled  himself  as  a 
volunteer  in  the  Surrey  Militia.  He  at- 
tained the  rank  of  captain.  Moses  Mon- 
tefiore was  a  tall  and  handsome  young 
man  of  amiable  and  engaging  disposition, 
and  his  personal  popularity  aided  him  in 
the  career  which  he  ultimately  chose  — 
that  of  the  Stock  Exchange  -^  where 
much  depends  upon  the  opinion  which 
**  the  House  "  as  a  body  forms  of  its  mem- 
bers. Moses  Montefiore  was  first,  how- 
ever, apprenticed  to  a  firm  dealing  largely 
In  the  provision  trade.  He  entered  the 
Stock  Exchange,  and  became  one  of  the 
twelve  Jewish  brokers  licensed  by  the 
City.  Acting  as  a  broker  without  the  li- 
cense, though  a  not  uncommon  practice 
then  as  now,  subjected  and  subjects  the 
offender  to  a  fine  of  j£50o,  payable  to  the 
City  chamberlain  for  every  transaction. 
In  181 2  he  made  a  very  happy  marriage. 
It  was  also  a  union  which  showed  his  in- 
dependence of  mind  and  superiority  to 
the  prejudices  which  then  prevailed.    His 


family  had  joined,  as  Immigrants  from 
Italy  usually  did  join,  the  Sephardim  or 
Spanish  Congregation.  He,  however,  wed- 
ded an  Ashkenazi  or  German  Jewess. 
The  line  of  demarcation  between  the  two 
"  nations,"  as  they  were  called,  was  thea 
strongly  marked,  they  had  but  recently 
agreed  to  meet  together  .to  assert  their 
common  interests  as  Jews  in  the  Board  of 
Deputies,  and  marriages  between  them 
were  still  infrequent.  Judith,  afterwards 
Lady  Montefiore,  the  daughter  of  Levy 
Barent  Cohen,  a  wealthy  and  benevolent 
London  merchant,  was  a  person  of  culti- 
vated mind,  much  industry,  and  literary 
attainments.  She  entertained  for  her  hus* 
band,  as  may  be  seen  from  her  interesting 
diaries  privately  printed  of  the  journeys  to 
the  East  which  she  undertook  with  biro, 
the  deepest  admiration  and  a£Eection.  To 
her  her  husband  bowed  his  head  afiec* 
tionately  every  Sabbath  eve,  as  he  recited 
in  prayer  the  words  from  Proverbs, 
**  Many  daughters  have  done  virtuously, 
but  thou  excellest  them  all."  The  death 
of  Lady  Montefiore  on  September  25, 
1862,  was  a  great  blow  to  her  husband. 
He  built  in  her  memory  a  college  at  Rams- 
gate,  where  veteran  rabbis,  maintained 
by  his  benevolence,  pass  their  lives  ia 
prayer  and  study  of  the  law.  He  also 
founded  in  her  memory  prizes  and  schol- 
arships for  girls  and  boys  at  all  the  Jew- 
ish public  schools.  The  Jewish  comma- 
nity  established  in  her  honor  the  Judith 
Lady  Montefiore  Convalescent  Home  at 
South  Norwood.  The  beloved  helpmate 
and  companion  of  fifty  years  was  buried  at 
Ramsgate,  close  by  the  Synagogue,  on  the 
landward  side  of  the  ridge  of  a  high  cliff, 
overlooking  the  sea;  the  mausoleuna 
which  encloses  her  reibains  is  an  exact 
copy  of  the  tomb  of  Rachel,  which  stands 
on  the  road  from  Bethlehem  to  Jerusa- 
lem.   Within  it  burns  a  perpetual  lamp. 

Lady  Montefiore*s  sister  Hannah 
(whose  name  is  preserved  in  the  family  by 
Lady  Roseberry)  had  married  Mr.  N.  M. 
Rothschild,  the  able  son  of  the  first  fi^eat 
financier  of  Frankfort,  and  himself  the 
founder  of  the  English  house  of  Roths- 
child. Abraham  Montefiore,  a  brother  of 
Sir  Moses,  his  partner  in  business  on  the 
Stock  Exchange,  wedded  as  his  second 
wife,  Henrietta,  the  sister  of  N.  M.  Roths- 
child, and  thus  there  was  a  triple  bond 
of  union  between  the  families.  Mr.  N. 
M.  Rothschild  lived  in  New  Court,  St. 
Swithin's  Lane.  Montefiore  dwelt  in  an- 
other house  in  New  Court,  and  there  was 
warm  friendship  between  the  two  families. 
Mr.  Rothschild  admitted  his  wife's  broth- 


SIR  MOSES  MONTEFIORE. 


503 


ers-in-law  to  a  participattoo  in  his  gi^ntic 
and  well-devised  enterprises.  He  was 
the  first  man  in  England  to  have  news  of 
the  escape  from  Elba,  and  the  battle  of 
Waterloo;  his  pigeon-post  from  Dover 
brought  early  intelligence  of  every  impor- 
tant Continental  event,  and  he  purchased 
Consols  when  the  market  was  throwing 
them  away.  The  European  wars,  and  the 
first  French  indemnity,  gave  financiers  of 
ability  opportunities  of  acquiring  fortunes 
with  unexampled  speed.  Abraham  Mon- 
tefiore  died  very  wealthy.  He  had  plunged 
deeper  into  the  speculations  of  the  Stock 
exchange  than  his  brother  Moses  Monte- 
fiore,  who  had  the  prudence  to  leave  that 
dangerous  arena  with  a  sufHcient  fortune, 
and  retired  from  business  in  the  midway 
of  life,  as  Benjamin  Disraeli  the- elder  had 
in  the  previous  century.  **  Thank  God, 
be  content,"  said  his  beloved  wife,  and  he 
obeyed  her.  He  took  a  continued  inter- 
est in  two  or  three  great  companies  of 
which  he  was  a  principal  founder.  Sir 
Moses  MonteAore  was  the  first  president 
of  the  Alliance  British  and  Foreign  Life 
and  Fire  Insurance  Company  (established 
with  the  aid  of  special  legislation  in  1824), 
and  of  the  Alliance  Marine  Assurance 
Company,  founded  in  the  same  year,  but 
registered  as  a  limited  company  in  i83i. 
He  has  told  the  story  of  the  foundation  of 
the  Alliance.  The  Guardian  office  had 
been  successfully  set  on  foot  in  1821,  but 
the  number  of  insurance  offices  in  London 
and  Westminster  was  still  very  small  com- 
pared with  the  present  list.  Mr.  N.  M. 
Rothschild  had  some  shares  in  the  Guar- 
dian, and  as  he  was  going  one  day  to  the 
office  to  receive  dividends  Montefiore 
walked  with  him.  The  conversation 
turned  on  the  nature  and  development  of 
insurance  business,  they  agreed  that  their 
own  friends  could  supply  a  useful  clien- 
/^//,  and  on  the  suggestion  mainly  of 
Montefiore,  the  two  allies  resolved  to 
form  a  new  insurance  company.  Mr. 
Samuel  Gurney  was  one  -of  their  first 
recruits.  He  brought  a  valuable  Quaker 
connection,  and  the  first  directorate  com- 
prised many  of  the  names  best  known  in 
the  city.  The  office  profited  by  a  curious 
fact  in  vital  statistics,  which  was  at  that 
time  not  generally  understood.  Its  life 
policies  naturally  included  a  good  many 

iewish  lives,  admitted  at  rates  determined 
y  ordinary  actuarial  tables.  It  has  now 
been  ascertained  that,  owing  either  to 
their  temperance  and  their  dietary  laws, 
or  to  other  causes,  the  average  longevity 
of  Jews  is  somewhat  greater  than  that  of 
the  rest  of  the   population   in   western  | 


Europe.  An  insurance  office  which  had  a 
large  number  of  such  clients  would,  there- 
fore, start  with  a  certain  advantage,  since 
the  longer  the  life  of  the  insured  the  bet- 
ter is,  of  course,  the  bargain  for  the  office. 
The  Imperial  Continental  Gas  Associa- 
tion, which  extended  the  system  of  gas- 
lighting  to  the  principal  European  cities, 
was  another  of  Sir  Moses  Montefiore's 
foundations.  It  is  now  one  of  the  most 
prosperous  of  commercial  undertakings, 
but  for  many  years  Sir  Moses  accepted 
not  a  penny  of  profit,  and  he  was  often 
pressed  to  bring  its  operations  to  an  end. 
Sir  Moses,  however,  had  faith  in  the  fu- 
ture, and  retains  the  shares  which  were 
originally  allotted  to  him.  Of  the  institu- 
tions mentioned  he  is  still  president,  and 
gives  an  annual  dinner  to  all  those  em- 
ployed in  the  London  establishments  of 
these  societies.  Sir  Moses  Montefiore 
was  also  one  of  the  original  directors  of 
the  Provincial  Bank  of  Ireland,  which  was 
established  in  1825  to  take  advantage  of 
the  removal  of  restrictions  on  banking  in 
Ireland,  ellected  by  an  act  of  1824.  In 
his  capacity  of  president  and  a  trustee  of 
the  Alliance  Company,  Sir  Moses  Monte- 
fiore's  name  comes  often  into  the  law  re- 
ports. Thus  he  was  (with  Mr.  Samuel 
Gurney)  an  appellant  in  the  case  of 
*'  Montefiore  v.  Brown  "  in  the  House  of 
Lords  in  1858,  which  was  really  a  suit  be- 
tween the  Alliance  Company  and  other 
incumbrancers  on  Lord  Oranmore*s  es- 
tates; and  was  plaintiff  in  the  action  of 
Montefiore  t/.  Lloyd  "  in  1863  —  an  action 
brought  by  the  Alliance  Company  to  en- 
force a  bond  for  the  fidelity  of  an  agent. 
In  this  case  his  nephew,  Mr.  Arthur  Co- 
hen, now  Q.C.  and  M.P.,  for  many  years 
standing  counsel  to  the  Alliance  Com- 
pany, held  one  of  his  earliest  important 
briefs,  being  junior  to  the  late  Lord  Jus- 
tice Lush. 

Sir  Moses  Montefiore's  candidature  for 
the  shrievalty  repeated  the  success  of  his 
friend,  the  late  Sir  David  Salomons,  who 
was  sherifiE  in  1835,  but  had  been  unable 
to  take  the  oaths  till  Lord  Campbell 
passed  a  special  act  to  relieve  him,  as 
Lyndhurst  did  with  a  like  object  ten  years 
later,  when  the  sheriff  of  1835  became 
Alderman  Salomons.  It  was  not  till  1858 
that  Baron  Liooel  de  Rothschild,  who  had 
been  repeatedly  returned  by  the  City,  was 
allowed  to  take  his  seat  in  Parliament. 
The  accession  of  the  queen  in  the  year 
(1837)  in  which  Sir  Moses  served  as 
sherifiE  for  London  and  Middlesex  se- 
cured him  the  honor  of  knighthood.  The 
young  Princess  Victoria  had  often,  while 


494 


MR,  EDWIN   COLE. 


tee  no  lonorer  gave  relief  in  kind ;  adding, 
in  his  replies  to  the  wine-merchants,  that 
even  if  this  had  not  been  the  case,  his 
committee,  with  every  desire  to  further 
the  interests  of  their  fellow-citizens,  being 
bound  to  administer  the  fund  at  their  dis- 
posal on  principles  of  rigid  economy, 
would  have  considered  it  advisable  to 
purchase  wine  on  the  spot  in  Portugal. 
Having  spread  out  his  "  correspondence  *' 
on  the  office-table,  to  catch  the  eye  of  any 
one  who  might  chance  to  call,  he  sat  down 
before  the  ^re  to  read  his  paper  —  which 
also  he  considered  to  be,  in  a  sense,  an 
official  duty. 

Such  portions  in  his  journal  as  inter- 
ested him,  and  some  which  did  not  (in- 
cluding the  City  article,  read  only  from  a 
sense  of  official  propriety),  having  been 
very  leisurely  perused,  Teddy  wrote  a 
private  letter.  He  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  the  office-addressed  paper 
and  envelope;  but  though  he  carried  on 
his  private  correspondence  at  the  office, 
he  was  too  scrupulous  to  charge  it  with 
his  privately  used  postage  stamps.  Then 
Teddy  glanced  at  the  dusty  yellow  map  of 
Spain  and  Portugal,  which  hung  upon  a 
side  wall,  and  studied,  for  the  thousandth 
time,  the  dim,  blotched,  and  freckled  view 
of  Lisbon,  which  held  the  place  of  honor 
over  the  mantel  piece. 

That  faded  old  print  had  a  fascination 
for  Teddy,  since  he  seemed  really  to  be- 
long to  Lisbon  rather  than  to  London ;  if 
the  office  had  been  located  on  the  banks 
of  the  Tagus  instead  of  on  those  of  the 
Thames,  Teddy  used  to  fancy  that  it  and 
he  could  have  asserted  a  better  right  to 
be.  He  was  not  much  of  a  student,  but 
he  had  carefully  got  up  the  history  of  the 
great  catastrophe  to  which  he  was  indebt- 
ed for  his  official  existence ;  and  had  so 
frequently  related  its  thrilling  incidents  to 
his  children  that  some  of  the  younger 
ones,  not  troubled  by  considerations  of 
chronology,  had  a  hazy  faith  that  their 
father  had  narrowly  escaped  being  swal- 
lowed up,  either  by  soil  or  sea,  during  the 
earthquake.  Musing  over  the  mystery  of 
the  **  Providence  "  by  which,  owing  to  the 
destruction  of  thousands  on  that  distant 
bright  November  day,  he  and  his  were 
provided  with  food  on  the  bright  No- 
vember day  that  was  passing  by,  he 
remembered  that  it  was  time  for  his 
midday  meal,  and  accordingly  produced 
from  his  little  black  bag  a  little  newspaper 
packet  of  home  provender,  which  he  ate, 
so  to  speak,  upon  the  sly;  keeping  the 
bag  beside  him  with  still  open  jaws,  in 
readiness  to  bide  from  view  the  very  un- 


official looking  refreshment,  in  case  any 
one  should  knock  at  the  door.  Teddy 
always  brought  his  "dinner"  with  him 
from  home,  and  it  was  always  cold ;  but 
on  rare  occasions,  when  it  was  of  a  little 
less  miscellaneous  nature  than  usual, 
Teddy  laid  a  cloth  —  Le*  spread  his  news- 
paper—  on  the  Board-room  table,  carried 
in  the  office  water-bottle  and  glass,  and 
took  his  repast,  as  being  secure  from  in- 
terruption, in  a  slightly  more  dignified 
and  comfortable  fashion.  One  of  his  win- 
dows opened  on  a  leaden  gutter,  much 
frequented  by  sparrows.  As  usual,  Teddy 
threw  out  his  crumbs  to  them  ;  they  were 
the  only  pensioners  to  whom  he  could 
afford  to  be  liberal  on  a  large  scale,  and 
he  took  great  delight  in  this  daily  bene- 
faction. And  then,  suspending  from  his 
bell-pull  a  card  which  announced  that  he 
would  be  '*  back  in  an  hour,"  he  started 
for  a  walk. 

Wet  or  fine,  he  took  this  walk  between 
one  and  two.  Although  he  would  often 
much  rather  have  stayed  within  doors, 
since  he  had  plenty  of  walking  between 
the  office  and  his  home,  he  thought  it 
necessary  for  the  preservation  of  his  offi- 
cial respectability  to  go  out  regularly  at 
this  time,  in  order  that  he  might  impress 
Mrs.  Slack  and  his  co-inmates  with  a  be- 
lief that  he  took  luncheCn  or  dinner  at  a 
restaurant. 

Teddy  walked  to  St.  Paul's  Churchyard, 
and  dined  with  Duke  Humphrey.  The 
fine,  full  shops,  the  towering  warehouses, 
the  crush  of  vehicles,  the  crowds  of  busy 
passengers  —  in  short,  the  signs  of  wealth 
and  earnest  work  he  saw  while  he  was  out, 
again  made  him  dissatisfied  with  his  own 
pinched,  make-believe  life.  When  he  had 
taken  down  his  card,  opened  his  letter- 
box and  found  it  empty,  and  again  seated 
himself  before  the  fire  with  his  paper  in 
his  hand,  he  felt  as  sour  as  it  was  possi- 
ble for  so  kindly-natured  a  little  man  to 
be. 

Perhaps  because  he  had  so  seldom  an 
opportunity  of  indulging  in  it,  he  thought 
giving  about  the  greatest  luxury  in  life. 
He  was  very  fond  of  his  children,  and  he 
was  calling  to  mind  how  he  had  seen  a 
little  posse  of  toy-laden  children  issuing 
from  the  shop  at  the  corner  of  Paternoster 
Row,  accompanied  by  a  smiling  lady,  also 
toy-laden,  who  might  have  been  their 
mamma,  and  afiorid,  broad-smiling  gentle- 
man with  bulged-out  pockets,  turned  into 
a  beast  of  burden  for  boxes  and  balls,  who 
might  have  been  their  bachelor  uncle  from 
the  country. 

**  Ah  I  I  wish  I  could  give  my  children 


MR,   EDWIN   COLE, 


49S 


toys  like  that,"  thought  poor  little  Teddy. 
**  I'm  as  fond  of  'em  as  any  man  can  be  of 
his  kids ;  but  it's  precious  little  I  can 
give  'em,  except  rides  on  my  back.  Weil, 
anyhow,  I  might  cut  them  out  something." 

Selecting  some  of  the  stoutest  prospec- 
tuses lying  on  his  table,  he  tore  off  the 
blank  leaves,  took  a  pair  of  scissors  out 
of  his  drawer,  and  proceeded  to  fashion 
horses,  donkeys,  dogs,  and  cows  with  split 
heads  and  tails,  elephants  with  double 
trunks,  beaux  with  two  walking-sticks, 
belles  with  two  parasols,  sailors,  High- 
landers, and  rows  of  verv  dumpy  little 
boys  and  girls,  dancing  nand  in  hand, 
some  of  whom  would  persist  in  coming 
into  existence  with  but  one  leg  and  arm, 
and  only  half  a  head.  He  was  so  ab- 
sorbed in  inking  in  saddles  and  bridles, 
kilts,  plaids,  belts,  neckerchiefs,  curls, 
eyes,  and  other  features,  that  when  a 
knock  came  at  the  door  he  unthinkingly 
answered,  "  Come  in,"  without  looking  up 
from  his  work. 

'*  I  hope  I  don't  intrude ;  you  seem 
busy,"  said  a  voice  that  made  Teddy  start 
and  hastily  pull  his  newspaper  over  his 
very  unofficial  specimens  of  penmanship. 

It  was  not  exactly  an  unkind  voice,  but 
very  cool,  keen,  and  direct  in  its  utter- 
ances —  a  **  no-nonsense  "  voice  that  made 
Teddy  wince  when  he  heard  it. 

He  had  often  thought  that  one  day  or 
other  the  sham  of  his  secretaryship  would 
be  publicly  exposed,  and  now  he  felt  al- 
most sure  that  it  had  come. 

**  I  will  wait,  if  you  are  very  much  oc- 
cupied, or  call  again ;  mine  is  not  exactly 
office  business,"  said  the  new-comer  in  a 
tone  that  was  still  ironical,  but  still  a  little 
kindlier  than  before,  as  if  he  had  found  a 
more  harmless,  helpless  species  of  hum- 
bug than  the  one  he  had  expected,  and 
felt  a  little  compunction  at  the  thought 
that  he  had  come  with  the  intention  of 
convicting  it  out  of  its  own  mouth.  ^'*  The 
fact  is,  Mr.  Cole,"  he  went  on,  when  he 
had  taken  the  chair  which  Teddy  deferen- 
tially offered  him,  'M'm  an  old  bachelor, 
with  so  little  business  of  my  own  to  mind, 
perhaps  unfortunately,  that  to  fill  up  my 
time  1  am  obliged  to  mind  other  people's. 
My  name  is  Spott,  Francis  Spott,  No.  5, 
Sepulchre  Buildings,  Outer  Temple.  I've 
a  craze  for  charitable  archaeology ;  at  any 
rate,  the  history  of  ancient  chanties  — 
doles  paid  down  on  old  tombstones,  money 
left  to  free  slaves  in  Barbary,  and  'pren- 
tice parish  boys  and  portion  servant  girls, 
and  things  of  that  sort.  It  was  only  very 
lately  that  I  heard  that  your  Fund  was  in 
ei^istence.    Do  you  publish  any  report  ?  " 


"  No,"  Teddy  explained,  "  because  we 
have  no  subscribers." 

*'AI1  dead  and  buried  long  ago,  eh?" 
said  Mr.  Spott  with  a  laugh.  "  But  don't 
you  give  any  account  of  your  steward- 
ship?" 

**  Oh  yes,  sir,"  answered  Teddy  eagerly, 
'*  By  the  direction  of  my  committee  I  draw 
up  every  year,  and  have  printed,  an  ac- 
count of  the  wav  to  which  the  doles  have 
been  distributea." 

*' For  whose  inspection?"  asked  Mr, 
Spott. 

**For  that  of  any  one,  sir,"  replied 
Teddy,  "  who,  like  yourself,  may  chance 
to  take  an  interest  in  the  working  of  the 
charity.     Here  is  our  last  list." 

"Hum— hah,"  said  Mr.  Spott;  "and 
are  these  small  sums  all  that  you  have  to 
give  away  ?  " 

"  Every  penny  of  the  fund  is  expended, 
sir,"  loftily  answered  Teddy.  "  The  gen- 
tlemen of  the  committee  sometimes  kindly 
supplement  the  gifts  out  of  their  owa 
pockets." 

"Hum  —  hah!"  again  said  Mr.  Spott. 
"  Exceedingly  kind  of  them,  no  doubt. 
May  I  ask  to  see  a  few  back  lists  ?  " 

"  Here  they  are,  sir,  for  the  last  tea 
years,  drawn  up  by  my  own  hand ;  so  I 
can  vouch  for  them,"  said  Teddy,  as  he 
took  from  a  drawer  the  lists  referred  to, 
with  a  proud  sense  of  unexpectedly  pub- 
lished authorship. 

Mr.  Spott  once  more  said,  "Hum^ 
hah  "  as  he  ran  over  them,  and  then  re- 
marked, — 

"  Not  much  difference  in  the  names,  I 
notice.  These  gifts,  I  take  it,  are  little 
pensions.  May  I  ask  who  has  the  grant- 
ing of  them?" 

"  Each  member  of  the  committee  can 
recommend  one  poor  person  every  year ; 
chairman  and  treasurer  two  additional," 
said  Teddy. 

"  I  see,''  replied  Mr.  Spott,  "  and  renew 
the  recommendation  annually,  benevo- 
lently supplementing  the  gift  out  of  their 
own  pockets.  Your  committee  manage 
their  charity  very  economically,  Mr. 
Cole." 

Teddy  thought  that  he  meant  charity 
with  a  big  C,  and  bowed  in  delighted  rec- 
ognition of  the  compliment. 

"But  I  don't  see  anything  about  office 
expenses,"  Mr.  Spott  went  on.  "You 
pay  rent  for  these  rooms,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Teddy,  mention- 
ing the  sum. 

"  And,  excuse  me,"  still  the  inquisitive 
Mr.  Spott  went  on,  "  your  committee,  no 
doubt,  all  give  their  services  for  love ;  but 


MR.  EDWIN  COLE. 


496 

I  doo^t  see  honorary  before  your  name  in 
the  list  here/' 

"Oh  no,  sir,  I  receive  a  salary,"  said 
Teddy.  "  If  I  could  afford*'  — he  had 
been  ^oiojg^  to  say  that  if  he  could  have 
afforded  to  give  his  services  gratuitously 
to  the  Fund,  he  would  have  done  so ;  but 
the  conviction  that  if  he  could  have  made 
his  living  in  anjr  other  way  he. would  never 
have  had  anything  to  do  with  the  Fund, 
flashed  upon  him,  and  he  stopped  abrupt- 
ly, looking  more  shamefaced  than  he  had 
any  need  to  be. 

••  Ah,  well,"  replied  Mr.  Spott,  after  re- 
garding him  with  a  suddenly  sharp  look  of 
suspicion,  which  soon  changed  again  into 
his  former  half-contemptuous,  half-kindly 
gaze  of  forbearance,  **  1  will  not  ask  what 
the  amount  is.  I  suppose  I  have  00  right 
to,  though  charitable  funds,  I  think,  ought 
to  be  explicit  as  to  their  expenses,  even 
when  the  livine  public  does  not  subscribe 
to  them.  Still,  may  I  inquire,  without 
offence,  how  you  obtained  your  appoint- 
ment, Mr.  Cole  ?  " 

"  My  kind  friend,  the  chairman,"  Teddy 
answered  readily  enough. 

«*  An  old  friend?"  asked  Mr.  Spott. 

«  Very  old,"  replied  Teddv.  ••  We  were 
at  school  together.     My  father  was  in 

food  circumstances  then — could  help 
iSj'  and  he  kindly  remembered  that  when 
my  present  post  fell  vacant.  He  had 
known  for  some  time  before  that  I  was 
in  want  of  an  appointment;  circumstances 
had  compelled  me  to  apply  to  him  on  sev- 
eral occasions,  and  be  most  kindly  thought 
of  me  at  once." 

*'  Ah,  I  see,"  assented  Mr.  Spott. 
**  Most  kind  of  him,  Tm  sure,  to  get  you 
this  little  berth.  Tm  afraid  you  will  think 
me  very  rude,  but,  excuse  me,  Mr.  Cole, 
the  emoluments  are  not  overpowering,  are 
they.^  If  you  were  to  forget  to  pay  in- 
come-tax one  year,  you  wouldn't  have  to 
send  the  chancellor  of  the'  exchequer  a 
three-figure  bank  note,  would  you,  to  quiet 
your  conscience  and  restore  its  tone,  to 
the  depleted  revenue  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  answered  Teddy,  with  an 
uneasy  little  laugh,  for  he  was  getting 
more  and  more  puzzled  what  to  make  of 
Mr.  Spott,  "  I  could  spend  more  money,  if 
I  had  it,  like  most  people,  but  I  am  thank- 
ful to  have  got  the  little  income  I  have. 
I'm  a  family  man,  and  a  certaintv,  big  or 
small,  is  a  great  consideration  under  those 
circumstances." 

**  Of  course,  of  course,'*  said  Mr.  Spott, 
still  half  keenly,  half  kindly.  "But  I 
should  say  you  need  not  break  your  heart 
if  by  any  chance  you  lost  this  appoint- 


ment. Your  kind  friend  might  surely 
give  you  something  better  in  his  own  ser- 
vice, or  get  it  for  you.  I'm  much  obliged 
to  you  for  these  papers,  and  the  informa- 
tion you  have  been  good  enough  to  give 
me.  If  you  should  ever  want  a  reference, 
apply  to  me,  and  I  shall  be  most  happy 
to  give  you  an  excellent  character  for 
frankness,  at  any  rate.  Good-day,  Mr. 
Cole." 

The  day  had  not  only  drawn  in,  but  also 
clouded  over,  while  Mr.  Spott  was  in  the 
office.  Darker  it  grew,  when  he  was  gone, 
and  darker  fears  came  over  Teddy's  troub- 
led mind,  as  he  sat  at  home  by  his  dying 
fire,  meditating  on  the  recent  interview. 
It  soon  became  apparent  to  him  that  he 
had  been  pumped,  and  he  could  not  sup- 
press a  tear  that,  notwithstanding  the 
slight  kindly  feeling  which  Mr.  Spott 
seemed  to  have  contracted  for  Teddy  per- 
sonally, he  harbored  hostile  intentions 
against  Secretary,  Mr.  Edwin  Cole. 

Now,  if  Teddy  had  given  no  hostages 
to  fortune,  he  might  not,  perhaps,  have 
greatly  regretted  ejectment  from  a  post 
which  had  sorely  troubled  his  peace  of 
mind  by  wounding  his  sense  of  self-re- 
spect. But  he  had  given  such  hostages ; 
it  was  for  their  sake  he  had  taken  the 
post,  and  the  thought  of  losing  it  while 
thev  were  dependent  upon  it  —  losing  it, 
perhaps,  through  his  own  admissions  ^ 
was  terrible  to  Teddy. 

"After  all,  though,"  he  thought,  "I 
must  have  told  lies,  if  I  had  said  anything 
different,  and  I  couldn't  sit  still  and  say 
nothing.  I  ain't  a  Deaf-and-Dumb  secre- 
tary." 

Little  Teddy  laughed  at  his  own  little 
joke,  and  the  laugh  did  him  a  little  good. 
Nevertheless,  he  muttered  aloud  anxious- 
ly, "  I  mustn't  say  anything  about  this  to 
Amanda." 

Mrs.  Cole  was  Teddy's  Amanda,  and, 
no  doubt,  she  was  "  meet  or  worthy  to  be 
loved."  Indeed,  she  was  still  Teddy's 
Amata  also,  but  his  affection  for  her  was 
not  that  perfect  love  which  casteth  out 
fear.  The  lot  which  they  had  shared  in 
life  had  been,  in  her  opinion,  so  unlucky, 
that  she  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
that  her  husband  was  a  born  feckless  un- 
fortunate—  that  nothing  he  might  do  on 
his  own  responsibility  could  possibly  tend 
to  good  —  that  the  chances  were  ten  to 
one  that  it  would  lead  immediately  to  evil, 
precipitate  that  familv  exodus  from  home 
to  the  "  house,"  which  sooner  or  later  was 
inevitable. 

No  wonder,  therefore,  Teddy  thought  it 
unadvisable  to  mention  Mr.  Spott's  visit 


MR.   EDWIN   COLE. 


497 


to  bis  wife.  Having  slipped  his  elephants 
and  other  works  of  art  into  an  envelope, 
and  put  it  into  his  breast-pocket,  he  left 
his  office  a  good  deal  less  lively  than 
when  he  had  entered  it  in  the  morning. 
Then  the  withered  leaves  fluttering  as 
thev  fell,  golden  yellow  in  the  sunshine, 
haa  made  him  think  of  butterflies,  but 
cow  as  they  zigzagged,  dim  in  the  dusk, 
they  made  him  think  of  bats. 

However,  he  brightened  up  again  as  he 
neared  his  home.  He  was  sure,  at  any 
rate,  of  a  cheerful  greeting  from  his  chiU 
dren,  who  welcomed  him  daily  on  his  re- 
turn as  if  he  had  just  come  back  after  two 
winterings  in  the  Arctic  regions. 

CHAPTER  II. 

When  he  had  been  tempted  for  a  mo- 
ment to  envy  the  snugness  and  freedom 
from  care  about  the  morrow  of  an  old 
bedesman  whom  he  had  seen,  when  pass- 
ing the  almshouses  in  Goldsmith's  Row, 
tottering  on  to  his  cushioned  armchair 
beside  his  brightly  burning  little  6re, 
Cole  had  the  next  moment  scoffed  at  the 
notion  as  preposterously  absurd.  ••  Poor 
lonely  old  chap!"  he  had  muttered. 
"Why,  he's  glad  to  get  a  good-morning 
even  from  me  when  I  go  by  !  '• 

Teddy*s  youngest  two,  a  little  girl  and 
a  smaller  boy,  were  standing  on  the  tiny 
steps  of  his  pill-box  of  a  house  on  the 
other  side  of  London  Fields,  on  the  look- 
out for  their  father.  Forth  they  raced, 
bareheaded,  to  meet  him,  as  soon  as  they 
made  him  out,  the  little  girl  carrying  a 
little  tabby  cat  cuddled  in  her  arms. 

"It*s  Bluey's  birthday,  pap-pa,"  she 
cried,  **and  you  went  away  this  morning 
without  even  wishing  her  many  happy 
returns  of  the  day.  I  bought  her  a  ha'- 
p'orth of  milk  for  a  birthday  present  out 
of  my  own  money  box." 

Even  the  little  Coles  had  money-boxes, 
and  little  as  they  held,  it  was  sometimes 
proudly  lent  to  eke  out  the  contents  of 
the  family  purse  when  at  the  lowest  ebb. 

"  Dear,  dear,  dear,"  said  Teddy,  pro- 
fessing to  feel  greatly  rebuked  by  his  lit- 
tle daughter's  reproach.  "  But  what  a 
pretty  keepsake  you  gave  her  —  how  long 
did  she  keep  it.  Sissy  ?  " 

"Why,  she  drank  it  —  so,  of  course, 
she's  got  it  now,  you  silly  man  ! "  retorted 
the  little  girl  with  triumphant  logic. 

"  Give  me  a  ride  home,  paps  !  "  shouted 
the  little  boy,  swarming  up  his  parent  as 
if  he  had  been  a  pole. 

With  Master  Bobby  on  his  shoulder, 
and  Sissy  and  Bluey  on  his  arm,  Teddy 
proceeded  to  his  home.     His  wife  came 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2268 


out  of  the  little  front  parlor  as  he  stag- 
gered up  the  steps. 

"  Get  down,  Bobby,  get  down  at  once, 
sir,  or  you'll  break  your  neck,"  she  said. 
"Really,  Sissy,  Tm  astonished  at  you,  a 
great  girl  like  you,  behaving  in  that  way 
out  of  doors.  What  will  the  neighbors 
think  ?  Ah,  Mr.  Cole,  you  ought  to  exert 
yourself  for  your  children.  They're  fond 
enough  of  you,  poor  dears  —  fonder  than 
they  are  of  me  that  am  always  slaving  for 
them.  I  don't  grudge  you  their  love  — 
thouo:h  when  things  come  to  the  worst, 
they'll  soon  find  out  who  they've  got  to 
look  to ;  but  it  ought  to  stir  you  up  to  do 
something  for  them  —  it  really  ought,  Mr. 
Cole." 

Little  Teddy,  who  had  been  doing  his 
poor  little  best,  lengthened  his  counte- 
nance at  this  reproof,  whereupon  Bobby, 
who  did  not  approve  of  any  one  of  hi» 
gender  being  scolded  by  the  other  sex, 
strove  to  cheer  bis  fellow-sufferer  by  whis« 
pering,— 

"Never  mind,  Teddy,  /  ain't  angry 
with  you." 

After  lea  the  elephants,  etc.,  were 
brought  out,  and  the  little  ones  were  to 
the  full  as  delighted  with  them  as  the 
children  Teddy  had  seen  in  Paternoster 
Row  could  have  been  with  their  costly 
toys.  These  prodigies  of  humorous  art, 
indeed,  were  more  precious  to  Sissy  and 
Bobby  than  any  mere  bought  playthings 
would  have  been.  Any  one  who  had 
money  enough  could  have  purchased 
those,  but  these  had  been  made  expressly 
for  them,  and  by  their  own  wonderful 
genius  of  a  papa,  who,  although  he  was 
not  at  all  an  august  being  in  their  eyes, 
like  mamma,  was  pronounced  by  these 
young  critics  to  be  able  to  do  "some 
things  better'*  even  than  that  majestic 
personage,  and  whom  they  did  not  like 
the  less  because  they  could  make  a  play- 
fellow of  him,  a  playfellow  altogether  such 
a  one  as  themselves,  inasmuch  as  he,  like 
themselves,  was  liable  to  scoldings. 

Whilst  the  other  children  got  up  their 
next  dav's  lessons,  Bobby,  Sissy,  Bluey, 
and  Tecidy  sprawled  on  the  hearthrug  and 
put  the  elephants,  cows,  horses,  donkeys, 
dogs,  Highlanders,  sailors,  beaux,  belles^ 
and  hand-in-hand  infantry  through  a  curi- 
ous variety  of  evolutions,  Teddy  taking 
quite  as  much  interest  in  them  as  any  of 
his  playmates,  and  forgetting  for  the  time 
his  fears  about  the  future. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Cole,  with  a  pyramid 
of  hosiery  before  her,  severely  darned 
stockings. 

She  was  pleased  that  her  little  ones 


498 

were  amused,  but  still  she  could  not  re- 
frain from  regarding  their  amuser,  when 
her  eyes  condescended  to  fall  upon  him, 
with  a  cold  look  of  scornful  rebuke. 
**  How  did  I  ever  come  to  wed  that  heed- 
less, trifling  baby  ?  *'  she  seemed  to  be  ask- 
ing herself.  Teddy  chanced  once  to  catch 
this  look  in  the  midst  of  his  play,  and 
smitten  with  compunction  by  his  wife's 
industry,  he  entreated  her  to  put  by  her 
work  and  read  the  newspaper  which  he 
had  brought  home.  "And  will  you  mend 
the  stockings,  Mr.  Cole? "she  inquired  in 
a  solemnly  sarcastic  voice. 

Poor  little  Teddy  almost  wished  he 
could.  He  had  a  very  humble  opinion  of 
his  utility  in  the  world,  and  hi?  wife  had  a 
knack  of  making  it  still  humbler. 

Even  when  the  children  had  gone  to 
bed,  and  the  pile  of  stockings  had  been 
finished,  Mrs.  Cole  got  out  a  garment  of 
some  kind  and  went  on  plying  her  needle 
with  grim  persistency,  declining  her  hus- 
band's offer  to  read  to  her  on  the  ground 
that  she  was  too  much  racked  with  anx- 
iety as  to  thetate  of  her  dear  children^to 
have  any  time  to  attend  to  such  frivolous 
matters  as  politics  and  general  intelli- 
gence, or  idle  stories  written  for  idle 
people. 

After  that  Teddy  could  no  longer  enjoy 
the  book  he  had  taken  up.  At  any  rate, 
to  read  it  under  the  severe  eyes  of  a  wife 
plying  her  needle,  thread,  and  scissors, 
like  the  three  Fates  rolled  into  one, 
seemed  to  him  next  door  to  a  crime.  Ac- 
cordingly he  soon  slipped  off  to  bed,  feel- 
ing very  much  ashamed  of  himself  for 
being  ot  so  little  use  in  the  world.  "  Why, 
what  CQuId  1  do,"  thought  Teddy,  "  if  I 
were  to  lose  the  Lisbon  ?  And  perhaps 
I  shall.  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  have 
some  real  work  to  do.  I  should  feel  more 
like  an  honest  man  than  I  do  now.  But 
then  it  wouldn't  be  a  comfort  to  have 
nothing  at  all  to  do,  with  such  a  family  as 
I've  got ;  and  I  shouldn't  feel  a  bit  more 
honest  if  I  must  either  steal  or  let  my 
children  starve." 

Teddy  generallv  woke  in  a  cheerful 
mood,  however  doleful  had  been  bis  state 
of  mind  when  he  went  to  bed.  As  usual, 
next  day,  he  delighted  Sissy  by  feeding 
Bluey  at  breakfast  time  with  scraps  of  his 
own  toast.  Sissy  was  not  allowed  to  feed 
her  cat  at  meal-times,  and  Teddy  did  it 
half  upon  the  sly,  as  if  not  quite  sure 
whether  or  not  he  had  a  right  to  do  as  he 
liked  with  his  own  bread  and  butter.  He 
enabled  Bobby,  as  usual,  to  take  horse 
exercise  in  his  own  grounds,  giving  him, 
before  going  to  business,  a  ride  round  the 


MR.  EDWIN  COLE. 


back  garden,  as  big  as  a  decent-sized 
dinner-table,  and  the  front  garden  rather 
bigger  than  a  large  hearthrug.  He  gave 
a  cheery  good -morning  to  his  old  ac- 
quaintances in  Goldsmith's  Row  as  he 
went  by,  but  when  he  reached  the  square 
his  spirits  fell.  He  had  scarcely  got  in- 
side the  lobby  before  Mrs.  Slack  inK>rmed 
him,  "  There  was  a  gen'leman  a-axin*  for 
ye  arter  hoffice  hours,  an'  a-wantin'  to 
know  where  ye  lived  when  you  was  at 
'ome.  I  couldn't  tell  him,  in  course,  for 
blest  if  I  know,  for  all  the  time  you've 
been  'ere." 

Teddy  did  not  tell  her,  he  was  too  anx- 
ious to  learn  what  the  inquisitive  gentle- 
man was  like;  and  when  he  ascertained 
from  her  description  that  it  must  have 
been  Mr.  Spott,  he  went  up-stairs  with  a 
heavy  heart,  although  with  a  springier 
treacl  than  usual,  as  it  trying  to  convince 
himself  that  he  would  nnd  in  his  letter- 
box a  better  raison  d^itre  than  usual. 

But  the  letter-box  was  emptv,  and  the 
"social  leader"  in  his  paper  (Teddv,  to 
pass  away  the  time,  always  reservea  the 
long  portions  of  his  journal  for  office  con- 
sumption, glancing  at  telegram  headings 
and  the  briefest  paragraphs  only  at  break- 
fast time)  chanced  to  oe  on  the  misuse  of 
charities.  No  mention  was  made  of  the 
Lisbon  in  that  incisive  essay,  and  yet 
Teddy  could  only  half  persuade  himself 
that  he  was  not  personally  pointed  at  in 
the  following  paragraph  :  "Charity,  ver- 
ily, in  such  cases  begins  at  home ;  in  the 
hall  or  passage,  that  is,  or  on  the  door- 
step, where  a  poor  friend  or  relative  is 
waiting,  hat  in  hand.  We  have  heard  of 
an  old  gentleman  so  tender-hearted  that 
he  could  not  bear  to  scrunch  a  snail,  and, 
therefore,  he  pitched  those  that  he  found 
feeding  on  his  own  cabbages  over  the  wall 
into  his  neighbor's  garden.  There  are 
many  such  benevolent  old  gentlemen 
amongst  the  managers  of  our  benevolent 
institutions.  They  do  not  choose  that  the 
slimy  snails  which  obtrude  themselves 
upon  them  should  spoil  their  own  gardens, 
and  so  they  tenderly  drop  them  over  the 
wall  into  Charity's.  To  change  the  figure, 
they  lift  lamed  or  lazy  locusts  on  to  any 
little  bit  of  greenmeat  within  their  reach, 
which  does  not  belong  to  themselves,  and 
then  walk  on  complacently  murmuring, 
•  Charity  never  faileth.' " 

"  Have  I  lived  to  be  called  a  slimy 
snail,  a  lazy  locust,  and  not  to  be  ouite 
sure  whether  I  ain't?"  thought  Teady; 
and  the  poor  little  fellow  almost  burst  into 
tears. 

As  usual,  on  his  half  holiday,  Teddy 


MR.   EDWIN   COLE. 


499 


took  Sissy  and  Bobby  on  to  the  Downs, 
and  at  first,  being,  barring  bis  responst> 
bilitics,  almost  as  big  a  baby  or  as  little 
a  child  as  his  youngsters,  he  was  as 
pleasec^  as  they  were  with  the  boisterous 
sport  of  th?  parti-coiored  football  players, 
and  the  games  in  which  the  three  them- 
selves indulged. 

But  after  a  time  Teddy's  spirits  flagged, 
and  instead  of  running  he  began  to  walk 
with  so  sedate  a  gait  that  Bobby  was  dis- 
gusted, and  leaving  his  father  and  sister 
to  pursue  the  even  tenor  of  their  way,  hov- 
ered around  them  and  made  dashes  at 
tbem  like  a  Bedouin  with  hostile  inten- 
tions a^aiDs^  a  slowly  moving  caravan. 

"  Why  have  they  put  wire  round  the 
lamps?"  cFked  Sissy  as  they  passed  a 
la  nip -post. 

'*  Becau'jj  the  naughty  boys  used  to 
throw  stones  and  break  the  glass,"  an- 
swered Teddy. 

"  And  the  naughty  girls  too  I  No,  they'd 
have  been  afraid  of  the  policemen,"  cried 
Bobby,  who  just  then  ran  up,  and  who  was 
in  the  habit,  when  he  heard  boys  blamed 
for  anything,  of  first  asserting  that  the 
other  s^x  were  equally  to  blame,  and  then 
of  finding  in  the  misdeed  proof  of  a  vir- 
tue be) end  the  reach  of  womankind. 

"Ah  I^cbby,"  said  his  father,  "  Tm 
afraid  womcu  are  the  best.  Anyhow,  I 
hope_you7.'ii(\\  up  to  be  some  good  in 
the  world.    /ain*t  much." 

•'You're  the  best  old  paps  that  ever 
was,"  shouted  Bobby  indignantly,  as  he 
darted  off  once  more,  leaving  Sissy  to 
enjoy  the,  in  his  eyes,  very  tame  delight 
of  recounting  all  the  marvellous  exploits 
which  Bluey  had  performed  since  the 
morning.  Bobby  was  very  fond  of  his 
little  sister,  and  never  tormented  her  kit- 
ten intentionally,  but  still  he  looked  upon 
them  both  as,  in  different  measures, 
inferio:.  animals.  Positive  —  cat;  com- 
parative —  girl ;  superlative  —  boy ;  were 
Bobby's  degrees  of  comparison. 

Genetally  Sunday  was  a  bright  day 
with  Teddy.  He  could  spend  the  whole 
day  with  his  family  without  any  prickings 
of  conscience.  On  other  days  he  felt  in- 
ferior to  his  male  neighbors  who  were 
l^etting  on  in  the  world  indefinitely  useful 
callings,  but  on  that  day  he  could  do  at 
least  as  much  for  his  children  as  any  of 
them  could  do  for  theirs.  Even  Mrs. 
Cole  made  Sunday  a  dies  non  to  care. 
The  day  was,  so  to  speak,  a  little  island 
in  the  poor  v'oman's  life,  on  which  she 
reposed  gratefully  after  her  tossing  on 
the  week^lay  sea.  Stockings  then  ceased 
from  troubling,  and  account-books  were  at 


rest.  She  and  hers  could  worship  God 
on  equal  terms  with  their  most  prosperous 
neighbors;  and  on  Sundays  it  was  not 
necessary  to  keep  up  her  usual  silent  or 
hinted  protest  against  the  uselessness  of 
her  husband.  It  could  stand  at  ease  until 
.Monday  morning  came.  He  could  not  be 
working  for  his  family  on  Sunday,  poor 
fellow. 

This  change  of  attitude  was  very  agree- 
able to  Teddy,  who  for  six  days  and  nights 
had  constantly  to  be  on  his  guard  lest  he 
should  provoke  the  looked  or  uttered 
scorn  of  the  *'  porcupine  "  he  had  taken  to 
his  bosom  —  as  Teddy  sometimes,  men- 
tally only,  characterized  Mrs.  Cole,  when 
his  wife's  behavior  had  stung  him  into  a 
secret  outburst  of  poetry,  or  at  least  im- 
passioned prose.  But  on  this  Sunday 
Mrs.  Cole  happened  to  be  so  especially  -^ 
not  exactly  cheerful,  but  non-gloomy,  that 
Teddy  lost  much  of  the  peace  of  his  Sun- 
day, owing  to  his  compunction  at  the 
thought  of  the  fresh  trouble  which  he  felt 
sure  was  hanging  over  her  and  every  one 
belonging  to  him. 

Before  the  ^-ear  was  out  his  forebod- 
ings were  verified.  Teddv  received  pay 
for  two  quarters  instead  of  one  on  Christ- 
mas Eve,  and  an  intimation  that  his  com- 
mittee no  longer  required  his  services. 
Mr.  Spott  had  been  making  himself  most 
unpleasantly  —  most  impertinently,  the 
committee  thought  —  busy  in  his  inqui- 
ries into  the  administration  of  the  Fund, 
and  they  had  determined,  at  any  rate,  to 
get  rid  of  their  secretary.  When  the 
chairman  gave  his  old  friend  his  dis- 
missal, he  spoke  in  an  annoyed,  distant 
tone,  which  made  Teddy  afraid  to  ask 
him  to  use  his  influence  to  procure  him 
another  situation. 

Teddy  looked  very  terrified  when  he 
first  learned  that  he  was  to  be  sent  adrift ; 
then  he  felt  glad  that  he  was  free  from  the 
Lisbon,  anyhow,  once  more  an  honestly 
hard-working  man  in  posse;  then  doubts 
troubled  him  as  to  the  in  fore^  and  he 
once  more  became  downcast;  and  then 
the  thought  that  when  he  had  paid  his 
Christmas  bills  —  at  least,  such  propor- 
tion of  them  as  he  usually  paid  on  ac- 
count—  he  would  still  have  a  quarter's 
salary  in  his  pocket,  once  more  raised 
his  spirits,  and  he  determined  to  say  noth- 
ing about  what  had  happened  until  his 
little  Christmas  holidays  were  over.  The 
frosty  air,  plus  money  not  immediately 
wanted,  braced  him  up. 

"  Who  can  tell  what  may  happen  before 
then?  •  It's  a  poor  soul  that  never  re- 
joices,' *'  said  Teddy;  and  on  the  strength 


500 


MR.   EDWIN   COLE. 


of  his  quarter's  salary  in  lieu  of  a  quarter's 
notice,  he  bought  his  wife  and  children 
Christmas  presents  which  astonished 
them,  and  ^ave  his  little  maiden  of  the 
period,  when  she  was  summoned  into 
the  little  parlor  on  the  stroke  of  twelve 
to  drink  to  Father  Christmas*s  arrival  a 

flassful  of  hot  elder  wine,  a^vChristmas 
ox  which  made  her  reproach' herself  for 
having  ever  called  him  Teddy  in  con- 
tempt, however  kindly.  But  as  the  end  of 
his  regular  holiday  drew  near,  and  Teddy 
called  to  mind  how  long  his  vacation 
might  continue,  he  could  no  longer  keep 
up  his  Christmas-  cheeriness.  The  even- 
ing before  the  day  on  which,  in  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  things,  he  would  have 
returned  to  business,  he  was  so  low-spir- 
ited that,  when  the  children  had  gone  to 
bed,  his  wife  cross-examined  him,  and 
discovered  the  secret  of  his  depression. 

"My  words,  then,  have  come  true,  Mr. 
Cole,"  she  exclaimed.  "We  may  as  well 
hand  over  the  little  money  we  have  left  to 
the  parish,  and  go  into  the  house  at  once. 
To  think  that  a  man  with  a  wife  and  fam- 
ily, who  has  lost  his  situation  through  his 
own  fault,  should  for  a  whole  fortnight 
have  been  playing  like  a  baby,  instead  of 
rushing  about,  leaving  no  stone  unturned 
to  get  a  crust  to  save  his  poor  children 
from  starving  I  After  all,  though,  it  does 
not  matter ;  it  would  have  done  no  good. 
It  is  plain  to  me  that  you  will  never  get  a 
situation  again,  now  that  you  have  thrown 
away  the  one  you  had.  I  always  said 
how  it  would  be,  and  now  my  words  have 
come  true." 

"  Make  a  good  breakfast  whilst  you  can 
get  one,  my  poor  children,"  said  Mrs. 
Cole  next  morning,  looking  sternly  at 
Teddy,  who  had  been  feeding  Bluey,  as  if 
the  toast  he  gave  her  were  bread  literally 
taken  out  of  his  children's  mouths. 

The  children  looked  puzzled. 

"  Your  father  is  not  going  to  business 
to-day,"  Mrs.  Cole  explained. 

"Hooray!"  shouted  Bobby.  "Then 
you  can  rig  my  ship,  paps !  " 

"  Your  father  has  no  business  to  go  to 
any  longer,  unfortunate  child,"  Mrs.  Cole 
further  explained. 

Poor  little  Teddy  soon  rushed  out  in 
search  of  one. 

For  some  weeks  Teddy  kept  up  his 
heart  and  hope,  and  zigzagged  about  like 
a  cracker,  in  search  of  situations.  As  a 
hen  will  ruffle  up  her  feathers  against  a 
hawk  in  defence  of  her  young  ones,  so 
Teddy,  to  find  food  for  his,  although  nat- 
urally one  of  the  quietest  and  most  modest 
of  litile  men,  plucked  up  courage  to  go  in 


for  appointments  the  most  inharmonious 
with  his  idiosyncrasy  and  accomplish- 
ments. A  county  chief  •  constableship, 
with  a  horse  and  forage,  a  City  editorship, 
a  West  End  club  secretaryship,  and  a 
West  Coast  of  African  Education  direc- 
torship, were  some  of  the  posts  he  applied 
for.  He  was  very  disappointed  when  he 
did  not  get  the  last.  The  climate  was  so 
deadly  that  he  thought  he  would  have  no 
competitors,  and  get  a  comfortable  pen- 
sion for  his  wife  and  children,  who  were 
to  be  left  at  home  during  his  brief  tenure 
of  office  —  perchance,  if  exceptionally  for- 
tunate, might  obtain  a  retiring  pension 
which  he  could  share  with  them  ;  and  he 
had  thought  also  that,  however  limited 
his  literary  acquirements  might  be,  he 
could,  at  any  rate,  see  that  little  black 
tx)ys  got  their  ABC  taught  them  prop- 
erly. 

But  as  his  money  melted  away,  together 
with  the  snow,  he  lost  his  hopefulness. 
The  promise  of  spring  brought  him  no 
promise  of  employment.  He  had  tried 
for  it  right  and  left  in  vain.  It  seemed 
no  good  to  go  out  any  more,  and  yet  what 
good  could  he  do  by  staying  at  home? 
He  moped  too  much  now  to  be  any  amuse- 
ment to  the  children,  and  felt  doubly  use- 
less when  sitting  still  in  the  presence  of 
his.  wife,  whose  hands  were  never  idle. 

One  day  he  was  mooning  along  in  the 
Strand,  glancing  enviously  at  the  scores 
who  passed  him  rapidly  on  business  er- 
rands, when  whom  should  he  sec  but  Mr. 
Francis  Spott ! 

When  first  dismissed,  with  money  in 
his  pocket  and  hope  in  his  heart,  Teddy, 
it  has  been  said,  had  felt  almost  grateful 
to  that  gentleman  for  having  been  the 
means  of  delivering  him  from  his  false 
position  in  the  office  of  the  Lisbon,  but  it 
was  with  very  different  feelings  that  he 
now  regarded  him. 

Mr.  Spott,  however,  recognized  and 
spoke  kindly  to  Teddv,  and  finding  hovr 
matters  stood,  invitee!  him  to  step  to 
Sepulchre  Chambers,  hard  by. 

"  Why  didn't  you  apply  to  me,  Mr. 
Cole.^"  said  Mr.  Spott.  "Don't  you  re- 
member I  told  you  to  refer  to  me  ?  I  took 
for  granted  that  your  friend  had  given  or 
found  you  a  new  situation  long  ago.  Well, 
as  I  was  the  means  of  your  losing  your 
last,  I  should  have  been  glad  under  any 
circumstances  to  have  fallen  in  with  you, 
and  just  now  it  is  a  great  convenience  to 
me.  Minding  other  people's  , business 
involves  me  in  a  great  deal  of  correspon- 
dence. I'm  not  big  gun  enough  to  talk 
about  keeping  a  private  secretary,  but  i 


SIR   MOSES   MONTEFIORE. 


SOI 


want  a  coniidential  corresponding  clerk, 
and  you  would  be  just  the  man  for  me,  if 
you  would  take  the  place.  Mind,  it  isn't 
made  for  you ;  I  shall  expect  ^ood  dona 
fide  work  —  longish  hours  at  times  —  but 
1  can  afford  to  give  you  a  trifle  more  than 
vou  got  from  your  Relief  Fund.  You  can 
begin  to-day  —  at  once,  if  you  like." 

1  scarcely  need  add  that  Teddy's  pen 
was  soon  scratching  on  Mr.  Spott's  paper. 
When  office  hours  were  over,  he  trotted 
to  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.  Mrs.  Cole  had 
long  pointed  out  with  martyr  like  resigna 
tion  the  shabbiness  of  her  bonnet,  and  in 
a  shop  in  the  Churchyard  Teddy  had  no- 
ticed one  which  had  excited  his  wish  to 
buy  it  for  her,  much  as  he  might  have  de- 
sired  to  purchase  a  bright  particular  star. 

Now,  however,  Teddy  bore  it  off  in  a 
box  in  triumph,  and  bearing  also  a  bag  of 
buns,  almost  as  big  as  a  small  corn-sack, 
for  the  youngsters,  he  indulged  in  the 
farther  extravagance  of  taking  an  omni- 
bus from  the  city.  When  Teddy  emptied 
the  bun-bag  like  a  shower-bath  on  the 
tea-table,  and  hung  the  peerless  bonnet 
on  his  wife's  comb,  she  thought  he  had 
gone  mad. 

"  And  have  you  actually  been  spending 
money  on  bonnets  and  buns,  when  your 
poor  children  may  soon  be  wanting  bread, 
Mr.  Cole?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  All  right,  my  dear ! "  he  answered, 
with  unwonted  confidence,  feeling  himself 
master  of  the  situation.  "  Til  look  after 
the  children.  Here's  a  bun  for  Bluey, 
Sissy;  and  now  put  the  bonnet  on  prop- 
erly, my  dear,  and  tell  me  how  you  like  it." 

But  first  Teddy  had  to  tell  bis  news. 

**  Oh,  thank  God ! "  sobbed  his  poor 
wife;  and  for  the  first  time  during  her 
married  life,  she  indulged  in  the  weakness 
of  a  public  flood  of  tears. 

Although  it  was  stocking-darning  night, 
and  the  stockings  were  not  neglected,  it 
seemed  to  Teddy  as  if  old  times  had  come 
again,  as  he  sat  chatting  with  his  wife 
over  the  imposing  but  gradually  sinking 
pile.  Richard  Rowe. 


From  The  Times,  Oct.  aa  and  aj. 
SIR  MOSES  MONTEFIORE. 

On  Wednesday  next,  the  24th  inst.  Sir 
Moses  Montefiore  enters  on  his  hun- 
dredth year.  It  is  nearly  fifty  years  since 
he  was  sheriff  of  London,  an  important 
distinction  in  his  case,  in  1837,  in  the  first 
year  of  the  queen's  reign,  when  Catholic 
emancipation  was  only  eight  years  old, 


and  Jewish  Parliamentary  disabilities  had 
still  before  them  a  twenty-one  years'  lease 
of  life.  Although  Sir  Moses  Montefiore 
earned  half  a  century  ago,  by  his  personal 
activity,  the  right  to  be  honored,  not  only 
as  a  philanthropist,  but  as  among  the  first 
who  proved  that  the  Hebrew  religion  was 
no  bar  to  positions  of  public  usefulness, 
he  has  now  lived  to  so  great  an  age,  en- 
joying universal  respect,  that  it  is  his  lon- 
gevity which  most  strikes  the  mind. 

Whatever  may  be  the  history  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  Montefiores  to  Italy,  the  first 
fact  as  to  which  the  tradition  of  the  family 
is  clear  and  undoubting  is  that  they  settled 
in  Leghorn.  The  wise  tolerance  of  the 
Medici  had  raised  this  city  from  an  ob- 
scure town  to  one  of  the  greatest  ports  of 
Italy;  and  the  Jews  were  so  influential  in 
its  markets  that  a  writer  in  the  early  part  of 
the  eighteenth  century  could  relate  that 
the  inhabitants  generally,  Jew  and  Gentile, 
observed  the  Jewish  Sabbath  as  a  day  of 
rest  from  business.  The  Jews  had  their 
cemetery  near  the  glacis,  where  Protes- 
tants and  Turks  were  also  permitted,  by 
the  unusual  favor  of  the  Catholic  rulers,  to 
bury  their  dead.  Israelites  wore  no  yel- 
low gaberdine  or  other  distinctive  bacfge, 
an  exemption  noted  by  travellers  of  those 
days  who  could  not  nod  a  parallel  to  it 
any  where,  except  in  Amsterdam  and  Lon- 
don. The  Jewish  population  of  Leghorn 
was  estimated  at  ten  thousand  towards  the 
end  of  the  seventeenth  century ;  in  our 
own  time  the  Leghorn  Jews  have  migrated 
to  other  parts  of  free  Italy,  but  still  num- 
ber seven  thousand  in  the  Tuscan  port. 
The  birth  of  Moses  Montefiore  in  Leg- 
horn on  October  24,  1784,  is  attested  by 
the  register  of  the  congregation,  which, 
according  to  the  copy  of  it  recently  quoted 
by  us  from  the  Jtwish  Chronicle^  places 
it  on  the  9th  of  the  Hebrew  month  Hesh- 
van  in  that  year.  The  venerable  baronet 
himself  is  accustomed  to  celebrate  his 
birthday  on  the  8th  of  the  same  month, 
and  the  discrepancy  is  explained  by  sup- 
posing that  he  was  born  after  the  hour  of 
sunset  on  the  8th.  It  appears  from  the 
entry  that  the  philanthropist's  full  name 
was  Moses  Haim  Montefiore.  Monte- 
fiore's  grandfather,  Moses  Vita  Monte- 
fiore, had  already  settled  in  England,  the 
father  and  mother  of  the  philanthropist 
lived  in  London  and  were  in  Italy  merely 
on  a  journey  when  their  eldest  son,  Moses, 
was  born  to  them  at  Leghorn.  The  sec- 
ond name  of  the  grandfather  (Vita)  is  a 
translation  of  the  same  common  Jewish 
name  Haim,  or  Hyam  (in  English  *'  Life  ") 
which  was  the  grandson's  second  name. 


502 


SIR  MOSES   MONTEFIORE. 


Moses  Vita  Montefiore,  the  grandfather 
of  Sir  Moses,  married  a  young  wife  in 
Leghorn  in  1752,  and  settled  in  England 
as  a  merchant  trading  with  Italy.  He 
lived  and  died  in  Philpot  Lane  in  the 
heart  of  the  city  of  London,  after  having 
become  the  father  of  a  family  worthy  of 
the  patriarchs  —  seventeen  children.  He 
had  a  country  retreat  in  the  then  suburban 
district  of  Bethnal  Green.  The  most  fa- 
mous of  the  children  of  Moses  Vita  Mon- 
tefiore was  Joshua  Montefiore,  who  served 
in  the  British  army,  took  part  in  the  unfor- 
tunate expedition  to  Bulam,  Sierra  Leone, 
became  a  notary,  wrote  the  "  Commercial 
Dictionary,"  and  other  notarial  and  legal 
works,  and  settled  in  the  United  States. 
Joseph  Elias  Montefiore,  another  of  the 
sons,  was  a  merchant  in  London,  dealt 
chiefly  with  Italy,  and  had  a  specialty  for 
Leghorn  straw  bonnets.  He  married 
Rachel,  daughter  of  Abraham  Mocatta, 
one  of  a  well-known  family  of  Hispano- 
Moorish  Jews„  founders  of  the  bullion 
house  of  Mocatta  and  Goldsmid.  Joseph 
Elias  Montefiore  went  to  Italy  to  buy 
eoods ;  his  young  wife  persuaded  her  hus- 
band to  take  her  with  him.  Moses  Mo- 
catta, her  brother,  accompanied  them. 
Mrs.  Montefiore  gave  birth  at  Leghorn 
(on  the  24th  of  October,  1784)  to  Moses 
Montefiore,  who  was  the  eldest  of  a  family 
of  eight  children.  The  parents  of  Moses 
Montefiore  were  persons  of  moderate 
means ;  he  left  school  early,  and  went  into 
business  in  the  City.  His  parents  lived 
at  Kennington,  and  young  Montefiore,  in 
the  days  when  the  French  invasion  was 
thought  imminent,  enrolled  himself  as  a 
volunteer  in  the  Surrey  Militia.  He  at- 
tained the  rank  of  captain.  Moses  Mon- 
tefiore was  a  tall  and  handsome  young 
man  of  amiable  and  engaging  disposition, 
and  his  personal  popularity  aided  him  in 
the  career  which  he  ultimately  chose  — 
that  of  the  Stock  Exchange  —  where 
much  depends  upon  the  opinion  which 
'*  the  House  "  as  a  body  forms  of  its  mem- 
bers. Moses  Montefiore  was  first,  how- 
ever, apprenticed  to  a  firm  dealing  largely 
in  the  provision  trade.  He  entered  the 
Stock  Exchange,  and  became  one  of  the 
twelve  Jewish  brokers  licensed  by  the 
City.  Acting  as  a  broker  without  the  li- 
cense, though  a  not  uncommon  practice 
then  as  now,  subjected  and  subjects  the 
offender  to  a  fine  of  ^£500,  payable  to  the 
City  chamberlain  for  every  transaction. 
In  181 2  he  made  a  very  happy  marriage. 
It  was  also  a  union  which  showed  his  in- 
dependence of  mind  and  superiority  to 
the  prejudices  which  then  prevailed     His 


family  had  joined,  as  immigrants  from 
Italy  usually  did  join,  the  Sephardim  or 
Spanish  Congregation.  He,  however,  wed- 
ded an  Ashkenazi  or  German  Jewess. 
The  line  of  demarcation  between  the  two 
'*  nations,"  as  they  were  called,  was  thea 
strongly  marked,  they  had  but  recently 
agreed  to  meet  together  .to  assert  their 
common  interests  as  Jews  in  the  Board  of 
Deputies,  and  marriages  between  thens 
were  still  infrequent.  Judith,  afterwards 
Lady  Montefiore,  the  daughter  of  Levy 
Barent  Cohen,  a  wealthy  and  benevolent 
London  merchant,  was  a  person  of  culti- 
vated  mind,  much  industry,  and  literary 
attainments.  She  entertained  for  her  hus* 
band,  as  may  be  seen  from  her  interesting 
diaries  privately  printed  of  the  journeys  to 
the  East  which  she  undertook  with  bim« 
the  deepest  admiration  and  affection.  To 
her  her  husband  bowed  his  head  affec- 
tionately every  Sabbath  eve,  as  he  recited 
in  prayer  the  words  from  Proverbs, 
*'  Many  daughters  have  done  virtuously, 
but  thou  excellest  them  all."  The  death 
of  Lady  Montefiore  on  September  25, 
1862,  was  a  great  blow  to  her  husband. 
He  built  in  her  memory  a  college  at  Rams- 
gate,  where  veteran  rabbis,  maintained 
by  his  benevolence,  pass  their  lives  in 
prayer  and  study  of  the  law.  He  also 
founded  in  her  memory  prizes  and  schol- 
arships for  girls  and  boys  at  all  the  Jew- 
ish public  schools.  The  Jewish  corama- 
nity  established  in  her  honor  the  Judith 
Lady  Montefiore  Convalescent  Home  at 
South  Norwood.  The  beloved  helpmate 
and  companion  of  fifty  years  was  buried  at 
Ramsgate,  close  by  the  Synagogue,  on  the 
landward  side  of  the  ridge  of  a  high  cliff, 
overlooking  the  sea;  the  mausoleum 
which  encloses  her  rertiains  is  an  exact 
copy  of  the  tomb  of  Rachel,  which  stands 
on  the  road  from  Bethlehem  to  Jerusa- 
lem.   Within  it  burns  a  perpetual  lamp. 

Lady  Montefiore's  sister  Hannah 
(whose  name  is  preserved  in  the  family  by 
Lady  Roseberry)  had  married  Mr.  N.  M. 
Rothschild,  the  able  son  of  the  first  great 
financier  of  Frankfort,  and  himself  the 
founder  of  the  English  house  of  Roths- 
child. Abraham  Montefiore,  a  brother  of 
Sir  Moses,  his  partner  in  business  on  the 
Stock  Exchange,  wedded  as  his  second 
wife,  Henrietta,  the  sister  of  N.  M.  Roths- 
child, and  thus  there  was  a  triple  bond 
of  union  between  the  families.  Mr.  N. 
M.  Rothschild  lived  in  New  Court,  St. 
Swithin's  Lane.  Montefiore  dwelt  in  an- 
other house  in  New  Court,  and  there  was 
warm  friendship  between  the  two  families. 
Mr.  Rothschild  admitted  his  wife's  broth* 


SIR  MOSES  MONTEFIORE. 


S^S 


ers-in-law  to  a  participation  in  bis  gigantic 
and  well-devised  enterprises.  He  was 
the  first  man  in  Englancf  to  have  news  of 
the  escape  from  Elba,  and  the  battle  of 
Waterloo;  his  pigeon-post  from  Dover 
brought  early  intelligence  of  every  impor- 
tant Continental  event,  and  he  purchased 
Consols  when  the  market  was  throwing 
them  away.  The  European  wars,  and  the 
first  French  indemnity,  gave  financiers  of 
ability  opportunities  of  acquiring  fortunes 
with  unexampled  speed.  Abraham  Mon- 
tefiore  died  very  wealthy.  He  had  plunged 
deeper  into  the  speculations  of  the  Stock 
Exchange  than  his  brother  Moses  Monte- 
fiore,  who  had  the  prudence  to  leave  that 
dangerous  arena  with  a  sufficient  fortune, 
and  retired  from  business  in  the  midway 
of  life,  as  Benjamin  Disraeli  the- elder  had 
in  the  previous  century.  '*  Thank  God, 
be  content,"  said  his  beloved  wife,  and  he 
obeyed  her.  He  took  a  continued  inter- 
est in  two  or  three  great  companies  of 
which  he  was  a  principal  founder.  Sir 
Moses  Montefiore  was  the  first  president 
of  the  Alliance  British  and  Foreijfn  Life 
and  Fire  Insurance  Company  (established 
with  the  aid  of  special  legislation  in  1824), 
and  of  the  Alliance  Marine  Assurance 
Company,  founded  in  the  same  year,  but 
registered  as  a  limited  company  in  1881. 
He  has  told  the  story  of  the  foundation  of 
the  Alliance.  The  Guardian  office  had 
been  successfully  set  on  foot  in  1821,  but 
the  number  of  insurance  offices  in  London 
and  Westminster  was  still  very  small  com- 
pared with  the  present  list.  Mr.  N.  M. 
Rothschild  had  some  shares  in  the  Guar- 
dian, and  as  he  was  going  one  day  to  the 
office  to  receive  dividends  Montefiore 
walked  with  him.  The  conversation 
turned  on  the  nature  and  development  of 
insurance  business,  they  agreed  that  their 
own  friends  could  supply  a  useful  ^/<>/i- 
/^/f,  and  on  the  suggestion  mainly  of 
Montefiore,  the  two  allies  resolved  to 
form  a  new  insurance  company.  Mr. 
Samuel  Gurney  was  one  -of  their  first 
recruits.  He  brought  a  valuable  Quaker 
connection,  and  the  tirst  directorate  com- 
prised many  of  the  names  best  known  in 
the  city.  The  office  profited  by  a  curious 
fact  in  vital  statistics,  which  was  at  that 
time  not  generally  understood.  Its  life 
policies  naturally  included  a  good  many 

iewish  lives,  admitted  at  rates  determined 
y  ordinary  actuarial  tables.  It  has  now 
been  ascertained  that,  owing  either  to 
their  temperance  and  their  dietary  laws, 
or  to  other  causes,  the  average  longevity 
of  Jews  is  somewhat  greater  than  that  of 
the  rest  of  the   population   in   western 


Europe.  An  insurance  office  which  had  a 
large  number  of  such  clients  would,  there- 
fore, start  with  a  certain  advantage,  since 
the  longer  the  life  of  the  insured  the  bet- 
ter is,  of  course,  the  bargain  for  the  office. 
The  Imperial  Continental  Gas  Associa- 
tion, which  extended  the  system  of  gas- 
lighting  to  the  principal  European  cities, 
was  another  of  Sir  Moses  Montefiore's 
foundations.    It  is  now  one  of  the  most 

Crosperous  of  commercial  undertakings, 
ut  for  many  years  Sir  Moses  accepted 
not  a  penny  ol  profit,  and  he  was  often 
pressed  to  bring  its  operations  to  an  end. 
Sir  Moses,  however,  had  faith  in  the  fu- 
ture, and  retains  the  shares  which  were 
originally  allotted  to  him.  Of  the  institu- 
tions mentioned  he  is  still  president,  and 
gives  an  annual  dinner  to  all  those  em- 
ployed in  the  London  establishments  of 
these  societies.  Sir  Moses  Montefiore 
was  also  one  of  the  original  directors  of 
the  Provincial  Bank  of  Ireland,  which  was 
established  in  1825  to  take  advantage  of 
the  removal  of  restrictions  on  banking  in 
Ireland,  effected  by  an  act  of  1824.  In 
his  capacity  of  president  and  a  trustee  of 
the  Alliance  Companv,  Sir  Moses  Monte- 
fiore's  name  comes  often  into  the  law  re- 
ports. Thus  he  was  (with  Mr.  Samuel 
Gurney)  an  appellant  in  the  case  of 
*'  Montefiore  v.  Brown  "  in  the  House  of 
Lords  in  1858,  which  was  really  a  suit  be- 
tween the  Alliance  Company  and  other 
incumbrancers  on  Lord  Oranmore*s  es- 
tates; and  was  plaintiff  in  the  action  of 
Montefiore  v.  Lloyd  "  in  1863  —  an  action 
brought  by  the  Alliance  Company  to  en- 
force a  bond  for  the  fidelity  of  an  agent. 
In  this  case  his  nephew,  Mr.  Arthur  Co- 
hen, now  Q.C.  and  M.P.,  for  many  years 
standing  counsel  to  the  Alliance  Com- 
pany, held  one  of  his  earliest  important 
briefs,  being  junior  to  the  late  Lord  Jus- 
tice Lush. 

Sir  Moses  Montefiore's  candidature  for 
the  shrievalty  repeated  the  success  of  his 
friend,  the  late  Sir  David  Salomons,  who 
was  sheriff  in  1835,  but  had  been  unable 
to  take  the  oaths  till  Lord  Campbell 
passed  a  special  act  to  relieve  him,  as 
Lyndhurst  did  with  a  like  object  ten  years 
later,  when  the  sheriff  of  1835  became 
Alderman  Salomons.  It  was  not  till  1858 
that  Baron  Lionel  de  Rothschild,  who  had 
been  repeatedly  returned  by  the  City,  was 
allowed  to  take  his  seat  in  Parliament. 
The  accession  of  the  queen  in  the  year 
(1837)  in  which  Sir  Moses  served  as 
sheriff  for  London  and  Middlesex  se- 
cured him  the  honor  of  knighthood.  The 
young  Princess  Victoria  had  often,  while 


504 


SIR  MOSES   MONTEFIORE. 


staying  with  the  Duchess  of  Kent  at 
Broadstairs,  rambled  in  the  picturesque 
grounds  of  East  Cliff  Lodge,  Sir  Moseses 
house,  and  it  was  probably  as  agreeable 
to  her  Majesty  to  give  the  accolade  to  her 
dignified  and  courteous  host  at  Thanet  as 
to  confer  a  baronetcy  at  the  same  time 
upon  the  lord  mayor,  Alderman  Wood, 
Queen  Caroline's  and  the  Duke  of  Kent's 
staunch  old  friend.  On  Sir  Moses's  re- 
turn from  his  mission  to  the  East  in  favor 
of  the  Jews  of  Damascus,  in  1840,  the 
queen  as  a  distinguished  recognition  of 
his  services  to  humanity,  gave  him  leave 
to  bear  supporters  to  his  arms  —  an  hon- 
or usually  reserved  to  peers  and  knights 
of  orders;  and  in  1846,  on  his  return  from 
a  similar  pilgrimage  to  Russia,  her  Maj- 
esty, on  the  recommendation  of  the  late 
Sir  Robert  Peel,  made  him  a  baronet.  Sir 
Moses  assumed  for  his  arms,  in  affection- 
ate remembrance  of  that  Eastern  land  of 
his  ancestors  towards  which  he  turned 
three  times  every  day  in  prayer,  a  cedar  of 
Lebanon  between  two  mountains  of  flow- 
ers {fttonti difiori).  He  bears  also  a  forked 
pennon  inscribed  **  Jerusalem  "  in  Hebrew 
characters;  his  motto  is,  "Think  and 
Thank  ''  —  a  legend  which  hardly  does  jus- 
tice to  a  long  life  demoted  as  much  to  ac- 
tion as  to  meditation  and  gratitude.  He 
is  a  magistrate  for  Middlesex  and  Kent, 
commissioner  of  lieutenancy  for  the  city 
of  London,  and  deputy  lieutenant  for 
Kent.  He  was  high  sheriff  for  the  latter 
county  in  1S47,  having  bought  from  the 
representatives  of  Lord  Keith  his  estate 
of  East  Cliff  in  1830.  It  is  a  white  Gothic 
house,  as  **  Gothic "  was  understood  at 
the  beginning  of  the  century,  sheltered 
from  the  north  by  trees  and  rising  ground, 
with  Idwns  sloping  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
and*  with  subterranean  passages  in  the 
chalk  leading  down  to  the  beach,  which 
local  legends  (it  is  the  Ingoldsby  country) 
point  to  as  the  work  of  smugglers.  The 
excavations  are  also  ascribed  to  the  yacht- 
ing tastes  of  his  noble  predecessor.  Vis- 
count Keith,  better  known  as  Admiral 
Elphinstone,  who  won  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  from  the  Dutch  and  his  first  peer- 
age from  George  III.  before  the  close  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  When  Sir  Moses 
Montetiore  bought  East  Cliff  he  had  al- 
ready (1824)  removed  his  London  resi- 
dence to  Grosvenor  Gate,  Park  Lane,  on 
the  Westminster  estate,  which  was  then 
pausing  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  Park  in 
its  wonderful  development.  The  row  of 
houses  was  unfinished  when  Mr.  Moses 
Montefiore  took  up  his  residence  there. 
The  mansions  of  Park  Lane  were  creep- 


ing up  from  Piccadilly  but  slowly  towards 
Tyburn  Fields.  Five  years  later  (in  1829) 
there  were  only  two  considerable  houses 
north  of  Mr.  Montefiore's,  one  belonging 
to  Lady  Charles  Bentinck  and  the  other  to 
the  Duke  of  Somerset. 

Sir  Moses  had  occupied  East  Cliff 
Lodge,  Ramsgate,  before  he  purchased 
the  fee.  One  of  the  first  uses  to  which  he 
put  the  land  when  it  became  his  own  was 
the  building  of  a  synagogue,  which  is  open 
to  all  the  world.  The  first  stone  was  laid 
in  1831,  and  it  was  opened  in  1833,  so  that 
this  year  is  its  jubilee.  At  festive  seasons 
he  delighted,  while  Lady  Montefiore  was 
living,  to  ask  home  to  his  hospitable 
house  visitors  who  attended  the  temple. 

It  is  as  yet,  fortunately,  too  early  to 
write  at  length  the  chronicle  of  Sir  M. 
Montefiore's  life.  The  record  is  one  of 
unwearying  devotion  to  one  high  ideal, 
that  of  benefiting  his  fellow-creatures.  It 
is  natural  that  the  intercessions  by  which 
he  is  principally  known  were  in  favor  of 
his  own  brethren.  Their  wants  were 
more  pressing,  they  were  less  cared  for  by 
others,  they  concerned  him  most  nearly. 
But,  although  his  charity  began  at  home, 
many  acts  of  unsectarian  benevolence 
have  become  known.  Every  Mansion 
House  list  includes  his  name,  nearly  every 
secretary  of  a  benevolent  society  knows 
his  fine  Italian  hand  and  legible  though 
occasionally  tremulous  signature.  The 
year  of  office  which  he  served  as  sheriff  of 
London  with  Sir  G.  Carroll  was  distin- 
guished by  the  large  collections  made  for 
the  city  charities,  and  by  the  complete  ab- 
sence of  capital  punishment.  The  sher- 
iffs, with  the  assistance  of  a  lady  highly 
placed,  procured  a  reprieve  for  the  only 
criminal  condemned  to  death.  His  looU 
benefactions  to  the  poor  of  Ramsgate 
have  won  him  unbounded  popularity  in 
that  ancient  member  of  the  Cinaue  Ports. 
There  the  clergy  of  the  various  aenomina- 
tions  are  his  almoners.  He  has  given 
subscriptions  towards  churches  and  chap- 
els, and  procured  benefices  for  deserving 
clergymen. 

Seven  times  Moses  Montefiore  has 
visited  the  sacred  soil  of  Palestine,  where 
his  brethren  crowded  round  him,  kissing 
the  hem  of  his  garment,  and  whole  cities 
went  out  to  meet  him  for  miles  along  the 
way.  Hebrew  odes  were  composed  in 
his  honor,  and  special  sermons  preached. 
These  greetings  continued  on  the  way  to 
and  from  the  Holy  Land.  In  Palestine 
Sir  Moses  has  endowed  hospitals  and 
almshouses,  set  on  foot  agricultural  enter- 
prises, planted  gardens,  dug  wells,  con« 


SIR  MOSES   MONTEFIORE. 


SOS 


structed  aqueducts,  built  synagogues  and 
tombs.  The  last  of  these  pilgrimages 
was  so  recent  as  in  1875,  when  he  was 
already  at  the  age  of  ninety-one.  His 
earlier  visits  were  made  in  company  with 
his  wife,  and  under  travelling  conditions 
very  different  from  those  which  now  ren- 
der a  trip  to  to  the  Holy  Land  a  journey 
easily  accomplished.  He  had  to  charter 
vessels  at  an  exorbitant  rate  and  to  seek 
the  convoy  of  an  English  sloop  to  protect 
him  from  the  pirates  of  the  Levant.  On 
one  occasion  earthquake,  on  others  plague 
devastated  the  country,  and  made  the  ben- 
efactions of  the  travellers  more  than  ever 
welcome. 

Having  fortunately  survived  the  most 
dangerous  illness  of  his  life,  an  attack  of 
carbuncle,  in  1833,  treated  with  the  knife 
by  Sir  Aston  Key,  who  went  specially  to 
Rarosgate  for  the  purpose,  Mr.  Montefiore 
was,  in  1835,  chosen  president  of  the 
Board  of  Deputies  of  British  Jews,  and 
henceforth  performed  his  most  important 
acts  in  its  name.  In  1836  he  became  a 
fellow  of  the  Royal  Society,  being  elected, 
as  was  not  unusual  at  that  date,  as  "a 
gentleman  much  attached  to  science  and 
its  practical  use."  His  share  in  the  intro- 
duction of  gas-lighting  gave  some  claim  to 
distinction.  Immediately  after  his  being 
relieved  from  the  responsibilities  of  his 
office  of  sheriff,  in  November,  1838,  Sir 
Moses  and  Lady  Monteiiore  started  on 
their  second  voyage  to  the  Holy  Land. 
On  the  way  they  saw  the  ceremony  of  the 
pope's  blessing  the  palms,  visited  the 
seven  synagogues  of  Rome,  attended  wor- 
ship in  one  of  them,  and  heard  the  Pass- 
over service  from  Dr.  L.  Loewe,  now  of 
Broadstairs,  a  learned  student  of  Eastern 
languages  and  Antiquities,  henceforth  the 
companion  and  secretary  of  Sir  Moses  on 
his  journeys  and  at  Ramsgate.  At  Malta, 
where  they  met  Prince  George  of  Cam- 
bridge, now  commander-in-chief,  news  met 
them  that  the  plague  was  raging  at  Jeru- 
salem, and  Sir  Moses  proposed  lo  proceed 
alone.  **  This,"  writes  Lady  Montefiore, 
^  I  peremptorily  resisted,  and  the  expres- 
sions of  Ruth  furnished  my  heart  at  the 
moment  with  the  language  it  most  desired 
to  use,  *  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee  or 
to  return  from  following  after  thee;  for 
whither  thou  goest  I  will  go,  and  whither 
thou  lodgest  I  will  lodge.' "  From  Bey- 
rout  they  rode,  bearing  their  tents  with 
them,  into  the  Holy  Land.  One  night 
they  had  to  sleep  in  their  rugs,  two  Euro- 
peans remaining  on  the  watch  with  pistols 
ready.  The  Jews  of  Palestine  received 
the  travellers  with  joy.    Here  they  kept 


Pentecost,  distributed  alms,  and  concerted 
with  the  rabbis  as  to  purchasing  land  for 
the  purpose  of  employing  the  youthful 
inhabitants  in  agriculture.  They  entered 
the  Holy  City  escorted  by  a  long  troop -of 
Turkish  soldiers,  whom  the  governor  had 
assembled  in  order  to  do  honor  to  the 
fnend  of  the  Egyptian,  then  lord  of  Syria. 
Sir  Moses  obtained  permission  from  Me- 
hemet  Alt  for  Jews  to  acquire  and  culti- 
vate land.  Next  year,  however.  Sultan 
Mabmoud  made  a  vigorous  attempt  to 
recover  Syria  from  the  Egyptians ;  in  1840 
they  were  defeated  at  Beyrout,  Acre  was 
bombarded,  and  Syria  was  surrendered  to 
the  Turks. 

Early  in  1840  the  well-worn  blood  accu- 
sation, the  *'  red  spectre  "  of  the  Jews,  had 
risen  against  them  in  the  East.  We  have 
recently  seen  in  Hungary  how  easily  such 
a  charge  can  obtain  credence,  and  how 
baseless  it  may  be  proved  on  an  impar- 
tial judicial  investigation.  In  Rhodes  a 
Greek  boy  had  disappeared ;  in  Damascus 
a  Capuchin  friar,  II  Padre  Tommaso,  and 
his  servant.  The  cry  was  raised  (perhaps 
at  Damascus  by  the  real  murderers)  that 
the  Jews  had  killed  these  persons  in  order 
to  use  their  blood  in  kneading  Passover 
cakes.  In  Damascus  the  gravity  of  the 
situation  was  increased  by  the  French 
consul,  representative  of  a  great  nation 
which  treated  its  native  Jew^s  with  perfect 
justice,  having  thrown  his  weight  into  the 
scale  against  the  unfortunate  Hebrews  of 
Damascus,  in  order  that  France  might 
pose  as  protector  of  Catholics  in  the  East. 
Sir  Moses  held  a  conference  at  his  house 
in  Park  Lane,  which  was  followed  by  a 
public  meeting  at  the  Mansion  House.  In 
addition  to  many  polilical  personages  of 
that  day,  Daniel  O'Connell  and  the  poet 
Campbell  were  among  those  who  assem- 
bled under  the  presidency  of  the  lord 
mayor.  Resolutions  were  passed  declar- 
ing the  incredibility  of  the  charges  to  the 
English  public.  Lord  Palmers  ton  prom- 
ised to  a  deputation  the  active  assistance 
of  the  Foreign  Otiice.  Sir  Moses  Monte- 
iiore went  as  the  delegate  of  his  brethren 
to  demand  a  fair  trial  for  the  accused 
Israelites.  He  was  accompanied  as  far 
as  Egypt  by  Adolphe  Cr^mieux,  then  a 
busy  advocate  at  the  French  bar  and 
vice-president  of  the  Central  Consistory, 
afterwards  president  of  the  Council  of 
Ministers  of  the  French  Republic.  He 
left  London  on  July  7,  and  learnt  on  the 
way  the  honorable  acquittal  on  a  trial  at 
Constantinople  of  the  Jews  of  Rhodes; 
but  the  difficulties  of  the  Damascus  affair 
were  increased  by  political  combinations. 


So6 

At  Alexandria  Sir  Moses  had  the  support 
of  all  the  consuls,  headed  by  Colonel 
Hodges,  except  the  French  consul;  but 
as  France  was  then  leadin?  the  ruler  of 
Egypt  to  look  to  her  for  aid  against  his 
suzerain  of  Constantinople  the  exception 
was  of  great  importance.  Three  Israelites 
had  died  under  torture,  but  nine  remained 
in  captivity.  A  public  trial  proved  un- 
attainable; the  accused  were  at  length 
released,  a  general  order  that  local  gov- 
ernors should  protect  the  Hebrews  from 
persecution  was  issued  from  Cairo,  and 
M^hemet  Ali  declared  his  disbelief  in  the 
charge.  For  want  of  a  public  trial  the 
calumny  died  hard.  Years  afterwards  Sir 
Moses  found  at  Damascus  a  stone  in  a 
Roman  Catholic  Church  to  II  Padre  Tom- 
maso,  described  in  the  inscription  as  mur- 
dered by  the  Jews.  The  stone  told  its 
lying  tale  till  in  an  attack  of  Moslems 
upon  Christians  in  i860  the  Church  and 
all  its  monuments  were  destroyed  by  fire. 

As  soon  as  he  had  procured  at  Alexan- 
dria the  release  of  the  Damascus  Jews, 
Sir  Moses  Montefiore  proceeded  to  Con- 
stantinople. The  sultan  was  embarrassed 
by  no  extraordinary  friendliness  to  France, 
and  Sir  Moses  obtained  a  success  of  the 
most  brilliant  and  enduring  character. 
On  November  12,  1840,  Reschid  Pasha 
delivered  to  him  on  the  part  of  Abd-ul- 
Medjid  a  firman  signed  by  the  sultan,  in 
which  he  examined  the  grounds  of  the 
ancient  prejudice  against  the  Jews,  reca- 
pitulated the  acquittal  of  the  Jews  of 
Rhodes,  discussed  the  Biblical  maxim 
which  prohibits  Israelites  from  using  even 
the  blood  of  animals,  and  dismissed  as 
groundless  the  charge  that  they  employ 
human  blood.  The  Commander  of  the 
Faithful  proceeded  to  declare  the  equality 
before  the  law  of  the  Jewish  nation  witn 
his^other  subjects,  commanded  that  they 
should  be  protected  and  defended,  and 
forbade  any  molestation  of  them  in  their 
religious  or  temporal  concerns.  This 
firman  of  the  12th  Ramazan,  1256,  has 
often  subsequently  been  of  the  greatest 
service  in  averting  trouble  to  the  Jews  in 
various  parts  of  the  Ottoman  Empire. 

The  years  which  followed  were  the 
most  debatable  of  Sir  Moses*s  public 
life.  Holding  deeply  rooted  orthodox 
opinions,  he  opposed  the  Reform  party 
who,  led  by  the  Goldsmids  and  some 
members  of  his  own  family,  formed  the 
congregation  of  British  Jews  and  now 
have  a  synagogue  in  Berkeley  Street. 
While  he  has  always  professed  himself  a 
Conservative  Sir  Moses  has  promoted 
progress  among  backward  communities 


SIR  MOSES  MONTEFIORE. 


of  Jews,  as  in  Palestine  and  Poland.  Hi 
has  always,  however,  urged  g^radual  pnsg- 
ress  and  respect  to  constituted  aotlMirv 
ties ;  sudden  changes  he  fears  aod  depre> 
cates.  The  English  schism  of  1841 
seemed  to  him  the  result  of  desiring  too 
great  and  sudden  a  change  in  public  wor* 
ship.  In  this  be  differed  from  nsany  good 
men. 

After  the  sultan.  Sir  Moses  IWf  ootefiore 
visited  his  hereditary  rival  the  czar.     Tbe 
conquest  of  Lithuania  and   Poland    had 
brought  three  millions  of  Jews    beneath 
the  Muscovite  dominion.    In  his  baste  to 
rule  over  a  homogeneous  people,  tbe  czar, 
neglecting  the  effectual  solvents  of  toler- 
ance and  equality,  attempted  to  assimilate 
the  Jews  to  the  Russians  by  carrying  off 
their  sons  in  great  numbers  to  scnre  m 
the  army  and  navy.    The  regular  coascn|>' 
tion  was  enforced  with  severity,  and  those 
who  lived  near  the  frontier  sought  to  es* 
cape  into  Austria,  Prussia,  or  the   I>aoo- 
bian  principalities.     In  1845  the  etnperor 
issued  a  ukase  in  which  he  ordered   all 
Jewish  families  living  within  fifty  versts 
of  the  frontier  to  be  removed  into   tbe 
interior.    In  the  wintry  weather  of  Feb- 
ruary and  March,  1846,  Sir  Moses    and 
Lady  Montefiore  travelled  to  St.  Peters- 
burg, occupying  more  than  a  month    oo 
the  journey.    On  the  road  they  heard  the 
howling  ot  hungry  packs  of  wolves,  and 
had  to  keep  a  gong  sounding  to  frighten 
them  away.    The  commercial  stagnatioa 
which   the  decree    would   have    brought 
about  had  by  now  been  foreseen.     Tbe 
ukase  was  first  abrogated  and  then  sus- 
pended.  The  philanthropist  has  described 
his  audience   of  Czar  Nicholas.    **  Hia 
Majesty  said,"  Sir  Moses  wrote  to  a  friend 
in  London,  **  I  should  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  taking  with  me  his  assurances  and 
the  assurances  of  his  ministers  that  be 
was  most  desirous  for  the  improvement 
of  my  co-religionists  in  his  empire,  and 
that  object  engaged  his  attention  at  pres- 
ent.    His  Majesty  also  intimated  a  desire 
that  I  should  visit  the  towns   in   which 
they  are  most  numerous  to  study  their 
wants  and  requirements.'*    The  czar  ia 
this  conversation  referred  to  the  concen- 
tration of  the  Jews  in  a  few  over-popu- 
lated provinces  and  to  a  plan  formed  by 
him,  and  since  carried  into  effect  some- 
what too  sparingly,  of  disseminating  thenu 
He  admitted  that  he  had  in  his  army 
one  hundred  thousand  brave  Israelites  — 
** veritable  Maccabees'*  he  called  them, 
and  said  there  was  no  law  to  prevent  them 
from  becoming  officers,  although  in  prac- 
tice they  did  not  acquire  military  rank. 


SIR  MOSES  MONTEFIORE. 


S07* 


He  expressed  the  hope  that  many  would 
obtain  promotion,  and  advised  Sir  Moses 
to  prevail  on  his  co-religionists  to  lay 
aside  their  peculiar  customs  —  customs 
which  are  the  natural  results  of  the  isola- 
tion enforced  upon  them. 

The  next  few  years  were  spent  in  peace- 
ful labors  at  home  in  superintending:  Jew- 
ish education,  in  securing  the  insertion  of 
proper  clauses  protectin^r  Jewish  mar- 
riages in  the  Marriage  Act,  etc.  A  re- 
markable instance  of  the  trust  reposed  in 
Sir  Moses  by  his  brethren  was  afforded 
in  the  will  of  Judah  Touro,  a  wealthy  Is- 
raelite of  New  Orleans,  who  while  leaving 
large  sums  to  the  poor  of  that  city,  be- 
queathed fifty  thousand  dollars  to  Monte- 
nore  to  be  applied  as  Sir  Moses  thought 
fit  for  the  benefit  of  the  Jews  in  the  Holy 
l^nd. 

The  outbreak  of  the  Russian  war  in 
1853  brought  about  a  famine  in  Jerusa- 
lem. In  the  early  part  of  1854  snow  lay 
deep  on  the  hills  and  filled  the  streets; 
the  slippery  mountain  tracks  could  not  be 
traversed  by  camels;  neither  food  nor 
fuel  found  its  way  into  the  citv.  The 
Jews  had  to  make  their  customarily  heavy 
presents  to  the  local  authorities,  and 
failed,  in  consequence  of  the  war,  to  re- 
ceive the  usual  contributions  from  their 
brethren  abroad.  Many  perished  of  want. 
The  chief  rabbi  of  Jerusalem  himself 
started  for  Europe  to  obtain  relief  for  his 
starving  flock,  but  died  at  Alexandria. 
In  England,  Dr.  Adler  and  Sir  Moses 
Montefiore  issued  an  appearand  collected 
about  ;£ 20,000.  After  satisfying  pressing 
needs  by  remittances  in  advance.  Sir  Mo- 
ses and  Lady  Montefiore  made  a  journey 
to  Palestine  in  1855.  They  passed  through 
Constantinople,  where  a  firman  enabling 
Sir  Moses  to  purchase  land  in  Palestine 
was  procured  from  the  sultan  by  the  aid 
of  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe.  On  the 
territory  thus  acquired  Sir  Moses  built 
the.  Touro  almshouses  and  a  windmill. 
He  opened  a  girls'  school  and  an  indus- 
trial school,  and  had  the  public  slaugh- 
tering-place removed  from  the  Jewish 
quarter,  where  offal  had  been  suffered  to 
accumulate  from  the  days  of  Caliph  Omar, 
to  a  place  without  the  city.  Agricultural 
colonies  were  established  at  Safed  and 
Tiberias.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Haim  Guedalla, 
relatives  of  Sir  Moses,  accompanied  this 
expedition.  Other  visits  to  Jerusalem 
were  paid  in  1849  ^*'^  Colonel  Gawler, 
in  1857  and  in  1S66  with  Mr.  Joseph 
Sebag,  Sir  Moses's  nephew,  and  Mrs. 
Sebag. 


In  1859  Sir  Moses  was  in  correspon- 
dence with  Mr.  Gladstone,  then  high 
commissioner  to  the  Ionian  Islands.  Sir 
Moses  wrote  that  he  had  been  deputed  to 
solicit  that  Mr.  Gladstone  would  take 
into  kind  consideration  the  political  and 
social  condition  of  the  Jews  in  the  loniaa 
Islands. 

In  1861  the  correspondence  bore  fruit 
During  the  commtssionership  of  Sir  E. 
Storks,  Athanasis,  metropolitan  of  Corfu, 
issued  an  encyclical  pointing  out  that 
harsh  treatment  of  the  Jews  was  totally  at 
variance  with  the  faith  of  Christ.  The 
Jews  of  the  Ionian  Isles,  as  well  as  on  the 
Hellenic  mainland,  now  live  on  excellent 
terms  socially  and  politically  with  Greeks 
of  the  dominant  creed. 

Sir  Moses  crossed  the  desert  to  the 
city  of  Morocco  in  1863,  and  obtained  the 
sultan's  promise  of  protection  for  the 
Israelites.  He  was  too  weak  to  ride,  but 
travelled  for  eight  days  *in  a  chaise  d 
porteuTy  over  burning  sands,  being  thea 
at  the  age  of  seventy-nine.  The  Moors 
saw  with  surprise  one  of  the  despised 
Hebrews  arrive  in  an  English  government 
vessel,  and  escorted  to  the  capital  by 
British  officers.  The  sultan's  edict, 
though  often  violated,  has  remained  a 
pledge  and  pdnt  d^appui  for  remon* 
strance.  He  went  to  Roumania  in  1867, 
though  threatened  with  assassination  at 
Bucharest.  In  187 1  he  opened  a  subscrip- 
tion as  president  of  the  Board  of  Depu* 
ties  for  the  relief  of  famine  among  the 
Jews  in  Persia.  A  sum  of  ;£  17,975  was 
distributed  through  Mr.  Alison,  the  Brit- 
ish minister  at  Teheran.  In  1872,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  two-hundredth  anniversary 
of  the  birth  of  Peter  the  Great,  Sir  Moses 
Montefiore  went  to  St.  Petersburg  and 
there  presented  an  address  of  congratula- 
tion to  Alexander  II.,  the  emancipator  of 
the  serfs.  The  czar  came  to  the  Winter 
Palace  from  the  scene  of  the  summer 
maoGeuvres  on  purpose  to  avoid  causing 
fatigue  to  his  distinguished  visitor;  talked 
English  fluently  with  Sir  Moses,  referred 
to  the  audience  with  the  czar  Nicholas, 
his  father,  in  1846,  and  gave  the  most 
gracious  assurances.  Sir  Moses  was 
gratified  to  find  a  remarkable  improve- 
ment in  the  position  of  the  Jews  since  his 
earlier  visit.  He  saw  Israelites  who  had 
been  decorated  by  the  emperor,  conversed 
with  Jewish  merchants,  literary  men,  edi- 
tors of  Russian  periodicals,  artisans,  and 
persons  who  had  formerly  served  in  the 
imperial  army,  all  of  whom  expressed 
satisfaction  with    their  position.    **  The 


Jews,"  be  wrote,  "now  dress  like  any 
gentlemen  in  England,  France,  or  Ger- 
many; their  schools  are  well  attended, 
and  they  are  foremost  in  every  honorable 
enterprise.*'  He  found  synagogues  in 
which  sermons  were  preached  in  Russian 
and  in  German ;  but  mentions  also  that 
he  has  in  his  possession  "  beautiful  maps, 
with  all  the  modern  improvements,  in 
which  the  cities,  villages,  mountains,  riv- 
ers, railways,  etc.,  all  appear  in  Hebrew; 
and  several  educational  works  on  history, 
geography,  grammar,  natural  philosophy, 
and  physics,  also  published  in  the  Hebrew 
language,  to  enable  those  who  are  yet  un- 
acquainted with  the  national  language  to 
advance  their  education  in  all  useful  secu- 
lar subjects."  Sir  Moses  has  lived  to  see 
retrogression  in  the  treatment  of  the  Jews 
in  Russia,  and  has  had  the  melancholy 
duty  of  sending  relief  to  the  victims  of 
popular  turbulence  and  official  neglect  or 
worse  in  that  empire.  In  October,  1874, 
on  Sir  Moses  retiring  from  the  presidency 
of  the  Board  of  Deputies,  a  fund  was 
raised  as  a  testimonial  to  his  high  charac- 
ter and  public  services.  A  sum  of  over 
/ 1 2,000  was  collected.  Sir  Moses,  on 
being  consulted,  expressed  a  wish  that  it 
should  be  devoted  to  public  works  for  the 
improvement  of  the  condition  of  the  Jews 
in  the  Holy  Land,  and  accordingly  the 
committee  have  temporarily  invested  it  on 
loan  to  building  societies  there,  the  want 
of  suitable  residences  in  Jerusalem  having 
forcibly  struck  Sir  Moses  on  his  sixth 
visit.  Movements  have  now  been  set  on 
foot,  not  only  in  London  and  Ramsgate, 
but  also  in  the  United  States,  Australia 
(where  there  are  townships  named  **  Mon- 
tefiore"),  and  in  Italy,  to  commemorate  in 
some  similar  manner  the  distinguished 
humanitarian's  hundredth  year. 

The  seventh  journey  of  Sir  Moses 
Montefiore  to  Palestine  was  undertaken 
in  1875,  ^^^  ^^^  bccQ  described  by  him- 
self under  the  head  of  "  Forty  Days*  So- 
journ in  the  Holy  Land,"  a  most  interest- 
ing diary  of  a  nonagenarian.  He  tells  us 
how  he  was  entertained  at  Jaffa  by  Mr. 
Amzalak,  British  vice-consul,  son  of  his 
almoner  in  Jerusalem  in  1838. 

He  finds  his  garden  at  Jaffa  containing 
nine  hundred  fruit  trees,  but  that  it  re- 
quires an  English  or  French  gardener,  a 
house,  mules  for  the  water-wheel,  and 
European  vegetables  and  fruit  to  supply 
the  market  at  Port  Said.  A  crowd  of  the 
poor  turn  out  to  work  the  wheel  in  his 
presence  till  the  tank  is  filled  to  overflow- 
ing. He  gives  a  dramatic  description  of 
the  moonlight  ride  by  a  rocky  road  to 


SIR  MOSES   MONTEFIORE. 


Jerusalem  and  the  threatening  approach 
at  full  gallop  of  Bedouins,  who  turned  out 
to  be  rabbis  come  to  learn  the  time  of  bis 
entering  the  Holy  City.  Near  his  own 
windmill,  built  many  years  before,  he  is 
pleased  to  observe  two  windmills  recently 
added  by  Greeks,  who  derive,  as  he  is 
told,  a  profit  from  them.  Great  is  his  de- 
light, when  he  considers  that  a  few  years 
ago  not  one  Jewish  family  was  livins:  out- 
side the  gate  of  Jerusalem,  to  see  a  new 
Jerusalem  springing  up,  with  buildings 
some  of  them  as  fine  as  any  in  Europe. 
He  is  welcomed  by  great  throngs  of  peo- 
ple, is  charmed  with  their  industrious 
habits,  learns  that  there  are  twenty-eight 
synagogues  and  eleven  thousand  Jews  in 
Jerusalem,  finds  among  them  Russian 
Jews  who  have  been  decorated  with  med- 
als for  bravery  and  embraced  by  the  czar 
himself,  and  sees  Turkish  officers  present 
at  a  synagogue  service  in  pledge  of  unity. 
He  carefully  examines  all  the  schools  ia 
modern  as  well  as  in  religious  subjects 
through  Dr.  Loewe,  receives  favorable 
reports,  but  requests  managers  and  pupils 
to  confer  with  himself  on  further  improve- 
ments. The  custom  of  sending  presents 
of  bread  and  wine  to  the  visitor  to  the 
Holy  City  still  prevails,  and  many  a  flask 
of  old  Hebron  wine,  and  many  a  cake  of 
the  best  graced  his  Sabbath  table.  He  re- 
ceives descriptions  of  some  of  the  sixteen 
charities  of  the  German  congregation  and 
of  three  building  societies.  Distressing 
accounts  reach  him  of  the  spread  of  chol- 
era ;  he  desires  to  cause  several  houses 
to  be  whitewashed  and  a  number  of  streets 
to  be  cleansed,  removing  the  refuse  out  of 
the  city,  but  cannot  get  any  one  to  do  the 
work.  He  receives  favorable  reports  as 
to  the  soup  kitchen,  the  Rothschild  Hos- 
pital, etc.  A  deputation  of  Armenian 
priests  waits  on  him  to  express  the 
friendly  sentiments  of  the  patriarch.  He 
sees  an  emissary  from  Arabia  Felix,  who 
has  come  to  implore  the  sultan's  protec- 
tion for  the  Jews  there,  and  is  much 
pleased  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  two 
editors  of  as  many  newspapers  published 
in  Jerusalem.  He  refuses  to  believe 
recent  reports  to  the  prejudice  of  the 
Jews  in  the  Holy  Land.  Returning  to 
Jaffa  he  is  pleased  with  the  French  garden 
there.  His  final  advice  to  his  European 
brethren  is  that  they  should  build  houses 
in  Jerusalem,  Safed,  Tiberias,  and  Hebron* 
If  that  undertaking  prospers,  land  can, he 
adds,  easily  be  bought,  and  many  found 
who  would  be  most  willing  to  follow  agri- 
I  cultural  pursuits. 
I     This  year  he  sent  help  to  the  Hungarian 


THE  COST  OF   LIVING   IN   SWITZERLAND. 


S09 


Jews,  accused  at  Nyireghyhaza,  and  a 
copy  of  the  firman  of  1840  to  every  Hun- 
li^arian  deputy.  With  the  help  of  an  En- 
glish amanuensis  and  a  foreign  secretary, 
he  maintains  a  voluminous  correspon* 
dence  in  Hebrew  and  modern  languages, 
and  is  punctilious  in  offering  congratula- 
tion and  condolence  by  telegram  to  his 
old  friends.  The  portraits  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Gladstone  hang  beside  his  fireplace ; 
**  God  bless  them/'  he  said,  when  a  visitor 
referred  to  the  originals  having  passed  in 
a  maritime  trip  before  his  windows. 
Much  of  his  work  has  been  done  in  his 
Gothic  library,  a  long  apartment  adjoining 
his  own  room,  tilled  with  portraits  and 
busts  of  his  friends.  If  a  visitor  stays  to 
dine  at  this  season,  the  meal  is  served  in 
the  Tabernacle,  which  is  erected  in  his 
court-yard  in  memory  of  the  children  of 
Israel  having  dwelt  in  booths  when  they 
went  forth  from  Egypt.  He  himself  sus- 
tains nature  almost  entirely  upon  milk 
and  port  wine,  sometimes  varied  by  a 
little  soup  or  bread  and  butter.  In  favor 
of  port  he  has  the  old  English  prejudice, 
and  drinks  two  or  three  glasses  daily  of  a 
sound  and  generous  wine  mellowea,  but 
not  extremely  weakened  by  age.  That 
description  may  be  transferred  from  the 
vintage  to  the  man.  Another  old  custom 
which  he  observed  was  to  wear  till  1862 
the  long  blue  coat  with  gilt  buttons  which 
was  in  his  youth  a  gentleman's  ordinary 
dress.  His  frilled  shirt  and  his  sedan- 
chair  are  also  relics  of  the  olden  times. 
In  middle  life  Sir  Moses  smoked,  but  he 
has  ceased  for  many  years  to  use  tobacco. 
He  rises  at  eleven,  having  had  his  letters 
read  to  him  in  bed,  drives  out  daily  in  fine 
weather,  often  passing  the  gate  of  his 
synagogue,  and  retires  about  nine.  He 
was  usually  accompanied  by  a  doctor  in 
his  tours  in  the  East,  where  European 
medical  aid  would  not  have  been  forth- 
coming. At  home,  however,  he  usually 
relies  merely  on  the  care  of  his  skilled  at- 
tendant, Mrs.  Miiller.  In  full  possession 
of  sight,  bearing,  and  speech,  neither 
somnolent  nor  inactive  in  mind,  little 
bowed  in  frame,  although  his  height  is  six 
feet  three  inches.  Sir  Moses  Montefiore 
enters  on  his  bundreth  year.  Of  the 
actions  which  have  filled  up  this  long 
space  of  life,  we  have  given  some  faint 
account.  Of  the  spirit  which  has  ani- 
mated him  some  inference  may  be  drawn. 
Few  are  the  mortals  spared  for  the  retro- 
spect of  a  century  of  existence  —  vivendo 
vincere  saclum  — fewer  still  can  have  the 
right  to  contemplate  a  long  life  with  so 
much  unalloyed  satisfaction. 


From  The  Spectator. 
THE  COST  OF  LIVING  IN  SWITZERLAND. 

The  superstition  that  living  abroad  is 
necessarily  cheaper  than  living  at  home 
still  lingers,  and  hundreds  of  families 
every  year  betake  themselves  to  the  Con- 
tinent, in  the  hope  of  bettering  their 
condition  by  reducing  their  expenditure. 
This  end  they  generally  attain,  albeit  by 
the  adoption  of  means  which,  if  they  were 
adopted  at  home,  would  produce  a  similar 
result.  There  was  a  time  when  the  prime 
necessaries  of  life  were  cheaper  on  the 
Continent  than  in  England,  but  the  exten- 
sion of  railways  has  equalized  food  prices 
all  over  Europe,  and,  except  in  a  few  out- 
lyino^  countries,  whither  only  travellers 
careless  of  comfort  ever  venture,  flesh 
meat  and  bread  stuffs  are  now  nowhere 
much  cheaper  than  they  are  in  England. 
On  the  other  hand,  coal,  exotic  produce, 
and  all  sea-borne  articles  are  considerably 
dearer  abroad  than  at  home.  The  manu- 
facturing supremacy  and  free-trade  policy 
of  the  United  Kingdom  have  made  it,  for 
clothing,  the  cheapest  country  in  the 
world ;  while,  against  the  comparative 
dearness  of  dairy  produce,  a  dearness  due 
to  the  legal  and  social  discouragement  of 
small  farms,  may  be  set  off  the  far  greater 
cheapness  of  fish.  Of  some  other  items 
of  domestic  expenditure,  such  as  educa- 
tion, house -rent,  taxes,  and  servants' 
wages,  we  shall  speak  presently. 

The  country  at  present  most  affected  by 
English  families  in  search  of  economy  is, 
probably,  Switzerland.  It  possesses  sev- 
eral varieties  of  climate,  highly  attractive 
scenery,  and  foreign  residents  (unless 
they  happen  to  be  members  of  the  Salva- 
tion Army)  enjoy  greater  liberties  and 
immunities  than  elsewhere  in  Europe. 
'Wi^ permis de sijour^\\\QM^  still  exacted, 
is  little  more  than  a  matter  of  form,  and 
by  the  payment  of  a  trifling  fee  you  may 
have  a  perm  is  dUtablissement  good  for 
the  entire  duration  of  your  stay,  however 
long  it  may  be.  Sojourners  in  Switzer- 
land, moreover,  have  the  choice  of  two 
languages,  and  the  chance  of  cheaper  ed- 
ucation than  is  to  be  found  either  in 
France  or  Germany ;  while  in  the  former 
country  the  cost  of  living  has  been  greatly 
enhanced  since  1871  by  heavy  taxation, 
and  in  the  latter  by  the  protective  policy 
of  Prince  Bismarck.  Taking  everjthing 
into  consideration,  Switzerland  offers  to 
English  families  for  whom  economy  is  a 
necessity  greater  advantages  than  any 
other  part  of  the  Continent.  No  com- 
mune is  without  its  free  school,  and  the 
more  advanced  cantons  —  Berne,  Zurich, 


S^o 


THE   COST  OF   LIVING  IN   SWITZERLAND. 


Geneva,  Vaud,  and  others  —  possess  edu- 
cational institutions  equal  to  any  of  their 
class  in  Europe,  and  in  which  instruction 
is  imparted  at  an  almost  nominal  cost. 
The  College  of  Geneva,  founded  by  Calvin, 
which   may  take  rank  with  any  English 
public  school,  gives  a  liberal  education  at 
the  rate  of  twenty  francs  a  year,  and  the 
fees  at  the  secondary  and  superior  girls' 
schools  are  on  an  equally  moderate  scale. 
The  fees  at  the  Gymnase  are  forty  francs 
a  year  for  each  of  the  two  sections,  tech- 
nical and  commercial,  so  that  if  a  pupil 
were  to  take  both,   which,  however,  no 
pupil  ever  does,  the  total  cost  would  be 
£^  4J.  4d.    The  charges  at  the  Conserva- 
toire de  Musique  are  50/,  for  six  months* 
instruction  in  any  one  branch,  and  the 
School  of  Design  is  free  to  pupils  who 
make  a  point  of  regular  attendance.    The 
fees  at  the    university,  the    Schools   of 
Chemistry  and  Industrial  Arts,  are  rela- 
tively quite  as  reasonable ;  and  as  private 
lessons  are  also  very  cheap,  Geneva  is 
probably  the  most  desirable  city  in  Europe 
for  folks  with   large  families  and  small 
incomes.     But  there  is  a  reverse  to  every 
medal;  and  as  none  of  these  institutions 
are  self-supporting,  and  all  (except  the 
Conservatoire)  are  subsidized  either  by 
the  municipality  or  the  State,  taxes  are 
necessarily  high,  almost  as  high  as  in  En- 
gland, although  Switzerland  has  neither 
standing  army,  navy,  court,  nor  foreign 
office.    The  rate  of  taxation  in  Geneva, 
including  local  imposts,  is  at  the  rate  of 
seventy-six  francs,  a  shade  over;^3  a  head 
of  population.     In  no  other  canton  is  this 
rate  exceeded,  in  many  cantons  it  is  much 
less;  but  none,  perhaps,  possess  equal 
educational  facilities,  or  offer  them  on  the 
same  liberal  terms  alike  to  foreigners  and 
citizens.    Apart  from  education,  it  would 
not  seem  that  the  cost  of  living  is  any  less 
in  Geneva,  or  elsewhere  in  Switzerland, 
than  in  England.     It  is  difficult  to  com- 
pare house-rents,  so  much  depends  on 
situation  and  accommodation ;  but  there 
is  no  question  that  rents  abroad  are  gen- 
erally higher  than  rents  at  home.    They 
are   higher  at  Paris,  Berlin,  and*  Vienna 
than  in  any  large  English  city,  and  they 
are  higher  in  the  environs  of  Zurich,  Ge- 
neva, and  Berne  than  in  the  environs  of 
London.     According  to  a  careful  estimate 
which  appeared  some  time  ago  in  a  Zurich 
paper,  the  cost  of  building  in  London  is 
little  more  than  half  the  cost  of  building 
at  Zurich.     This  difference  is  due  less  to 
any  great  difference  in  the  price  of  the 
materials  used  by  English  builders  than 
to  the  greater  efficiency  of  English  labor, 
the  skill  with  which  it  is  directed,  and  the 


more  general  use  in  this  country  of  labor- 
saving  appliances.  Rents,  therefore,  are 
higher,  perhaps  ten  to  twenty  per  cent« 
higher,  in  Switzerland  than  in  Enslaod ; 
coal  is  dearer  —  it  costs  in  Geneva  £t 
15J.  a  ton  —  tea,  coffee,  sugar,  currants, 
petroleum,  tinned  meats,  pottery,  hard- 
ware, and  clothing  are  very  much  dearer. 
Dairy  produce  and  vegetables,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  cheaper ;  so  are  servants' 
wages.  A  Genevan  housemaid  is  satis- 
fied'* with  ;^io  to  £J2Z  year;  a  cook  con- 
siders herself  well  paid  with  from  ;£i2  to 
;£i6.  The  cheapness  of  wine,  even  for 
those  who  like  it,  is  not  an  unalloyed 
blessing.  Your  servants  take  it  with  their 
dinners  and  suppers  as  a  matter  of  course ; 
when  you  employ  a  gardener,  he  expects  a 
bottle  a  day ;  every  man  who  brings  a  par- 
cel, or  who  does  an  odd  job,  wants  a  drink ; 
low  prices  induce  increased  consumption, 
and  the  net  result  is  not  economy. 

Theoretically,  then,  housekeeping  is  no 
cheaper  in  Switzerland  than  in  England, 
and  if  people  do,  in  fact,  live  less  expen- 
sively in  the  former  country  than  the  lat- 
ter, it  is  because  they  live  more  simply. 
English  families  who  at  home  inhabit  a 
country  house  or  a  suburban   villa,  and 
keep  five  or  six  servants,  when  they  set- 
tle for  a  season  at  Geneva  hire  an  afi- 
partement  in  a  second  story  and  keep  a 
housemaid   and  a  cook,  or,  perhaps,  a 
maid-of-all-work.    They  have  emancipated 
themselves  from  the  yoke  of  Mrs.  Grundy, 
and  the  simpler  living  of  their  new  neigh- 
bors makes  thrift  seem  easier  and  more 
natural.     Large  fortunes  are  rare  in  Switz* 
erland,  and  the  salaries  of  public  func- 
tionaries are  very  modest.    The  president 
of  the  Confederation  receives  for  his  ser- 
vices only  ;^6oo  a  year ;  few  jud^^es  receive 
more  than  ^£250,  and  there  is  probably  no 
bank  manager  in  the  country  with  a  salary 
of  more  than  twice  that  amount.    A  man 
with  an  income  of  /500  is  considered  very 
well  off  indeed,  ana  to  have  ;£(,ooo  a  year 
is  to  be  "passing  rich."      An   English 
family,  consisting  of  six  persons  —  four  of 
them  children  — having,  say,  £^00  a  year, 
and  desiring  to  settle  in  Geneva  and  prac- 
tice economy,  would  probably  take  an  un- 
furnished appartement  on  a  second  or 
third  story,  which  with  taxes  might  cost 
them  £fio  a  year.     Two  servants  at  £z2^ 
and  education  (including  books  and  some 
private  lessons),  would  bring  up  their  fixed 
expenditure  to  ;£ioo,  leaving  ^400  dis- 
posable for  food,  clothing,  and  et  cetxras. 
How  much  our  economical  family  should 
spend  on  clothing  is  not  easy  to  say ;  but 
if  they  were  very  careful,  and  the  mistress 
a  good  manager,  £fio  to  £;jo  would  go  a 


GROWN-UP    CHILDREN. 


5" 


long  way.  As  for  food,  if  they  lived  as 
the  Swiss  live,  profiting  by  the  cheapness 
of  vegetable  and  dairy  produce,  and  not 
being  extravagant  in  butcher  meat,  they 
might  perhaps  provide  it,  together  with 
firing  and  lights,  for  about  ;£2oo  a  vear 
more,  leaving  for  sundries  and  the  unfore* 
seen  a  margin  of  £1^0*  In  the  country, 
considerably  less  would  suffice ;  but  the 
country  does  not  offer  the  same  facilities 
for  education,  for  attending  the  gratuitous 
lectures  organized  by  the  university,  and 
for  amusements.  For  people  with  small 
families,  or  with  no  families  at  all,  lodg- 
ings are  perhaps  cheaper  than  housekeep- 
ing.  In  Geneva,  Lausanne,  and  almost 
every  other  Swiss  city,  pension  may  be 
obtained  at  from  four  to  six  francs  a  day, 
iQ  the  country  for  very  much  less.  An 
American  gentleman  known  to  the  writer, 
^ho  came  to  Europe  for  the  benefit  of  his 
health,  and  for  whom  economy  was  a  ne- 
cessity, found  at  Yverdun,  on  the  Lake  of 
Neuch4tel,  3.  pension  which  took  him,  his 
Wife,  child,  and  nurse  at  the  rate  of  twelve 
francs,  say  los.  a  day,  everything  in- 
cluded. He  had  two  bedrooms  and  a  sit- 
ting-room, everything  was  scrupulously 
clean  and  neat,  and  the  fare,  though  plain, 
was  sufficient  and  substantial.  But  Yver- 
dun is  a  terribly  dull  place,  and  there  are 
few  English  people  who,  save  under  pres- 
sure of  necessity,  would  consent  to  spend 
a  winter  in  a  quiet  Swiss  village  unfre- 
quented by  their  countrymen.  There  are 
probably  places  in  England  where  it 
would  be  possible  to  live  as  cheaply  as  at 
Yverdun.  So  far  as  Geneva  is  concerned, 
the  greatest  advantage  it  offers  to  foreign 
residents,  apart  from  its  fine  situation  and 
bracing  climate,  consists  in  the  wonderful 
cheapness,  variety,  and  efficiency  of  its 
educational  institutions,  as  to  which  it  is 
unsurpassed,  perhaps  unequalled,  by  any 
other  Continental  city. 


From  The  Globe. 
GROWN-UP  CHILDREN. 

To  arrive  at  years  of  discretion  is,  as 
we  know,  supposed  in  this  country  to  be 
an  inevitable  incident  in  the  life  of  all 
men  and  women.  Unless  a  person  is  ab- 
solutely mad,  he  is  considered  quite  as 
certain  to  do  so,  if  he  lives  to  a  reason- 
able age,  as  he  is  afterwards  to  die ;  and 
this  process  of  *' arriving"  is  spoken  of  as 
a  marked  epoch  in  his  life,  upon  passing 
which  he  becomes  at  once  a  different  and 
more  responsible  creature.  It  is,  how- 
evcfi  very  remarkable  that  hardly  any  two 


persons  take  the  same  view  as  to  the  ex- 
act moment  when  this  great  change  is 
effected.  Although  some  wiseacre  in  an- 
cient times  hit  upon  twenty-one  years  as 
the  age  at  which  men  are  to  be  deemed  to 
become  "discreet,"  few  have  been  so  un- 
gallant  to  the  fair  sex ;  and  the  severest 
legislators  have  often  allowed  that  a  lady 
may  possess  this  virtue  some  )*ears  be- 
fore. Testators,  who  are  a  species  of 
lawgivers  —  for  they  dictate  the  law  of 
succession  to  their  descendants  —  are 
often  more  barbarous,  and  keep  the  gen- 
tle heiresses  waiting  till  five-and-twenty, 
and  even  thirty,  before  they  are  allowed 
to  manage  their  own  inheritance,  even  if 
they  do  not  "tie  it  up'*  altogether  with  an 
apparent  disbelief  in  the  accepted  doctrine 
already  mentioned.  Male  heirs  are  often 
kept  out  of  their  portions  till  four  years 
after  the  legal  date  of  coming  "of  age;  " 
and  it  would  have  been  well  for  some  of 
our  great  families  if  the  same  rule  could 
have  been  imported  more  often  into  the 
law  relating  to  entailed  estates.  On  the 
other  hand,  princes  of  the  blood  and  some 
other  great  potentates  are  almost  always 
admitted  to  attain  to  years  of  discretion 
before  the  twenty-one  years  have  elapsed 
which  entitle  humbler  folk  to  their  full  in- 
tellectual honors.  But  all  these  diversi- 
ties of  opinion  as  to  the  time  at  which 
discretion  is  attained  are  mere  quibbles 
compared  with  the  broad  doubt  whether 
some  people  ever  attain  it  at  all.  We 
know  that  in  Mahomedan  countries  women 
are  not  believed  ever  to  become  responsi- 
ble agents,  but  remain  in  a  tutelage  often 
not  far  removed  from  virtual  slavery  until 
their  dying  day.  It  is  in  the  harem,  there- 
fore, that  the  finest  examples  are  to  be 
found  of  grown-up  children.  And  the 
more  splendid  the  establishment  the  more 
perfect  is  the  state  of  apparent  childish- 
ness in  which  the  inmates  are  kept.  Every 
trouble  is  taken  to  preserve  in  their  minds 
the  habits  and  ideas  of  the  nursery.  Their 
chief  daily  amusements  are  toys ;  their 
favorite  lood  consists  of  sweetmeats* 
Their  only  playmates  and  companions  be- 
longing to  the  other  sex  are  the  small 
children  of  their  lord  and  master.  Ac- 
cordingly in  the  women's  quarter  of  an 
Eastern  house  the  scene  is  that  of  a  nur- 
sery of  adults.  When  the  houris  are 
pleased  they  smile  and  sing ;  when  they 
are  angry  they  cry,  and  tear  their  clothes, 
and  spoil  their  toys,  and  refuse  to  eat 
their  food.  Their  griefs  are  violent,  like 
their  jealousies;  but,  unlike  the  latter, 
they  are  short-lived.  A  book,  unless  it 
were  prettily  illuminated,  a  picture,  unless 
it  were  a  highly  colored  daub,  would  be  of 


S" 


GROWN-UP   CHILDREN. 


no  interest  whatever  to  them.  Nor  would 
the  most  entertainincr  story  enlist  their  at- 
tention for  a  moment  unless  it  were  of  the 
kind  which  proves  attractive  to  our  chil- 
dren of  six  or  eight  years  old.  1 1  is  neces- 
sary to  see  or  hear  a  good  deal  about  this 
sort  of  life  before  we  can  understand  to 
what  a  state  of  puerility  a  set  system  of 
"education  "  in  the  wrong  direction  can 
reduce  a  human  being  which  has  long 
passed  what  are  the  utmost  boundaries  of 
minority  in  any  European  country.  In 
England  there  is  very  little  of  the  **  home 
influence"  which  makes  boys  still  chil- 
dren when  they  are  far  advanced  in  their 
teens,  and  which  makes  girls  gawky  and 
shy  long  after  some  of  their  cousins  of 
the  same  age  are  mothers  and  house* 
wives.  Occasionally  a  family  of  grown- 
up children  may  be  found  at  a  country 
gathering,  escaped  from  the  domestic 
nursery  to  a  chance  lawn-tennis  party  or 
an  exceptional  ball.  Very  much  out  of 
their  element  they  seem,  and  dreadful 
bores  their  partners  find  them,  so  far  as 
conversation  is  concerned.  Yet  it  is  al- 
most a  truism  that  those  sta3'-at-home 
youths  and  maidens,  when  once  loosed 
from  the  maternal  apron-strings,  get  into 
mischief  more  c^uickly  than  any  six  times 
their  number  ot  ordinary  young  people 
who  have  picked  up  some  knowledge  of  life 
at  schools  and  juvenile  parties.  A  tardy 
conviction  that  this  is  the  case  appears  to 
be  dawning  upon  the  French,  who  are 
knaking  some  efforts  to  mitigate  the  con- 
dition of  almost  Mussulman  isolation  in 
which  their  unmarried  ladies  have  hitherto 
been  kept.    The  French  marriageable  girl 


of  the  upper  classes  is  not,  however,  the 
only  specimen  of  her  nation  which  is 
childish  beyond  its  years.  Parisians  gen- 
erally are  to  a  certain  extent  grown-up 
children  —  violent  and  fickle  in  their  tem- 
per, sudden  in  their  impulses,  devoid  of 
perseverance  in  their  resolve.  The  bon- 
bons eaten  in  Paris  in  the  twelvemonth 
are  to  be  measured  by  tons ;  but  by  no 
means  all,  or  perhaps  even  the  larger  part, 
are  consumed  by  persons  in  a  state  of 
legal  infancy.  The  Parisians  are  not  the 
less  happy  on  that  account,  nor  the  less 
healthy  either.  For  to  preserve  the  light- 
mindedness  of  childhood  is  something, 
even  when  one  cannot  retain  its  inno- 
cence. A  man  who  is  still  fond  of  sweet 
things,  and  who  still  enjoys  a  "romp" 
with  children,  is  not  one  who  ages  easily, 
or  becomes  morose  or  dyspeptic  in  his  old 
age.  This  is  not,  however,  a  reason  why 
the  period  of  what  is  legally  called  infancy 
should  be  prolonged  so  studiously  as  of 
late  years  it  has  been  in  some  of  our  edu- 
cational centres.  At  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge the  men  who  now  remain  in  statu 
pupillari  up  to  the  age  of  one  or  two  and 
twenty  are  to  all  appearance  no  more  ad- 
vanced in  life  than  their  predecessors  were 
when  they  took  their  degrees  at  nineteen 
and  twenty.  Schoolboys  of  eighteen,  such 
as  are  to  be  found  at  some  of  the  great 
schools,  are  not  a  class  which  any  parent 
can  wish  to  see  encouraged.  The  race 
for  wealth  and  honor  is  too  keen  for  a  maa 
who  means  to  do  anything  in  the  world 
to  remain  a  grown-up  child,  either  in  Ivs 
work  or  in  his  play,  any  longer  than  be 
can  help. 


Early  Marriagrs.  —  A  correspondent, 
writing  to  Notes  and  Queries^  on  the  subject  of 
early  marriages,  says:  Lady  Sarah  Cadogan, 
daughter  of  William,  first  ^arl  Cadogan,  was 
married  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  to  Charles,  sec- 
ond Duke  of  Richmond,  aged  eighteen.  It  is 
said  that  this  marriage  was  a  bargain  to  cancel 
a  gambling  debt  between  their  parents,  Lady 
Sarah  being  a  co-heiress.  The  young  Lord 
March  was  brought  from  college  and  the  little 
lady  from  her  nursery  for  the  ceremony,  which 
took  place  at  The  Hague.  The  bride  was 
amazed  and  silent,  but  the  husband  exclaimed, 
"  Surelv  you  are  not  going  to  marry  me  to  that 
dowdy  r "  Married,  however,  he  was,  and  his 
tutor  then  took  him  off  to  the  Continent,  and 
the  bride  went  back  to  her  mother.  Three 
years  after  Lord  March  returned  from  his 
travels,  but  having  such  a  disagreeable  recol- 


lection of  his  wife  was  in  no  hurry  to  join  her, 
and  went  the  first  evening  to  the  theatre. 
There  he  saw  a  lady  so  beautiful  that  he  asked 
who  she  was.  "The  reigning  toast.  Lady 
March,"  was  the  answer  he  got.  He  hastened 
to  claim  her,  and  their  lifelong  affection  for 
each  other  is  much  commented  upon  by  con- 
temporaneous writers  ^indeed  it  was  said  that 
the  duchess,  who  only  survived  him  a  year, 
died  of  grief.  Another  correspondent  writes : 
A  youthful  wedding  recently  took  place  not 
one  hundred  miles  from  this  parish  (Deeping, 
St.  Jameses)  the  united  ages  of  the  couple  being 
thirty-five  —  the  bridegroom  twenty-one  and 
the  bride  fourteen.  It  was  somewhat  of  a 
novelty  to  observe  the  interesting  bride  the 
following  day  exhibiting  her  skill  on  the  skip* 
ping-rope  on  the  pavement  in  the  street. 


LITTELL'S  LIVING  AGE. 


Fifth  BeriM, 
Volma  XLIV 


No.  2058. -December  1,  188&         {^oifom*' 


CONTENTS. 


L  The  Fur-Seals  of  Commerce,  . 

IL  The  Little  Schoolmaster  Mark.    By  the 
Author  of  "John  Inglesant," 

III.  Lady  Anne  Barnard  at  the  Cape, 

IV.  Will  Norway  become  a  Republic? 
V.  The  Wizard's  Son.    Part  XVIIL,      . 

VL  A  Knight-Errant's  Pilgrimage, 
vn.  Mr.  Trollops  as  Critic,    .... 
VIIL  Whitby  in  the  Herring  Season,    • 


Quartirly  Review, 

English  IllustraUd  MagoMine, 
Temple  Bar,  •  • 
National  Review, .  • 
MacmillafCs  Maganne, 
Temple  Bar,  .  • 
Spectator,  .  •  • 
Leeds  Mercury,    •        • 


524 
54* 
546 

5SS 
560 

573 
575 


POSTRY. 


Lyrics  of  Pericles,     . 
I.  Invocation  to  Ceres. 
II.  Fishermen's  Song. 
IIL  March  and  BaccbanaL 


514 


The  Light  Shining  in  Darkness,    •    514 
Sonnet, 514 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  EfGRT  DoLLAits,  remitted  direetfy  to  the  PtMukon,  thtt  Lnmio  Acs  will  bo  pnnctnally  f  onraided 
for  9Ljnax,JrM  qfOostart. 

Remittances  shoulabe  made  by  bank  draft  or  checkf  or  by  post-office  moneyKirder,  if  possible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  moneyshould be  sent  i n  a  resisterra  letter.  Al  1  postmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  sOb    Drafts,  checks  and  money-orders  should  be  made  payable  to  the  <nderol 

LrTTBLL&  Co. 

Single  M  umbers  of  Thb  Lxvnio  Aai^  x8  oenta. 


5o6 

At  Alexandria  Sir  Moses  had  the  support 
of  all  the  consuls,  headed  by  Colonel 
Hodges,  except  the  French  consul;  but 
as  France  was  then  leading  the  ruler  of 
Egypt  to  look  to  her  for  aid  against  his 
suzerain  of  Constantinople  the  exception 
was  of  great  importance.  Three  Israelites 
had  died  under  torture,  but  nine  renaained 
in  captivity.  A  public  trial  proved  un- 
attainable; the  accused  were  at  length 
released,  a  general  order  that  local  gov- 
ernors should  protect  the  Hebrews  from 
persecution  was  issued  from  Cairo,  and 
M«h«met  Ali  declared  his  disbelief  in  the 
charge.  For  want  of  a  public  trial  the 
calumny  died  hard.  •  Years  afterwards  Sir 
Moses  found  at  Damascus  a  stone  in  a 
Roman  Catholic  Church  to  II  Padre  Tom- 
roaso,  described  in  the  inscription  as  mur- 
dered by  the  Jews.  The  stone  told  its 
lying  tale  till  in  an  attack  of  Moslems 
upon  Christians  in  i860  the  Church  and 
allits  monuments  were  destroyed  by  fire. 

As  soon  as  he  had  procured  at  Alexan- 
dria the  release  of  the  Damascus  Jews, 
Sir  Moses  Montefiore  proceeded  to  Con- 
stantinople. The  sultan  was  embarrassed 
by  no  extraordinary  friendliness  to  France, 
and  Sir  Moses  obtained  a  success  of  the 
roost  brilliant  and  enduring  character. 
On  November  12,  1840,  Reschid  Pasha 
delivered  to  him  on  the  part  of  Abd-ul- 
Medjid  a  firman  signed  by  the  sultan,  in 
which  he  examined  the  grounds  of  the 
ancient  prejudice  against  the  Jews,  reca- 
pitulated the  acquittal  of  the  Jews  of 
Rhodes,  discussed  the  Biblical  maxim 
which  prohibits  Israelites  from  using  even 
the  blood  of  animals,  and  dismissed  as 
groundless  the  charge  that  they  employ 
human  blood.  The  Commander  of  the 
Faithful  proceeded  to  declare  the  equality 
before  the  law  of  the  Jewish  nation  witn 
his.other  subjects,  commanded  that  they 
should  be  protected  and  defended,  and 
forbade  any  molestation  of  them  in  their 
religious  or  temporal  concerns.  This 
firman  of  the  12th  Ramazan,  1256,  has 
often  subsequently  been  of  the  greatest 
service  in  averting  trouble  to  the  Jews  in 
various  parts  of  the  Ottoman  Empire. 

The  years  which  followed  were  the 
most  debatable  of  Sir  Moses's  public 
life.  Holding  deeply  rooted  orthodox 
opinions,  he  opposed  the  Reform  party 
who,  led  by  the  Goldsmids  and  some 
members  of  his  own  family,  formed  the 
congregation  of  British  Jews  and  now 
have  a  synagogue  in  Berkelev  Street. 
While  he  has  always  professed  himself  a 
Conservative  Sir  Moses  has  promoted 
progress  among  backward  communities 


SIR  MOSES  MONTEFIORE. 


of  Jews,  as  in  Palestine  and  Poland.  He 
has  always,  however,  urged  gradual  prog- 
ress and  respect  to  constituted  authori* 
ties ;  sudden  changes  he  fears  and  depre- 
cates. The  English  schism  of  1841 
seemed  to  him  the  result  of  desiring  too 
great  and  sudden  a  change  in  public  wor- 
ship. In  this  be  differed  from  many  good 
men. 

After  the  sultan,  Sir  Moses  Montefiore 
visited  his  hereditary  rival  the  czar.  The 
conquest  of  Lithuania  and  Poland  had 
brought  three  millions  of  Jews  beneath 
the  Muscovite  dominion.  In  his  haste  to 
rule  over  a  homogeneous  people,  the  czar, 
neglecting  the- effectual  solvents  of  toler- 
ance and  equality,  attempted  to  assimilate 
the  Jews  to  the  Russians  by  carrying  ofiE 
their  sons  in  great  numbers  to  serve  ia 
the  army  and  navy.  The  regular  conscript 
tion  was  enforcea  with  severity,  and  those 
who  lived  near  the  frontier  sought  to  es- 
cape into  Austria,  Prussia,  or  the  Dana- 
bian  principalities.  In  1845  ^^^  emperor 
issued  a  ukase  in  which  he  ordered  all 
Jewish  families  living  within  fifty  versts 
of  the  frontier  to  be  removed  into  the 
interior.  In  the  wintry  weather  of  Feb- 
ruary and  March,  1846,  Sir  Moses  and 
Lady  Montefiore  travelled  to  St.  Peters- 
burg, occupying  more  than  a  month  on 
the  journey.  On  the  road  they  heard  the 
howling  ot  hungry  packs  of  wolves,  and 
had  to  keep  a  gong  sounding  to  frighten 
them  away.  The  commercial  stagnation 
which  the  decree  would  have  brought 
about  had  by  now  been  foreseen.  The 
ukase  was  first  abrogated  and  then  sus- 
pended. The  philanthropist  has  described 
his  audience  of  Czar  Nicholas.  **  His 
Majesty  said,'*  Sir  Moses  wrote  to  a  friend 
in  London,  **  I  should  have  the  satisfac^ 
tion  of  taking  with  me  his  assurances  and 
the  assurances  of  his  ministers  that  he 
was  most  desirous  for  the  improvement 
of  my  co-religionists  in  his  empire,  and 
that  object  engaged  his  attei^tion  at  pres- 
ent. His  Majesty  also  intimated  a  desire 
that  I  should  visit  the  towns  in  which 
they  are  most  numerous  to  study  their 
wants  and  requirements."  The  czar  in 
this  conversation  referred  to  the  concen- 
tration of  the  Jews  in  a  few  over-popu- 
lated provinces  and  to  a  plan  formed  by 
him,  and  since  carried  into  effect  some- 
what too  sparingly,  of  disseminating  them. 
He  admitted  that  he  had  in  his  army 
one  hundred  thousand  brave  Israelites^ 
'* veritable  Maccabees"  he  called  them, 
and  said  there  was  no  law  to  prevent  thent 
from  becoming  officers,  although  in  prac- 
tice they  did  not  acquire  military  rank* 


Xm. 


SIR  MOSES  MONTEFIORE. 


SO?' 


He  expressed  the  hope  that  many  would 
obtain  promotion,  and  advised  Sir  Moses 
to  prevail  on  his  co-religionists  to  lay 
asicfe  their  peculiar  customs  —  customs 
which  are  the  natural  results  of  the  isola- 
tion enforced  upon  them. 

The  next  few  years  were  spent  in  peace- 
ful labors  at  home  in  superintendin^ir  Jew- 
ish education,  in  securing  the  insertion  of 
proper  clauses  protecting  Jewish  mar- 
riages in  the  Marriage  Act,  etc.  A  re- 
markable instance  of  the  trust  reposed  in 
Sir  Moses  by  his  brethren  was  afforded 
in  the  will  of  Judah  Touro,  a  wealthy  Is- 
raelite of  New  Orleans,  who  while  leaving 
large  sums  to  the  poor  of  that  city,  be- 
queathed fifty  thousand  dollars  to  Monte- 
Isore  to  be  applied  as  Sir  Moses  thought 
lit  for  the  benefit  of  the  Jews  in  the  Holy 
Land. 

The  outbreak  of  the  Russian  war  in 
1853  brought  about  a  famine  in  Jerusa- 
lem. In  the  early  part  of  1854  snow  lay 
deep  on  the  hills  and  filled  the  streets; 
the  slippery  mountain  tracks  could  not  be 
traversed  by  camels;  neither  food  nor 
fuel  found  its  way  into  the  citv.  The 
Jews  had  to  make  their  customarily  heavy 
presents  to  the  local  authorities,  and 
failed,  in  consequence  of  the  war,  to  re- 
ceive the  usual  contributions  from  their 
brethren  abroad.  Many  perished  of  want. 
The  chief  rabbi  of  Jerusalem  himself 
started  for  Europe  to  obtain  relief  for  his 
starving  flock,  but  died  at  Alexandria. 
In  England,  Dr.  Adler  and  Sir  Moses 
Montefiore  issued  an  appeal,  and  collected 
about  j^2o,ooo.  After  satisfying  pressing 
needs  by  remittances  in  advance,  Sir  Mo- 
ses and  Lady  Montefiore  made  a  journev 
to  Palestine  in  1855.  They  passed  through 
Constantinople,  where  a  firman  enabling 
Sir  Moses  to  purchase  land  in  Palestine 
was  procured  from  the  sultan  by  the  aid 
of  Lord  Stratford  de  RedclifiEe.  On  the 
territory  thus  acquired  Sir  Moses  built 
the  Touro  almshouses  and  a  windmill. 
He  opened  a  girls*  school  and  an  indus- 
trial school,  and  had  the  public  slaugh- 
tering-place removed  from  the  Jewish 
quarter,  where  offal  had  been  suffered  to 
accumulate  from  the  days  of  Caliph  Omar, 
to  a  place  without  the  city.  Agricultural 
colonies  were  established  at  Safed  and 
Tiberias.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Haim  Guedalla, 
relatives  of  Sir  Moses,  accompanied  this 
expedition.  Other  visits  to  Jerusalem 
were  paid  in  1849  with  Colonel  Gawler, 
in  1857  and  in  1S66  with  Mr.  Joseph 
Sebag,  Sir  Moses's  nephew,  and  Mrs. 
Sebag. 


In  1859  Sir  Moses  was  in  correspon- 
dence with  Mr.  Gladstone,  then  high 
commissioner  to  the  Ionian  Islands.  Sir 
Moses  wrote  that  he  had  been  deputed  to 
solicit  that  Mr.  Gladstone  would  take 
into  kind  consideration  the  political  and 
social  condition  of  the  Jews  in  the  Ionian 
Islands. 

In  1 861  the  correspondence  bore  fruit. 
During  the  comroissionership  of  Sir  E. 
Storks,  Athanasis,  metropolitan  of  Corfu, 
issued  an  encyclical  pointing  out  that 
harsh  treatment  of  the  Jews  was  totally  at 
variance  with  the  faith  of  Christ.  The 
Jews  of  the  Ionian  Isles,  as  well  as  on  the 
Hellenic  mainland,  now  live  on  excellent 
terms  socially  and  politically  with  Greeks 
of  the  dominant  creed. 

Sir  Moses  crossed  the  desert  to  the 
city  of  Morocco  in  1863,  and  obtained  the 
suftan*s  promise  of  protection  for  the 
Israelites.  He  was  too  weak  to  ride,  but 
travelled  for  eight  days  *in  a  chaise  d 
porteur^  over  burning  sands,  being  then 
at  the  age  of  seventy-nine.  The  Moors 
saw  with  surprise  one  of  the  despised 
Hebrews  arrive  in  an  English  government 
vessel,  and  escorted  to  the  capital  by 
British  officers.  The  sultan's  edict, 
though  often  violated,  has  remained  a 
pledge  and  point  d^appui  for  remon* 
strance.  He  went  to  Roumania  in  1867, 
though  threatened  with  assassination  at 
Bucharest.  In  1871  he  opened  a  subscrip- 
tion as  president  of  the  Board  of  Depu- 
ties for  the  relief  of  famine  among  the 
Jews  in  Persia.  A  sum  of  ;£  17*975  was 
distributed  through  Mr.  Alison,  the  Brit- 
ish minister  at  Teheran.  In  1872,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  two-hundredth  anniversary 
of  the  birth  of  Peter  the  Great,  Sir  Moses 
Montefiore  went  to  St.  Petersburg  and 
there  presented  an  address  of  congratula- 
tion to  Alexander  II.,  the  emancipator  of 
the  serfs.  The  czar  came  to  the  Winter 
Palace  from  the  scene  of  the  summer 
manceuvres  on  purpose  to  avoid  causing 
fatigue  to  his  distinguished  visitor;  talked 
English  fluently  with  Sir  Moses,  referred 
to  the  audience  with  the  czar  Nicholas, 
his  father,  in  1846,  and  gave  the  most 
gracious  assurances.  Sir  Moses  was 
gratified  to  find  a  remarkable  improve- 
ment in  the  position  of  the  Jews  since  his 
earlier  visit.  He  saw  Israelites  who  had 
been  decorated  by  the  emperor,  conversed 
with  Jewish  merchants,  literary  men,  edi- 
tors of  Russian  periodicals,  artisans,  and 
persons  who  had  formerly  served  in  the 
imperial  army,  all  of  whom  expressed 
satisfaction  with    their  position.    **  The 


So8 

Jews,"  he  wrote,  "now  dress  like  any 
gentlemen  in  England,  France,  or  Ger- 
many; their  schools  are  well  attended, 
and  they  are  foremost  in  every  honorable 
enterprise.**  He  found  synagogues  in 
which  sermons  were  preached  in  Russian 
and  in  German ;  but  mentions  also  that 
he  has  in  his  possession  **  beautiful  maps, 
with  all  the  modern  improvements,  in 
which  the  cities,  villages,  mountains,  riv- 
ers, railways,  etc.,  all  appear  in  Hebrew; 
and  several  educational  works  on  history, 
geography,  grammar,  natural  philosophy, 
and  physics,  also  published  in  the  Hebrew 
language,  to  enable  those  who  are  yet  un- 
acquainted with  the  national  language  to 
advance  their  education  in  all  useful  secu- 
lar subjects.''  Sir  Moses  has  lived  to  see 
retrogression  in  the  treatment  of  the  Jews 
in  Russia,  and  has  had  the  melancholy 
duty  of  sending  relief  to  the  victims  of 
popular  turbulence  and  official  neglect  or 
worse  in  that  empire.  In  October,  1S74, 
on  Sir  Moses  retiring  from  the  presidency 
of  the  Board  of  Deputies,  a  fund  was 
raised  as  a  testimonial  to  his  high  charac- 
ter and  public  services.  A  sum  of  over 
/ 1 2,000  was  collected.  Sir  Moses,  on 
being  consulted,  expressed  a  wish  that  it 
should  be  devoted  to  public  works  for  the 
improvement  of  the  condition  of  the  Jews 
in  the  Holy  Land,  and  accordingly  the 
committee  have  temporarily  invested  it  on 
loan  to  building  societies  there,  the  want 
of  suitable  residences  in  Jerusalem  having 
forcibly  struck  Sir  Moses  on  his  sixth 
visit.  Movements  have  now  been  set  on 
foot,  not  only  in  London  and  Ramsgate, 
but  also  in  the  United  States,  Australia 
(where  there  are  townships  named  "  Mon- 
tefiore"),  and  in  Italy,  to  commemorate  in 
some  similar  manner  the  distinguished 
humanitarian's  hundredth  year. 

The  seventh  journey  of  Sir  Moses 
Montefiore  to  Palestine  was  undertaken 
in  1875,  ^"d  h^s  bed  described  by  him- 
self under  the  head  of  **  Forty  Days'  So- 
journ in  the  Holy  Land,'*  a  most  interest- 
ing diary  of  a  nonagenarian.  He  tells  us 
how  he  was  entertained  at  JafiFa  by  Mr. 
Amzalak,  British  vice-consul,  son  of  his 
almoner  in  Jerusalem  in  1838. 

He  finds  his  garden  at  Jatfa  containing 
nine  hundred  fruit  trees,  but  that  it  re- 
quires an  English  or  French  gardener,  a 
house,  mules  for  the  water-wheel,  and 
European  vegetables  and  fruit  to  supply 
the  market  at  Port  Said.  A  crowd  of  the 
poor  turn  out  to  work  the  wheel  in  his 
presence  till  the  tank  is  filled  to  overflow- 
ing. He  gives  a  dramatic  description  of 
the  moonlight  ride  by  a  rocky  road  to 


SIR  MOSES   MONTEFIORE. 


Jerusalem  and  the  threatening  approach 
at  full  gallop  of  Bedouins,  who  turned  out 
to  be  rabbis  come  to  learn  the  time  of  his 
entering  the  Holy  City.  Near  his  own 
windmill,  built  many  years  before,  he  is 
pleased  to  observe  two  windmills  recently 
added  by  Greeks,  who  derive,  as  he  is 
told,  a  profit  from  them.  Great  is  his  de- 
light, when  he  considers  that  a  few  years 
ago  not  one  Jewish  family  was  living  out- 
side the  gate  of  Jerusalem,  to  see  a  new 
Jerusalem  springing  up,  with  buildings 
some  of  them  as  fine  as  any  in  Europe. 
He  is  welcomed  by  great  throngs  of  peo- 
ple, is  charmed  with  their  industrious 
habits,  learns  that  there  are  twenty-eight 
synagogues  and  eleven  thousand  Jews  in 
Jerusalem,  finds  among  them  Russian 
Jews  who  have  been  decorated  with  med- 
als for  bravery  and  embraced  by  the  czar 
himself,  and  sees  Turkish  officers  present 
at  a  synagogue  service  in  pledge  of  unity. 
He  carefully  examines  all  the  schools  in 
modern  as  well  as  in  religious  subjects 
through  Dr.  Loewe,  receives  favorable 
reports,  but  requests  managers  and  pupils 
to  confer  with  himself  on  further  improve- 
ments. The  custom  of  sending  presents 
of  bread  and  wine  to  the  visitor  to  the 
Holy  City  still  prevails,  and  many  a  flask 
of  old  Hebron  wine,  and  many  a  cake  of 
the  best  graced  his  Sabbath  table.  He  re- 
ceives descriptions  of  some  of  the  sixteen 
charities  of  the  German  congregation  and 
of  three  building  societies.  Distressing 
accounts  reach  him  of  the  spread  of  chol- 
era; he  desires  to  cause  several  houses 
to  be  whitewashed  and  a  number  of  streets 
to  be  cleansed,  removing  the  refuse  out  of 
the  city,  but  cannot  get  any  one  to  do  the 
work.  He  receives  favorable  reports  as 
to  the  soup  kitchen,  the  Rothschild  Hos- 
pital, etc.  A  deputation  of  Armenian 
priests  waits  on  him  to  express  the 
friendly  sentiments  of  the  patriarch.  He 
sees  an  emissary  from  Arabia  Felix,  who 
has  come  to  implore  the  sultan's  protec- 
tion for  the  Jews  there,  and  is  much 
pleased  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  two 
editors  of  as  manv  newspapers  published 
in  Jerusalem.  He  refuses  to  believe 
recent  reports  to  the  prejudice  of  the 
Jews  in  the  Holy  Land.  Returning  to 
Jaffa  he  is  pleased  with  the  French  garden 
there.  His  final  advice  to  his  European 
brethren  is  that  they  should  build  houses 
in  Jerusalem,  Safed,  Tiberias,  and  Hebron* 
If  that  undertaking  prospers,  land  can, he 
adds,  easily  be  bought,  and  many  found 
who  would  be  most  willing  to  follow  agri- 
cultural pursuits. 
This  year  be  sent  help  to  the  Hungarian 


THE   COST   OF   LIVING   IN   SWITZERLAND. 


509 


Jews,  accused  at  Nyireghyhaza,  and  a 
copy  of  the  firman  of  1840  to  every  Hun- 
/e^arian  deputy.     With  the  help  of  an  En- 

flish  amanuensis  and  a  foreign  secretary, 
e  maintains  a  voluminous  correspon- 
dence in  Hebrew  and  modern  languages, 
and  is  punctilious  in  offering  congratula- 
tion and  condolence  by  telegram  to  his 
old  friends.  The  portraits  of  Mr.  and 
IVfrs.  Gladstone  hang  beside  his  fireplace; 
••  God  bless  them,"  he  said,  when  a  visitor 
referred  to  the  originals  having  passed  in 
a  maritime  trip  before  his  windows. 
Much  of  his  work  has  been  done  in  his 
Gothic  library,  a  long  apartment  adjoining 
his  own  room,  filled  with  portraits  and 
busts  of  his  friends.  If  a  visitor  stays  to 
dine  at  this  season,  the  meal  is  served  in 
the  Tabernacle,  which  is  erected  in  his 
court-yard  in  memory  of  the  children  of 
Israel  having  dwelt  in  booths  when  they 
went  forth  from  Egypt.  He  himself  sus- 
tains nature  almost  entirely  upon  milk 
and  port  wine,  sometimes  varied  by  a 
little  soup  or  bread  and  butter.  In  favor 
of  port  he  has  the  old  English  prejudice, 
and  drinks  two  or  three  glasses  daily  of  a 
sound  and  generous  wine  mellowed,  but 
not  extremely  weakened  by  age.  That 
description  may  be  transferred  from  the 
vintage  to  the  man.  Another  old  custom 
which  he  observed  was  to  wear  till  1862 
the  long  blue  coat  with  gilt  buttons  which 
was  in  his  youth  a  gentleman's  ordinary 
dress.  His  frilled  shirt  and  his  sedan- 
chair  are  also  relics  of  the  olden  times. 
In  middle  life  Sir  Moses  smoked,  but  he 
has  ceased  for  many  years  to  use  tobacco. 
He  rises  at  eleven,  having  had  his  letters 
read  to  him  in  bed,  drives  out  daily  in  fine 
weather,  often  passing  the  gate  of  his 
synagogue,  and  retires  about  nine.  He 
was  usually  accompanied  by  a  doctor  in 
his  tours  in  the  East,  where  European 
medical  aid  would  not  have  been  forth- 
coming. At  home,  however,  he  usually 
relies  merely  on  the  care  of  his  skilled  at- 
tendant, Mrs.  Miiller.  In  full  possession 
of  sight,  hearing,  and  speech,  neither 
somnolent  nor  inactive  in  mind,  little 
bowed  in  frame,  although  his  height  is  six 
feet  three  inches,  Srr  Moses  Montefiore 
enters  on  his  hundreth  year.  Of  the 
actions  which  have  filled  up  this  long 
space  of  life,  we  have  given  some  faint 
account.  Of  the  spirit  which  has  ani- 
mated him  some  inference  may  be  drawn. 
Few  are  the  mortals  spared  for  the  retro- 
spect of  a  century  of  existence  —  vivendo 
vincere  saclnm  —  fewer  still  can  have  the 
right  to  contemplate  a  long  life  with  so 
much  unalloyed  satisfaction. 


From  The  Spectator. 
THE  COST  OF  LIVING  IN  SWITZERLAND. 

The  superstition  that  living  abroad  is 
necessarily  cheaper  than  living  at  home 
still  lingers,  and  hundreds  of  families 
every  year  betake  themselves  to  the  Con- 
tinent, in  the  hope  of  bettering  their 
condition  by  reducing  their  expenditure. 
This  end  they  generally  attain,  albeit  by 
the  adoption  of  means  which,  if  they  were 
adopted  at  home,  would  produce  a  similar 
result.  There  was  a  time  when  the  prime 
necessaries  of  life  were  cheaper  on  the 
Continent  than  in  England,  but  the  exten- 
sion of  railways  has  equalized  food  prices 
all  over  Europe,  and,  except  in  a  few  out- 
lying countries,  whither  only  travellers 
careless  of  comfort  ever  venture,  flesh 
meat  and  bread  stuffs  are  now  nowhere 
much  cheaper  than  they  are  in  England. 
On  the  other  hand,  coal,  exotic  produce, 
and  all  sea-borne  articles  are  considerably 
dearer  abroad  than  at  home.  The  manu- 
facturing supremacy  and  free-trade  policy 
of  the  United  Kingdom  have  made  it,  for 
clothing,  the  cheapest  country  in  the 
world ;  while,  against  the  comparative 
dearness  of  dairy  produce,  a  dearness  due 
to  the  legal  and  social  discouragement  of 
small  farms,  may  be  set  off  the  far  greater 
cheapness  of  fish.  Of  some  other  items 
of  domestic  expenditure,  such  as  educa- 
tion, house -rent,  taxes,  and  servants' 
wages,  we  shall  speak  presently. 

The  country  at  present  most  a£Fected  by 
English  families  in  search  of  economy  is, 
probably,  Switzerland.  It  possesses  sev- 
eral varieties  of  climate,  highly  attractive 
scenery,  and  foreign  residents  (unless 
they  happen  to  be  members  of  the  Salva- 
tion Army)  enjoy  greater  liberties  and 
immunities  than  elsewhere  in  Europe. 
TYi^ perntis de sijour^WiOM^  still  exacted, 
is  little  more  than  a  matter  of  form,  and 
by  the  payment  of  a  trifling  fee  you  may 
have  a  permis  d'* itablissement  good  for 
the  entire  duration  of  your  stay,  however 
long  it  may  be.  Sojourners  in  Switzer- 
land, moreover,  have  the  choice  of  two 
languages,  and  the  chance  of  cheaper  ed- 
ucation than  is  to  be  found  either  in 
France  or  Germany ;  while  in  the  former 
country  the  cost  of  living  has  been  greatly 
enhanced  since  187 1  by  heavy  taxation, 
and  in  the  latter  by  the  protective  policy 
of  Prince  Bismarck.  Taking  everj'thing 
into  consideration,  Switzerland  offers  to 
English  families  for  whom  economy  is  a 
necessity  greater  advantages  than  any 
other  part  of  the  Continent.  No  com- 
mune is  without  its  free  school,  and  the 
more  advanced  cantons  —  Berne,  Zurich, 


Sio 


THE  COST  OF   LIVING  IN   SWITZERLAND, 


Geneva,  Vaod,  and  others  —  possess  edu- 
cational institutions  equal  to  an}*  of  their 
class  in  Europe,  and  in  which  instruction 
is  imparted  at  an  almost  nominal  cost. 
The  College  of  Geneva,  founded  by  Calvin, 
which   may  take  rank  with  any  English 
public  school,  gives  a  liberal  education  at 
the  rate  of  twenty  francs  a  year,  and  the 
fees  at  the  secondary  and  superior  girls' 
schools  are  on  an  equally  moderate  scale. 
The  fees  at  the  Gymnase  are  forty  francs 
a  year  for  each  of  the  two  sections,  tech- 
nical and  commercial,  so  that  if  a  pupil 
were  to  take  both,   which,  however,  no 
pupil  ever  does,  the  total  cost  would  be 
^3  4s.  4ti,    The  charges  at  the  Conserva- 
toire de  Musique  are  50/*.  for  six  months' 
instruction  in  any  one  branch,  and  the 
School  of  Design  is  free  to  pupils  who 
make  a  point  of  regular  attendance.    The 
fees  at  the    university,  the    Schools   of 
Chemistry  and  Industrial  Arts,  are  rela- 
tively quite  as  reasonable;  and  as  private 
lessons  are  also  very  cheap,  Geneva  is 
probably  the  most  desirable  city  in  Europe 
for  folks  with   large  families  and  small 
incomes.    But  there  is  a  reverse  to  every 
medalj  and  as  none  of  these  institutions 
are  self-supporting,  and  all  (except  the 
Conservatoire)  are  subsidized  either  by 
the  municipality  or  the  State,  taxes  are 
necessarily  high,  almost  as  high  as  in  En- 
gland, although  Switzerland  has  neither 
standing  army,  navy,  court,  nor  foreign 
office.    The  rate  of  taxation  in  Geneva, 
including  local  imposts,  is  at  the  rate  of 
seventy-six  francs,  a  shade  over  ;£3  a  head 
of  population.     In  no  other  canton  is  this 
rate  exceeded,  in  many  cantons  it  is  much 
less;  but  none,  perhaps,  possess  equal 
educational  facilities,  or  offer  them  on  the 
same  liberal  terms  alike  to  foreigners  and 
citizens.    Apart  from  education,  it  would 
not  seem  that  the  cost  of  living  is  any  less 
in  Geneva,  or  elsewhere  in  Switzerland, 
than  in  England.     It  is  difficult  to  com- 
pare house-rents,  so  much  depends  on 
situation  and  accommodation ;  but  there 
is  no  question  that  rents  abroad  are  gen- 
erally higher  than  rents  at  home.     They 
are   higher  at  Paris,  Berlin,  andt  Vienna 
than  in  any  large  English  city,  and  they 
are  higher  in  the  environs  of  Zurich,  Ge- 
neva, and  Berne  than  in  the  environs  of 
London.     According  to  a  careful  estimate 
which  appeared  some  time  ago  in  a  Zurich 
paper,  the  cost  of  building  in  London  is 
little  more  than  half  the  cost  of  building 
at  Zurich.    This  difference  is  due  less  to 
any  great  difference  in  the  price  of  the 
materials  used  by  English  builders  than 
to  the  greater  efficiency  of  English  labor, 
the  skill  with  which  it  is  directed,  and  the 


more  general  use  in  this  country  of  labor- 
saving  appliances.  Rents,  therefore,  are 
higher,  perhaps  ten  to  twenty  per  cent. . 
higher,  in  Switzerland  than  in  Eno^land ; 
coal  is  dearer  —  it  costs  in  Geneva  £1 
ISS,  a  ton  —  tea,  coffee,  sugar,  currants, 
petroleum,  tinned  meats,  pottery,  hard- 
ware, and  clothing  are  very  much  dearer. 
Dairy  produce  and  vegetables,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  cheaper ;  so  are  servants' 
wages.  A  Genevan  housemaid  is  satis- 
fied'" with  ;£io  to  ;£i2  a  year;  a  cook  con- 
siders herself  well  paid  with  from  ;£i2  to 
;£i6.  The  cheapness  of  wine,  even  for 
those  who  like  it,  is  not  an  unalloyed 
blessing.  Your  servants  take  it  with  their 
dinners  and  suppers  as  a  matter  of  course ; 
when  you  employ  a  gardener,  he  expects  a 
bottle  a  day ;  every  man  who  brings  a  par- 
cel, or  who  does  an  odd  job,  wants  a  drink ; 
low  prices  induce  increased  consumption, 
and  the  net  result  is  not  economy. 

Theoretically,  then,  housekeeping  is  no 
cheaper  in  Switzerland  than  in  England, 
and  if  people  do,  in  fact,  live  less  expen- 
sively in  the  former  country  than  the  lat- 
ter, it  is  because  they  live  more  simply. 
English  families  who  at  home  inhabit  a 
country  house  or  a  suburban   villa,  and 
keep  five  or  six  servants,  when  they  set- 
tle for  a  season  at  Geneva  hire  an  a^ 
partement  in  a  second  story  and  keep  a 
housemaid   and  a  cook,  or,  perhaps,  a 
maid-ofall-work.    They  have  emancipated 
themselves  from  the  yoke  of  Mrs.  Grundy, 
and  the  simpler  living  of  their  new  neigh- 
bors makes  thrift  seem  easier  and  more 
natural.     Large  fortunes  are  rare  in  Switz- 
erland, and  the  salaries  of  public  func- 
tionaries are  very  modest.    The  president 
of  the  Confederation  receives  for  his  ser- 
vices only  ;^6oo  a  year ;  few  judgjes  receive 
more  than  ;£250,  and  there  is  probably  no 
bank  manager  in  the  country  with  a  salary 
of  more  than  twice  that  amount.     A  maa 
with  an  income  of  /500  is  considered  very 
well  off  indeed,  and  to  have  ;£  1,000  a  year 
is  to  be  "passing  rich."      An   English 
family,  consisting  of  six  persons  —  four  of 
them  children  — having,  say,  £100  a  year, 
and  desiring  to  settle  in  Geneva  and  prac- 
tice economy,  would  probably  take  an  un- 
furnished appartement  on   a  second  or 
third  story,  which  with  taxes  might  cost 
them  ;^6oa  year.    Two  servants  at  £12^ 
and  education  (including  books  and  some 
private  lessons),  would  bring  up  their  fixed 
expenditure  to  ;£ioo,  leaving  ^£400  dis- 
posable for  food,  clothing,  and  et  cetseras. 
How  much  our  economical  family  should 
spend  on  clothing  is  not  easy  to  say ;  but 
if  they  were  very  careful,  and  the  mistress 
a  good  manager,  £fio  to  ;£;o  would  go  a 


GROWN-UP    CHILDREN. 


S" 


long  way.  As  for  food,  if  they  lived  as 
the  Swiss  live,  profiting  by  the  cheapness 
of  vegetable  and  dairv  produce,  and  not 
being  extravagant  in  butcher  meat,  they 
might  perhaps  provide  it,  together  with 
firing  and  lights,  for  about  ;£200  a  vear 
more,  leaving  for  sundries  and  the  unfore- 
seen a  margin  oi  £1^0.  In  the  country, 
considerably  less  would  suffice ;  but  the 
country  does  not  offer  the  same  facilities 
for  education,  for  attending  the  gratuitous 
lectures  organized  by  the  university,  and 
for  amusements.  For  people  with  small 
families,  or  with  no  families  at  all,  lodg- 
ings are  perhaps  cheaper  than  housekeep- 
ing. In  Geneva,  Lausanne,  and  almost 
every  other  Swiss  city,  pension  may  be 
obtained  at  from  four  to  six  francs  a  day, 
in  the  country  for  very  much  less.  An 
American  gentleman  known  to  the  writer, 
iwho  came  to  Europe  for  the  benefit  of  his 
health,  and  for  whom  economy  was  a  ne- 
cessity, found  at  Yverdun,  on  the  Lake  of 
Keuch&tel,  2l  pension  which  took  him,  his 
^ife,  child,  and  nurse  at  the  rate  of  twelve 
francs,  say  loj.  a  day,  everything  in- 
cluded. He  had  two  bedrooms  and  a  sit- 
ting-room, everything  was  scrupulously 
clean  and  neat,  and  the  fare,  though  plain, 
vrsLS  sufficient  and  substantial.  But  Yver- 
dun is  a  terribly  dull  place,  and  there  are 
few  English  people  who,  save  under  pres- 
sure of  necessity,  would  consent  to  spend 
a  winter  in  a  quiet  Swiss  village  unfre- 
quented by  their  countrymen.  There  are 
probably  places  in  England  where  it 
would  be  possible  to  live  as  cheaply  as  at 
Yverdun.  So  far  as  Geneva  is  concerned, 
the  greatest  advantage  it  offers  to  foreign 
residents,  apart  from  its  fine  situation  and 
bracing  climate,  consists  in  the  wonderful 
cheapness,  variety,  and  efficiency  of  its 
educational  institutions,  as  to  which  it  is 
unsurpassed,  perhaps  unequalled,  by  any 
other  Continental  city. 


From  The  Globe. 
GROWN-UP  CHILDREN. 

To  arrive  at  years  of  discretion  is,  as 
we  know,  supposed  in  this  country  to  bt: 
an  inevitable  incident  in  the  life  of  all 
men  and  women.  Unless  a  person  is  ab- 
solutely mad,  he  is  considered  quite  as 
certain  to  do  so,  if  he  lives  to  a  reason- 
able age,  as  he  is  afterwards  to  die ;  and 
this  process  of  "arriving"  is  spoken  of  as 
a  marked  epoch  in  his  life,  upon  passing 
which  he  becomes  at  once  a  different  and 
more  responsible  creature.  It  is,  how- 
ever,  very  remarkable  that  hardly  any  two 


persons  take  the  same  view  as  to  the  ex- 
act moment  when  this  great  change  is 
effected.  Although  some  wiseacre  in  an- 
cient times  bit  upon  twenty-one  years  as 
the  age  at  which  men  are  to  be  deemed  to 
become  "  discreet,"  few  have  been  so  un- 
gallant  to  the  fair  sex ;  and  the  severest 
legislators  have  often  allowed  that  a  lady 
may  possess  this  virtue  some  years  be- 
fore. Testators,  who  are  a  species  of 
lawgivers  —  for  they  dictate  the  law  of 
succession  to  their  descendants  —  are 
often  more  barbarous,  and  keep  the  gen- 
tle heiresses  waiting  till  five-and-twenty, 
and  even  thirty,  before  the^  are  allowed 
to  manage  their  own  inheritance,  even  if 
they  do  not  "tie  it  up'*  altogether  with  an 
apparent  disbelief  in  the  accepted  doctrine 
already  mentioned.  Male  heirs  are  often 
kept  out  of  their  portions  till  four  years 
after  the  legal  date  of  coming  "of  age;  ** 
and  it  would  have  been  well  for  some  of 
our  great  families  if  the  same  rule  could 
have  been  imported  more  often  into  the 
law  relating  to  entailed  estates.  On  the 
other  hand,  princes  of  the  blood  and  some 
other  great  potentates  are  almost  always 
admitted  to  attain  to  years  of, discretion 
before  the  twenty-one  years  have  elapsed 
which  entitle  humbler  tolk  to  their  fall  in- 
tellectual honors.  But  all  these  diversi- 
ties of  opinion  as  to  the  time  at  which 
discretion  is  attained  are  mere  quibbles 
compared  with  the  broad  doubt  whether 
some  people  ever  attain  it  at  all.  We 
know  that  in  Mahomedan  countries  women 
are  not  believed  ever  to  become  responsi- 
ble agents,  but  remain  in  a  tutelage  often 
not  far  removed  from  virtual  slavery  until 
their  dying  day.  It  is  in  the  harem,  there- 
fore, that  the  finest  examples  are  to  be 
found  of  grown-up  children.  And  the 
more  splendid  the  establishment  the  more 
perfect  is  the  state  of  apparent  childish- 
ness in  which  the  inmates  are  kept.  Every 
trouble  is  taken  to  preserve  in  their  minds 
the  habits  and  ideas  of  the  nursery.  Their 
chief  daily  amusements  are  toys ;  their 
favorite  food  consists  of  sweetmeats. 
Their  only  playmates  and  companions  be- 
longing to  the  other  sex  are  the  small 
children  of  their  lord  and  master.  Ac- 
cordingly in  the  women's  quarter  of  an 
Eastern  house  the  scene  is  that  of  a  nur- 
sery of  adults.  When  the  houris  are 
pleased  they  smile  and  sing;  when  they 
are  angry  they  cry,  and  tear  their  clothes, 
and  spoil  their  toys,  and  refuse  to  eat 
their  food.  Their  griefs  are  violent,  like 
their  jealousies;  but,  unlike  the  latter, 
they  are  short-lived.  A  book,  unless  it 
were  prettily  illuminated,  a  picture,  unless 
it  were  a  highly  colored  daub,  would  be  of 


S" 


GROWN-UP   CHILDREN. 


no  interest  whatever  to  them.  Nor  would 
the  most  entertaining:  story  enh'st  their  at- 
tention for  a  moment  unless  it  were  of  the 
kind  which  proves  attractive  to  our  chil- 
dren of  six  or  eight  years  old.  It  is  neces- 
sary to  see  or  hear  a  good  deal  about  this 
sort  of  life  before  we  can  understand  to 
what  a  state  of  puerility  a  set  system  of 
"education  "  in  the  wrong  direction  can 
reduce  a  human  being  which  has  long 
passed  what  are  the  utmost  boundaries  of 
minority  in  any  European  country.  In 
England  there  is  very  little  of  the  **  home 
influence"  which  makes  boys  still  chil- 
dren when  they  are  far  advanced  in  their 
teens,  and  which  makes  girls  gawky  and 
shy  long  after  some  of  their  cousins  of 
the  same  age  are  mothers  and  house- 
wives. Occasionally  a  family  of  grown- 
up children  may  be  found  at  a  country 
gathering,  escaped  from  the  domestic 
nursery  to  a  chance  lawn-tennis  party  or 
an  exceptional  ball.  Very  much  out  of 
their  element  they  seem,  and  dreadful 
bores  their  partners  find  them,  so  far  as 
conversation  is  concerned.  Yet  it  is  al- 
most a  truism  that  those  sta3'-at-home 
youths  and  maidens,  when  once  loosed 
from  the  maternal  apron-strings,  ^et  into 
mischief  more  quickly  than  any  six  times 
their  number  of  ordinary  young  people 
who  have  picked  up  some  knowledge  of  life 
at  schools  and  juvenile  parties.  A  tardy 
conviction  that  this  is  the  case  appears  to 
be  dawning  upon  the  French,  who  are 
making  some  efforts  to  mitigate  the  con- 
dition of  almost  Mussulman  isolation  in 
which  their  unmarried  ladies  have  hitherto 
been  kept.    The  French  marriageable  girl 


of  the  upper  classes  is  not,  however,  the 
only  specimen  of  her  nation  which  is 
childish  beyond  its  years.  Parisians  gen- 
erally are  to  a  certain  extent  grown-up 
children  —  violent  and  fickle  in  their  tem- 
per, sudden  in  their  impulses,  devoid  of 
perseverance  in  their  resolve.  The  bon- 
bons eaten  in  Paris  in  the  twelvemonth 
are  to  be  measured  by  tons ;  but  by  no 
means  all,  or  perhaps  even  the  larger  part, 
are  consumed  by  persons  in  a  state  of 
legal  infancy.  The  Parisians  are  not  the 
less  happy  on  that  account,  nor  the  less 
healthy  either.  For  to  preserve  the  light- 
mindedness  of  childhood  is  something, 
even  when  one  cannot  retain  its  inno- 
cence. A  man  who  is  still  fond  of  sweet 
things,  and  who  still  enjoys  a  "romp** 
with  children,  is  not  one  who  ages  easily, 
or  becomes  morose  or  dyspeptic  in  his  old 
age.  This  is  not,  however,  a  reason  why 
the  period  of  what  is  legally  called  infancy 
should  be  prolonged  so  studiously  as  of 
late  years  it  has  been  in  some  of  our  edu- 
cational centres.  At  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge the  men  who  now  remain  in  statu 
pupillari  up  to  the  age  of  one  or  two  and 
twenty  are  to  all  appearance  no  more  ad- 
vanced in. life  than  their  predecessors  were 
when  they  took  their  degrees  at  nineteen 
and  twenty.  Schoolboys  of  eighteen,  such 
as  are  to  be  found  at  some  of  the  great 
schools,  are  not  a  class  which  any  parent 
can  wish  to  see  encouraged.  The  race 
for  wealth  and  honor  is  too  keen  for  a  man 
who  means  to  do  anything  in  the  world 
to  remain  a  grown-up  child,  either  in  h  s 
work  or  in  his  play,  any  longer  than  he 
can  help. 


Early  Marriages.  —  A  correspondent, 
writing  to  Notes  and  Queries^  on  the  subject  of 
early  marriages,  says:  I^dy  Sarah  Cadogan, 
daughter  of  \Villiam,  first  ^arl  Cadogan,  was 
married  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  to  Charles,  sec- 
ond Duke  of  Richmond,  aged  eighteen.  It  is 
said  that  this  marriage  was  a  bargain  to  cancel 
a  gambling  debt  between  their  parents,  Lady 
Sarah  being  a  co-heiress.  The  young  Lord 
March  was  brought  from  college  and  the  little 
lady  from  her  nursery  for  the  ceremony,  which 
took  place  at  The  Hague.  The  bride  was 
amazed  and  silent,  but  the  husband  exclaimed, 
"  Surely  you  are  not  going  to  marry  me  to  that 
dowdy  f  "  Married,  however,  he  was,  and  his 
tutor  then  took  him  off  to  the  Continent,  and 
the  bride  went  back  to  her  mother.  Three 
years  after  Lord  March  returned  from  his 
travels,  but  having  such  a  disagreeable  recol- 


lection of  his  wife  was  in  no  hurry  to  join  her, 
and  went  the  first  evening  to  the  theatre. 
There  he  saw  a  lady  so  beautiful  that  he  asked 
who  she  was.  "The  reigning  toast,  Lady 
March,''  was  the  answer  he  got.  He  hastened 
to  claim  her,  and  their  lifelong  affection  for 
each  other  is  much  commented  upon  by  con- 
temporaneous writers  —  indeed  it  was  said  that 
the  duchess,  who  only  survived  him  a  year, 
died  of  grief.  Another  correspondent  writes : 
A  youthful  wedding  recently  took  place  not 
one  hundred  miles  from  this  parish  (Deeping, 
St.  James's)  the  united  ages  of  the  couple  being 
thirty-five  —  the  bridegroom  twenty-one  and 
the  bride  fourteen.  It  was  somewhat  of  a 
novelty  to  observe  the  interesting  bride  the 
following  day  exhibiting  her  skill  on  the  skip- 
ping-rope on  the  pavement  in  the  street. 


LITTELL'S  LIVING-  AGE. 


Fifth  Series 
Voivme  XLIV. 


No.  2058.— December  1,  188& 


J  rrom  Begiasingi 
(      Vol.  OUZ. 


CONTENTS. 


L  The  Fur-Skals  op  Commerce,  . 

II.  The  Little  Schoolmaster  Mark.    By  the 
Author  of  "John  Inglesant," 

IIL  Lady  Anne  Barnard  at  the  Cape, 

IV.  Will  Norway  become  a  Republic? 

V.  The  Wizard's  Son.    Part  XVIIL,      • 

VL  A  Knight-£rrant*s  Pilgrimage, 

VIL  Mr.  Trollops  as  Critic,    .... 

VIIL  Whitby  in  the  Herring  Season,    . 


Quarterly  Review^ 

English  niustraUd  Magcuine^ 
Temple  Bar^        •        • 
National  Review^  • 
MacmillatCs  Maganney 
Temple  Bar^ 
Spectator^      .        •        • 
Leeds  Mercury  ^    •        • 


515 

524 
54a 
546 

5SS 

560 

573 
575 


POSTRY. 


L.YRICS  OF  Pericles,     .      j 
I.  Invocation  to  Ceres. 
II.  Fishermen's  Song. 
IIL  March  and  Baccl^aL 


514 


The  Light  Shining  in  Darkness,    •    514 
Sonnet, -514 


PUBUSHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Etght  DoLLAits,  rtmiited  dirtcUytPihe  PtMuktrs^  the  Livnio  AgbwiU  be  pnnctnally  fonnuded 
for  \ytaxt/r»€  o/^star*' 

Kemktances  shoulabe  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-office  money-order,  if  possible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  procured,  the  moneyshouldbe  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  postmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  sOb  I>ralts,  checks  and  money-orders  should  be  made  payahle  to  the  order  ol 
LlTTBLL  &  Co. 

Single  Numbers  of  Thx  Lxvwo  Aqi^  i8  oenta. 


SM 


LYRICS   OF   PERICLES,   ETC, 


LYRICS  OF  PERICLES.* 

I.  —  Invocation  to  Ceres. 
Goddess  of  the  golden  horn. 
Plenty's  queen  when  man  was  born, 
Hear  us  where  we  bend  the  knee 
To  thine  high  divinity: 
Hear  the  infant's  hungering  cry, 
Mothers*  prayer  no  more  deny : 
Shed  thy  store  o'er  field  and  town, 
Ceres,  send  thy  blessing  down. 

Want  and  Woe  stalk  hand  in  hand 
Through  the  parched  and  blighted  land ; 
Poppies  o'er  the  leaguered  plain 
Kiss  to  death  the  poisoned  grain, 
And  the  wavy  sheaves  of  gold 
Wither  in  their  spectral  fold : 
Wear  again  thine  harvest-crown, 
Ceres,  send  thy  blessing  down. 


n.  —  Fishermen's  SoNa 

After  the  battle,  the  peace  is  dear. 

After  the  toil,  the  rest ; 
After  the  storm,  when  the  skies  are  clear, 

Fair  is  the  ocean's  breast. 

Out  in  the  gold  sunshine 

Throw  we  the  net  and  line ; 

The  silvery  chase  to-day 

Calls  us  to  work  away. 

So  throw  the  line,  throw,  —  Yo,  heave  ho  I 

Fishers  must  work  when  the  treacherous  sea 

Smiles  with  a  face  of  light, 
Though  the  deep  bed,  where  their  fortunes  be, 

May  be  their  grave  ere  night. 

Out  in  the  gold  sunshine 

Throw  we  the  net  and  line ; 

The  silvery  lives  to-day 

Flash  in  the  silver  spray. 

So  throw  the  line,  throw,  —  Yo,  heave  ho  I 


III.  —  March  and  Bacchanal. 
Evoe,  Bacchus,  the  king  I 
Evoe,  Bacchus,  we  sing  I 
Cymbal  and  thyrsus  we  bring,  Evoe  I 

Leaving  Cithaeron  in  shade, 
Come  with  the  Graces  arrayed. 
Come  with  the  Asian  maid,  Evoe  I 

When  Ariadne  deplored 

Theseus  her  lover  and  lord. 

Thou  wast  the  healer  adored,  Evoe  I 

Semele's  offspring  divine, 

Giver  of  glorious  wine. 

Gladness  and  madness  are  thine,  Evoe  1 

Come,  then,  our  king  in  thy  pride. 

Come  on  thy  panther  astride. 

Choose  thee  our  fairest  for  bride,  Evoe  1 

•  Written  for  a  proposed  musical  production  of 
Shakespeare's  play  of  "Pericles,"  arranged  by  Mr. 
John  Coleman. 


She  whom  thou  wilt  shall  enfold 
Thee  with  her  tresses  of  gold. 
Sounding  thy  paean  of  old,  Evoe  I 

Kiss  her  and  lead  her  along. 
While  we  thy  votaries  throng 
Round  with  the  mystical  song,  Evoe  I 
October^  1883.  Herman  Merivalb. 

Spectator. 


THE  LIGHT  SHINING  IN  DARKNESS. 

"  Hot  it  shall  come  to  pass,  that  at  evening  time  it  shall 
be  light."  —  Zbchariah  xiv.  7. 

The  light  of  the  sun  is  setting, 
And  our  hearts  are  sinking  with  fear; 

For  the  end  of  life  is  coming, 
And  the  unknown  country  is  near. 

And  are  we  to  die  in  darkness  ? 

In  blindness  our  vessel  to  steer  ? 
Without  any  word  of  welcome. 

Or  greeting,  our  spirit  to  cheer  ? 

Surely,  there*s  some  one  who  loved  us. 
Some  loved  one  we  held  most  dear. 

Would  have  seen  our  vessel  tacking, 
Must  have  felt  our  spirit  was  near. 

We've  lived  the  whole  of  our  lifetime 
Believing  the  love  that  was  here ; 

But  now  is  the  hour  of  darkness. 
And  our  heart  is  failing  with  fear. 

But,  lo  I  a  spark  has  been  kindled. 
And  its  light  is  shining  and  clear. 

Dazzling  our  eyesight  that's  waning 
And  wasting  with  many  a  tear. 

The  light,  that  has  often  led  us 
In  our  darkness,  year  after  year ; 

The  light  that  was  ever  promised. 
At  length  is  the  light  that  is  near. 

Sunday  Magazine. 


I 


SONNET. 


O  SUMMER  of  the  saints,  last  yearning  sigh 
Of  earth  fordone,  full   fraught  with  gentle 

peace  1 
Smile  of  reposeful  Nature,  fain  to  cease 
From  labor  and  be  locked  in  apathy, 
Dreaming  of.  summer  roses,  and  the  cry 
Of  fledglings,  and  the  white  lamb's  innocent 

fleece. 
Yet  drowsily,  as  she  had  won  a  lease 
Of  rest  unblamed  beneath  a  wintry  sky. 
The  breath  of  winged  winds  is  on' my  face, 
Soft  as  a  mother's  touch  ;  the  golden  Sun 
Drinks  Earth's  slow  incense-fumes,  as  6iow  I 

pace 
On  pearly  sands,  from  Ocean's  empire  won. 
By  lapse  of  lulling  waves  that  interlace 
And  part,  then  up  with  sparkling  lau^hte*  run«. 
Spectator.  £.  D    S. 


I 


THE   FUR-SEALS  OF   COMMERCE. 


S^S 


From  The  Quarterly  Review. 
THE  FUR-SEALS  OF  COMMERCE.* 

Foresight  has  always  been  held  to  be 
one  of  the  highest  gifts  that  a  states- 
mao  can  possess,  if  it  be  not  that  which 
especially  distinguishes  him  from  his  fel- 
low-mortals. How  far  a  late  American 
secretary  of  state  may  have  foreseen  the 
advantageous  nature  (in  certain  particu- 
lars presently  to  be  set  forth)  of  the  pur- 
chase made  from  the  czar's  government 
of  what  in  our  youth  used  to  be  called 
Russian  America,  needs  not  here  to  be 
considered.  It  is  a  matter  of  history  that 
when  on  the  i8th  of  October,  1867,  the 
five  or  six  hundred  thousand  square  miles 
of  territory  now  known  as  Alaska  were 
ceded,  through  the  negotiations  of  Mr. 
Seward  and  Prince  Gortchakoff,  by  Rus- 
sia to  the  United  States,  the  latter  became 
the  owners  of  a  much  more  valuable  prop- 
erty than  most  of  the  world  had  any  notion 
of.  To  Senator  Sumner  was  delegated 
the  task  of  recommending  the  purchase  to 
his  countrymen  ;  but  his  eloquent  speech 
on  the  occasion  ^  to  all  appearance  ex- 
haustive of  the  prospective  advantages  of 
the  proposed  acquisition  —  did  not  even 
allude  to  what  has  since  proved  to  be  one 
of  its  richest  natural  resources.  By  his 
fellow-citizens  in  general,  Mr.  Seward's 
bargain  —  IValrussia  they  nicknamed  the 
"Arctic  estate"  he  had  bought  —  was 
looked  upon  as  a  bad  investment  of  capi- 
tal—upwards of  seven  millions  of  hard 
dollars  against  rocks,  icebergs,  and  acres 
of  snowy  wastes ;  but  the  thought  that  he 
had  outwitted  the  British  government, 
and  (as  the  president,  in  his  **  Message" 
to  Congress  on  the  9th  of  December,  1868, 
put  it)  established  **  republican  princi- 
ples" to  the  northward  of  our  own  Domin- 
ion on  the  Pacific,  reconciled  many  ardent 
spirits  to  the  step ;  so  that  in  course  of 
time  the  transaction  came  to  be  regarded 
with  indifference,  if  not  approbation, 
though  perhaps  there  was  some  slight  dis- 
appointment in  the  undoubted  fact,  that 
nobody  in  this'  country  raised  the  least 

•  A  Monograph  of  tht  Stahlslands  of  Alaska. 
By  Henry  \V.  Elliott.  Reprinted,  with  additions,  from 
the  Report  of  the  Fisheries  Industries  of  the  Tenth 
Census.  Washington :  Government  Printing  Office, 
i833.    4to.    With  3  maps  and  29  plates. 


remonstrance  in  regard  to  the  transfer. 
Furthermore,  there  was  a  certain  appeal 
to  poetic  sentiment  in  the  thought  that  a 
region,  which  had  been  chosen  as  the 
type  of  desolation  by  the  bard  who  sang 
*'The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  had  passed  to 
the  rule  of  the  people  who  owned  also  the 
idyllic  valley  of  Wyoming,  and  that 

The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore 

would  henceforth  be  an  accompaniment  to 
the  patriotic  strains  of  "  Hail  Columbia  ! '' 

But,  in  truth,  whatsoever  may  be  the 
future  fortune  of  the  continental  portion 
of  Mr.  Seward's  purchase,  as  yet  its  most 
valuable  part  consists  of  two  small  islands, 
wholly  insignificant  when  we  look  them 
out  on  the  map,  and  islands  which  the 
ordinary  geographer  may  naturally  scorn. 
They  form  the  subject  of  the  monograph 
whose  title  stands  at  the  head  of  this  arti- 
cle ;  and  in  telling  their  story  as  briefly 
as  may  be,  and  descanting  upon  some  of 
their  inhabitants,  we  hope  we  may  con- 
trive, not  only  to  make  their  importance 
apparent  to  many  of  our  countrymen,  but 
even  to  interest  some  of  our  country- 
women, for,  until  imperious  fashion  rules 
otherwise,  what  garment  is  more  cher- 
ished by  the  lady  who  has  one,  or  more 
coveted  by  her  who  has  not,  than  a  **  seal- 
skin "  ?  Moreover,  the  story  is  so  far 
instructive,  that  a  moral  may  not  impossi- 
bly be  deduced  from  it. 

In  the  first  half  of  the  preceding  cen- 
tury, when,  in  a  way  that  still  seems  to  us 
marvellous,  a  handful  of  Russians  and 
Cossacks  — able  men  it  needs  not  to  say 
—  with  means  disproportionately  small  to 
the  end  attained,  had  achieved  the  con- 
quest of  the  "  wilds  i mmeasurably  spread  *' 
which  we  now  know  as  Siberia,  and  had 
extended  the  sway  of  the  whilom  dukes 
of  Muscovy  to  the  very  easternmost  lim- 
its of  Asia,  plus  ultra  was  still  the  motto 
of  the  intrepid  adventurers,  and  they  lost 
no  time  in  building  barks  that  would  en- 
able them  to  explore  the  waters  of  the 
Pacific  Ocean,  the  margin  of  which  they 
had  reached.  Rich  booty  rewarded  their 
earlier  efforts.  Not  only  the  coasts  of  the 
continent  —  hitherto  unvisited  by  Euro- 
peans —  but  island  after  island  in  succes- 
I  sion  ^  on  many  of  which  no  roan  bad 


S'6 

ever  set  foot  —  equally  yielded  spoils  of 
the  greatest  value.  The  spoils  were  those 
of  the  chase.  From  the  very  dawn  of 
history,  the  dwellers  in  northern  Asia,  like 
the  dwellers  in  northern  Europe,  had  gone 
clad  in  the  skins  of  wild  beasts,  and  the 
protection  of  such  vestments  against  an 
extremity  of  cold,  which  we  in  temperate 
Britain  (from  want  of  experience)  can 
scarcely  conceive,  is  to  this  day  fully  ap- 
preciated by  their  successors.  Very  vari- 
able was,  and  is,  the  worth  of  these  skins. 
Some  from  their  rarity,  some  from  their 
beauty,  some  'from  their  lightness  and 
flexibility  afiFording  surpassing  comfort  to 
their  wearer,  bore  a  far  higher  price  than 
others.  While  the  parti-colored  coat  of 
the  arctic  squirrel,  grey  on  the  back  and 
white  on  the  sides,  the  origin  of  the  her- 
aldic vair — was  hardly  esteemed  more 
than  the  lambskin  Jn  which  the  peasant 
clothed  himself,  the  ivory-like  hue  of  the 
ermine,  set  off  with  its  black  tail-tip,  be- 
came identified  with  royal  apparel,*  and 
**  a  suit  of  sables  "  was  too  costly  for  any- 
body under  princely  rank.  None  but  the 
very  wealthy  could  afiFord  to  dress  in  mar- 
tens' fur,  and  skins  of  the  blue  and  of  the 
silver  fox  have  always  commanded  a  high 
price.  The  beaver  it  is  only  necessary  to 
name.  Great  therefore  was  the  delight  of 
the  Russian  explorers,  to  find  that  the 
coasts  and  islands  of  their  new  acquisition 
abounded  in  an  animal  hitherto  unknown 
to  Europeans  —  an  animal  possessing  fur 
that  for  warmth,  softness,  and  rich  color, 
at  once  ranked  it  among  the  choicest  of 
its  class.  This  animal  was  the  singular 
8ea-otter,t  single  skins  of  which,  as  we 


*  The  old  story  of  the  ennine  (which  is  only  oar  ill- 
smelling  stoat  in  its  winter  dress)  dying  on  the  defile- 
ment of  its  coat,  led  to  its  being  regarded  as  an  emblem 
of  purity,  and  hence  arose  the  supposition  that  a  judge's 
robe  was  trimmed  with  its  fur  in  token  of  his  pr^ 
sumably  unsullied  character.  But  the  story  is  of  course 
fabulous,  and  judges  appear  rather  to  have  worn  ermine 
to  show  their  exercise  of  power  as  the  immediate  repre- 
sentatives of  the  crown.  Similarly,  peers  are  arrayed 
in  ermine  to  indicate  their  rank  as  comrades  of  the 
sovereign. 

t  The  Enkydru  iutrit  of  modem  zoology.  Dr. 
Coues,  in  his  "  Fuivbearing  Animals  of  North  Amer- 
ica "  (Washington :  1877),  gives  an  excellent  account  of 
this  interesting  animal,  now  threatened  with  extinction ; 
and  an  admirable  figure  of  it  by  Mr.  Wolf  will  be  found 
in  the  Proceedings  of  the  Zoological  Society  of  London 
for  1865  (plate  viL). 


THE   FUR-SEALS  OF  COMMERCE. 


are  told  by  Pennant,  fetched  in  his  day 
from  15/.  to  20/.  According  to  all  ac- 
counts it  was  guileless  and  very  easily 
captured  ;  and,  with  such  a  price  upon  its 
pelt,  so  unrelenting  a  pursuit  of  it  was 
immediately  carried  on,  that  within  a  few 
years  it  was  exterminated  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Russian  settlements,  whether 
on  the  mainland  or  the  adjacent  islands. 
Then  an  active  search  was  made  for 
islands  more  remote,  and  these  being  one 
by  one  found,  the  same  result  followed^ 
so  far  as  they  were  concerned.  But  in 
the  course  of  the  explorations  instituted 
and  carried  on  with  this  intent  —  leading 
to  the  discovery  of  the  Aleutian  chain 
(which  forms,  as  it  were,  a  series  of  step- 
ping-stones from  Asia  to  America),  and 
then,  in  1768,  to  that  of  the  peninsula  to 
which  the  name  Alaska  (originally  Aliaska) 
was  at  first  confined  —  a  second,  equally 
novel,  fur-bearing  beast  was  observed, 
passing  in  countless  numbers  twice  every 
year  through  the  Aleutian  channels.  So 
long  as  sea-otters  were  forthcoming,  this 
other  beast,  called  by  the  Russians  the 
'*  sea-cat,**  was  not  thought  of  much  value ; 
but  when  their  numbers  declined  from  tens 
of  thousands  to  hundreds,  attention  was 
directed  to  it  as  being  a  possible  substi- 
tute for  the  fast-expiring  species.  But  the 
"  sea-cat "  —  which  we  may  as  weTl  hence- 
forward call  the  fur-seal  —  was  a  mysteri- 
ous creature,  whose  whence  and  whither 
none  could  tell,  though  its  comings  and 
goings  were  most  regularly  timed.  In  the 
spring  it  went  northward,  in  autumn  it 
returned  southward  —  punctual  as  the 
wild  goose  or  the  snow  bunting ;  but  no 
one  had  ever  heard  of  its  lingering,  for  aa 
hour  even,  on  a  single  rock  or  beach 
throughout  the  Aleutian  chain  or  along 
the  American  coast.  Its  summer  home 
and  its  winter  retreat  were  alike  wholly 
unknown,  and  pains  were  taken  to  find 
them.  In  these  days  of  fast  steamers, 
there  would  doubtless  be  not  much  diffi- 
culty in  tracking  the  course  or  in  keepisg 
company  with  a  shoal  of  -migratory  fur- 
seals  ;  but  we  are  probably  not  wrong  in 
assuming  that  such  a  feat  would  be  com- 
pletely beyond  the  sailing  powers  of  the 
only  ships  that  the  Russians  had  at  their 
disposal  in  those  waters.    At  any  rate,  it  is 


THE   FUR-SEALS   OF   COMMERCE. 


517 


A  fact  that  the  fur-seals*  sammer  home  was 
not  found  until  the  year  1786,  "  after  more 
than  eighteen. 3*ears  of  unremitting  search 
by  hardy  navigators/*  as  Mr.  Elliott  tells 
us.  The  discoverer,  by  name  Gehrman 
Pribylov,  was  in  command  of  a  small 
sloop,  the  "St.  George,"  engaged  in  the 
furtrade;  and,  according  to  the  same 
author,  was  much  exercised  in  his  mind 
by  the  declarations  of  an  old  Aleutian 
shaman^  or  priest,  at  Oonalaska,  as  to  the 
existence  of  certain  islands  in  the  sea  to 
the  northward.  This  sea,  now  known  as 
Bering's,  from  the  distinguished  naviga- 
tor, as  ill-fated  in  his  life  as  in  his  post- 
humous reputation  — since  modern  geog- 
raphers with  one  accord  agree  to  misspell 
his  name* — cannot  be  said  to  possess 
one  of  the  most  delightful  climates  on  the 
g^Iobe.  Its  summer  is  nearly  always  fog- 
g^3%  its  winter  frosty,  and  there  are  no 
intermediate  seasons.  Pribylov,  having 
spent  two  summers  in  fruitless  search  of 
the  wished-for  islands,  in  June,  1786,  came 
upon  one  of  them,  though  the  fog  was  so 
thick  that  he  was  for  three  weeks  close  to 
it  without  being  able  to  see  it — indeed, 
he  could  scarcely  see  the  length  of  his  own 
small  ship;  but  the  tumultuous  murmur 
that  rose  from  thousands  upon  tens  of 
thousands  of  fur-seals  struck  his  ears, 
and  to  his  joy  he  knew  that  his  object  was 
attained.  At  last  the  fog  lifted,  and  he 
was  able  to  land,  taking  possession  of  his 
discovery  and  naming  it  after  his  sloop. 
The  island  being  destitute  of  any  harbor, 
he  was  forced  to  return  to  Oonalaska,  tak- 
ing with  him  a  few  skins,  but  leaving  a 
party  of  men  to  winter  on  the  newly-found 
land.  They  seem  to  have  fared  not 
amiss ;  and,  in  the  following  summer, 
when  anxiously  looking  out  for  the  relief- 
ship  they  bad  been  promised,  they  in  a 

*  On  this  topic  Mr.  Elliott  expatiates  at  some  length 
(pp.  isiv  iS2)t  but  no  more  than  is  necessary.  Vitus 
Bering  was  a  Dane  by  birth,  and  the  family  name  — 
about  the  spelling  ot  which  there  ought  to  be  no  sort 
of  doubt — still  exists  in  Denmark.  It  is  to  be  re- 
marked that  Grieve,  Pennant,  and  Pallas,  as  well  as 
John  Reinhold  Forster  (the  companion  of  Cook),  write 
Bering.  Coxe,  King  (the  editor  of  the  narrative  of 
Cook's  third  and  fatal  voyage),  and  Beechey,  have 
Betringy  which  is  wrong,  but  not  so  bad  as  the  vulgar 
modem  corruptions  Bhering  or  Bthring.  It  follows 
from  this  that  we  should  write  not  only  Bering's  Sea, 
but  Bering's  Island  and  Bering's  Strait. 


favorable  hour  descried  the  second  of  the 
two  islands,  which  had  hitherto  been  hid- 
den by  fogs  from  their  sight.  This  they 
named  after  the  saints  —  Peter  and  Paul 
—  on  whose  joint  feast-day  the  welcome 
apparition  met  their  eyes;  but  the  title 
has  proved  too  long  for  ordinary  use,  the 
name  of  the  chief  of  the  apostles  was  soon 
dropped,  and  by  that  of  the  Apostle  of  the 
Gentiles  alone  has  the  island  been  for 
many  years  known.  On  the  arrival  of 
Pribylov  it  was  speedily  reached;  and,  to 
the  surprise  of  the  explorers,  signs  of -a 
prior  but  recent  occupation  by  man  —  em- 
bers of  drift-wood,  a  pipe,  and  a  knife- 
handle  of  brass  —  were  discovered  on  its 
shores;  but  what  interested  them  far 
more  was,  to  find  that  the  extraordinary 
abundance  of  animal  life  on  St.  George's 
Island  was  actually  surpassed  by  that  on 
St.  Paul's. 

The  Pribylov  Islands — as  these  two 
insignificant  specks  of  land,  the  largest 
having  an  area  of  some  thirty-three  square 
miles  only,  are  now  generally  called  — 
lie  in  about  latitude  56^  north,  and  longi- 
tude 170^  west,  or  a  little  short  of  it,  on 
the  eastern  side  of  Bering's  Sea,  being 
that  part  of  the  North  Pacific  Ocean 
which  is  cut  off  from  the  rest  by  the  long 
peninsula  of  Alaska  and  the  Aleutian 
chain.  Into  this  sea  we  are  told  that 
ocean  currrents,  warmer  than  the  normal 
temperature  of  the  air,  flow  from  the 
southward,  and  give  rise  during  summer 
and  early  autumn  to  the  dense  and  almost 
constant  fogs  before  mentioned,  which 
hang  in  heavy  banks  over  the  sea  and  its 
shores,  seldom  dissolving  at  that  season 
in  any  other  form  than  that  of  drizzling 
rain.  About  the  middle  or  end  of  October, 
strong  winds,  cold  and  dry,  sweep  from 
the  tundras  of  the  north-eastern  corner  of 
Asia,  and  carry  off  the  moisture.  These, 
aided  at  intervals  by  violent  gales,  in  time 
bring  down  vast  fields  of  broken  ice-floes, 
not  very  heavy  or  thick,  but  compactly 
covering  the  surface  of  the  water,  which, 
closing  upon  the  islands,  hush  the  wonted 
roar  of  the  surf  on  their  sloping  beaches 
or  steep  cliffs.  In  some  years  they  are 
thus  blockaded  by  '*the  moving  isles  of 
winter"  from  December  to  May,  or  even 
June ;  but  in  others,  though  this  does  not 


THE   FUR-SEALS  OF  COMMERCE. 


often  happen,  not  a  floe  is  visible  from 
the  land  in  all  that  time.  Usually,  the 
turn  of  the  season  takes  place  in  April, 
when  the  ice  and  snow  disappear  so  rap- 
idly, that  by  the  beginning  of  May  all  is 
melted,  and  then  returns  the  reign  of  fog. 
The  number  of  clear  days  is  exceedingly 
small,  and  the  sun  is  rarely  visible  till  the 
middle  of  August;  these  islands, 

Where  scarce  a  summer  smiles, 

being  shrouded  day  after  day  in  the  reek 
which  rolls  thickly  up  from  the  sea.  On 
the  whole,  the  climate  seems  to  be  in- 
tensely **  insular,"  as  meteorologists  say, 
and  is  on  that  very  account  sought  by  the 
greatest  part  of  its  animal  population.  In 
the  winter,  when  the  islands  are  all  but 
deserted,  ferocious  storms,  accompanied 
by  snow,  may  rage  for  days  together ;  but, 
considering  the  latitude,  the  temperature 
is  seldom  very  low,  the  average  of  an 
ordinary  season  ranging  from  22**  to  26** 
of  Fahr.,and  that  of  summer  between  46** 
and  50^.  When  the  sun  does  break  out, 
the  thermometer  may  rise  to  60*^  or  more 
in  the  shade,  a  "  fervent  heat,"  which  the 
inhabitants,  human  and  bestial,  find  to  be 
far  from  agreeable. 

It  is  now  time  to  speak  of  these  inhab- 
itants, or  some  of  them  at  least.     We 
have  already  said  that,  when  the  islands 
were  discovered  by  Pribylov  and  his  men, 
no  human  beings  were  found  upon  them ; 
but  these  have  never  been  wanting  since, 
and  are  mostly  Aleuts,  by  birth  or  descent, 
with  considerable  intermixture,  however, 
of  Russian  or  Asiatic  blood.     Christians 
they  are,  at  least  in  name;  but,  though 
fondly  attached  to  the  Orthodox  Church, 
retaining   not   a  few  of   their  ancestral 
beliefs  in  Shamanism.     Of  their  docile, 
courteous,  and  amiable  disposition,  Mr. 
Elliott  speaks  highly.    Their  greatest  fail- 
ing is  an  almost  irrepressible    love    of 
drink,  for  which,  unfortunately,  the  inhab- 
itants of  certain  other  islands  cannot  justly 
cast  a  stone  at  them;  but  in  this  respect 
there  seems  to  have  been  a  marked  im- 
provement of  late  years,  thanks  to  the 
efforts  of  that  gentleman,  while  residing 
among  them  as  assistant  agent  of  the 
treasury  of  the  Federal  government.   The 
Alaska  Commercial  Company,  to  whom 
the  islands  are  leased,  has  also  done  much 
to  ameliorate  the  condition,  both  material 
and   intellectual,  of   its  servants,  every 
able-bodied  man  on  the  islands  being  in 
its  employment.     In  1880  the  population 
numbered  three  hundred  and  ninety  souls, 
of  whom  more  than  three-fourths  belonged 
to  St.  Paul's. 


But  our  present  business  — as  the  titl6 
of  this  article  shows  —  is  with  the  far* 
seals  already  mentioned,  the  animals  to 
which  the  Pribylov  Islands  owe  their  im- 
portance. We  have  faint  hope  that  we 
can  succeed  in  imparting  to  our  readers 
more  than  a  portion  of  the  pleasure  with 
which  we  ourselves,  several  years  ago, 
first  read  Mr.  Elliott's  account  of  these 
creatures,*  and  this  in  spite  of  his  narra- 
tive being  written  in  a  style  which  we 
confess  we  do  not  highly  admire.  The 
arrangement  of  his  facts  is  most  unme- 
thodical. His  language  is  the  purest 
American  —  the  tongue  that  our  descen- 
dants are  perhaps  one  day  to  speak  —  but 
it  is  needless  to  anticipate  an  evil.  The 
vigor  of  his  expressions  none  can  doubt, 
and  occasionally  they  are  embellished  by 
a  quaintness  which  raises  a  smile,  where 
nothing  humorous  seems  intended.  That 
o(  course  only  show»  our  own  stupidity; 
but  still  this  combination  of  qualities  hin- 
ders us  from  quoting  several  passages  we 
should  like  to  extract;  and,  if  it  is  not 
always  necessary  to  paraphrase  our  au- 
thor, it  is  at  least  advisable  to  translate 
what  he  says  into  the  English  of  the  pres- 
ent period.  This  statement  we  make  to 
meet  the  natural  objection,  that  the  very 
words  themselves  of  a  writer  who  has  so 
good  a  right  to  be  read,  and  has  so  much 
to  tell,  are  far  better  than  the  renderings 
of  a  reviewer. 

For  the  sake  of  some  of  our  readers  it 
will  be  expedient,  before  we  go  further,  to 
explain  what  fur  seals  are,  and  briefly  to 
show  how  they  differ  from  other  seals. 
There  is  no  need  to  enter  upon  any  very 
technical  description,  or  to  inflict  upon 
those  who  are  not  zoologically-minded  a 
lengthy  zoological  disquisition. f  How- 
ever, it  may  be  necessary,  even  nowadays, 
to  point  out  that  seals  are  neither  flshes 
nor  whales,  but  aquatic  members  of  the 
great  order  Fera  of  Linnaeus,  forming 
part  of    the   Carnassiers  of    Cuvier,  to 

*  This  account  was  originally  printed  at  Washtnstoa 
by  the  Treasury  Department  in  1873,  as  a  **  Report  o{ 
the  Pribylov  Group,  or  Seal  Islands  of  Alaska,"  and 
was  illustrated  by  fifty  photographs  from  the  authcKs 
drawings.  1  For  some  reason,  which  has  never  been  ex- 
plained satisfactorily  or  otherwise,  only  stvenZy-fivt 
impressions  were  struck  off,  and  it  is  in  consequence 
one  of  the  rarest  books  to  be  found  in  a  2oolog;ical 
library.  We  know  of  only  four  copies  in  this  country. 
All  the  letter-press  is  reprinted,  toeether  with  much 
additional  matter,  and  many  of  the  illustrations  are  re* 
produced,  in  the  volume  now  under  review. 

t  Those  who  wish  to  be  more  deeply  informed  oa 
the  subject  may  with  advantage  consult,  not  only  Mr. 
Elliott's  work,  but  the  excellent  paper  by  Mr.  J.  W. 
Clark  in  the  Proceedings  of  the  Zoological  Society  of 
London  for  1875  (|>.  650),  as  well  as  two  admirable 
pa|>er8  by  Dr.  Mune  in  the  Transactions  of  the  same 
society  (vols.  vii.  and  viiL). 


THE   FUR-SEALS   OF  COMMERCE. 


S19 


which  belong  cats,  dogs,  bears,  and  many 
other  flesh-eating  and  fish-eating  quad- 
rupeds. Moreover,  it  must  be  observed 
that  the  animals  known  generally  as 
"seals"  comprehend  two  very  distinct 
groups,  or  as  naturalists  term  tJiem,  fam- 
ilies—  \\\t  P  hoc  idee  and  the  Otariidce  — 
the  latter  distinguishable  at  first  sight  by 
the  presence  of  small  external  ears 
(whence  their  name),  and  the  power  of 
bringing  forward  their  hind  limbs  so  as  to 
use  them  in  the  act  of  progression,  while 
in  the  former  the  hind  limbs  are  almost 
functionless  except  in  the  water.  Hence 
it  follows  that  the  otaries  are  able  to 
travel  on  land  for  a  considerable  distance, 
and  their  activity  may  be  appreciated  by 
those  who  have  seen  the  living  examples, 
exhibited — generally  under  the  name  of 
sea-bear  or  sea-lion  —  in  zoological  gar- 
dens and  elsewhere.  To  the  otaries  be- 
long the  fur-seals,  but  all  otaries  do  not. 
bear  fur -^  at  least  in  their  adult  condi- 
tion ;  and,  on  this  account,  a  further 
division  has  been  attempted  by  some 
systematists,  based  on  this  external  char- 
acter. The  number  of  species  of  fur-seals 
existing  is  still  open  to  doubt;  but  it 
seems  most  likely  that  there  are  not  fewer 
than  four,  of  which  that  resorting  to  the 
Pribylov  Islands  is  the  Otaria  ursina^  or 
Callorhinus  ursinus^  of  scientific  writers. 
No  living  example  of  it  appears  to  have 
ever  been  brought  to  Europe ;  *  but  the  nu- 
merous figures  whereby  Mr.  Elliott's  vol- 
ume is  illustrated  —  all  taken,  as  he  as- 
sures us  and  we  may  well  believe,  from  the 
Wit — show  that,  to  some  extent,  in  its 
physiognomy  and  in  most  of  its  attitudes. 
It  strongly  resembles  those  of  its  better- 
known  brethren,  the  sea-bears,  which  are 
familiar  to  visitors  at  the  Regent's  Park, 
and  the  Aquarium  at  Brighton.  These 
drawings  of  Mr.  Elliott's  will  be  to  many 
eyes  the  most  pleasing  feature  of  his  book, 
and  they  certainly  prove  him  to  have  much 
more  than  the  ordinary  artistic  faculty 
which  so  often  only  wofuliy  caricatures 
living  animals.f 

•  Mr.  Elliott  states  that  all  attempts  to  keep  the 
Oiaria  ursina  in  confinement  have  nitherto  failed ; 
but  we  think  it  is  probable  that  if  renewed  with  due 
care  they  would  be  successful.  The  Otaria  caltfoT" 
niana,  which  inhabits  the  western  coasts  of  North 
America  to  the  southward  of  the  Pribylov  Islands,  is 
not  unfrequentlv  seen  in  European  vivaria. 

t  Some  of  Mr.  Elliott's  original  pictures,  from  which 
the  illustrations  in  his  book  are  taken,  may  have  been 
seen  by  our  readers  at  South  Kensington,  as  they  were 
contributed  by  the  United  States*  Commission  of  Fish 
and  Fisheries  to  the  recent  International  Exhibition. 
The  spirit  which  these  works  display  is  indeed  very 
great,  and  no  one  can  examine  them  without  feeline  as- 
sured of  the  fidelity  with  which  he  has  portrayed  the 
different  animals  and  scenes  they  represeiit.    In  partio- 


There  is  probably,  at  the  present  day, 
no  part  of  the  world  on  which  mammalian 
life  is  for  a  season  s>o  densely  accumulated 
as  on  the  Pribylov  Islands,  and  on  that 
of  St.  Paul  in  particular.  That  the  same 
state  of  things  existed  years  ago,  in  more 
than  one  place  in  the  southern  hemi- 
sphere, is  certain  ;  but  it  is  there  gone  — 
never,  it  may  be  feared,  to  return.  But 
the  concourse  on  these  islands  only  lasts 
for  some  six  months.  During  winter, 
when  their  shores  are  ice-bound,  and  one 
furious  boor^a^  a  gale  of  wind  bearing 
snow  —  succeeds  another,  they  are  islands 
of  desolation.  In  ordinary  seasons,  on 
the  1st  of  May  in  each  year  the  elderly 
males  of  the  fur-seal  arrive  —  heavy-shoul- 
dered, obese  creatures,  their  bodies  quiv- 
ering, as  they  move,  with  the  fat  they  have 
laid  on  since  the  preceding  autumn.  At 
once  they  come  ashore  —  "  hauling  up,"  in 
the  language  of  sailors,  wherever  a  slop- 
ing beach  presents  itself.  The  first  com* 
ers  take  their  post  nearest  the  sea;  but 
each  has  to  maintain  his  ground  against 
new  arrivals,  and  sanguinary  duels  ensue 
—  the  victor  occupying  the  station  of  the 
vanquished,  who,  if  he  survives  the  con- 
test, retires  landward.  This  condition  of 
affairs  goes  on  until,  about  the  12th  of 
14th  of  June,  the  females,  in  numbers 
vastly  superior,  make  their  appearance. 
Each  as  she  reaches  the  land  is  accosted 
in  the  softest  terms  of  endearment  and  ' 
persuasion  of  which  seal  language  is  capa- 
ble, by  every  male  in  possession,  to  rest 
within  the  precinct  that  he  has  appropri- 
ated ;  and  to  these  gentle  addresses  force 
is  not  unfrequently  added  —  the  male,  who 
is  more  than  double  the  weight  and 
strength  of  his  partner,  often  seizing  her 
in  his  mouth,  and  conveying  her  to  a  place 
where  he  can  guard  her  in  safety.  Such 
a  proceeding,  however,  is  sure  to  excite 
the  jealous  wrath  of  his  neighbors ;  and, 
in  consequence,  the  conflicts  that  have 
before  occurred  are  as  nothing  to  the  com- 
bats that  now  ensue.  Fortunate  is  the 
female  who,  in  such  a  case,  escapes  with  a 
whole  skin ;  for  Mr.  Elliott  has  seen  a 
second  male  fling  himself  upon  her,  and 
in  the  struggle  she  may  be  wellnigh  torn 

ular  we  should  mention,  though  the  subject  is  rather 
wide  of  our  present  scope,  the  very  remarkable  study  of 
the  walrus  of  the  North  Pacific  Ocean  which  is  engraved 
in  his  volume  (plate  xxi.),  and  completely  changes  all 

f>re-existing  notions  as  to  the  appearance  of  that  singu- 
ar  monster.  To  the  same  exhibition  was  also  sent  a 
large  group  of  stufifed  specimens  of  the  fur-seal  of  th& 
Pribylov  Islandst  which,  when  first  set  up,  must  have 
been  extremely  lifelike  —  the  attitudes  in  which  they 
are  mounted  having  evidently  been  copied  from  his  fig- 
ures —  but  Ion  exposure  to  light  and  oust  has  seriously 
impaired  their  beauty. 


S20 


THE   FUR-SEALS   OF   COMMERCE. 


asander.  With  marvellous  fortitude  she 
bears  this  treatment,  and  utters  not  a  cry 
of  suffering  or  complaint  at  the  savage 
usage.  All  this  too  takes  place  at  a  criti- 
cal moment;  for  it  frequently  happens  that 
no  sooner  is  she  lodged,  and  sometimes 
before  her  dripping  fur  has  dried,  than  she 
becomes  a  mother.  Meanwhile  her  lord 
and  master  is  ever  intent  upon  new  con- 
quests, whether  in  love  or  war,  and  upon 
protecting  those  he  has  already  achieved 
from  his  less  lucky  neighbors,  alwavs  on 
the  look-out  for  any  ** errant  fair*'  that 
chance  or  wayward  disposition  may  induce 
to  stray,  be  it  but  for  two  or  three  yards. 
Fortunatelv  for  him  the  greatest  recre- 
ation of  the  ladies  of  his  selection  — 
whom  the  English-speaking  inhabitants 
vulgarly  denominate  "cows  "  —  seems  to 
be  sleep,  though  (as  Mr.  Elliott  tells  us) 
the  sleep  of  the  fur-seal  is  the  very  reverse 
of  calm,  and  is  accompanied  by  so  much 
restlessness  and  muscular  action,  appar- 
ently involuntary,  that  the  influence  of  the 
drowsy  deitv  is  of  the  slightest.  When 
awake  too,  besides  the  ordinary  cares  of 
mammalian  maternity,  they  find  occupa- 
tion in  fanning  and  scratching  themselves 
with  their  broad  hind-flippers;  for  with 
all  delicacy  we  must  confess  in  sorrow 
that  these  pure  ocean  nymphs  are  not  free 
from  the  attentions  of  that  familiar  little 
beast  which,  according  to  Sir  Hugh 
'  Evans,  *'  signifies  love.*'  So  passes  away 
their  summer.  If  the  weather  be  warm, 
the  fanning  is  more  and  more  vigorously 
performed ;  and  should  a  sun-burst  raise 
the  temperature  to  the  "  fervent  heat "  be- 
fore mentioned,  away  they  go  for  a  plunge 
in  the  sea,  leaving  their  sultan,  the  *'  bull " 
or  '*seecatch  "  as  he  is  commonly  called, 
in  disconsolate  loneliness.  His  life,  how- 
ever, is  far  different.  To  act  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  porta  tueri  is  his  inevitable  lot. 
Never  can  he  close  his  eyes  without  risk 
of  his  odalisques  being  borne  off  by  a 
rival.  Never  can  he  stir  from  his  own 
station  without  the  certainty  of  havin?  to 
fight  for  his  life.  Perseus  is  chained  to 
the  rock,  and  his  countless  Andromedas 
are  at  the  mercy  of  any  number  of  mon- 
sters of  his  own  kin !  In  this  best  of  all 
possible  worlds,  his  fate  —  nay,  his  verv 
existence  —  must  seem  to  him,  if  a  sul- 
tan fur-seal  can  philosophize,  to  require 
some  explanation.  By  courage  and  sheer 
strength  he  has  gained  his  position,  his 
rank,  his  hareem.  He  has  braved  count- 
less perils  by  land  and  by  water.  In  his 
vouth  he  has  escaped  the  massacre  of 
his  brethren  (of  which  more  will  presently 
be  said)  at  the  hand  of  murdering  man, 


and  the  fangs  of  the  deadlv  grampusY  or 
still  more  cruel  shark.  All  this  to  pass 
weeks,  nay  months,  agitated  by  the  deejK 
est  passions  that  leave 

the  kingly  couch 
A  watch-case,  or  a  common  *Urum-belL 

Better  be  content,  like  his  cousin  the  hair* 
seal,  with  a  single  spouse,  and  be  free  to 
sleep,  swim,  dive,  or  fish,  at  pleasure ;  for, 
in  addition  to  his  wakefulness,  hunger 
and  thirst  he  must  endure,  as  it  is  a  proved 
fact  that  from  the  time  he  takes  up  his 
post  in  May,  till  he  finally  quits  it  at  the 
close  of  summer,  the  seecatch  neither 
eats  nor  drinks,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that, 
when  his  season's  watching  is  over,  he  is 
reduced  in  bulk  and  weight  to  about  a 
sixth  of  his  former  being.  But  it  is  not 
for  us  to  solve  the  problem.  Our  sultan 
does  as  have  done  bis  forefathers  for  un- 
told generations,  and,  as  we  shall  imme- 
diately see,  it  is  to  the  polygamous  habit 
of  the  fur-seal,  that  it  not  only  owes  its 
chance  of  maintaining  its  existence,  bat 
that  mankind  is  able  to  profit  thereby. 

But  while  all  this  is  going  on,  another 
and  very  remarkable  incident  in  the  life- 
history  of  the  species  has  to  be  consid- 
ered. When  the  females  follow  their 
future  lords  to  the  islands,  they  are  pre- 
ceded or  accompanied  by  troops  of  young 
males,  varying  in  age  from  one  summer 
to  four  or  five,  and  not  yet  arrived  at  the 
dignity  of  **  seecatchie."  They  are  called 
'* bachelors"  —  in  Russ  holoshcheekie — 
and  are  sportive  and  gay  as  befits  their 
name.  On  them  depends  the  value  of 
these  distant  possessions,  for,  under  the 
wise  regulations  which  happily  exist  in 
the  Pribylov  Islands,  these  **  bachelors  " 
alone  are  allowed  to  be  taken.  Practically 
they  are  as  numerous  as  the  females^ 
their  mothers  or  sisters.  Wholly  care- 
less, they  fish,  doze,  and  merrily  gambol 
in  shoals  round  the  shores,  springing  aloft 
into  the  air  for  very  joy;  or,  landing,  lie 
lazily  in  herds  upon  the  beach  for  hours 
at  a  time,  and  then  wander  for  a  mile  into 
the  interior  —  ascending  steeps  which  it 
would  seem  impossible  for  a  man  to  climb, 
and  playing  with  one  another  like  puppies 
—  rolling  and  crushing  the  vegetation  till 
it  is  worn  away.  Then,  tired  with  their 
exertions,  they  suddenly  sink  for  a  few 
moments  into  their  usual  restless  sleep* 
awakening  to  pursue  the  same  round  of 
amusement.  But  woe  be  to  that  one  of 
them  who  transgresses  the  boundary  of 
the  places  appropriated  by  the  elders  of 
their  kind.  True  that  in  some  of  the 
"  rookeries  "  (as  these  places  are  named) 


THE   FUR-SEALS   OF   COMMERCE. 


521 


a  right  of  way,  through  the  herds  of  fe- 
males and  newIy-borD  that  throng  the 
ground,  is  accorded  to  the  *'  bachelors  "  by 
the  sufferance  of  the  patriarchs ;  but  the 
way  is  of  the  straitest,  and  though  trav- 
ersed day  and  night  by  constant  files,  each 
passenger  must  keep  strictly  to  the  path, 
and  even  loitering  brings  upon  him  con- 
dign punishment  from  the  nearest  see- 
catch. 

All  the  fur-seals  while  on  the  island, 
like  many  other  animals  in  their  breeding- 
haunts,  show  little  fear  of  man.  One 
may  walk  into  the  midst  of  a  troop  of 
these  "  bachelors,*'  and  they  will  but  make 
way  for  a  few  yards,  dividing  rij^ht  and 
left,  staring  at  the  stranger  with  their 
large,  soft  eyes,  and  closing  behind  him 
as  he  passes  on.  It  is  this  habit  which 
makes  their  capture  so  simple,  easy,  and 
sure.  And  now  we  have  the  story  of  de- 
struction to  relate.  On  certain  nights  in 
the  months  of  June  and  July,  men  told  off 
to  the  duty  leave  their  villages  before 
daybreak,  and  quietly  walk  between  the 
sea  and  the  slumbering  herd  of  '*  bache- 
lors," who,  aroused  one  by  one,  scramble 
inland  till  a  drove,  consisting  of  about 
the  number  that  may  be  required,  is 
formed,  and  leisurely  urged  in  the  proper 
direction  by  the  drivers  in  the  rear  and 
on  the  flanks  of  the  intended  victims. 
The  rate  of  progress  is  slow,  not  more 
than  about  half  a  mile  in  the  hour;  for 
though  the  seals  can  move  at  much  more 
than  twice  that  pace,  especially  for  a  short 
distance,  it  is  most  important  that  they 
sboiUd  not  be  overheated.  To  that  end 
frequent  pauses  of  some  minutes'  dura- 
tion are  made,  the  drivers  falling  back, 
and  many  of  the  animals  that  appear  to 
be  alreaay  exhausted  by  the  journey,  so 
far  as  it  is  accomplished,  are  left  behind 
unmolested  —  to  recover  if  they  can. 
When  the  drove  seems  to  be  sufficiently 
rested,  the  men  again  advance  with  a 
shout,  clatterin?  together  a  few  bones 
that  they  carry  K>r  the  purpose,  and  off  it 
moves  again  towards  the  appointed  place, 
near  the  sheds  which  are  fitted  with  the 
necessary  appliances  for  what  is  to  follow. 
All  this  time  the  "bachelors"  make  no 
more  attempt  at  resistance  than  so  many 
sheep  would  do;  and,  indeed,  it  gives  us 
satisfaction  to  state  that  far  more  human- 
ity seems  to  be  shown  to  them  than  ordi- 
narily in  England  to  sheep  driven  to  the 
slaughter-house.  Arrived  on  the  killing- 
ground,  the  fated  creatures  are  once  more 
left  to  rest  themselves  and  get  cool. 
Then  the  male  population  of  the  village 
turns  out  —  each  of  them  furnished  with 


a  short  bludgeon,  two  knives  (one  for 
stabbing  and  one  for  removing  the  skin), 
and  a  whetstone.  At  a  signal  from  the 
teeyooH  or  foreman,  about  one  hundred  or 
one  hundred  and  fifty  seals  are  separated 
from  the  rest,  and  driven  a  little  way 
apart,  into  as  close  a  compass  as  possible. 
The  chief  then  closely  surveys  each  indi- 
vidual of  the  *'pod,''  as  it  is  termed, 
passes  the  word  that  such  or  such  a  seal 
has  been  bitten  so  that  its  skin  is  injured, 
is  too  young  or  too  old,  and  the  men  take 
mental  note  of  his  orders.  Then  he  gives 
the  order  "  Strike."  Instantly  the  heavy 
clubs  come  down  on  the  head  of  every 
animal  that  is  not  to  be  spared,  and  it  is 
stretched  stunned  and  motionless  in  less 
time,  says  Mr.  Elliott,  than  it  takes  to  tell. 
Thereupon  the  clubs  are  dropped,  the 
men  drag  out  the  prostrate  bodies,  and 
spread  them  on  the  ground  so  as  not  to 
touch  one  another,  plunging  as  speedily 
as  possible  a  knife  into  the  heart  of  each 
that  the  blood  may  flow  out,  since,  if  this 
be  not  done  at  once,  the  carcase  will 
**heat,"  and  the  skin  prove  worthless. 
This  operation  finished,  that  of  skinning 
follows.  So  expert  are  the  best  men  that 
they  will  remove  the  hide  from  a  seal  of 
fair  size  in  a  minute  and  a  half;  but  few 
are  so  expeditious,  and  on  an  average  the 
skinning  of  each  body  (the  limbs  and 
head  being  left)  takes  about  four  minutes. 
This  is,  however,  very  laborious  work, 
and  it  is  needless  to  say  that  the  knife 
must  not  slip  and  cut  the  skin,  for  in  that 
case  it  is  not  paid  for.  The  hides  when 
removed  are  carried  to  a  large,  barn-like 
wooden  structure,  and  after  being  care- 
fully examined  are  laid  upon  one  another 
in  Dins,  with  salt  properly  spread  upon 
their  inside.  In  two  or  three  weeks'  time 
they  are  sufficiently  pickled,  and  may  be 
taken  out,  rolled  into  bundles  of  two  skins 
each,  with  the  hair  outside,  and,  when 
tightly  corded,  are  ready  for  shipment. 
In  former  days  they  were  dried  in  the 
open  air  without  any  preservative,  and  ia 
consequence  were  very  liable  to  decay. 

What  seems  the  most  unsatisfactory 
part  of  the  whole  proceeding  is  that  the 
flayed  carcases  of  the  seals  are  left  to  rot 
on  the  ground,  with  a  result  that  may  be 
imagined;  but,  according  to  Mr.  Elliott, 
the  most  sensitive  nose,  after  only  a  couple 
of  months'  experience,  becomes  wholly 
used  to  the  odor  given  off,  and  the  cool, 
sunless  weather,  even  during  the  warmest 
months,  has  doubtless  much  to  do  with 
checking  decomposition,  while  the  bois- 
terous winds,  so  very  prevalent,  help  to 
keep  the  island  healthy.     Nevertheless 


522 


THE   FUR-SEALS   OF  COMMERCE. 


on  the  melting  of  the  snow  in  spring  the 
olfactories  of  a  stranger  suffer,  in  that 
gentleman's  words,  ** terrific  punishment" 
from  the  ren^ains  of  the  preceding  year's 
crop  of  seals — still  lying  '*unburied  on 
the  plain  ; "  but  the  live  seals  are  perfectly 
indifferent  to  this,  though,  as  every  anat- 
omist and  seal-shooter  knows,  their  sense 
of  smell  is  most  acute.  All  attempts  to 
utilize  the  seals'  flesh  — save  a  very  in- 
considerable portion  which  is  eaten  by 
the  inhabitants  —  have  hitherto  failed; 
and  the  oil  that  the  carcases  furnish  is  so 
small  in  quantity  and  poor  in  quality  as 
not  to  repay  the  trouble  and  expense  of 
extracting  it. 

It  will  be  already  inferred  from  what 
was  before  said,  as  to  the  Pribylov  Islands 
being  more  thickly  peopled  with  the  higher 
animal  life  than  any  other  spots  on  the 
globe  of  similar  area,  as  well  as  from 
some  incidental  remarks,  that  the  number 
of  fur-seals  there  must  be  enormous.  Mr. 
Elliott  was  at  first  wholly  unable  to  make 
any  computation  of  it  that  he  could  con- 
siaer  trustworthy ;  but  repeated  observa- 
tion convinced  him  of  the  orderly  wav  in 
which  the  animals  distributed  themselves 
without  crowding  one  another,  on  the 
breeding-grounds  or  "rookeries,*'  which 
were  invariably  covered  by  them  in  ex- 
actly the  same  proportion.  "  The  seals," 
he  says,  *Mie  just  as  thickly  together 
where  the  rookery  is  boundless  in  its 
eligible  area  to  their  rear  and  unoccupied 
by  them,  as  they  do  in  the  little  strips 
which  are  abruptly  cut  off  and  narrowed 
by  rocky  walls  behind.  For  instance,  oa 
a  rod  of  ground,  under  the  face  of  bluffs 
which  hemmed  it  in  to  the  land  from  the 
sea,  there  are  just  as  many  seals,  no  more 
and  no  less,  as  will  be  found  on  any  other 
rod  of  rookery  ground  throughout  the 
whole  list,  great  and  small ;  always  exactly 
so  many  seals,  under  any  and  all  circum- 
stances, to  a  given  area  of  breeding- 
ground."  This  fact  being  determined,  all 
that  was  needed  was  to  make  an  accurate 
survey  and  measurement  of  the  extent  of 
the  several  breeding-grounds  on  each 
island  ;  and  thus  he  arrived  at  the  conclu- 
sion, that  St.  George^s  is  inhabited  by 
one  hundred  and  sixty -three  thousand 
four  hundred  and  twenty  breeding  and 
newly-born  fur-seals,  while  no  fewer  than 
three  million  and  thirty  thousand  of  the 
same  occupy  the  wider  and  more  numer- 
ous stations  at  St.  Paul's.  But  these 
numbers  are  exclusive  of  the  "bachelors" 
before  mentioned,  which  from  their  dis- 
cursive habits  are  far  more  difficult  to 
reckon.    These  young  males  between  the 


ages  of  one  year  and  six  years  seem  to  be 
as  numerous  as  the  adult  breeding  fur- 
seals;  but,  without  putting  them  at  so 
high  an  estimate,  Mr.  Elliott  is  persuaded 
that  a  million  and  a  half  is  quite  within 
the  bounds  of  fact,  and  this  "  makes  the 
grand  sum  total,  of  the  fur-seal  life  in  the 
Pribylov  Islands,  over  forty-seven  hun- 
dred' thousand."  He  further  calculates 
that  a  million  of  young  fur-seals  are  born 
every  year  on  these  islands ;  and  taking 
one  half  (as  we  may  fairly  do)  to  be  males, 
the  slaughter  of  which  alone  is  permitted, 
the  one  hundred  thousand  which  the 
Alaska  Commercial  Company  is  allowed 
by  its  charter  to  kill,  amounts  to  one  in 
five.  He  was  at  6rst  disposed  to  think 
that  this  number  might  be  increased  with- 
out injuring  the  stock ;  but  on  further  re- 
flection, after  taking  into  consideration  the 
casualties  which  must  happen  to  the  young 
—  especially  during  the  winter  months 
when  they  are  absent  from  the  islands 
and  exposed  to  their  natural  enemies,  to 
say  nothing  of  about  five  thousand  which 
may  be  taken  yearly  by  men  in  the  Aleu- 
tian channels  or  at  sea  —  he  concluded 
that  it  would  be  better  to  "  let  well  alone." 
Herein  he  is  probably  right,  for,  owing  to 
the  polygamous  nature  of  the  species,  the 
present  wise  arrangement  of  the  United 
States  authorities  and  the  Alaska  Com- 
pany justifies  the  expectation,  that  there 
is  no  greater  fear  of  the  stock  of  fur-seals 
diminishing  by  the  annual  destruction  of 
one  hundred  thousand  of  its  young  mates, 
than  there  is  of  a  prudent  farmer's  flock  or 
herd  being  reduced  by  draughting  itp  sa- 
perfluous  yearly  increase.*  At  the  same 
time  it  is  also  satisfactory  to  know  that  in 
accordance  with  Mr.  Elliott's  recommen- 
dation a  strict  watch  seems  to  be  kept,  so 
as  to  detect,  if  possible,  any  sign  of  dimina- 
tion.  The  chief  risk  appears  to  be  that 
of  an  epidemic  seizing  the  animals,  and 
this  risk  seems  to  us  to  be  increased  by 
the  practice  of  leaving  the  carcases  un- 
buried,  in  defiance  of  all  the  laws  of  sani- 
tation. There  is  some  reason  to  think 
that  in  1836  such  a  visitation  did  occur, 
but  the  extremely  unsystematic  way  in 
which  the  slaughter  was  carried  on  in  those 
days,  and  the  statistics  of  the  islands 
were  kept,  obscures  the  cause  of  the  sud- 
den diminution  which  was  then  undoubt- 
edly observed. 


*  This  arrangement  is  said  to  be  due  to  the  forenght 
of  Mr.  H.  M.  Hutchinson,  of  New  Hampshire,  and 
Captain  £benezer  Morgan  of  Connecticut,  who  visited 
the  islands  in  1868,  and  right'iv  judged  that  unless  re- 
strictions  were  put  upon  the  slaughter  of  the  fur-seals, 
another  season  would  have  seen  the  end  of  them. 


THE   FUR-SEALS   OF  COMMERCE. 


S«3 


In  this  connection  another  matter  roust 
be  mentioned,  and  that  is  the  steady  im- 
provement in  the  quah'ty  of  the  animal's 
pelt  during;  the  first  three  or  four  years  of 
Its  life.  The  very  best  furs  are  those  from 
males  of  three  years  old,  whose  skin  has 
an  average  weight  of  seven  pounds ;  but 
the  animals  of  four  years  have  fur  hardly, 
if  at  all,  inferior,  while  their  skins  weigh 
twelve  pounds.  At  five  years  the  skin 
weighs  more  still,  but  what  is  called  the 
**wig'*  —  a  mass  of  coarse  hair  on  the 
shoulders  —  appears,  and  destroys  the 
uniformity  required  in  a  pelt  of  the  first 
quality,  so  that  it  does  not  pav  to  kill  an 
animal  of  this  age;  while  older  animals, 
in  addition  to  a  greater  development  of 
**wig,**  begin  to  have  a  thinner  fur,  and 
are  absolutely  profitless  in  the  trade. 

All  the  skins  from  the  Pribylov  Islands 
come  to  London,  where  the  final  opera- 
tions of  dressing  and  dyeing  them  are 
performed,  at  a  cheaper  rate  than  can  be 
done  elsewhere.  The  dressing  consists 
chiefly  of  extracting  all  the  hairs,  and 
leaving  only  the  fur  which  grows  at  their 
base.  For  a  long  while  this  was  done  by 
plucking  out  each  hair  separately  —  a 
slow  and  costly  process.  But  at  last  the 
fur-dressers  became  aware  of  a  fact,  which 
almost  any  naturalist  might  have  told 
them,  even  if  they  did  not  sooner  observe 
it  themselves.  This  fact  is  that  the  hairs 
are  much  more  deeply  rooted  than  the 
lur,  and  accordingly  it  the  inside  of  the 
skins  be  scraped  away,  or  pared  down 
with  a  currier*s  knife,  the  roots  of  the 
hair  are  cut  through,  and  the  hair  easily 
brushed  off  with  the  hand,  the  fur  re- 
maining attached  to  the  skin,  which  is 
thus  rendered  very  little  thicker  than  a 
kid  glove.  This  fur  is  curly,  and  generally 
of  a  light  brown  color,  varying  slightly  in 
shade  in  the  different  parts.  To  render 
it  uniform  in  tint  it  is  accordingly  dyed, 
and  in  the  process  of  dyeing  the  ends  un- 
twist themselves  and  the  fur  becomes 
smooth  and  ready  for  use.*^ 

Of  the  actual  profits  made  out  of  the 
Pribylov  fur-seals  we  have  insufiicient 
data  to  form  an  estimate ;  but  it  is  certain 
that  the  Alaska  Commercial  Company  has 
a  very  good  thing  of  their  monopoly, 
though  it  pays  the  government  of  the 
United  States  a  yearly  rent  of  fifty-five 
thousand  dollars,  besides  two  dollars  on 
each  skin  taken  —  the  number  paid  for 
being  as  nearly  as  possible  the  limited 

*  See  "  Sea-Lions,"  one  of  the  Davis  Lectures  de- 
livered at  the  Gardens  of  the  Zoological  Society  by  Mr. 
John  Willis  Clark,  and  afterwards  published  io  the 
C09it*mpcrary  RevUtu  for  December,  1875. 


one  hundred  thousand  —  amounting  in  all 
to  an  annual  income  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty-five  thousand  dollars,  or  a  very  fair 
interest  on  the  original  outlay  of  seven 
million,  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  for 
the  whole  territory^  and  an  income  that 
is  likelv  to  be  permanent,  provided  that 
the  fashion  of  wearing  seal-skin,  and  the 
effective  protection  of  the  animals,  con- 
tinue. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  other  parts  of  the 
world  and  see,  if  we  can,  what  we  have 
lost  or  are  daily  losing  through  our  own 
improvidence.  The  islands  in  Bass's 
Strait  between  Australia  and  Tasmania 
were  at  the  beginning  of  the  present  cen- 
tury as  fully  stocked  with  fur-seals  of  an- 
other species  (perhaps  Otaria  forsteri)^^ 
as  are  the  Pribylovs  at  this  day.  But  not 
many  years  ago  Mr.  Clark  was  told  by  a 
friend  who  knew  the  locality,  that  he 
should  as  soon  expect  to  meet  a  fur-seal  on 
London  Bridge  as  anywhere  near  Aus- 
tralia, though  warning  had  been  given  in 
the  colonies  themselves,  so  early  as  1826^ 
of  what  was  coming  to  pass.  Yet  there  are 
islands  further  to  the  southward  in  which 
the  same  species  still  exists ;  and  Mr. 
A.  W.  Scott,  writing  ten  years  ago,  said 
thM  "they  need  only  the  simple  regula- 
tions enforced  by  the  American  legisla- 
ture to  resuscitate  the  present  state  of 
decay  of  a  once  remunerative  trade,  and 
to  bring  into  full  vigor  another  important 
export  to  the  many  we  already  possess."  f 
Not  twenty  years  since,  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  could  still  send  a  thousand  skins  of 
its  small  fur-seal  (Otaria antarctica)  to  the 
London  market,^  but  this  was  nearly  the 
last  *'  parcel  '*  received  from  that  quarter ; 
though  in  1871  Sir  Henry  Barkly  pre- 
sented a  living  example  of  the  species  to 
the  Zoological  Society,  which  has  been 
seen,  no  doubt,  by  many  of  our  readers. 
A  still  more  striking  case  is  that  afforded 
by  the  Falkland  Islands,  which,  little 
more  than  one  hundred  years  ago,  excited 
so  deep  an  interest  in  this  country  that  a 
war  with  Spain  concerning  them  was  im- 
minent, and  the  majestic  pen  of  Samuel 
Johnson  was  employed  to  allay  the  fever- 
ish spirit  manifested  by  the  nation.    This 

*  The  determination,  and  consequently  the  nomeo- 
dature,  of  the  different  species  of  fur-seals  is  still  in  a 
very  unsettled  condition,  and  it  seems  quite  possiblo 
that  some  of  them  will  be  extirpated  before  the  labors 
of  naturalists  in  that  direction  be  ended. 

t  Mammalia,  Recent  and  Extinct.  Sydney:  1873. 
Preface,  p.  vii. 

%  Mr.  Bartlett,  the  well-known  superintendent  of  the 
Zoological  Society's  Gardens,  has  obliged  us  with  the 
sieht  of  a  catalogue  of  nine  hundred  and  twenty  such 
skins  which  were  sold  by  auction  in  Loudon  on  the  ist 
of  March,  1867. 


5»4 


THE   LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER   MARK. 


he  could  best  do  by  representiog  the  isl* 
ands  as  valueless.  England's  only  object 
in  holding  them,  he  wrote,  would  be  to 
establish  there  '*  a  station  for  contraband 
traders,  a  nursery  of  fraud,  and  a  recepta- 
cle of  theft."  It  was  nothing  to  him  that 
"  of  useless  animals,  such  as  sea-lions  and 
penguins,*'  which  somebody  had  called 
vermin,  **the  number  was  incredible."  If 
the  Parliamentary  opposition  of  those 
days  had  only  known  what  this  admission 
meant,  the  warlike  feeling  would  have 
been  incontrollable  I  But  when  we  call  to 
mind  the  cost  of  life,  suffering,  and  money, 
at  which  ship  after  ship -— man-of-war, 
letter-of-marque,  and  buccaneer  —  was  im- 
pelled round  Cape  Horn  to  plunder  the 
Spanish  possessions  in  the  Pacific  and 
return  with  its  scanty  crew  of  scurvy- 
stricken  survivors,  we  cannot  help  regret- 
ting what  might  have  been  effected  with 
halt  the  energy  and  none  of  the  blood- 
shed —  human,  at  least  —  by  a  settlement 
in  the  Malouines,  and  a  properlv  conduct- 
ed system  of  taking  the  seals.  What 
their  present  state  is  —  if  we  may  be  per- 
mitted to  use  the  present  tense  in  speak- 
ing of  1868,  the  date  of  our  latest  infor- 
mation—  may  be  judged  from  the  fact 
that,  when  in  that  year  the  old  Frenchman, 
Lecomte,  whom  many  of  our  readers  will 
remember  as  the  "  keeper  of  the  seals  "  in 
the  Zoological  Gardens,  was  sent  thither, 
the  fur-seals  had  dwindled  to  some  hun- 
dred or  hundred  and  fifty,  which  owed 
their  safety  to  their  taking  refuge  on  some 
rocks  which  the  violence  of  the  surf  ren- 
ders inaccessible  to  man.*  The  Falkland 
Islands  are  stated  to  have  an  extent  of 
four  thousand  seven  hundred  and  forty 
square  miles,  their  population  a  year  or 
two  ago  is  said  to  have  been  one  thousand 
five  hundred  and  forty-three,  and  the 
amount  of  their  public  revenue  5,519/. 
What  a  contrast  between  these  figures 
and  the  51,000/.  or  thereabouts  paid  yearly 
in  rent  and  taxes  alone  by  the  Alaska 
Company  to  the  United  States  as  the 
products  of  the  two  tiny  islets  in  Bering's 
Sea,  inhabited  by  three  hundred  and 
ninety  human  beings  —  which  sum,  and 
much  more  than  we  can  estimate  besides, 
is  derived  from  the  fur-seals  of  com- 
merce I 

It  is  not  for  us  to  say  where  the  fault 
lies.  That  we  have  been  euilty  of  short- 
sighted folly  none  can  doubt,  and  few  can 
doubt  that  this  short-sighted  folly  still 
continues  —  not   only  in    the    Southern 

*  Proceedinss  o(  the  Zoological  Society  of  London 
for  i86S«  page  s'S- 


Ocean,  but  even  on  the  ice-floes  of  the 
North  Atlantic  in  the  case  of  the  hair- 
seals.  When  will  men  profit  by  the  old 
fable  of  the  goose  and  the  golden  eggs  ? 


From  The  English  lUttstrated  Magazine. 
THE  LITTLE  SCHOOLMASTER  MARK. 

A  SPtUTUAL  ROMANCB. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "JOHN  INGLESANT." 

I. 

The  court  chaplain  Eisenhart  walked 
up  the  village  street  towards  the  school- 
house.  It  was  April,  in  the  year  1750, 
and  a  soft  west  wind  was  blowing  up  the 
street,  across  the  oak  woods  of  the  near 
forest.  Between  the  forest  and  the  village 
lay  a  valley  of  meadows,  planted  with 
thorn-bushes  and  old  birch-trees  with 
snow-white  stems :  the  fresh  green  leaves 
trembled  continually  in  the  restless  wind. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  street  a  lofty 
crag  rose  precipitously  above  a  rushing^ 
mountain  torrent.  This  rock  is  the  spur 
of  other  lofty  hills,  planted  with  oak  and 
beech  trees,  through  the  openings  of 
which  a  boy  may  frequently  be  seen,  driv- 
ing an  ox  or  gathering  firewood  on  his 
half-trodden  path.  Here  and  there  in  the 
distance  the  smoke  of  charcoal-burners 
ascends  into  the  sky.  Between  the  street 
and  the  torrent  stand  the  houses  of  the 
village,  with  high-thatched  roofs  and 
walls  of  timber  and  of  mud,  and,  at  the 
back,  projecting  stages  and  steps  above 
the  rushing  water.  A  paradise  in  the  late 
spring,  in  summer,  and  in  autumn,  these 
wild  and  romantic  woods,  traversed  only 
by  a  few  forest  paths,  are  terrible  in  win- 
ter, and  the  contrast  is  part  of  their  charm. 
The  schoolhouse  stands  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  village,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street  to  the  rest  of  the  houses,  looking 
across  the  valley  to  the  western  sun. 
Two  large  birch-trees  are  before  the  open 
door.  The  court  chaplain  pauses  before 
he  goes  in. 

How  it  comes  to  pass  that  a  court  chap- 
lain should  be  walking  up  the  street  of 
this  forest  village  we  shall  see  anon. 

At  first  sight  there  does  not  seem  to  be 
much  school  work  going  on.  A  boy,  or 
we  should  rather  say  a  child,  of  fifteen  is 
seated  at  an  open  window,  looking  over 
the  forest.  He  is  fair-haired  and  blue- 
eyed  ;  but  it  is  the  deep  blue  of  an  angel's, 
not  the  cold,  gray  blue  of  a  courtier's 
eyes.  Around  him  are  seated  several 
children,  both  boys  and  girls;  and,  far 


THE   LITTLE  SCHOOLMASTER  MARK. 


S^S 


from  teaching,  he  appears  to  be  relating 
stories  to  them.  The  story,  whatever  it 
is,  ceases  as  the  court  chaplain  goes  in, 
and  both  raconteur  and  audience  rise. 

'*  I  have  something  to  say  to  thee, 
schoolmaster,"  said  the  chaplain;  "send 
the  children  away.  Thou  wilt  not  teach 
them  anything  more  to-day,  I  suspect." 

The  children  went  away  lingeringly,  not 
at  all  like  children  just  let  loose  from 
school. 

When  they  were  gone  the  expression 
of  the  chaplain's  face  changed  —  he 
looked  at  the  little  schoolmaster  very 
kindiv,  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the  bench- 
es,  which  were  black  and  worn  with  age. 

**Last  year,  little  one,"  he  said,  **when 
the  Herr  Rector  took  thee  away  from  the 
Latin  school  and  from  thy  father's  tailor- 
ing, and  confirmed  thee,  and  thou  tookest 
thv  first  communion,  and  he  made  thee 
scnoolmaster  here,  many  wise  people 
shook  their  heads.  I  do  not  think,"  he 
continued,  with  a  smile,  "  that  they  have 
ceased  shaking  them  when  they  have  seen 
in  how  strange  a  manner  thou  keepest 
school." 

"Ah,  your  Reverence,"  said  the  boy 
eagerly,  "the  good  people  are  satisfied 
enough  when  they  see  that  their  children 
learn  without  receiving  much  correction; 
and  many  of  them  even  take  pleasure  in 
the  beautiful  tales  which  I  relate  to  the 
children,  and  which  they  repeat  to  them. 
Every  morning,  as  soon  as  the  children 
enter  the  school,  1  pray  with  them,  and 
catechise  them  in  the  principles  of  our 
holy  religion,  as  God  teaches  me,  for  I  use 
DO  book.  Then  I  set  the  children  to  read 
and  to  write,  and  promise  them  these 
charming  tales  if  they  learo  welL  It  is 
impossible  to  express  with  what  zeal  the 
children  learn.  When  they  are  perverse 
or  not  diligent  I  do  not  relate  my  histories, 
but  I  read  to  myself." 

"Well,  little  one,"  said  the  court  chap- 
lain, **  it  is  a  strange  system  of  education, 
but  I  am  far  from  saying  that  it  is  a  bad 
one.  Nevertheless  it  will  not  last.  The 
Herr  Rector  has  his  eye  upon  thee,  and 
will  send  thee  back  to  thy  tailoring  very 
soon." 

The  tears  came  into  the  little  school- 
master's eyes,  and  he  turned  very  pale. 

"  Well,  do  not  be  sad, "  said  the  chap- 
lain. "  I  have  been  thinking  and  working 
for  thee.  Thou  hast  heard  of  the  prince, 
though  thou  hast,  1  think,  never  seen  the 
pleasure-palace,  Joyeuse,  though  it  is  so^ 
near." 

"  I  have  seen  the  iron  gates  with  the 
golden  scrolls,"  said  the  boy.    "  They  are 


like  the  heavenly  Jerusalem;  every  sev- 
eral gate  is  one  pearl." 

The  chaplain  did  not  notice  the  coQ- 
fused  metaphor  of  this  description. 

"  Well,"  he. said,  "  I  have  been  speak- 
ing to  the  prince  of  thee.  Thou  knowest 
nothing  of  these  things,  but  the  prince 
has  lived  for  many  years  in  Italy,  a  coun- 
try where  they  do  nothing  but  sing  and 
dance.  He  has  come  back,  as  thou  know- 
est, and  has  married  a  wife,  according  to 
the  traditions  of  his  race.  Since  he  came 
back  to  Germany  he  has  taken  a  fancy  to 
this  forest  lodge,  for  at  first  it  was  little 
more,  and  has  garnished  it  and  enlarged 
it  according  to  bis  southern  fancies ;  that 
is  why  he  likes  it  better  than  his  princely 
cities.  He  has  two  children  —  a  boy  and 
a  girl — eight  or  nine,  or  thereabouts. 
The  princess  is  not  a  good  woman.  She 
neglects  her  children,  and  she  prefers  the 
princely  cities  to  her  husband,  to  her  little 
ones,  and  to  the  beautiful  forests  and 
hills." 

The  little  schoolmaster  listened  with 
open  eyes.  Then  be  said,  beneath  his 
breath, — 

"  How  Satanic  that  roust  be ! " 

"  The  prince,"  continued  the  court  chap- 
lain, "  is  a  beautiful  soul  manqu^,  which 
means  spoilt.  His  sister,  the  princess 
Isoline  von  Isenberg-Wertheim,  is  such 
a  soul.  She  has  joined  herself  to  a  com- 
pany of  pious  people  who  have  taken  aa 
old  manor-house  belonging  to  the  prince 
on  the  farther  side  of  the  palace  gar- 
dens, where  they  devote  themselves  to 
prayer,  to  good  works,  and  to  the  manu- 
facture of  half-silk  stuffs,  by  which  they 
maintain  themselves  and  give  to  the  poor. 
The  prince  himself  knows  something  of 
such  feelings.  He  indeed  knows  the  way 
of  piety,  though  he  does  not  follow  it. 
He  acknowledges  the  grace  of  refinement 
which  piety  gives,  even  to  the  most  high- 
ly-bred. He  is  particularly  desirous  that 
his  children  should  possess  this  supreme 
touch.  Something  that  I  told  him  of  thee 
pleased  his  fancy.  Thy  strange  way  of 
keeping  school  seemed  to  him  very  new; 
more  especially  was  he  delighted  with 
that  infancy  story  of  thee  and  old  Father 
Stalher.  The  old  man,  I  told  the  prince, 
came  in  to  thy  father's  for  his  new  coat 
and  found  thee  reading.  Reading,  in  any 
one,  seemed  to  Father  Stalher  little  short 
of  miraculous ;  but  in  a  child  of  eight  it 
was  more  —  it  was  elfish. 

"*What  are  you  doing  there,  child?* 
said  Father  Stalher. 

"  *  I  am  reading.' 

"  *  Canst  thou  read  already  ? ' 


THE   LITTLE  SCHOOLMASTER   MARK. 


S*6 

« 

***That  is  a  foolish  question,  for  I  am 
a  human  being,'  said  the  child,  and  began 
to  read  with  ease,  proper  emphasis,  and 
due  distinction. 

**Stalher  was  amazed,  and  said,  — 

"  ♦  The  devil  fetch  me,  I  have  never  seen 
the  like  in  all  my  life.' 

'*Then  little  Mark  jumped  up  and 
looked  timidly  and  carefully  round  the 
room.  When  he  saw  that  the  devil  did 
not  come,  he  went  down  on  his  knees  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor  and  said, — 

"  *  O  God !  how  gracious  art  thou.' 

*'Then,  standing  up  boldly  before  old 
Stalher,  he  said,  — 

*'  *  Man,  hast  thou  ever  seen  Satan  ? ' 

« •  No.' 

"*  Then  call  upon  him  no  more.' 

**And  the  child  went  quietly  into  an- 
other room. 

«•  And  I  told  the  prince  what  thy  old 
grandfather  used  to  say  to  me. 

**  *  The  lad  is  soaring  away  from  us ;  we 
inust  pray  that  God  will  guide  him  by  his 
good  spirit.' 

'« When  I  told  all  this  to  the  prince,  he 
said,  — 

*<  *  I  will  have  this  boy.  He  shall  teach 
my  children  as  he  does  the  village  ones. 
None  can  teach  children  as  can  such  a 
child  as  this.' " 

The  little  schoolmaster  had  been  look- 
ing before  him  all  the  time  the  chaplain 
had  been  speaking,  as  though  in  some- 
thing of  a  maze.  He  evidently  saw  noth- 
ing to  wonder  at  in  the  story  of  himself 
and  old  Stalher.  It  seemed  to  him  com- 
monplace and  obvious  enough. 

**  1  shall  send  up  a  tailor  from  Joyeuse 
to-morrow,"  said  the  chaplain;  **a  court 
tailor,  such  as  thou  never  sawest,  nor  thy 
father  either.  He  must  measure  thee  for 
a  court  suit  of  black.  Then  we  will  go 
together,  and  1  will  present  thee  to  the 
prince." 

IL 

A  FEW  days  after  this  conversation 
there  was  a  melancholy  procession  down 
the  village  street.  The  court  chaplain 
and  the  schoolmaster  walked  first ;  the 
boy  was  crying  bitterly.  Then  iollow*ed 
all  the  children  of  the  school,  all  weeping, 
and  many  peasant  women,  and  two  or 
three  old  men.  The  rector  stood  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  churchyard  under  a  great  wal- 
nut-tree and  looked  on.  He  did  not  weep. 
The  court  chaplain  looked  ashamed,  for 
all  the  people  took  this  misfortune  to  be 
of  his  causing. 

When  they  had  gone  some  way  out  of 
the  village,  the  children  stopped,  and,  col- 


lecting into  a  little  crowd,  they  wept  more 
than  ever.  The  chaplain  turned  round 
and  waved  his  hand,  but  the  little  school- 
master was  too  troubled  to  take  any  fare- 
well. He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  went  on  weeping  bitterly.  At  last 
thev  passed  away  out  of  sight. 

When  they  had  gone  on  some  distance, 
the  boy  became  calmer;  he  took  his  hands 
from  his  face,  and  looked  up  at  the  chap- 
lain through  his  tears. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  when  I  come  to  the 
prince,  your  Reverence?"  he  said. 

**Thou  must  make  a  bow  as  best  thou 
canst,"  said  the  other;  "thou  must  not 
speak  till  the  prince  speaks  to  thee,  and 
thou  must  say  *  Highness '  sometimes,  but 
not  too  often." 

**  How  am  I  to  tell  when  to  say  *  High- 
ness '  and  when  to  forbear  ?  "  said  the  boy. 

**  Ah !  that  I  cannot  tell  thee.  Thou 
must  trust  in  God;  he  will  show  thee 
when  to  say  *  Highness '  and  when  not." 

They  went  forward  in  this  way  across 
the  meadows,  and  through  the  scattered 
forest  for  two  leagues  or  more,  in  the 
midday  heat.  The  boy  was  not  used  to 
labor,  and  he  grew  very  tired  and  unhappy. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  leaving  be- 
hind all  that  was  fair  and  true  and  beauti- 
ful, and  going  to  that  which  was  false  and 
garish  and  unkind.  At  last  they  came  to 
an  open  drive,  or  avenue  of  the  forest, 
where  great  oaks  were  growing.  Some 
distance  up  the  avenue  they  saw  a  high 
park  pale  stretching  away  on  either  hand, 
and  in  the  centre  of  the  drive  were  iron 
gates  covered  with  gilt  scrolls  and  letters. 
The  court  chaplain  pushed  the  gates  open, 
and  they  went  in. 

Inside,  the  forest  drive  was  planted 
with  young  trees  in  triple  rows.  After 
walking  for  some  distance  they  reached 
another  gate,  similar  to  the  first,  but  pro- 
vided with  loges^  or  guardrooms  on  either 
side.  One  or  two  soldiers  were  standing 
listlessly  about,  but  they  took  no  heed. 
Here  the  drive  entered  the  palace  gar- 
dens, laid  out  in  grass-plots  and  stone 
terraces,  and  crossed  by  lofty  hedges 
which  shut  out  the  view.  They  approached 
the  long  facade  of  a  house  with  pointed 
roofs  and  green  shutter  blinds  to  all  the 
windows.  Here  the  chaplain  left  the 
path,  and  conducted  his  companion  to  a 
remote  side  entrance ;  and,  after  passing 
through  many  passages  and  small  rooms, 
at  last  left  him  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
the  court  tailor  and  some  domestics,  at 
whose  hands  the  little  schoolmaster  suf* 
fered  what  appeared  to  him  to  be  unspeak- 
able indignities.    He  was  washed  from 


THE    LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER   MARK. 


S^f 


head  to  foot,  his  hair  was  cut,  curled,  and 
frizzled,  and  he  was  finally  arrayed  io  a 
plain  suit  of  black  silk ;  with  silk  stock- 
ings and  delicate  shoes ;  with  silver  buck- 
les and  plain  linen  bands  like  a  clerfryman. 
The  worn  homespun  suit  that  had  become 
dear  to  him  was  ruthlessly  thrown  upon  a 
dust-heap,  and  a  messenger  was  sent  to 
Herr  Chaplain  that  his  protigi  was  now 
fit  to  be  presented  to  the  prince. 

The  boy  could  scarcely  restrain  his 
tears ;  he  felt  as  though  he  were  wander- 
ing through  the  paths  of  a  miserable 
dream.  Ah  !  could  he  only  awake  and 
find  himself  again  in  the  old  schoolhouse, 
narrating  the  adventures  of  the  Fair  Me- 
lusina  to  the  attentive  little  ones. 

The  chaplain  led  him  up  some  back 
stairs,  and  through  corridors  and  ante- 
rooms, all  full  of  wonderful  things,  which 
the  boy  passed  bewildered,  till  they 
reached  a  small  room  where  were  two 
boys  apparently  of  his  own  age.  They 
appeared  to  have  been  just  eno^aged  in 
punching  each  other's  heads.  For  their 
bair  was  disordered,  their  faces  red,  and 
one  was  in  tears.  They  regarded  the 
chaplain  with  a  sullen  suspicion,  and  the 
schoolmaster  with  undisguised  contempt. 
The  door  at  the  farther  side  of  the  room 
Tiras  partly  open,  the  chaplain  scratched 
upon  it,  and  receiving  some  answer,  they 
vent  in. 

The  little  schoolmaster  dared  scarcely 
breathe  when  he  got  into  the  room,  so 
surprising  was  all  he  saw.  To  the  left  of 
the  door,  as  they  came  in,  was  placed  a 
harpsichord,  before  which  was  standing 
with  her  back  towards  them,  a  young 
girl  whose  face  they  could  not  see ;  by 
her  side,  at  the  harpsichord,  was  seated 
an  elderly  man  upon  whom  the  boy  gazed 
With  wonder,  so  different  was  he  from 
anything  that  he  had  ever  seen  before  ; 
Opposite  to  them,  in  the  window,  hung  a 
canary  in  a  cage,  and  the  boy  perceived, 
even  in  the  surprise  of  the  moment,  that 
the  bird  was  agitated  and  troubled.  But 
the  next  moment  all  his  attention  was  ab- 
sorbed by  the  figure  of  the  prince,  who 
was  seated  on  a  couch  to  the  right  of  the 
room,  and  almost  facing  them.  To  say 
that  this  was  the  most  wonderful  sight 
that  the  little  schoolmaster  had  ever  seen 
would  be  to  speak  foolishly,  for  he  had 
seen  no  wonderful  sights,  but  it  surpassed 
the  wildest  imagination  of  his  dreams. 
The  prince  was  a  very  handsome  man  of 
about  thirty-five,  of  a  slight  and  delicate 
figure,  and  of  foreign  manners  and  pose. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  what  seemed 
to  the  boy  a  wonderful  white  cloth,  of  a 


soft  material,  embroidered  in  silk,  with 
flowers  of  tne  most  lovely  tints.  The 
coat  was  sparingly  ornamented  in  this 
manner,  but  the  waistcoat,  which  was  only 
partly  seen,  was  a  mass  of  these  exquisite 
flowers.  At  his  throat  and  wrists  were 
masses  of  costly  lace,  and  his  hair  was 
frizzled,  and  slightly  powdered,  which  in- 
creased the  delicate  expression  of  his 
features,  which  were  perfectly  cut.  He 
lay  back  on  the  couch,  caressing  with  his 
right  hand  a  small  monkey,  also  gor- 
geously dressed,  and  armed  with  a  toy 
sword,  who  sat  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa 
cracking  nuts,  and  throwing  the  shells 
upon  the  carpet. 

The  prince  looked  up  as  the  two  came 
in,  and  waved  his  disengaged  hand  for 
them  to  stand  back,  and  the  next  moment 
the  strange  phantasmagoria,  into  which 
the  boy's  life  was  turned,  took  another 
phase,  and  he  again  lost  all  perception  of 
what  he  had  seen  before ;  for  there  burst 
into  the  little  room  the  most  wonderful 
voice,  which  not  only  he  and  the  chaplain, 
but  even  the  maestro  and  the  prince,  had 
well-nigh  ever  heard. 

The  girl,  who  was  taking  her  music 
lesson,  had  been  discovered  in  Italy  by  the 
old  maestro,  who  managed  the  music  of 
the  private  theatre  which  the  prince  had 
formed.  He  had  heard  *her,  a  poor,  un- 
taught girl,  in  a  coffee-house  in  Venice, 
and  she  afterwards  became,  in  the  opinion 
of  some,  the  most  pathetic  female  actress 
and  singer  of  the  century. 

The  first  chord  of  her  voice  penetrated 
into  the  boy's  nature  as  nothing  had  ever 
done  before ;  he  had  never  heard  any 
singing  save  that  of  the  peasants  at  church, 
and  of  the  boys  and  girls  who  sang  hymns 
round  the  cottage  hearths  in  the  winter 
nights. 

The  solemn  tramp  of  the  Lutheran 
measures,  where  the  deep  basses  of  the 
men  drown  the  soft  women's  voices,  and 
the  shrill,  unshaded  singing  of  the  chil- 
dren could  hardly  belong  to  this  art,  which 
he  heard  now  for  the  first  time.  These 
sudden  runs  and  trills,  so  fantastic  and 
difficult,  these  chords  and  harmonies,  so 
quaint  and  full  of  color,  were  messages 
from  a  world  of  sound,  as  yet  an  unknown 
country  to  the  boy.  He  stood  gazing 
upon  the  singer  with  open  mouth.  The 
prince  moved  his  jewelled  hand  slightly 
in  unison  with  the  notes;  the  monkey,  ap- 
parently rather  scared,  left  off  cracking  his 
nuts,  and,  creeping  close  to  his  master, 
nestled  against  his  beautiful  coat  close  to 
the  star  upon  his  breast. 

Then  suddenly,  in  this  world  of  wonders, 


THE   LITTLE  SCHOOLMASTER  MARK. 


Sa8 

a  still  more  wonderful  thing  occurred. 
There  entered  into  this  bewitching,  this 
entrancing  voice,  a  strange,  almost  a  dis- 
cordant, note.  Through  the  fantasied 
gaiety  of  the  theme,  to  which  the  sus- 
tained whirr  of  the  harpsichord  was  like 
the  sigh  of  the  wind  through  the  long 
grass,  there  was  perceptible  a  strain,  a 
tremor  of  sadness,  almost  of  sobs.  It 
was  as  if,  in  the  midst  of  festival,  some 
hidden  grief,  known  before  time  of  all, 
but  forgotten  or  suppressed,  should  at 
once  and  in  a  moment  well  up  in  the 
hearts  of  all,  turning  the  dance-measures 
into  funeral  chants,  the  love-songs  into 
the  loveliest  of  chorales.  The  maestro 
faltered  in  his  accompaniment ;  the  prince 
left  off  marking  the  time,  he  swept  the 
monkey  from  him  with  a  movement  of  his 
band,  and  leaned  forward  eagerlv  in  his 
seat:  the  discarded  favorite  slunk  into  a 
corner,  where  it  leaned  disconsolately 
against  the  wall.  The  pathetic  strain 
went  on,  growing  more  tremulous  and 
more  intense,  when  suddenly  the  singing 
stopped,  the  girl  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  sank  upon  the  floor  in  a  pas- 
sion of  tears ;  the  boy  sprang  forward,  he 
forgot  where  he  was,  he  forgot  the  prince, 

"  It  is  the  bird,"  he  cried ;  "  the  bird ! " 

The  canary,  whose  dying  struggles  the 
singer  had  been  watching  through  her 
song,  gave  a  final  shudder  and  fell  lifeless 
from  its  perch. 

The  prince  rose:  he  lifted  the  singer 
from  her  knees,  and  taking  her  hands 
from  the  wet  face,  he  turned  to  the  others 
with  a  smile. 

"Ah,  Herr  Chaplain,"  he  said,  "you 
come  in  a  good  hour.  This  then  is  the 
aneel-child.  They  will  console  each  other." 

And,  patting  the  monkey  as  he  passed, 
he  left  the  room  by  another  door. 

III. 

When  the  prince  was  gone  the  maestro 
gathered  up  some  music  and  turned  to  his 
pupil,  who  was  drying  her  eyes  and  look- 
ing somewhat  curiously  at  the  boy  through 
her  tears. 

"Well,  signorina,"  he  said,  "you  truly 
sang  that  very  well.  If  you  could  bring 
some  of  that  timbre  into  your  voice  al- 
ways, you  would  indeed  be  a  singer.  But 
you  are  too  light,  ioofrivoU.  I  wish  we 
could  have  a  canary  always  who  would 
die;"  and,  bowing  very  slightly  to  the 
chaplain,  he  left  the  room. 

Then  the  chaplain  looked  kindly  at  the 
young  people. 

"  Fraulein,"  he  said,  ".tnis  is  the  young 
tutor  to  the  little  Sere;ie  Highnesses,  I 


will  leave  you   together,  as  the  prince 
wished." 

When  they  were  alone  the  boy  felt  very 
uncomfortable.  He  was  very  sny.  This 
perhaps  was  as  well,  for  there  was  no  shy- 
ness at  all  on  the  part  of  his  companion. 

"So,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  a 
smile,  and  eyes  that  were  again  bright, 
"  you  are  the  new  toy.  I  have  heard  of 
you.  You  are  a  wonderful  holy  child; 
what  they  call  '  pious '  in  this  country. 
How  very  funny  I  come  and  give  me  a 
kiss." 

"  No,  Fraulein,"  said  Mark,  blushing 
still  more,  "that  would  be  improper  ia 
me." 

"Would  it?"  said  the  girl  lightly; 
"don't  angels  kiss?  How  very  stupid  it 
must  be  to  be  an  angel  I  Come  and  look 
at  poor  Fifine  tbenl  I  suppose  she  is 
quite  dead." 

And  opening  the  cage,  she  took  oat  the 
piteous  heap  of  yellow  feathers  and  held 
it  in  her  delicate  hand,  while  the  tears 
came  again  into  her  large  dark  eyes. 

"Ah  I  it  was  dreadful,"  she  said,  "  to 
sing  and  see  him  die." 

"But,  Fraulein,"  said  the  boy,  ««yoa 
sang  most  beautifully.  I  never  beard 
anything  so  wonderful.  It  was  heaven 
itself." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  very  kindly. 

"Oh,  you  like  my  singing,"  she  said, 
"  I  am  glad  of  that.  Do  you  know,  we 
shall  be  great  friends.  I  like  you.  Yoa 
are  a  very  pretty  boy." 

And  she  tried  to  put  her  arm  round  his 
neck.  Mark  eluded  her  embrace.  "  Frau- 
lein," he  said  with  a  dignified  air,  which 
made  his  companion  laugh,  "you  must 
remember  that  I  am  tutor  to  their  Serene 
Highnesses ;  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  be 
friends  with  you,  and  you  will  tell  me 
something  about  the  people  in  the  palace.'* 

"  Oh  I  "^  replied  the  girl,  "  there  is  no 
one  but  our  own  company ;  but  they  are 
the  greatest  fun,  and  better  fun  here  than 
anywhere  else.  It  is  delightful  to  see 
them  amon^  these  stupid,  solemn,  heavy 
Germans,  with  their  terrible  language.  I 
shall  love  to  see  you  with  them,  you  will 
stare  your  pretty  eyes  out.  There's  old 
Carricchio  —  that's  not  his  name,  you 
know,  but  he  is  called  so  because  of  his 
part  —  that  is  the  best  of  them,  they  are 
always  the  same  —  ofiE  the  stage  or  on  it 
—  always  laughing,  always  joking,  alwavs 
kicking  up  their  heels.  You  will  see  the 
faces  —  such  delicious  grimaces  — old 
Carricchio  will  make  at  you  when  he  asks 
you  for  the  salt.  But  don't  be  frightened, 
rU  take  care  of  you.    They  are  all  in  love 


THE   LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER  MARK, 


5*9 


<t 


it 


with  me,  but  I  like  you  already  better  than 
all  of  them.  You  shall  come  on  yourself 
some  time,  just  as  you  are ;  you  will  make 
a  delightful  part." 

Mark  stared  at  her  with  amazement. 

**  But  what  are  these  people  ?  "  be  said ; 
"  what  do  they  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  will  see,"  she  said  laughing ; 
•*  how  can  1  tell  you  ?  You  never  dreamt 
of  such  things;  you  will  stare  your  eyes 
out.  Well,  there's  the  prince,  and  the 
little  Highnesses,  and  the  old  Barotin^  the 
governess,  and"  —  here  a  change  came 
over  the  girl's  face  —  "and  the  princess 
is  coming  soon,  I  hear,  with  \itx  servente^^ 

••  The  princess  ! "  said  the  boy ;  "  does 
she  ever  come  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  comes  sometimes,"  said  his 
companion.  **  I  wish  she  didn't.  She  is 
a  bad  woman.    I  hate  her." 

Why.?  and  what  is  her  serventef^* 
I  hate  her,"  said  the  girl;  "her  ser- 
vente  is  the  count  —  cavaliere-servante^ 
you  know  "  —  and  her  face  became  quite 
nard  and  fierce  —  "he  is  the  devil  him- 
self." 

The  little  schoolmaster's  face  became 
quite  pale. 

"  The  devil !  "  he  said,  staring  with  his 
large  blue  eyes. 

"  Oh,  you  foolish  boy  !  "  she  said  laugh- 
ing again,  "  I  don't  mean  that  devil.  The 
count  is  a  much  more  real  devil  than 
he!" 

The  boy  looked  so  dreadfully  shocked 
that  she  grew  quite  cheerful  again. 

"  What  a  strange  boy  you  are  ! "  she 
said  laughing.  "  Do  you  think  he  will 
come  and  take  you  away?  1*11  take  care 
of  you  —  come  and  sit  on  my  lap; "and, 
sitting  down,  she  spread  out  her  lap  for 
him  with  an  inviting  gesture. 

Mark  rejected  this  attractive  offer  with 
disdain,  and  looked  so  unspeakably  mis- 
erable and  ready  to  cry  that  his  companion 
took  pity  upon  him. 

"Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "you  shan't  be 
teased  any  more.  Come  with  me,  I  will 
take  you  to  the  Barotin^  and  present  you 
to  the  little  Serene  Highnesses.  They 
are  nice  children  —  for  Highnesses;  you 
will  get  on  well  with  them." 

Taking  the  boy's  unwilling  hand,  she 
led  him  through  several  rooms,  lined  with 
old  marqueterie  cabinets  in  the  Italian 
fashion,  till  she  found  a  page,  to,  whom 
she  delivered  Mark,  telling  him  to  take 
him  to  the  baroness,  into  whose  presence 
she  herself  did  not  appear  anxious  to 
intrude,  that  he  might  be  presented  to  his 
future  pupils. 

The  page  promised  to  obey,  and,  giving 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2270 


him  a  box  on  the  ear  to  ensure  attention, 
a  familiarity  which  he  took  with  the  most 
cheerful  and  forgiving  air,  she  left  the 
room. 

The  moment  she  was  gone  the  page 
made  a  rush  at  Mark,  and  seizing  him 
round  the  waist,  lifted  him  from  the  ground 
and  ran  with  him  through  two  or  three 
rooms,  till  he  reached  a  door,  where  he 
deposited  him  upon  his  feet.  Then  throw- 
ing open  the  door,  he  announced  sudden- 
ly, "The  Herr  Tutor  to  the  Serene  High- 
nesses!" and  shut  .Mark  into  the  room. 

His  breath  taken  away  by  this  atrocious 
attack  upon  his  person  and  dignity,  Mark 
saw  before  him  a  stately,  but  not  unkindly- 
looking  lady  and  two  beautiful  children,  a 
boy  and  girl,  of  about  eight  and  nine  years 
of  age.  The  lady  rose,  and  looking  at 
Mark  with  some  curiosity,  as  well  she 
might,  said, — 

"Your  Serene  Highnesses,  this  is  the 
tutor  whom  the  prince,  your  father,  has 
provided  for  you.  You  will  no  doubt 
profit  greatly  by  his  instructions." 

The  little  girl  came  forward  at  once, 
and  gave  Mark  her  hand,  which,  not  know- 
ing what  to  do  with,  he  held  for  a  moment 
aad  then  dropped. 

"  My  papa  has  spoken  of  you,"  she 
said.  "  He  has  told  me  that  you  are  very 
good." 

"  I  shall  try  to  be  good,  princess,"  said 
Mark,  who  by  this  time  had  recovered  his 
breath. 

The  little  girl  seemed  very  much  in- 
sulted. She  drew  herself  up  and  flushed 
all  over  her  face. 

"  You  must  not  say  princess  to  me," 
she  said,  "that  is  what  only  the  little 
princes  say.  You  must  say,  *  my  most 
gracious  and  Serene  Highness,'  whenever 
you  speak  to  me." 

This  was  too  much.  Mark  blushed 
with  anger. 

"  May  God  forgive  me,"  he  said,  "if  I 
do  anything  so  foolish.  I  am  here  to 
teach  thee  and  thy  brother,  and  I  will  do 
it  in  my  own  way,  or  not  at  all." 

The  little  princess  looked  as  if  she  were 
about  to  cry,  then,  apparently  thinking 
better  of  it,  she  said,  with  a  half  sob,  and 
dropping  the  stately  "you,"  — 

"Well,  my  papa  says  that  thou  art  an 
angel.  I  suppose  thou  must  do  as  thou 
wilt." 

The  little  boy,  meanwhile,  had  been 
staring  at  Mark  with  solemn  eyes.  He 
said  nothing,  but  he  came,  finally,  to  the 
little  schoolmaster  and  put  his  hand  in 
his. 

What  more  might  have  been  said  can* 


S30 


THE    LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER   MARK. 


not  be  told,  for  at  this  moment  the  paa;e 
appeared  again,  sayin<r  that  dinner  was 
served  at  the  third  table,  and  that  the 
Herr  Tutor  was  to  dine  there. 

The  baroness  seemed  surprised  at  this. 

"  I  should  have  supposed,"  she  said, 
'*that  he  would  have  dined  with  the  chap- 
lain at  the  second  table.*' 

•*  No,"  asserted  the  page  boldly,  "  the 
prince  has  ordered  it." 

When  alone,  the  prince  seldom  dined 
ostensibly  in  public;  but  often  appeared 
masqued  at  the  third  table,  which  was 
that  of  the  actors  and  singers.  He  had 
given  no  orders  at  all  about  Mark.  The 
arrangement  was  entirely  of  the  signori- 
na*s  making,  who  desired  that  he  should, 
dine  with  her.  It  was  a  bold  stroke ;  and 
an  hour  afterwards,  when  the  court  chap- 
lain discovered  it,  measures  were  taken  to 
psevent  its  recurrence  —  at  least  for  a 
time. 

In  whatever  way  this  arrangement  came 
to  be  made,  however,  the  result  was  very 
advantageous  to  Mark.  In  the  first  place, 
it  was  not  formidable.  Thecompany  took 
little  notice  of  him.  Signor  Carricchio 
made  grotesque  faces  at  others,  but  not 
at  him.  He  sat  q^uite  safe  and  snug  by 
the  signorina,  and  certainly  stared  with 
all  his  eyes,  as  she  had  said.  The  long, 
dark,  aquiline  features  of  the  men,  the 
mobile  play  of  humorous  farce  upon  their 
faces,  the  constant  chatter  and  sport  — 
what  could  the  German  peasant  boy  do 
but  stare?  His  friend  taught  him  how 
to  hold  his  knife  and  fork,  and  how  to 
eat.  The  Italians  were  very  nice  in  their 
eating,  and  the  boy  picked  up  more  in  five 
minutes  from  the  signorina  —  he  was  very 
quick  —  than  he  would  have  done  in  weeks 
from  the  chaplain. 

He  was  so  scared  and  frightened,  and 
the  girl  was  so  kind  to  him,  that  his  boy's 
heart  went  out  to  her. 

"  What  shall  I  call  you,  signorina?"  he 
«aid,  as  dinner  was  over.  **You  are  so 
good  to  me."  He  had  already  caught  the 
Italian  word. 

"  My  name  is  Faustina  Banti,"  she  said, 
looking  at  him  with  her  great  eyes ;  "  but 
you  may  call  me  Tina,  if  you  like.  I 
had  a  little  brother  once  who  called  me 
that.     He  died." 

"You  are  so  very  kind  to  me,  Tina," 
said  the  boy,  "1  am  sure  you  must  be 
very  good." 

She  looked  at  him  again,  smiling. 

IV. 

The  next  morning  early  Mark  was  sent 
for  to  the  prince.    He  was  ihowa  into 


the  dressing*room,  but  the  prince  was 
already  dressed.  He  was  seated  in  an 
easy-chair  reading  a  small,  closely  printed 
sheet  of  paper,  upon  which  the  word- 
fVt'eu  was  conspicuous  to  the  boy.  The 
prince  bade  the  little  schoolmaster  be 
seated  on  a  fauteuil  near  him,  and 
looked  so  kindly  that  he  felt  quite  at  his 
ease. 

••Well!  little  one,"  said  the  prince, 
"how  findest  thou  thyself?  Hast  thou 
found  any  friends  yet  in  this  place?" 

"The  signorina  has  been  very  kind  to 
me,  fiighness,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  prince,  smiling,  "thou 
hast  found  that  out  already.  That  is  not 
so  bad.  I  thought  you  two  would  be 
friends.  What  has  the  signorina  told 
thee?" 

"  She  has  told  me  of  the  actors  who  are 
so  clever  and  so  strange.  She  says  that 
they  are  all  in  love  with  her." 

"  That  is  not  unlikely.   And  what  else  ?  ^ 

"  She  has  told  me  of  the  princess  and 
of  her  servente." 

"Indeed!"  said  the  prince,  with  the 
slightest  possible  appearance  of  increased 
interest;  "what  does  she  say  of  the  prin* 
cess  ?  " 

"She  says  that  she  is  a  bad  woman, 
and  that  she  hates  her." 

"  Ah !  the  signorina  appears  to  have 
formed  opinions  of  her  own,  and  to  be 
able  to  express  them.    What  else  ?  " 

"  She  says  that  the  servente  is  the  devil 
himself !  But  she  does  not  mean  the  real 
devil. "  She  says  that  the  servente  is  a 
much  more  real  devil  than  he !  Is  not 
that  horrible.  Highness?" 

The  prince  looked  at  Mark  for  two  or 
three  moments,  with  a  kindly  but  strange, 
far-reaching  look,  which;^struck  the  boy, 
though  he  did  not  in  the  least  understand 
it. 

"  I  did  well,  little  one,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  when  I  sent  for  thee." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  prince  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  the  presence  of  the  boy, 
who  already  was  sufficiently  of  a  courtier 
to  hold  his  tongue. 

At  last  the  prince  spoke. 

"And  the  children,"  he  said;  "thou 
hast  seen  them?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mark,  with  a  little  shy 
smile,  "  I  did  badly  there.  I  insulted  the 
gracious  Fraulein  by  calling  her  prin- 
cess, which  she  said  only  the  little  princes 
should  do ;  and  I  told  her  I  was  come  to 
teach  her  and  her  little  brother,  and  that 
I  should  do  it  in  my  own  way  or  not  at 
all." 

The  prince  looked  as  though  he  feared 


THE    LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER   MARK. 


531 


ihat  this  unexpected  amusement  would 
be  almost  too  delightful. 

"  Well,  little  one,"  he  said,  "  thou  hast 
begun  well.  Better  than  this  none  could 
have  done.  Only  be  careful  that  thou  art 
not  spoilt.  Care  nothing  for  what  thou 
hearest  here.  Continue  to  hate  and  fear 
the  devil;  for,  whether  he  be  thy  own 
devil  or  the  servente,  he  is  more  powerful 
than  thou.  Say  nothing  but  what  he 
whom  thou  rightly  callest  God  teaches 
thee  to  say.  So  all  will  be  well.  Better 
teacher  than  thou  my  daughter  could  not 
have.  I  would  wish  her  to  be  pious, 
within  reason;  not  like  her  aunt,  that 
would  not  be  well.  I  should  wish  her  to 
care  for  the  poor.  Nothing  is  so  gracious 
in  noble  ladies  as  to  care  for  the  poor. 
When  they  cease  to  do  this  they  lose  tone 
at  once.  The  French  noblesse  have  done 
so.  I  should  like  her  to  visit  the  poor 
herself.  It  will  have  the  best  effect  upon 
her  nature;  much  belter,"  continued  the 
prince  with  a  half  smile,  and  seemingly 
speaking  to  himself,  "much  better  than 
on  the  poor  themselves.  But  what  will 
you  have?  —  some  one  must  suffer,  and 
the  final  touch  cannot  be  obtained  with- 
out.'' 

There  was  another  pause.  This  aspect 
of  the  necessary  suffering  the  poor  had 
to  undergo  was  so  new  to  Mark  that  he 
required  some  time  to  grasp  it.  The  vis- 
its of  noble  ladies  to  his  village  had  not 
been  so  frequent  as  to  cause  the  malign 
effects  to  be  deeply  felt. 

Acting  upon  this  advice  so  far  as  he 
understood  it,  Mark  pursued  the  same 
system  of  education  with  the  little  High- 
nesses as  he  had  followed  with  the  village 
children ;  that  is,  he  set  them  to  read 
fiuch  things  as  he  was  told  they  ought  to 
learn,  and  encouraged  them  to  do  so  by 
promising  to  relate  his  histories  and  tales 
if  they  were  good. 

It  is  surprising  how  much  the  same  hu- 
man nature  remains  after  generations  of 
different  breeding  and  culture.  It  is  true 
that  these  princely  children  had  heard 
many  tales  before,  perhaps  the  very  ones 
the  little  schoolmaster  now  related,  yet 
they  delighted  in  nothing  so  much  as 
hearing  them  again.  Much  of  this  pleas- 
ure, no  doubt,  was  due  to  the  intense  faith 
and  interest  in  them  shown  by  Mark  him- 
self. He  talked  to  them  also  much  about 
God  and  the  unseen  world  of  angels,  and 
of  the  wicked  one ;  and,  as  they  believed 
firmly  that  he  was  an  angel,  they  listened 
to  these  things  with  the  more  ready  belief. 
Indeed,  the  affection  which  the  little  boy 


formed  for  his  child  tutor  was  unusual. 
He  was  a  silent,  solemn  child ;  he  said 
nothing,  but  he  attached  himself  to  Mark 
with  a  persistent  devotion. 

Everyone  in  the  palace,  indeed,  took  to 
the  boy ;  the  pages  left  off  teasing  him ; 
the  signorina  petted  him  in  a  manner 
sufficient  to  deprive  her  numerous  lovers 
of  their  reason ;  the  servants  waited  on 
him  for  love  and  not  for  reward  ;  but  the 
strangest  thing  of  all  was,  that  in  propor- 
tion as  he  was  kindly  treated — just  as 
much  as  every  one  seemed  to  love  him  and 
delight  in  him  —  just  so  much  did  the  boy 
become  miserable  and  unhappy.  The 
kinder  these  people  were,  the  more  he 
felt  the  abyss  which  lay  between  his  soul 
and  theirs  —  earnestness  and  solemn  faith 
in  his,  sarcasm  and  lively  farce  and,  at 
the  most,  kindly  toleration  of  belief  in 
theirs. 

Had  they  ill-treated  or  wronged  him,  he 
would  not  have  felt  it  so  much  ;  but  kind- 
ness and  security  on  their  part  seemed  to 
intensify  the  sense  of  doubt  and  perplexity 
on  his. 

It  is  difficult  to  realize  the  effect  which 
sarcasm  and  irony  have  upon  such  natures 
as  his.  They  look  upon  life  with  such  a 
single  eye.  It  is  so  beautiful  and  solemn 
to  them.  Truth  is  so  true,  they  are  so 
much  in  earnest  that  they  cannot  under- 
stand the  complex  feeling  that  finds  relief 
in  sarcasm  and  allegory,  that  tolerates  the 
frivolous  and  the  vain,  as  an  ironic  read- 
ing of  the  lesson  of  life. 

The  actors  were  particularly  kind  to 
him,  though  their  grotesque  attempts  to 
amuse  him  mostly  added  to  his  misery. 
They  were  extremely  anxious  that  he 
should  appear  upon  the  stage,  and  indeed 
the  boy's  beauty  and  simplicity  would  have 
made  an  excellent  foil. 

"  Herr  Tutor,"  said  old  Carricchio  the 
arlecchino  to  him  one  day,  with  mock 
gravity,  "  we  are  about  to  perform  a  com- 
edy—  what  is  called  a  masqued  comedy, 
not  because  we  wear  masques,  for  we 
don't,  but  because  of  our  dresses.  *  It  con- 
sists of  music,  dancing,  love-making,  jok- 
ing, and  buffoonery ;  you  will  see  what  a 
triHe  it  is  all  about.  The  scene  is  in  the 
garden  of  a  country-house  —  during  what 
in  Italy  we  call  the  ville^^iatura^  that  is 
the  month  we  spend  in  the  country  during 
the  vintage.  A  lady's  fan  is  found  by  an 
ill-natured  person  in  a  curious  place;  all 
the  rest  agree  not  to  see  the  fan,  not  to 
acknowledge  that  it  is  a  fan.  It  is  all  left 
to  us  at  the  moment,  all  except  the  songs 
and  the  music,  and  you  know  how  deligiit- 
ful  those  are.    If  you  would  take  a  part. 


532 


THE   LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER  MARK, 


and  keep  your  own  character  throughout, 
it  would  be  magnificent;  but  we  will  wait, 
if  you  once  see  it  you  will  wish  to  act." 

No  one,  indeed,  was  kinder  to  Mark,  or 
seemed  more  to  delight  in  his  society  than 
the  old  arlecchino,  and  the  pair  made  a 
most  curious  sight,  seated  together  on  one 
of  the  terraces  on  a  sunny  afternoon. 
Nothing  could  be  more  diverse  in  appear- 
ance than  this  strangely  assorted  pair. 
Carricchio  was  tall,  with  long  limbs,  and 
large,  aquiline  features.  He  wore  a  set 
smile  upon  his  large,  expressive  mouth, 
which  seemed  born  of  no  sense  of  enjoy- 
ment, but  of  an  infinite  insight,  and  of  a 
mocking  friendliness.  He  seldom  wore 
anything  but  the  dress  of  his  part ;  but  he 
wrapped  himself  mostly  in  a  long  cloak, 
lined  with  fur,  for  even  the  northern  sun- 
shine seemed  chilly  to  the  old  clown. 
Wrapped  in  this  ancient  garment,  he 
would  sit  beside  Mark,  listening  to  the 
boy's  stories  with  his  deep,  unfathomed 
smile;  and  as  he  went  on  with  his  histo- 
ries, the  boy  used  to  look  into  his  com- 
panion's face,  wondering  at  the  slow 
smile,  and  at  the  deep  wrinkles  of  the  worn 
visage,  till  at  length,  fascinated  at  the 
sight,  he  forgot  his  stories,  and  looking 
into  the  old  man's  face  appeared  to  Mark, 
though  the  comparison  seems  preposter- 
ous, like  gazing  at  the  fated  story  of  the 
mystic  tracings  of  the  star-lit  skies. 

Why  the  old  man  listened  so  patiently 
to  these  childish  stories  no  one  could  tell ; 
perhaps  he'did  not  hear  them.  He  him- 
self said  that  the  presence  of  Mark  had 
the  effect  of  music  upon  his  jaded  and 
worn  sense.  But,  indeed,  there  was  be- 
neath Carricchio*s  mechanical  buffoonery 
and  farce  a  sober  and  pathetic  humor, 
which  was  almost  unconscious,  and  which 
was  now,  probably  owing  to  advancing 
years,  first  becoming  known  either  to  him- 
self or  others. 

**  The  maestro  has  been  talking  to  me 
this  morning,"  he  said  one  day.  "  He 
says  that  life  is  a  wretched  masque,  a  mis- 
erable apology  for  existence  by  the  side  of 
art ;  what  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

**  I  do  not  know  what  it  means,*'  said 
Mark;  "I  neither  know  life  nor  art  — 
bow  can  I  tell?" 

"  That  is  true,  but  you  know  more  than 
you  think.  The  maestro  means  that  life 
is  imperfect,  struggling,  a  failure,  ugly 
most  often  ;  art  is  perfect,  comI)lete,  beau- 
tiful, and  full  of  force  and  power.  But  I 
tell  him  that  some  failure  is  better  than 
success;  sometimes  ugliness  is  a  finer 
thing  than  beauty;  and  the  best  art  is 
that  which  only  reproduces  life.    H  life 


were  fashioned  after  the  most  perfect  art, 
you  would  never  be  able  to  cry,  nor  to 
make  me  cry,  as  you  do  over  your  beauti- 
ful tales." 

Mark  tried  to  understand  this,  but 
failed,  and  was  therefore  silent..  Indeed 
it  is  not  certain  whether  Carricchio  him- 
self understood  what  he  was  saying. 

He  seemed  to  have  some  suspicion  of 
this,  for  he  did  not  go  on  talking,  but  was 
silent  for  some  time.  These  silences 
were  common  between  the  two. 

At  last  he  said, — 

**  I  think  where  the  maestro  is  wrong  is 
in  making  the  two  quarrel.  They  cannot 
quarrel.  There  is  no  art  without  life,  and 
no  life  without  art.  Look  at  a  puppet- 
play —  the /an/occini — it  means  life  and 
it  means  art. 

"  I  never  saw  a  puppet-play,"  said 
Mark. 

"  Well,  you  have  seen  us,"  said  Carric- 
chio; **  we  are  much  the  same.  We  move 
ourselves  —  they  are  moved  by  wires  ;  but 
we  do  just  the  same  things  —  we  are  life 
and  we  are  art,  in  the  burietta  we  are 
both.  I  often  think  which  is  which  — > 
which  is  the  imposture  and  which  is  the 
masque.  Then  I  think  that  somewhere 
there  must  be  a  higher  art  that  surpasses 
the  realism  of  life  —  a  divine  art  which  is 
not  life  but  fashions  life. 

**  When  I  look  at  you,  little  one,"  Car- 
ricchio went  on,  **  I  feel  almost  as  I  do 
when  the  violins  break  in  upon  the  jar 
and  fret  of  the  wittiest  dialogue.  Jest  and 
lively  fancy — these  are  the  sweets  of 
life,  no  doubt  —  and  humorous  thought 
and  speech  and  gesture  —  but  they  are 
not  this  divine  art,  they  are  pot  rest. 
Thev  shrivel  and  wither  the  brain.  The 
whole  being  is  parched,  the  heart  is  dry  in 
this  sultry,  piercing  light.  But  when  the 
stringed  melodies  steal  in,  and  when  the 
rippling,  surging  arpeggios  and  crescen- 
dos  sweep  in  upon  the  sense,  and  the 
stilled  cadences  that  lull  and  soothe  — 
then,  indeed,  it  is  like  moisture  and  the 
gracious  dew.  It  is  like  sleep;  the 
strained  nerves  relax;  the  overwrought 
frame,  which  is  like  dry  garden  mould,  is 
softened,  and  the  flowers  spring  up 
again." 

Carricchio  paused ;  but  as  Mark  said 
nothing,  he  went  on  again. 

**The  other  life  is  gay,  lively,  bright, 
full  of  excitement  and  interest,  of  tender 
pity  even,  and  of  love  —  but  this  is  rest 
and  peace.  The  other  is  human  life,  but 
what  is  this?  An?  Ah!  but  a  divine 
art.  Here  is  no  struggle,  no  selfish  de- 
sire, no  striving,  no  conflict  of  love  or  of 


THE   LITTLE  SCHOOLMASTER   MARK. 


533 


hate.  It  is  like  silence,  the  most  unselfish 
thing  there  is.  I  have,  indeed,  sometimes 
thought  that  music  must  be  the  silence  of 
heaven.'* 

**  The  silence  of  heaven  ! "  said  Mark, 
with  open  eyes.  "The  silence  of  heav- 
en !     What,  then,  are  its  words?" 

"  Ah  !  that,*'  said  the  old  clown,  smil- 
ing, but  with  a  sad  slowness  in  his  speech, 
"  is  beyond  me  to  tell.  I  can  bear  its 
silence,  but  not  its  voice:" 

V. 

The  private  theatre  in  the  palace  was  a 
room  of  very  moderate  size,  for  the  audi- 
ence was  necessarily  very  small ;  in  fact, 
the  stage  was  larger  than  the  auditorium. 
The  play  took  place  in  the  afternoon,  and 
there  was  no  artificial  light ;  many  of  the 
operatic  performances  in  Italy,  indeed, 
took  place  in  the  open  air. 

Yet,  though  the  time  of  day  and  the 
natural  light  deprived  the  theatre  of  much 
of  the  strangeness  and  glamor  with  which 
it  is  usually  associated,  and  which  so 
much  impress  a  youth  who  sees  it  for  the 
first  time,  the  enect  of  the  first  perform- 
ance upon  Mark  was  very  remarkable. 
He  was  seated  immediately  behind  the 
prince.  Far  from  being  delighted  with 
the  play,  he  was  overpowered  as  it  went 
on  by  an  intense  melancholy  horror. 
When  the  violins,  the  flutes,  and  the  fifes 
began  the  overture,  a  new  sense  seemed 
given  to  him,  which  was  not  pleasure  but 
the  intensest  dread.  H  the  singing  of  the 
signorina  had  been  a  shock  to  him,  accus- 
tomed as  he  was  only  to  the  solemn  sing- 
ing of  his  childhood,  what  must  this  elfish, 
weird,  melodious  music  have  seemed,  full 
of  gay  and  careless  life,  and  of  artless, 
unconscious  airs  which  yet  were  miracles 
of  art?  He  sat,  terrified  at  these  deli- 
cious sounds,  as  though  this  world  of 
music  without  thought  or  conscience  were 
a  wicked  thing.  The  shrill  notes  of  the 
.  fifes,  the  long,  tremulous  vibration  of  the 
strings,  seemed  to  draw  his  heart  after 
them.  Wherever  this  wizard  call  might 
lead  him  it  seemed  he  would  have  to  fol- 
low the  alluring  chords. 

But  when  the  acting  began  his  terror 
became  more  intense.  The  grotesque 
figures  seemed  to  him  those  of  devils,  or 
at  the  best  of  fantastic  imps  or  gnomes. 
He  could  understand  nothing  of  the  dia- 
logue, but  the  gestures,  the  laughter,  the 
wild  singing,  were  shocking  to  him. 
When  the  signorina  appeared,  the  strange 
intensity  of  her  color,  the  brilliancy  of  her 
eyes,  and  what  seemed  to  him  the  free- 
dom of  ber  gestures  and  the  boldness  of 


her  bewitching  glances,  far  from  delight- 
ing, as  they  seemed  to  do  all  the  others, 
made  him  ready  to  weep  with  shame  and 
grief.  He  sank  back  in  his  seat  to  avoid 
the  notice  of  the  prince,  who,  indeed,  was 
too  much  absorbed  in  the  music  and  the 
acting  to  remember  him. 

The  beauty  of  the  music  only  added  to 
his  despair;  had  it  been  less  lovely,  had 
the  acting  not  forced  now  and  then  a 
glance  of  admiring  wonder  or  struck  a 
note.of  high  toned,  touching  pathos  even, 
it  would  not  all  have  seemed  so  much  the 
work  of  evil.  When  the  comedy  was 
over  he  crept  silently  away  to  his  room  ; 
and  in  the  excitement  of  congratulation 
and  praise,  as  actors  and  audience  mingled 
together,,  and  the  signorina  was  receiving 
the  commendations  of  the  prince,  he  was 
not  missed. 

He  could  not  stay  in  this  place  —  that 
at  least  was  clear  to  him.  He  must  es- 
cape. He  must  return  to  nature,  to  the 
woods  and  birds,  to  children  and  to  chil- 
dren's sports.  These  gibing  grimaces, 
these  endless  bowings  and  scrapings  and 
false  compliments,  known  of  all  to  be 
false,  would  choke  him  if  he  stayed.  He 
must  escape  from  the  house  of  frivolty 
into  the  soft,  gracious  outer  air  of  sin- 
cerity and  truth. 

He  cried  himself  to  sleep;  all  through 
the  night,  amid  fitful  slumber,  the  crowd 
of  masques  jostled  and  mocked  at  him; 
the  weird  strains  of  unknown  instruments 
reached  his  half -conscious,  bewildered 
sense.  Early  in  the  morning  he  awoke. 
There  had  been  rain  in  the  night,  and  the 
smiling  morning  beckoned  him  out. 

He  stole  down  some  back  stairs,  and 
found  a  door  which  opened  on  gardens 
and  walks  at  the  back  of  the  palace.  This 
he  managed  to  open,  and  went  out. 

The  path  on  which  the  door  opened  led 
him  through  rows  of  fruit  trees  aod  young 
plantations.  A  little  forest  of  delicate 
boughs  and  young  leaves  lifted  itself  up 
against  the  blue  sky,  and  a  myriad  drops 
sparkled  in  the  morning  sun.  The  fresh, 
cool  air,  the  blue  sky,  the  singing  of  the 
birds,  restored  Mark  to  himself.  He 
seemed  to  see  again  the  possibility  of 
escape  from  evil,  and  the  hope  of  right- 
eousness and  peace.  His  whole  spirit 
went  out  in  prayer  and  love  to  the  Al- 
mightv,  who  had  made  these  lovely  things. 
He  felt  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do  when, 
on  a  fine  Sunday,  he  had  walked  home 
with  his  children  in  order,  relating  to 
them  the  most  beautiful  tales  of  God.  He 
wandered  slowly  down  the  narrow  paths. 
The  fresh-turned  earth  between  the  rows 


534 


THE   LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER   MARK. 


of  saplings,  the  beds  of  herbs,  the  moist 
grass,  gave  forth  a  scent  at  once  delicate 
and  searching.  The  boy's  cheerfulness 
began  to  return.  The  past  seemed  to 
fade.  He  almost  thought  himself  the  lit- 
tle schoolmaster  again. 

After  wandering  for  some  time  through 
this  delicious  land  of  perfume,  of  light, 
and  sweet  sound,  he  came  to  a  very  long 
but  narrow  avenue  of  old  elm-trees  that 
led  down  a  gradual  slope,  as  it  seemed, 
into  the  heart  of  the  forest.  Beneath  the 
avenue  a  well-kept  path  seemed  to  point 
with  a  guiding  hand. 

He  followed  the  path  for  some  distance, 
and  had  just  perceived  what  seemed  to  be 
an  old  manor-house,  standing  in  a  court- 
yard at  the  farther  end,  when  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  figure  advancing  along  the 
path  to  meet  him :  as  it  approached,  he 
saw  that  it  was  that  of  a  lady  of  tall  and 
commanding  appearance,  and  apparently 
of  great  beauty ;  she  wore  the  dress  of 
some  sisterhood.  When  he  was  near 
enough  to  see  her  face  he  found  that  it 
was  indeed  beautiful,  with  an  expression 
of  the  purest  sincerity  and  benevolence. 
The  lady  stopped  and  spoke  to  Mark  at 
once. 

"  You  must  be  the  new  tutor  to  their 
Highnesses/*  she  said ;  **  I  have  beard  of 
you." 

Mark  said  that  he  was. 

**  You  do  not  look  well,"  said  the  lady, 
very  kindly;  **are  you  happy  at  the 
palace  ?  " 

"  Are  you  the  princess  Isoline?"  said 
Mark,  not  answering  the  question ;  '*  I 
think  you  must  be,  you  are  so  beautiful." 

**  I  am  the  Princess  Isoline,"  said  the 
lady;  "walk  a  little  way  with  me." 

Mark  turned  with  the  lady  and  walked 
back  towards  the  palace.  After  a  mo- 
ment or  two  he  said  :  "  I  am  not  happy  at 
Joyeuse,  I  am  very  miserable,  I  want  to 
run  away," 

"What  makes  you  so  unhappy?  Are 
they  not  kind  to  you  ?  The  prince  is  very 
kind,  and  the  children  are  good  children 

—  I  have  always  thought." 

*'They  are  all  very  kind,  too  kind  to 
me,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  cannot  make  you 
understand  why  I  am  so  miserable,  I  can- 
not tell  myself  —  the  prince  is  worse  than 
all " 

•*  Why  is  the  prince  the  worst  of  all?" 
said  the  lady,  in  a  very  gentle  voice. 

*'  All  the  rest  I  know  are  wrong,"  replied 
the  boy  passionately  —  **  the  actors,  the 
signorina,  the  pages,  and  all;  but  when 
the  prince  looks  at  me  with  his  ^uiet  smile 

—  when  the  look  comes  into  his  eyes  as 


though  he  could  see  through  time  eveir 
into  eternity  —  when  he  looks  at  me  ia 
his  kindly,  pitying  way  —  I  begin  to  doubt. 
Oh,  Highness,  it  is  terrible  to  doubt!  Do 
you  think  that  the  prince  is  right?" 

The  princess  was  silent  for  a  moment 
or  two ;  it  was  not  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand the  boy,  for  she  understood  him 
very  well. 

"  No,  I  think  you  are  right  and  not  the 
prince,"  she  said  at  length,  in  her  quiet 
voice. 

There  was  a  pause :  neither  seemed  to 
know  what  to  say  next.  They  had  now 
nearly  reached  the  end  of  the  avenue  next 
the  palace ;  the  princess  stopped. 

"  Come  back  with  me,"  she  said,  "  I  will 
show  you  my  house." 

They  walked  slowly  along  the  narrow 
pathway  towards  the  old  house  at  the 
farther  end.  The  princess  was  evidently 
considering  what  to  say. 

'*  Why  do  you  know  that  they  are  all 
wrong  ? "  she  said  at  last. 

**  Highness,"  said  the  boy  after  a  pause, 
"  I  have  never  lived  amongst,  or  seen 
anything,  since  I  was  born,  but  what  was 
natural  and  real  —  the  forest,  the  fruit- 
trees  in  blossom,  the  gardens,  and  the 
flowers.  I  have  never  heard  anything  ex* 
cept  of  God  —  of  the  wretchedness  of  sin 

—  of  beautiful  stories  of  good  people.  My 
grandfather,  when  he  was  alive,  used  to 
talk  to  me,  as  I  sat  with  him  at  his  char- 
coal-burning in  the  forest,  of  my  fore- 
fathers, who  were  all  honest  and  pious 
people.  There  are  few  princes  who  can 
say  that." 

The  princess  did  not  seem  to  notice 
this  last  uncourtly  speech. 

" '  I  shall  then  find  all  my  forefathers  in 
Heaven,'  I  would  say  to  him,"  continued 
Mark.  ***Yes,  that  thou  wilt!  we  shall 
then  be  of  high  nobility.  Do  not  lose 
this  privilege.'  If  I  lose  this  privilege, 
how  sad  that  will  be!  But  here,  in  the 
palace,  they  think  nothing  of  these  things 

—  instead  of  hymns  they  sing  the  strang- 
est, wildestfisongs,  so  strange  and  beauti- 
ful that  I  fear  and  tremble  at  them  as  if 
the  sounds  were  wicked  sounds." 

So  talking,  the  princess  and  the  boy 
went  on  through  the  lovely  wood ;  at  last 
they  left  the  avenue  and  passed  into  the 
courtyard  of  a  stately  but  decayed  house. 
The  walls  of  the  courtyard  were  over- 
grown with  ivy,  and  trees  were  growing 
up  against  the  house  and  shading  some  of 
the  windows.  The  princess  passed  on 
without  speaking,  ana  entered  the  hall  by 
an  open  door.  As  they  entered,  Mark 
could  bear  the  sound  of  looms,  and  inside 


THE   LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER  MARK; 


S3S 


were  several  men  and  women  at  different 
machines  employed  in  weaving  cloth. 
The  princess  spoke  to  several,  and  lead- 
ing Mark  onward  she  ascended  a  wide 
staircase  and  reached  at  last  a  long  gal- 
lery at  the  back  of  the  house.  Here  were 
many  looms,  and  girls  and  men  employed 
in  weaving.  The  long  range  of  lofty  win- 
dows faced  the  north,  and  over  the  nearer 
woods  could  be  seen  the  vast  sweep  of 
the  great  Thuringian  Forest,  where  Mar- 
tin Luther  had  lived  and  walked.  The 
risen  sun  was  gilding  the  distant  woods. 
A  sense  of  indescribable  loveliness  and 
peace  seemed  to  Mark  to  pervade  the 
place. 

**  How  happy  you  must  be  here,  gracious 
Highness  !  '*  he  exclaimed. 

They  were  standing  apart  in  one  of  the 
windows  towards  the  end  of  the  long 
room,  and  the  noise  of  the  looms  made  a 
continuous  murmur  that  prevented  their 
voices  being  heard  by  the  others  who 
were  near.  The  princess  looked  at  Mark 
for  some  moments  without  reply. 

*'  I  must  speak  the  truth  always,"  she 
said  at  last,  **  but  more  than  ever  to  such 
as  thou  art.     I  am  not  happy.'* 

The  boy  looked  at  her  as  though  his 
heart  would  break. 

**  Not  happy,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  and  you  so  good." 

**  The  good  are  not  happy,"  said  the 
princess,  **and  the  happy  are  not  good.** 

There  was  a  pause ;  then  the  princess 
went  on, — 

**  The  people  who  are  with  me  are  good, 
but  they  are  not  happy.  They  have  left 
the  world  and  its  pleasures,  but  they 
regret  them ;  they  live  in  the  perpetual 
consciousness  of  this  self-denial  —  this 
fancy  that  they  are  serving  God  better 
than  others  are;  they  are  in  danger  of 
becoming  jealous  and  hypocritical.  I 
warn  you  never  to  join  a  particular  society 
which  proposes,  as  its  object,  to  serve 
God  better  than  others.  You  are  safer, 
more  in  the  way  of  serving  God  in  the 
palace,  even  amid  the  singing  and  the 
music  which  seem  to  you  so  wicked. 
They  are  happy,  they  are  thoughtless,  gay, 
like  the  birds.  They  have  at  least  no 
dark,  gloomy  thoughts  of  God,  even  if 
they  have  no  thoughts  of  him  at  all.  They 
may  be  won  to  him,  nay,  they  may  be 
nearer  to  him  now  than  some  who  think 
themselves  so  good.  Since  I  began  this 
way  of  life  1  have  heard  of  many  such 
societies,  which  have  crumbled  into  the 
dust  with  derision,  and  are  remembered 
only  with  reproach." 


Mark  stood  gazing  at  the  distant  forest 
without  seeing  it.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  think. 

**  I  do  not  know  why  I  have  told  you 
this,"  said  the  princess ;  *^  I  had  no 
thought  of  saying  such  words  when  I 
brought  you  here.  I  seem  to  have  spokea 
them  without  willing  it.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  will  of  God.** 

*•  Why  do  you  go  on  with  this  life,"  said 
Mark  sadly,  "if  it  be  not  good?  The 
prince  would  be  glad  if  you  would  come 
back  to  the  palace.    He  has  told  me  so." 

It  seemed  to  the  boy  that  life  grew 
more  and  more  sad.  It  seemed  that,  baf* 
fled  and  turned  back  at  every  turn,  there 
was  no  reality,  no  sincere  walk  anywhere 
possible.  The  worse  seemed  everywhere 
the  better,  the  children  of  this  world  ev- 
erywhere wiser  than  the  children  of  light. 

**  I  cannot  go  back  now,"  said  the  prin- 
cess. "  When  you  are  gone  I  shall  forget 
this;  I  shall  think  otherwise.  There  is 
something  in  your  look  that  has  made  me 
speak  like  this." 

^  Then  are  these  people  really  not  hap- 
py ?  "  said  Mark  again. 

"Why  should  they  be  happy?"  said 
the  princess,  with  some  bitterness  in  her 
voice.  "Th^y  have  given  up  all  that 
makes  life  pleasant  —  fine  clothes,  delicate 
food,  cunning  harmonies,  love,  gay  de- 
vices, and  sports.  Why  should  they  be 
happy?  They  have  dull  work,  none  to 
amuse  or  enliven  the  long  days." 

"  I  was  very  happy  in  my  village  out« 
side  the  palace  gates,"  said  Mark  quietly ; 
"  1  had  none  of  these  things ;  I  only 
taught  the  little  peasants,  yet  I  was  hap- 
py. From  morning  to  night  the  path  was 
straight  before  me,  a  bright  and  easy 
path  ;  and  the  end  was  always  light.  Now 
all  is  difficult  and  strange.  Since  I  passed 
through  the  gates  with  the  golden  scrolls, 
which  1  thought  were  like  the  heavenly 
Jerusalem,  all  goes  crooked  and  awry; 
nothing  seems  plain  and  righteous  as  in 
the  pleasant  old  days.  I  have  come  into 
an  enchanted  palace,  the  air  of  which  I 
cannot  breathe  and  live ;  I  must  go  back." 

"  No,  not  so,"  said  the  princess,  "  you 
are  wanted  here.  Where  you  were  you 
were  of  little  good.  There  were  at  least 
others  who  could  do  your  work.  Here 
none  can  do  it  but  you.  They  never  saw 
any  one  like  you  before.  They  know  it 
and  speak  of  it.  All  are  changed  some- 
what since  you  came ;  you  might,  it  is 
true,  come  to  me,  but  I  should  not  wish 
it.  The  air  of  this  house  would  be  worse 
for  you  even  than  that  of  the  palace  which 


THE   LITTLE  SCHOOLMASTER   MARK. 


S36 

you  fear  so  much.  Besides,  the  prince 
would  not  be  pleased  with  me.** 

Mark  looked  sadiy  before  him  for  some 
moments  before  he  said,  — 

'*  Even  if  it  be  trae  what  you  say,  still 
I  must  go.  It  is  killing  me.  I  wish  to 
do  right  and  good  to  all ;  but  what  good 
shall  I  do  if  it  takes  all  my  strength  and 
life?  I  shall  ask  the  prince  to  let  roe  go 
back." 

"  No,"  said  the  princess,  "  not  that  — 
never  that.  It  is  impossible,  you  cannot 
go  back  I " 

••  Cannot  go  back ! "  cried  Mark. 
"Why?  The  prince  is  verv  kind.  He 
will  not  keep  me  here  to  die.*' 

•'Yes,  the  prince  is  very  kind,  but  he 
cannot  do  that;  what  is  passed  can  never 
happen  again.  It  is  the  children's  phrase, 
*  Do  it  again.*  It  can  never  be  done  again. 
You  have  passed,  as  you  say,  the  golden 
gates  into  an  enchanted  world  ;  you  have 
known  good  and  evil ;  you  have  tasted  of 
the  fruit  of  the  so-called  tree  of  life ;  you 
cannot  go  back  to  the  village.    Think.*' 

Mark  was  silent  for  a  longer  space  this 
time.  His  eyes  were  dim,  but  he  seemed 
to  see  afar  on. 

*•  No,*'  he  said  at  last,  **  it  is  true,  I 
cannot  go  back.  The  village,  and  the 
school,  and  the  children  have  passed 
away.  I  should  not  find  them  there,  as 
they  were  before.  If  I  cannot  come  to 
you,  there  is  nothing  for  me  but  to  die.** 

•*  The  pagans,**  said  the  princess,  •*  the 
old  pagans,  that  knew  their  gods  but  dim- 
ly, used  to  say,  *The  god-beloved  die 
young.'  It  has  been  said  since  by  Chris- 
tian men.  Do  not  be  afraid  to  cfie.  In- 
stead of  your  form  and  voice  there  will 
be  remembrance  and  remorse ;  instead  of 
indifference  and  sarcasm  there  will  be 
contrition ;  in  place  of  thoughtless  kind- 
liness a  tender  love.  Do  not  be  afraid  to 
die.  The  charnv  is  working  now ;  it  will 
increase  when  sight  is  changed  for  mem- 
ory, and  the  changeful  irritation  of  time 
for  changeless  recollection  and  regret. 
The  body  of  the  sown  grain  is  transfig- 
ured into  the  flower  of  a  spiritual  life,  and 
from  the  dust  is  raised  a  mystic  presence 
which  can  never  fade.  Do  not  be  afraid 
to  die.*' 

Mark  walked  slowly  back  to  the  palace. 
He  could  not  think ;  he  was  stunned  and 
bewildered.  He  wished  the  princess  Iso- 
line  would  have  let  him  come  to  her. 
Then  he  thought  all  might  yet  be  well. 
When  he  reached  the  palace  he  found 
everything  in  confusion.  The  princess 
and  her  friend  the  servente  had  suddenly 
arrived. 


VI. 

Later  on  in  the  day  Mark  was  told 
that  the  princess  wished  to  see  him,  and 
that  he  must  wait  upon  her  in  her  ow^d 
apartment.  He  was  taken  to  a  part  of 
the  palace  into  which  he  had  hitherto 
never  been;  in  which  a  luxurious  suite  of 
rooms  was  reserved  for  the  princess  when 
she  condescended  to  occupy  them.  The 
most  easterly  of  the  suite  was  a  morning 
sitting-room,  which  opened  upon  a  bal- 
cony or  trellised  verandah,  shaded  with 
jasmine.  The  room  was  furnished  in  a 
very  different  style  from  the  rest  of  the 
palace.  The  other  rooms,  though  rich, 
were  rather  bare  of  garniture,  after  the 
Italian  manner  —  their  ornaments  consist* 
ing  of  cabinets  of  inlaid  wood  and  pic- 
tures on  the  walls,  with  the  centre  of  the 
room  left  clear.  These  rooms,  on  the 
contrary,  were  full  of  small  gilt  furniture, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  French  court. 
Curious  screens,  depicting  strange  birds 
of  gaudy  plumage,  embarrassed  Mark  as 
he  entered  the  room. 

The  prince  was  seated  near  a  lady  who 
was  reclining  in  the  window,  and  opposite 
to  them  was  a  stranger  whom  Mark  knew 
must  be  the  count.  The  lady  was  beau- 
tiful, but  with  a  kind  of  beauty  strange  to 
the  boy,  and  her  dress  was  more  wonder- 
ful than  any  he  had  yet  seen,  though  it 
was  a  mere  morning  robe.  She  looked 
curiously  at  him  as  he  entered  the  room. 

*'  This,  then,"  she  said,  **  is  the  clown 
who  is  to  educate  my  children.'* 

At  this  not  very  encouraging  address 
the  boy  stopped,  and  stood  silently  con- 
templating the  group. 

The  count  was  the  first  who  came  to 
his  assistance. 

"The  youth  is  not  so  bad,  princess,'* 
he  said.  •*  He  has  an  air  of  society  about 
him,  in  spite  of  his  youth." 

The  prince  looked  at  the  count  with  a 
pleased  expression. 

"  Do  not  fear  for  the  children,  Ade- 
laide," be  said ;  "  they  will  fare  very  well. 
Their  manners  are  improved  already. 
When  they  come  to  Vienna,  you  will  see 
how  fine  their  breeding  will  be  thought  to 
be.  Leave  them  to  me.  You  do  not  care 
for  them ;  leave  them  to  me  and  to  the 
Herr  Tutor." 

Mark  was  looking  at  the  count.  This 
was  another  strange  study  for  the  boy. 
He  was  older  than  the  prince  —  a  man  of 
about  forty;  more  firmly  built,  and  with 
well-cut  but  massive  features.  He  wore 
a  peruke  of  verv  short,  curled  hair;  his 
I  dress  was  rich,  but  very  simple  ;  and  his 


THE    LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER   MARK. 


537 


whole  appearance  and  manner  suggested 
curiously  that  of  a  man  who  carried  no 
more  weight  than  he  could  possibly  help, 
who  encumbered  himself  with  nothing 
that  he  could  throw  aside,  who  offered  in 
every  action,  speech,  and  gesture  the 
least  possible  resistance  to  the  atmo- 
sphere, moral,  social,  or  physical,  in  which 
he  found  himself.  His  manner  to  the 
prince  was  deferential,  without  being 
marked,  and  he  evidently  wished  to  pro- 
pitiate him. 

'*  Thou  art  very  pious,  I  hear,"  said  the 
princess,  addressing  Mark  in  a  tone  of 
unmitigated  contempt. 

The  boy  onlv  bowed. 

'*  Is  he  dumo?*'  said  the  princess,  still 
with  undisguised  disdain. 

"No,**  said  the  prince  quietly.  "He 
can  speak  when  he  thinks  that  what  he 
says  will  be  well  received.** 

"  He  is  wise,**  said  the  count. 

"Well,"  said  the  princess  sharply,  "my 
wishes  count  for  nothing;  of  that  we  are 
well  aware.  But  I  do  not  want  my  chil- 
dren to  be  infected  with  the  superstitions 
of  the  past,  which  still  linger  among  the 
coarse  and  ignorant  peasantry.  I  sup- 
pose, now,  this  peasant  schoolmaster  be* 
lieves  in  a  God  and  a  hell,  and  in  a  heaven 
for  such  as  he  ?  **  and  she  threw  herself 
back  with  a  light  laugh. 

"No,  surely,'*  said  the  count  blandly, 
"  that  were  too  gross,  even  for  a  peasant 
priest.** 

"Tell  me,  Herr  Tutor,**  said  the  prin- 
cess ;  and  now  she  threw  a  nameless 
charm  into  her  manner  as  she  addressed 
the  boy,  from  whom  she  wished  an  an- 
swer; "tell  me,  dost  thou  believe  in  a 
heaven  ?  ** 

"Yes,  gracious  Highness,!*  said  Mark. 

"It  has  always  struck  me,**  said  the 
prince,  with  a  philosophic  air,  "that  we 
might  leave  the  poor  their  distant  heaven. 
Its  existence  cannot  injure  us.  I  have 
sometimes  fancied  that  they  might  retort 
upon  me :  *  You  have  everything  here  that 
life  can  wish :  we  have  nothing.  You 
have  dainty  food,  and  fine  clothes,  and 
learning,  and  music,  and  all  the  fruition 
that  your  fastidious  fancy  craves :  we  are 
cold  and  hungry  and  ignorant  and  miser- 
able. Leave  us  our  heaven  I  At  least,  if 
you  do  not  believe  in  it,  keep  silence  be- 
fore us.  Our  belief  does  not  trouble  you ; 
it  takes  nothing  from  the  least  of  your 
pleasures  ;  it  is  all  we  have.'  ** 

"  When  the  prince  begins  to  preach,'* 
said  the  princess,  with  scarcely  less  con- 
tempt than  she  had  shown  for  Mark,  "  I 
always  leave  the  room." 


The  count  immediately  rose  and  opened 
a  small  door  leading  to  a  boudoir.  The 
prince  rose  and  bowed.  The  princess 
swept  to  the  ground  before  him  in  aQ 
elaborate  curtsey,  and  looking  contemptu- 
ously, yet  with  a  certain  amused  interest, 
at  Mark,  left  the  room. 

The  prince  resumed  his  seat,  and,  lean- 
ing back,  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of 
his  companions.  He  was  really  thinking 
with  amusement  what  a  so  strangely  as- 
sorted couple  might  be  likely  to  say  to 
each  other ;  but  the  count,  misled  by  his 
desire  to  please  the  prince,  misunderstood 
him.  He  supposed  that  he  wished  that 
the  conversation  which  the  princess  had 
interrupted  should  be  continued,  and,  sit- 
ting down,  he  began  again. 

"  I  suppose,  Herr  Tutor,** he  said,  "you 
propose  to  train  your  pupils  so  that  they 
shall  be  best  fitted  to  mingle  with  the 
world  in  which  they  will  be  called  upon  to 
play  an  important  part?** 

The  prince  motioned  to  Mark  to  sit, 
which  he  did,  upon  the  edge  of  an  em- 
broidered couch. 

"  If  the  Serene  Highness,**  he  said, 
"had  wished  for  one  to  teach  his  children 
who  know  the  great  world  and  the  cities, 
he  would  not  have  sent  for  me.'* 

"  What  do  you  teach  them,  then  ?  *' 

"  I  tell  them  beautiful  histories,**  said 
Mark,  of  good  people,  and  of  love,  and  of 
God.*' 

"It  has  been  proved,"  said  the  count, 
"  that  there  is  no  God.** 

"  Then  there  is  still  love,**  said  the  boy. 

"Yes,  there  is  still  love,**  said  the  count, 
with  an  amused  glance  at  the  prince ; 
"all  the  more  that  we  have  got  rid  of  a 
cruel  God.** 

The  boy*s  face  flushed. 

"  How  can  you  dare  to  say  that  ?  "  be 
said. 

"  Why,"  said  the  count,  with  a  simu- 
lated warmth,  "what  is  the  God  of  you 
pious  people  but  a  cruel  God  !  —  he  who 
condemns  the  weak  and  the  ignorant-— 
the  weak  whom  he  has  himself  made 
weak,  and  the  ignorant  whom  he  keeps  in 
darkness  —  to  an  eternity  of  torture  for  a 
trivial  and  temporary,  if  not  an  uncon- 
scious, fault  ?  What  is  that  God  but  cruel 
who  will  not  forgive  till  he  has  gratified 
his  revenge  upon  his  own  Son  ?     What  is 

that  God  but  cruel But  I  need  not 

go  on.  The  whole  thing  is  nothing  but  a 
tigment  and  a  dream,  hatched  in  the  dis- 
eased fancies  of  half-starved  monks  dying 
by  inches  in  caves  and  deserts,  terrified 
by  the  ghastly  visions  of  a  ruined  body 
and  a  disordered  mind  —  men  so  stupid 


THE   LITTLE  SCHOOLMASTER  MARK. 


and  so  wicked  that  they  could  not  discern 
the  nature  of  the  man  whom  they  pro- 
fessed to  take  for  their  God  —  a  man, 
apparently,  one  of  those  rare  natures,  in 
advance  of  their  time,  whom  friends  and 
enemies  alike  misconceive  and  thwart; 
and  who  die,  as  he  died,  helpless  and  de- 
feated, with  a  despairing  cry  to  a  heedless 
or  visionary  God  in  whom  they  have  be- 
lieved in  vain." 

As  the  count  went  on,  a  new  and  terri- 
ble phase  of  experience  was  passing 
through  Mark's  mind.  As  the  brain  con- 
sists of  two  parts,  so  the  mind  seems  dual 
also.  Thought  seems  at  different  times 
to  consist  of  different  phases,  each  of 
which  can  only  see  itself  —  of  a  faith  that 
can  see  no  doubt  —  of  a  doubt  that  can 
conceive  of  no  certainty  —  one  week  ex- 
alted to  the  highest  neaven,  the  next 
plunged  into  the  lowest  hell.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  this  latter  phase  was 
passing  through  Mark's  mind.  What  had 
always  seemed  to  him  as  certain  as  the 
hills  and  fields  seemed  on  a  sudden 
shrunken  and  vanished  away.  His  mind 
seemed  emptied  and  void;  he  could  not 
even  think  of  God.  It  seemed  even  mar- 
vellous to  him  that  anything  could  have 
filled  this  vast,  fathomless  void,  much  less 
such  a  lovely  and  populous  world  as  that 
which  now  seemed  vanished  as  a  morn- 
ing mist.  He  tried  to  rouse  his  energies, 
to  grasp  at  and  to  recover  his  accustomed 
thoughts,  but  he  seemed  fascinated ;  the 
eyes  of  the  count  rested  on  him,  as  he 
thought,  with  an  evil  glance.  He  turned 
faint. 

But  the  prince  came  to  his  aid.  He 
was  looking  across  at  the  count  with  a 
sort  of  lazy  dislike ;  as  one  looks  at  a 
stuffed  reptile  or  at  a  foul  but  caged  bird. 

**Thou  art  soon  put  down,  little  one," 
he  said,  with  his  kindly,  lofty  air.  **  Tell 
him  all  this  is  nothing  to  thee;  that  dis- 
ease and  distraction  never  created  any- 
thing:; that  nothing  lives  without  a  germ 
of  life.  Tell  the  count  that  thou  art  not 
careful  to  answer  him  —  that  it  may  be  as 
be  says.  Tell  him  that  even  were  it  so  — 
that  he  of  whom  he  speaks  died  broken- 
hearted in  that  despairing  cry  to  the  Fa- 
ther whom  he  thought  had  deserted  him 
—  itell  the  count  thou  art  still  with  him. 
Tell  him  that  if  his  mission  was  miscon- 
ceived and  perverted,  it  was  because  his 
spirit  and  method  were  divine.  Tell  the 
count  that  in  spite  of  failure  and  despair, 
nay,  perchance  —  who  knows  ? —  because 
even  of  that  despair,  he  has  drawn  all 
men  to  him  from  that  cross  of  his  as  he 
^aid.    Tell  the  count  that  be  has  ascended 


to  his  Father  and  to  thy  Father,  and,  alone, 
among  the  personalities  of  the  world's 
&tory,  sits  at  the  right  hand  of  God.  Tell 
him  this,  he  will  have  nothing  to  reply.'* 

And,  as  if  to  render  reply  impossible, 
the  prince  rose,  and  calling  to  his  spaniel, 
who  came  at  his  gesture  from  the  sun- 
shine in  the  window,  he  struck  a  small 
Indian  gong  upon  the  table,  and  the  pages 
drawing  back  the  curtains  of  the  ante* 
chamber,  he  left  the  room. 

The  count  looked  at  the  boy  with  a 
smile.  Mark'^  face  was  flushed,  his  e3'es 
sparkling  and  full  of  tears. 

**  Well,  Herr  Tutor,"  said  the  count  not 
unkindly,  "dost  thou  say  all  that?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy,  "  God  helping  me, 
I  say  all  that ! " 

*'  Thoa  mightest  do  worse,  tutor,"  said 
the  count,  ''than  follow  the  prince." 

And  he  too  left  the  room. 

VII. 

The  arrival  of  the  princess  very  much 
increased  the  gaiety  and  activity  of  life 
within  the  palace.  Every  one  became  im- 
pressed with  the  idea  that  the  one  thing 
necessary  was  to  entertain  her.  The  ac- 
tors set  to  work  to  prepare  new  plays, 
new  spectacles ;  the  musicians  to  compose 
new  combinations  of  quaint  notes;  the 
poets  new  sonnets  on  strange  and,  if  pos- 
sible, new  conceits.  As  the  princess  was 
very  difficult  to  please,  and  as  it  was  al- 
most impossible  to  conceive  anything 
which  appeared  new  to  her  jaded  intellect, 
the  difficulty  of  the  task  caused  any  idea 
that  promised  novelty  to  be  seized  upoa 
with  a  desperate  determination.  The 
most  favorite  one  still  continued  to  be  the 
proposition  that  Mark  should  be  induced, 
by  fair  means  or  foul,  to  take  a  part  upon 
the  stage.  His  own  character  —  the  rS/e 
which  he  instinctively  played  —  was  so 
absolutely  original  ancf  fresh  that  the  uni- 
versal opinion  was  confident  of  the  suc- 
cess of  such  a  performance. 

'*By  some  means  or  other,"  said  old 
Carricchio,  **he  must  be  got  to  act." 

"  You  may  do  what  you  will  with  him," 
said  the  signorina  sadly;  'Hie  will  die. 
He  is  too  good  to  live.  Like  my  little 
brother  and  the  poor  canary,  he  will  die." 

In  pursuit,  then,  of  this  ingenious  plaa 
the  princess  was  requested  to  honor  with 
her  presence  a  performance  of  a  hitherto 
unknown  character  to  be  given  in  the  pal- 
ace gardens.  She  at  first  declined,  say- 
ing that  she  had  seen  everything  that 
could  be  performed  so  often  that  she  was 
sick  of  such  things,  and  that  each  of  their 
vaunted  and  promised  novelties  proved 


e 

J 


1 


THE   LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER  MARK. 


539- 


more  stale  and  dull  than  its  precursor.  It 
was  therefore  necessary  to  let  her  know 
something  of  what  was  proposed,  and  no 
sooner  did  she  understand  that  Mark  was 
to  be  the  centre  round  which  the  play 
turned,  than  she  entered  into  the  plot  with 
the  greatest  zeal. 

It  is,  perhaps,  not  strange  that  to  such 
a  wonjan  Mark's  character  and  personality 
offered  a  singular  novelty  and  even  charm. 
The  thoucrht  of  triumphing  over  this  child- 
like innocence,  of  contrasting  jt  with  the 
license  and  riot  which  the  play  would 
offer,  struck  her  jaded  curiosity  with  a 
sense  of  delicious  freshness,  and  she  took 
an  eager  delight  in  the  arrangement  and 
contrivance  of  the  scenes. 

In  expansion  of  the  idea  suggested  by 
some  of  the  wonderful  theatres  in  Italy, 
where  the  open-air  stage  extended^  into 
real  avenues  and  thickets,  it  wa^decided 
that  the  entire  play  should  be/r€presented 
\n  the  palace  gardens:  aijdrthat,  in  fact, 
the  audience  should  taka*  part  in  the  ac- 
tion of  the  drama.  Thjgf  where  the  whole 
household  was  theatjncal,  and  where  the 
actors  were  trained/n  the  Italian  comedy, 
which  left  so  muc^^to  the  imprtyinnsatore 
—  to  the  individual  taste  and  skill  of  the 
actor  —  was  S|/scheme  not  difficult  to 
realize. 

The  palaob  garden,  which  was  very 
large,  way  disposed  in  terraces  and 
hedges ;  \j  ^as  planted  with  numerous 
thickets  /nd  groves,  and,  whenever  the 
inequalities  of  the  ground  allowed  it,  with 
lofty  bafiics  of  thick  shrubs  crowned  with 
young Jfrees,  beneath  which  were  arranged 
statue^  and  fountains  in  the  Italian  man- 
ner.  yxhe  hedges  were  cut  into  arcades 
*°^. arches,  giving  free  access  to  the  re- 
tireq  lawns  and  shady  nooks,  and  these 
^''^des,  and  the  lofty  groves  and  terraces, 
^^In  ^  constant  sense  of  mystery  and  ex- 
Pntation  to  the  scene.  The  ample  lawns 
^Rd  open  spaces  afforded  more  than  one 
^4 table  stage,  upon  which  the  most  im- 
Irtant  scenes  of  a  play  might  be  per- 
^rmed. 

Beneath  one  of  the  highest  and  most 

iportant  banks    which    stretched  in  a 

irfectly  straight  line  across  the  garden, 

lanted  thickly  with  flowering  shrubs,  and 

inged  at  the  top  with  a  long  line  of  young 

-ees,  whose  delicate  foliage  was  distinct 

[gainst  the  sky,  was  placed  the  largest  of 

lie  fountains.     It  was  copied  from  that  in 

he  Piazza  Santa  Maria  in  Trastevere  in 

;ome,  and  was  ornamented  with  great 

[ells,  fish,  and  Tritons.    On  either  side 

^he  fountain,  and  leading  to  the  terrace 

back|  were  flights  of  marble  steps. 


with  wide-stretching  stone  vases  upon 
either  side  towering  above  the  grass.  In 
front  of  the  fountain  and  of  the  steps,  be- 
yond a  belt  of  greensward,  were  long 
hedges  planted  in  parallel  rows,  and  con- 
nected in  arches  and  arcades  crossing  and 
recrossfng  each  other  in  an  intricate  maze, 
so  that  a  large  company,  wandering 
through  their  paths,  might  suddenly  ap- 
pear and  disappear.  Beyond  the  hedges 
the  lawn  stretched  uut  again,  broken  by 
flower-beds  and  statues  and  fringed  by 
masses  of  foliage  and  lofty  limes.  A 
sound  of  faUing  water  was  heard  on  all 
sides ;  ar>d,  by  mysterious  contrivance  of 
concealed  mechanism,  flute  and  harp  mu- 
sic.sounded  from  the  depths  of  the  bosky 
groves. 

Mark  knew  little  of  what  was  going  on. 
He  occupied  himself  mostly  with  his 
young  pupils ;  but  the  conversation  he  had 
had  with  the  princess  Isoline  had  troubled 
his  mind,  and  a  sense  of  perplexity  and 
of  approaching  evil  weighed  upon  his 
spirits  and  affected  his  health.  He  who 
had  never  known  sickness  in  his  peasant 
life,  now,  when  conflned  to  a  life  so  un* 
natural  and  artificial,  so  out  of  harmony 
with  his  mind  and  soul,  became  listless 
and  weak  in  body,  and  haunted  by  fltful 
terrors  and  failings  of  consciousness.  He 
knew  that  some  extraordinary  prepara- 
tions were  being  made ;  but  he  was  not 
spoken  to  upon  the  subject,  and  paid  little 
attention  to  what  was  going  on.  Indeed, 
had  he  been  in  the  least  of  a  suspicious 
nature,  the  entire  absence  of  solicitation 
or  interference  might  have  led  him  to 
suspect  some  secret  machination  against 
his  simplicity  and  peace,  some  contrived 
treachery  at  work ;  but  no  such  idea 
crossed  his  mind,  he  occupied  himself 
with  his  own  melancholy  thoughts  and 
with  the  histories  and  parables  which  he 
related  to  his  pupils. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  fixed  for  the 
performance,  then,  things  being  in  this 
condition,  Mark  rose  early.  He  had  been 
informed  that  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  wear  his  best  court  suit,  which  we 
have  seen  was  of  black  silk  with  white 
bands  and  ruffles.  He  gave  his  pupils  a 
short  lesson,  but  their  thoughts  were  so 
much  occupied  by  the  expectation  of  the 
coming  festivity  that  he  soon  released 
them  and  wandered  out  into  the  gardens 
alone.  The  performance  of  the  play  had 
been  flxed  for  noon. 

The  day  was  bright  and  serene.  The 
gardens  were  brilliant  with  color,  and 
sweet  with  the  perfume  of  flowers  and 


THE   LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER   MARK. 


ng 


540 

herbs.  Strains  .^^  ^["^^/eT  the  wanS 
from  secret  music  starucu 

along  the  paths.  .      |y    through    the 

Mark  strayed  »»f  ^^?i7^.as  distressed 
more  distant  groves.  ^.^      .^^j, 

and  dissatisfted  wun  •  elasticity, 

seemed  to  haV«^lo?t  'ts  bappy  ^,>^ 

his  mmd  its  ^^"\^  delighted  him  no 
things  which  formerly      ^s^^  ^^^  j^^^^. 

longer  seemed  to  P^SLj^fg  to  arouse  him. 
ness  of  nature  was  ""*V^  those  others 
He  found  himself  c^JJ/^TiLht  or  seemed 
who  took  so  much  real  deitgl^  frivolous 
to  him  to  do  so,  in  fantastic  aW^j^g  ^e 
music  and  jest  and  comic  sport, 
gan  to  wonder  what  this  new  su 
play  —  these  elaborately  prepared  liar 
nies  —  these  swells  and  runs  and  shakes 

—  might  prove  to  be.  Then  he  hated 
himself  for  this  envy  —  for  this  curiosity. 
He  wished  to  return  to  his  old  innocence 

—  his  old  simplicity. 

But  he  felt  that  this  could  never  be. 
As  the  princess  had  told  him,  whatever  in 
after  years  he  might  become,  never  would 
be  taste  this  delight  of  his  child's  nature 
again.  He  was  inexpressibly  sad  and  de- 
pressed. 

As  he  wandered  on,  not  knowing  where 
he  went,  and  growing  almost  stupid  and 
indifferent  even  to  pain,  he  found  himself 
suddenly  surrounded  by  a  throng  of  danc- 
ing and  laughing  girls.  It  was  easy,  in 
this  magic  garden,  to  steal  unobserved 
upon  any  one  amid  the  bosky  hedges  and 
arcades ;  but  to  surprise  one  so  abstracted 
as  the  dreamy  and  listless  bov  required 
no  effort  at  all.  With  hands  clasped  and 
mocking  laughter  they  surrounded  the  un- 
happy Mark.  They  were  masqued,  with 
delicate  bits  of  fringed  silk  across  the 
eyes,  but  had  they  not  been  so  he  was  too 
confused  to  have  recognized  them.  He 
tried  in  vain  to  escape.  Then  he  was 
lifted  from  the  ground  by  a  score  of  hands 
and  borne  rapidly  away. 

The  story  of  swan-maidens  and  winged 
fairies  of  his  old  histories  crossed  his 
mind,  and  he  seemed  to  be  flying  through 
the  air ;  suddenly  this  strange  flight  came 
to  an  end  ;  he  was  on  his  feet  again,  and, 
as  he  looked  confusedly  around,  he  found 
that  he  was  alone. 

He  was  standing  on  a  circular  space  of 
lawn,  surrounded  by  the  lofty  wood.  In 
the  centre  was  an  antique  statue  of  a  faun 
playing  upon  a  flute.  He  seemed  to 
recognize  the  scene,  but  could  not  in  his 
confusion  recall  in  what  part  of  the  vast 
garden  it  lay. 

As  he  stood,  lost  in  wonder  and  expec- 
tation, a  fairy-like  figure  waa  suddenly 


present  before  him,  from  whence  coming 
he  could  not  tell.  The  slim  and  delicate 
form  was  dressed  in  a  gossamer  robe, 
through  which  the  lovely  limbs  might  be 
seen.  She  held  a  light  masque  in  her 
hand,  and  laughed  at  him  with  herdaoc* 
ing  eyes  and  rosy  mouth.  It  wastheiiule 
princess,  his  pupil. 

Even  now  no  thought  of  plot  or  treach- 
ery entered  the  boy's  mind;  be  gazed  at 
her  in  wondering  amaze. 

"  You  must  come  with  me,"  said  the 
girl  princess,  holding  out  lierhand;"! 
am  sent  to  fetch  you  to  the  underworld." 
Behind  them  as  they  stood,  and  iaciD* 
the  statue  of  the  faun,  was  a  cave  or  hol- 
low in  the  wood,  half  concealed  by  the 
endent  tendrils  of  creeping  and  fioter* 
nlants.  It  seemed  the  opening  of  a 
anean  passage.    The  child  pushed 


hanging  blossoms  and  drew 
-lazed  and  unresisting,  alter 
at   down   iDto  the  daiii 


wi 


subte 
aside 
Mark,  s 
her.    They 

cave.  

dawn  the  palace 

Meanwhile  from  ^^IBatteriog  feet.  For 
had  been  noisy  with  pl^ was   augmented 
its    bizarre    population^^  great  perfona- 
from  many  sources,  and  tl^^ertioos  of  alL 
ance  of  the  day  taxed  the  ^ksitors  begao 
As  the  morning  advanced,  v^  to  certaio 
to  arrive,  and  were  marshallewtionsvere 
parts  of  the  gardens  where  po.^servedio 
allotted  them,  and  refreshmentsv.  Then 
tents.  They  were  mostly  masqueop^^^'^ 
strange  groups  began  to  form  thett^Qd 
before  the  garden  front  of  the  pala^^^ 
on  the  terraces.    These  were  all  m;^W 
and  dressed  in  a  variety  of  inconul^ 
and  fantastic  costume,  for  though  the^ 
was  supposed  to  be  classical,  yet  the^ 
cessity  of  entertaining  the  princess  \ 
something  startling  and  lively  was  m 
exacting  than  artistic  congruity.     As 
have  seen,  the  prince  had  always  inclin 
more  to  the  fairy  and  masqued  come 
than  to  the  serious  opera,  and  on  this 
caslon  the  result  was  more  original  a 
fantastic    than    had    ever    before     bee 
achieved. 

As  the  morning  went  on,  there  gradi 
ally  arranged  itself,  as  if  by  a  fortuitov 
incident,  as  strange  a  medley  of  fait 
mediaeval  legend  and  of  classic  lore  s 
eye  ever  looked  upon.  As  the  prince  an 
princess  surrounded  by  their  principj 
guests,  all  masqued  and  attired  in  ever 
shade  of  color  and  variety  of  form,  stoo 
upon  the  steps  before  the  palace,  th 
wide  gardens  seemed  full  of  groups  equaf 
varied  and  equally  brilliant  with  th 
own.    From  behind  the  green  screen  ' 


i 


THE   LITTLE   SCHOOLMASTER   MARK, 


S4t 


the  hedges,  and  from  beneath  the  ar« 
cades,  figures  were  constantly  emerging 
and  passing  again  out  of  sight,  apparently 
accidentally,  but  in  fact  with  a  carefully 
devised  plan.  Strains  of  delicate  music 
filled  the  air. 

Then  a  group  of  girls  in  misty  drapery, 
and  masqued  across  the  eye%  the  same 
indeed  that  had  carried  off  Mark,  appeared 
suddenly  before  the  princely  group.  They 
had  discovered,  in  the  deepest  dell  of 
their  native  mountain,  a  deserted  babe  — 
the  offspring  doubtless  of  the  loves  of 
some  wandering  god.  They  were  become 
Its  nurses,  and  fed  it  upon  sacred  honey 
and  consecrated  bread.  Of  immortal 
birth  themselves,  and  untouched  by  the 
passing  years,  the  boy  became,  as  he  grew 
up,  the  plaything,  and  finally  the  beloved, 
of  his  beautiful  friends.  Hut  the  boy 
himself  is  indifferent  to  their  attractions, 
and  careless  or  averse  to  their  caresses. 
He  is  often  lost  to  them,  and  wanders  in 
the  mountain  fastnesses  with  the  fawns 
and  kids. 
^  All  this  and  more  was  told  in  action,  in 

r-  song,  and  recitative,  upon  the  palace 
c:.  lawns  before  this  strange  audience,  them- 
selves partly  actors  in  the  pastoral  drama. 
Rurar  dances  and  games  and  sacrifices 
were  presented  with  delicately  conceived 
grouping  and  pictorial  effect.  Then  the 
main  action  of  the  drama  developed  itself. 
The  most  lovely  of  the  nymphs,  the  queen 
and  leader  of  the  rest,  inspires  a  devoted 
luei.  passion  in  the  heart  of  the  priest  of  Apol- 
the  fo,  before  whose  altar  they  offer  sacrifice, 
pala  and  listen  for  guiding  and  response.  She 
all  m.  rejects  his  love  with  cruel  contempt,  pin- 
Dconj:  "og  always  for  the  coy  and  errant  boy -god 
j<rh  the  who  thinks  of  nothing  but  the  distant 
yet  thefnountain  summits,  and  the  divine  whis- 
incess  ^^>€^s  of  the  rustling  woods.  The  priest, 
was  miDSulted  and  enraged,  invokes  the  aid  of 
rv  As  i>s  divinity,  and  a  change  comes  over  the 
ivs  ioclin^y  and  magic  scene.  A  terrible  pestl- 
ed comeiSDce  strikes  down  the  inhabitants  of 
on  this  dbese  sylvan  lawns,  and  gloomy  funerals 
,ri<nnal  a*«^  ^^^  pathetic  strains  of  dirges  take 
>fore   beele  place  of  dances  and  lively  songs. 

[The  terrified  people  throw  themselves 

here  gradiffore  the  altar  of  the  incensed  Apollo,  and 

fortuitoQf^  god  speaks  again.    His  anger  can  be 

\    of  fair^peased  only  by  the  sacrifice  of  the  con- 

't   |^|.e  afnptuous  nymph  who  has   insulted  his 

%iocc  aoffiest,  or  of  some  one  who  is  willing  to 

P^ocipaerish    in    her    place.     Proclamation    is 

[.  Pq  e^er jade  across  the  sunny  lawns,  inviting  a 

.   -,  stoMCtim  who  will  earn  the  wreath  of  self- 

^^ace   tNftcrifice  and  of  immortal  consciousness  of 

^'Joall  great  deed,  but  there  is  no  response. 

Ub  th     The  fatal  day  draws  on;  the  altar  of 

screco; 


sacrifice  is  prepared  ;  but  there  spreads  a 
rumor  among  the  crowd  —  fanned  proba- 
bly by  hope  —  that  at  the  last  moment  a 
god  will  interfere.  Some  even  speak  of 
the  wandering  boy,  if  he  could  only  be 
found.  Surely,  he — so  removed  from 
earthly  and  selfish  love,  so  strange  in  his 
simplicity,  in  his  purity  —  surely  he  would 
lay  down  his  guileless  life  without  a  pang. 
Could  he  only  be  found  !  or  would  he  ap- 
pear ! 

The  herald*s  voice  had  died  away  for 
the  third  time  amid  a  fanfare  of  trumpets. 
At  the  foot  of  the  steps  of  the  long  terrace, 
by  the  Roman  fountain,  a  delicate  and 
lovely  form  stood  on  the  grassy  verge  be- 
fore the  altar,  by  the  leaping  and  rushing 
water's  side ;  a  little  to  the  left,  whence 
the  road  to  Hades  was  supposed  to  come, 
stood  the  divine  messenger,  the  lofty 
herald  —  clad  in  white,  with  a  white  wand ; 
behind  the  altar  stood  the  wretched  priest, 
on  w*hom  the  fearful  task  devolved,  the 
passion  of  terror,  of  pity,  and  of  love, 
traced  upon  his  face ;  all  sound  of  music 
had  died  away ;  a  hush  as  of  death  itself 
fell  upon  the  expectant  crowd ;  from  green 
arch  and  trellised  walk  the  throng  of 
masques,  actors  and  spectators  alike, 
pressed  forward  upon  the  lawn  before  the 
altar.  .  .  .  The  priest  tore  the  fillet  from 
his  brow  and  threw  down  his  knife. 


The  darkness  of  the  cave  gave  place  to 
a  burst  of  dazzling  sunlight  as  Mark  and 
the  little  princess,  who  in  the  darkness 
had  resumed  her  masque,  came  out  sud- 
denly from  the  unseen  opening  upon  one 
of  the  great  stone  bases  by  the  side  of  the 
steps.  To  the  boy's  wonder-struck  sense 
the  flaring  light,  the  mystic  and  awful 
forms,  the  thronged  masques,  the  shock 
of  surprise  and  terror,  fell  with  a  stunning 
force.  He  attered  a  sharp  cry  like  that  of 
a  snared  and  harmless  creature  of  the 
woods.  He  pressed  his  hands  before  his 
face  to  shut  out  the  bewildering  scene, 
and,  stepping  suddenly  backward  in  his 
surprise,  fell  from  the  edge  of  the  stone 
platform  some  eight  feet  to  the  ground. 
A  cry  of  natural  terror  broke  from  the 
victim,  —  in  place  of  the  death-song  she 
was  expected  to  utter,  —  and  she  left  her 
place  and  sprang  forward  towards  the 
steps.  The  crowd  of  masques  which  sur- 
rounded the  prince  came  forward  tumul- 
tuously,  and  a  hurried  movement  and  cry 
ran  through  the  people,  half  of  whom 
were  uncertain  whether  the  settled  order 
of  the  play  was  interrupted  or  not. 

Mark  lay  quite  still  on  the  grass,  his 
eyes  closed,  the  signorina  bending  over 


\ 


<S42 


LADY  ANNE  BARNARD  AT  THE  CAPE. 


him ;  but  the  herald,  who  was  in  fact 
director  of  the  play,  waved  his  wand  im- 
periously before  the  masques,  and  they 
fell  back. 

**  Resume  your  place,  signorina,*'  he 
said ;  "  this  part  of  the  play  has,  appar- 
ently, failed.  You  will  sing  your  death- 
song,  and  the  priest  will  oner  himself  in 
your  stead." 

But  the  girl  rose,  and,  forcing  her  way 
to  where  the  prince  stood,  threw  herself 
upon  his  arm. 

"Oh,  stop  it.  Highness,  stop  it!"  she 
cried,  amid  a  passion  of  sobs;  **he  is 
dying,  do  you  not  see !  ** 

Tlie  prince  removed  his  masque;  those 
around  him,  following  the  signal,  also  un- 
masqued,  and  the  play  was  stopped. 

J.  Henry  Shortuouse. 


From  Temple  Bar. 
LADY  ANNE  BARNARD  AT  THE  CAPE. 

While  the  present  and  future  of  our 
South  African  possessions  are  being  so 
much  discussed,  a  glance  at  the  past  of 
one  small  but  important  portion  of  them, 
taken  by  such  a  shrewd  observer  as  Lady 
Anne  Barnard,  may  have  some  interest. 

When  Lord  Macartney  went  out  as  first 
English  governor  of  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  in  1797,  he  took  with  him  Mr.  Bar- 
nard as  colonial  secretary,  and  Lady  Anne 
accompanied  them.  *'  I  was  supposed  to 
be  a  sort  of  binding  cement,"  she  says, 
'*  such,  I  presume,  as  the  castles  of  an- 
tiquity were  formerly  made  with :  light, 
strong,  and  powerful  towards  associating 
together  the  scattered  atoms  of  society." 
The  task  assigned  her  was  no  light  one, 
but  she  was  admirably  fitted  to  accom- 
plish it.  From  her  Fifeshire  birthplace 
she  had  brought  a  love  of  exercise  and 
adventure,  with  those  buoyant  spirits  for 
which  the  **  light  Lindsays "  were  pro- 
verbial ;  and  she  had  acquired  tact,  grace, 
and  knowledge  of  human  nature  in  the 
best  social  circles  of  Edinburgh  and  Lon- 
don :  add  boundless  kindness  of  heart 
and  ready  wit  to  these  qualifications,  and 
what  more  could  be  desired  in  a  vice- 
.♦•leen  ? 

The  Earl  of  Macartney's  life  had  been 
one  long  lesson  in  diplomacy,  from  the 
time  when,  at  twenty-seven,  on  his  return 
from  "making  the  grand  tour,"  he  was 
sent  as  envoy. extraordinary  to  the  em- 
press of  Russia.  The  offices  of  chief 
secretary  for  I  reland, "  governor  of  Toome 
Castle  "  (a  sinecure  worth  a  thousand  a 


year),  governor  of  the  island  of  Granada^ 
and  governor  of  Madras,  were  held  by 
him  in  swift  succession.  He  was  made 
ambassador  extraordinary  to  Pekin,  the 
first  time  England  attempted  to 'open  dip- 
lomatic relations  with  China ;  and  soon 
after  his  return  from  a  confidential  mis- 
sion to  Italy,  he  received  his  appointment 
to  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  Lady  Anne 
might  well  find  a  man  of  such  literally 
world-wide  experience  "one  of  the  best 
companions  she  ever  met,"  especially  as 
he  was  warmly  attached  to  her  husband. 
The  gentlemen  who  had  accompanied 
Lord  Macartney  on  his  other  embassies 
saw  his  manner  to  Mr.  Barnard  with  won- 
der. They  had  thought  the  earl  cold,  po- 
litical, and  invulnerable.  But,  says  Lady 
Anne,  "they  had  ne^er  tried  to  gain  his 
heart,  though  they  had  served  him  faith- 
fully." Mr.  Barnard,  like  his  wife,  had 
too  affectionate  and  genial  a  disposition 
to  maintain  cold  official  relations  towards 
any  one,  and  with  them  their  chief  so  un- 
bent that  they  found  in  his  society  "  ever- 
lasting entertainment  and  instruction  too 

—  when  we  had  him  to  ourselves."* 
The  new  governor  needed  all  his  savoir 

fain.  His  coming  had  been  held  as  a 
sort  of  bugbear  over  the  heads  of  the 
colonists,  every  unpleasant  new  law  being 
postponed  till  that  dreaded  period.  Sir 
James  Craig,  left  in  temporary  command 
after  our  capture  of  the  Cape,  was  anx- 
ious, Lady  Anne  was  informed,  to  figure 
as  the  protector  of  the  conquered  people 

—  and  the  protector  not  only  of  their 
honest  gains  but  of  every  imposition  they 
could  put  on  the  English  troops.  Wag- 
ons arriving  with  provisions  from  the 
interior  were  intercepted  at  daybreak  by 
the  burghers,  who,  buying  up  the  articles 
at  the  old  rate,  sold  them  to  the  English 
at  their  own  price.  This  sort  of  thing 
was  inconvenient,  of  course.  But  then, 
thought  Sir  James,  the  new  governor 
could  make  it  right.f 

This  much-expected  man  arrived  at  last. 
And  as  after  long  suspense  "to  know  the 
worst  becomes  a  sort  of  vile  happiness," 
his  Excellency's  arrival,  says  Lady  Anne, 
gave  the  Dutch  "that  sort  of  cold  bath 
which  at  once  shocks  the  frame  and  braces 
the  constitution." 

The  voyagers  were  favorably  impressed 
by  the  first  glimpse  of  their  future  home. 

*  Wraxall  calls  Lord  Macartney  *'a  man  of  unin^ 
peached  integrity,  elevated  views,  and  always  attentive 
to  the  great  public  interests  committed  to  his  care  ;  yet 
wanting  amenity  of  manners,  ductility,  and  powers  of 
conciliation."    (Posthumous  Memoirs!  vol.  i.,  p.  265.) 

t  *'  Remember,"  she  often  cautions  her  readers,  "I 
simply,  like  a  parrot,  repeat  what  1  have  beard.** 


LADY  ANNE  BARNARD  AT  THE  CAPE. 


543 


The  day  was  brilliant,  the  outline  of  the 
country  bold,  daring,  but  calm.  Cape 
Town  surprised  them  by  being  no  collec- 
tion of  rude  huts,  but  **  clean,  correct, 
and  respectable."  They  landed  on  May 
4th,  and  Lady  Anne  be<;an  to  revolve  in 
her  mind  plans  for  reconciling  the  Dutch 
to  the  sight  of  their  masters  **by  the  at- 
traction of  fiddles  and  French  horns." 
Before  this  could  be  attempted,  however, 
King  George's  new  subjects  had  to  take 
the  oath  of  allegiance ;  the  castle  gates 
were  thrown  open  every  morning,  and 
Lady  Anne  was  astonished  at  the  number 
of  well-fed,  rosy-cheeked  citizens,  with 
powdered  hair  and  black  suits,  who 
marched  up  in  pairs  to  see  the  king's  rep- 
resentative. 

After  the  burghers  came  the  boors, 
farmers  and  settlers  from  the  country, 
who  seemed  much  to  dislike  their  errand. 
*•  They  shook  hands  with  each  other,  but 
they  shook  their  heads  too,  in  a  manner 
that  said,  'There  is  no  help  for  it;  we 
must  swear,  for  they  are  the  strongest.' " 
The  size  of  these  "sulky  youths"  was 
enormous.  Most  of  them  were  upwards 
of  six  feet  high,  and  stout  in  proportion. 
They  wore  blue  cloth  suits  and  large  flat 
hats,  and  they  arrived  in  wagons,  which, 
true  to  the  thrifty  Dutch  nature,  were 
laden  with  merchandise  so  that  they  might 
do  a  day's  trading  after  presenting  them- 
selves at  the  Castle.  A  Hottentot  servant, 
carrying  his  master's  umbrella,  crept  be- 
hind each  countryman:  their  toilet  was 
exquisitely  simple,  consisting  of  a  piece 
of  leather  round  the  waist,  a  sheepskin 
over  the  shoulders,  and  sometimes  a  scar- 
let handkerchief  on  th^  head.  Lady  Anne 
thought  them  less  repulsive  than  report 
had  painted.  "The  expression  of  their 
eyes  is  sweet  and  inoffensive,"  she  says, 
'*  and  their  features  are  small  and  not  ill- 
shaped." 

A  ball  given  at  the  Government  House 
by  Sir  James  Craig  introduced  the  pol- 
ished part  of  Cape  society  to  Lord  Ma- 
cartney and  his  party. 

The  ball-room  was  lined  with  two  rows  of 
ladies,  all  tolerablv  well  dressed,  and  all  "mad 
in  white  muslin.'^ .  .  .  But  here  was  no  real 
beauty,  no  manner,  no  graces,  no  charms  — 
only  the  freshness  of  health,  and  a  vulgar 
smartness  accompanying  it,  which  spoke  the 
torch  of  Prometheus  animating  them  to  be  of 
mutton-tail.  They  danced  without  halting  a 
moment,  in  a  sort  of  pit-a-pat,  tingling  little 
step.  .  .  .  What  they  want  most  is  shoulders 
and  softness  of  manners.  The  term  "  a  Dutch 
doll  "  was  quite  explained  to  me  when  I  saw 
their  make  and  recollected  the  dolls  ;  but  what 
is  most  exceptionable  about  them  is  their  teeth 


and  the  size  of  their  feet  A  tradesman  in 
London,  hearing  they  were  very  large,  sent  a 
box  of  shoes  on  speculation,  which  alaiost  put 
the  colony  in  a  blaze,  so  angry  were  the  fair 
ones.  But  day  by  day  a  pair  were  sent  for  by 
a  slave  in  the  dark,  till  at  last  the  shoes  van- 
ished. 

Very  few  Dutchmen  attended  the  ball ; 
the  fiscal  (head  officer  of  justice),  presi- 
dent of  the  court,  and  others  in  public 
positions  only  appeared  and  vanished,  as 
though  almost  afraid  of  being  seen  there 
by  each  other,  though  they  professed  sat- 
isfaction with  the  state  of  affairs,  and  per- 
fect cordiality  towards  English  rule. 

When  the  first  rush  of  receptions  was 
over.  Lord  Macartney  assigned  to  Mr. 
Barnard  and  his  wife  a  little  country 
house  called  Paradise,  at  the  back  of  Ta- 
ble Mountain,  which  rose  three  thousand 
feet  above  it  — "spiral,  wooded,  and  pic- 
turesque." Before  the  house  stood  a  row 
of  fruit-laden  orange-trees ;  behind  it  lay 
a  well-stocked  garden  watered  by  a  moun- 
tain stream  ;  and  on  the  left  rose  a  grove 
of  fir-trees.*  But  appropriately  to  its 
name,  the  road  to  Paradise  was  hard  and 
difficult :  it  had  to  be  traversed  chiefly  on 
foot,  and  was  intersected  by  gullies  so 
deep  that  when  Lady  Anne  jumped  across 
them,  she  thought,  if  her  foot  had  slipped, 
she  would  have  found  herself  in  England. 

At  Paradise  Lady  Anne  inspected  or 
collected  many  curiosities  —  animal,  vege- 
table, and  mineral  —  some  of  which  greatly 
amused  Lord  Mornington,  when  he  vis- 
ited the  Cape  on  his  way  to  India.  There 
were  a  pair  of  secretary  birds,  who  strut- 
ted about  on  their  long  legs  "  with  the  air 
of  fine  gentlemen,"  but  were  particular 
about  always  sitting  down  to  dinner:  a 
sea  calf,  a  very  foolish  creature,  calf  as  to 
his  countenance  but  with  fins  for  feet» 
who  plunged  into  the  water  when  laughed 
at  for  waddling;  and  a  penguin,  "a  link 
between  fish  and  fowl,  as  the  calf  was  be- 
tween fish  and  beast,"  who  spent  half  her 
day  in  the  pond  with  the  calf>  and  half  in 
the  house  with  her  mistress,  looking  much 
like  an  old  lady  in  a  sacque^  with  long  ruf« 
fles.  For  the  baboons,  who  came  down 
in  marauding  parties  in  the  fruit  season. 
Lady  Anne  pleaded  in  vain.  The  gar- 
dener insisted  on  catching  and  whipping 
one  of  the  o£Eenders,  who  would  then  rua 
chattering  to  his  comrades  and  warn  them 
from  the  spot. 

In  the  vegetable  world,  among  things 
to  be  remembered  were  orange-trees  forty 

*  A  later  vUitor  (zSia),  says:  "We  wandered 
through  coppices  of  greenhouse  plants,  and  forced  our 
way  through  thickets  of  exotica." 


544 


LADY  ANNE  BARNARD  AT  THE  CAPE. 


feet  high  and  nine  in  circumference;  a 
most  useful  plant  which,  accordin«;  to  the 
gardener,  furnished  one  kind  of  physic 
when  scraped  upwards  and  another  when 
scraped  downwards ;  the  sugar-tree,  whose 
lovely  pink  blossoms  when  boiled  produce 
a  syrup  like  honey,  with  which  all  the 
Cape  preserves  were  made ;  a  n^agical 
rose-tree  bearing  seven  different  kinds  of 
roses  which  (it  was  said)  blossomed  every 
day  exactly  at  four  o'clock ;  and  a  fearful 
^'star-plant,**  yellow,  and  spotted  like  a 
leopard  skin,  with  a  crop  of  glossy  brown 
hair  growing  over  it,  **  at  once  handsome 
and  horrible;"  it  crawled  along  the 
ground  and  had  fat  green  leaves.  Of  the 
seeds  of  the  castor-oil  tree,  which  exactly 
resemble  beads,  Lady  Anne  made  some 
necklaces  for  Queen  Charlotte,  who  ac- 
cepted them  with  thanks  to  the  donor  for 
preparing  them  for  external  application. 
Then  how  useful  was  the  paint-stone,  car- 
rying in  its  heart  a  quantity  of  powder,  of 
every  color  but  green,  so  finely  ground 
that  it  only  required  mixing  with  oil  to  be 
ready  for  use,  and  employed  by  the  boors 
on  their  houses,  carts,  etc. 

Lady  Anne  thought  the  Cape  grapes 
delicious,  and  the  wine  made  from  them 
very  good,  but  she  could  not  persuade  her 
English  guests  to  be  of  the  same  opinion, 
probably  because  they  knew  it  could  be 
bought  for  sixpence  a  bottle.  On  one 
occasion  some  Steine  wine  which  had 
been  pronounced  detestable  was  sent  to 
table  as  a  fine  old  wine  of  Lord  Macart- 
ney's, and  eagerly  drunk  by  the  very  men 
who  had  previously  abused  it.  **Dey  haf 
not  got  my  lord's  hock,  my  lady !  "  trium- 
phantly whispered  Mr.  Barnard's  servant. 
**  Dey  are  socking  in  de  kitchen  wines, 
and  I  dare  not  tell  'em  now,  for  they  will 
fancy  dey  are  poisoned ! " 

Picnics,  excursions,  and  friendly  visits 
to  neighboring  colonists,  sped  the  summer 
away.  When  these  expeditions  were 
made  on  foot  **  all  the  gentlemen  envied 
the  hraave  vrouw  the  lightness  of  her 
heels,  the  effect  perhaps  of  the  lightness 
of  her  heart."  One  of  their  visits  was  to 
Stellenbosch,  the  residence  of  the  Land- 
rost  of  the  district — a  fine  house,  in  a 

Cretty  village  of  milk-white  houses  shaded 
y  groves  of  oaks  measuring'from  twelve 
to  thirteen  feet  round.  There  was  a 
church,  and  there  were  plenty  of  slaves, 
but  no  manufactures,  and  no  cultivation. 
The  luxuriance  of  nature  did  all  and  more 
than  all  the  colonists  required,  with,  gen- 
erally speaking,  a  minimum  of  exertion  on 
their  part.  From  the  Landrost*s  house 
they  went  to  that  of  the  clergyman,  a  car- 


riage being  sent  after  them  for  their  use. 
Lady  Anne  was  making  some  drawings 
which  she  feared  detained  this  equipage 
too  long. 

**  Do  not  mind,"  said  Mr.  Barnard,  lauphing, 
*'it  is  used  to  it  —  see  whose  it  lately  was!** 
How  were  we  entertained,  to  find  it  was  .  ctti- 
ally  that  of  "old  Q."  —  that  weary  vis  o -vis 
which  had  been  in  the  habit  of  waiting' (or  the 
last  forty  years  at  the  door  of  Brookes's  C  ub  I 
There  was  the  ducal  coronet,  there  were  six 
horses  to  draw  it  (an  apology  from  the  Linr^ost 
for  not  sending  ei^ht),  there  was  a  Hottentot 
coachman  clad  in  his  native  charms  —  and  well 
could  he  guide  his  beasts. 

Sic  transit  j^iona  mundt» 

Meantime,  Lord  Macartney,  acting  oa 
his  favorite  maxim,  "To  be  respected  one 
must  begin  with  respecting,"  was  endeav- 
oring to  conciliate  the  better  class  o£ 
burghers.  And  Lady  Anne,  when  at  the 
Castle,  began  her  course  of  civilization  by 
means  of  balls  and  musical  parties.  She 
had  some  amicable  contests  with  the 
fiscal,  who  wished  her  only  to  invite  "true 
friends,"  whereas  she  desired  to  win  over 
the  disaffected.  The  result  was  that  she 
secured  plenty  of  Dutch  ladies  to  act  as 
partners  for  "the  juvenile  part  of  the 
army  and  navy,"  though  their  brothers 
and  husbands  preferred  a  quiet  pipe  oa 
the  stoop  to  cutting  capers  in  a  hot  room. 

As  to  the  men  [says  Lady  Anne,  provoked 
at  their  immovability]  the  only  amusements 
that  interest  them  seem  to  be  sales,  ceremo- 
nials, and  funerals.  ...  A  splendid  funeral  is 
the  joy  of  their  lives,  nor  are  youth  and  beauty 
so  attractive  in  a  wife  as  being  a  steady  house- 
keeper while  she  lives,  and  having  so  long  a 
pedigree  as  to  be  envied  for  it  at  her  death, 
every  relation  being  invited  by  the  public  crier 
to  the  funeral,  in  whatever  part  of  the  globe  the 
relation  happens  to  be. 

The  position  of  public  affairs  was  not 
calculated  to  sweeten  the  tempers  or  raise 
the  spirits  of  the  colonists.  "  Father- 
land" was  being  goaded  by  the  French 
into  unwilling  conflict  with  England,  and 
the  Dutch  fleet  was  overwhelmed  by  the 
English  squadron. 

When  Mr.  Barnard  —  "the  poor  jrrr^- 
tarins  —  had  been  screwed  to  his  desk 
for  a  whole  twelvemonth,"  he  was  offered 
a  month's  holiday,  and  although  it  was 
again  May,  "the  Cape  November,"  and 
the  beginning  of  the  rainy  season,  he  and 
Lady  Anne  thought  the  best  use  they 
could  make  of  it  was  to  take  a  trip  to  the 
interior.  They  were  accompanied  by 
their  cousin  John  Dalrymple,  a  young 
lady  called  "Jane,"  Mr.  Barnard's  servant, 
Pawell,  a  little  black  boy,  two  slaves,  and 


LADY  ANNE  BARNARD  AT  THE  CAPE. 


S4S 


a  Hottentot.  They  travelled  in  an  eight- 
horse  wagon,  with  some  riding-horses  fol- 
lowing. The  wagon,  crammed,  besides 
its  passengers,  with  provisions,  bedding, 
candles,  guns,  basricets,  and  extra  gar- 
ments, must  have  looked  like  an  **all 
sorts"  shop  on  wheels,  or  a  ''cheap 
Jack**  establishment.  But  with  such  a 
quartette  as  Lady  Anne  and  her  husband, 
a  gay  youns:  cornet  and  a  beautiful  girl, 
all  was  enjoyment,  and  the  more  extraor- 
dinary their  experiences  were,  the  better 
they  were  pleased.  The  ladies,  indeed, 
were  startled  at  finding  that  the  guns 
slung  above  their  heads  were  ready 
loaded ;  but  their  nerves  stood  even  this 
test  bravely. 

At  a  wealthy  colonist's,  where  they 
stopped  to  dine,  a  child  of  eighteen 
months  was  brought  in,  so  heavy  that  no 
one  could  lift  it  from  the  ground.  "  Ah  !  " 
said  the  happy  mother,  '*what  would  mi 
i^(futi/gh'c  for  such  an  one  ?"  "  I  thouf^hty^ 
says  Lady  Anne,  "  that  like  Solomon  I 
should  be  tempted  to  make  two  of  it." 
The  greatest  pride  of  the  Dutch  was  in 
the  size  and  number  of  their  children. 

At  many  points  of  their  journey  they 
bad  to  hire  oxen,  which  dragged  them  so 
easily  up  such  tremendous  heights,  that 
Lady  Anne  almost  thought  they  could 
"pull  us  up  to  heaven,  like  Elijah.''  All 
went  well  till  they  got  belated  —  night  in- 
stantly follows  sunset  in  those  regions; 
in  the  darkness  they  drew  to  the  edge  of 
a  bank.  Lady  Anne  felt  the  wheel  sink- 
ing on  her  side.  **  Down  we  went  like  a 
mountain,  and  everything  in  the  world 
was  above  me  ! "  Fortunately  no  one  was 
seriously  hurt. 

Jane  sat  on  a  stone,  the  statue  of  patience, 
condoling  with  herself  over  the  bruises  of  her 
white  marble  arm,  the  rest  of  the  figure  in  a 
state  of  perfect  preservation  in  the  saddest, 
sweetest  sense  of  the  word,  as  the  cask  of  pre- 
served ginger  had  its  top  knocked  off  in  the 
fall  and  poured  its  contents  in  at  Jane*s  neck 
and  out  at  her  toe. 

The  stupendous  hills  of  dazzling  white 
sand,  with  innumerable  bucks  racing  over 
them,  gave  a  strange  charm  to  the  scenery. 
*' All  appeared  to  be  in  deep  snow,  while 
the  air  had  the  charm  of  summer  without 
its  oppressive  heat."  At  the  "Govern- 
ment Baths,"  a  sort  of  Cape  Matlock, 
Lady  Anne  saw  her  first  ostriches;  they 
were  only  eight  months  old,  but  their  long 
necks  reached  four  feet  above  the  horses* 
backs.  One  of  them  was  offered  two 
oranges,  the  second  of  which  stuck  in  its 
throat,  so  it  instantly  picked  up  a  stone 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  22 7 1 


nearly  as  large  and  swallowed  that,  to 
hammer  the  orange  down. 

The  spot  which  most  interested  the 
Barnards  during  this  tour  was  the  famous 
settlement  of  the  Moravian  Fathers, 
which  they  knew  they  must  be  approach- 
ing long  before  it  came  in  sight,  from  the 
superior  cultivation  of  the  land,  the  herds 
of  cattle  quietly  grazing,  and  the  inde- 
scribable look  of  general  peace  and  pros- 
perity  —  "the  manna  of  the  Almighty 
showered  on  his  children."  At  that  time, 
1798,  the  fathers  had  gathered  round 
them  three  hundred  Hottentots,  glad  to 
escape  from  the  selfish  oppression  of  the 
boors  (who  in  revenge  for  losing  some  of 
their  slaves  had  fired  at  the  fathers  with 
poisonediarrowsX  and  learn  simple  trades, 
and  the  cultivation  of  their  'little  gardens, 
from  the  gentle,  kind-hearted  missiona- 
ries.  The  religious  instruction  the  na- 
tives delighted  in,  joining  admirably  in 
the  hymns,  and  listening  with  tears  to  a 
short  discourse  addressed  by  one  father 
to  his  lie^te  vriende.  Lady  Anne,  with 
her  hereditary  taste  for  agriculture,  went 
warmly  into  the  subject  of  their  gardens 
and  plantations,  advising  them  to  grow 
rice  and  potatoes,  and  pointing  out  spots 
suitable  for  orange-trees  and  vines.  "  We 
agreed  with  and  understood  each  other,'* 
she  says,  "  which  I  was  vain  of,  as  I  doubt 
if  my  whole  stock  of  Dutch  amounts  to 
two  dozen  words." 

Shooting-parties  and  fishing-parties,  on 
which  the  game  and  fish  were  so  novel 
and  abundant  as  to  bewilder  the  sports- 
men, occupied  niany  adventurous  days, 
and  Lady  Anne*s  pencil  was  as  busy  as 
her  husband's  gun.  One  Dutch  beautv 
only  could  she  discover  —  "very  hanci- 
some,  and  weighing  eighteen  stone.  She 
was  the  picture  of  the  goddess  Ceres,  a 
goddess  more  of  the  earth  than  the  heav- 
ens. Her  child  of  fourteen  months 
walked  and  talked,  and  was  so  heavy  that 
I  did  not  pretend  to  lift  it."  All  the  set- 
tlers were  hospitable  and  friendly  in  a 
stolid,  silent  fashion,  and  less  hostile  to 
the  English  government  than  were  the 
townspeople. 

Yet  all  [says  Lady  Anne]  benefit  by  it,  ex- 
cept a  few  monopolists.  .  .  .  The  President  of 
the  Court  of  Justice  complains  that  he  is  un- 
done for  want  of  fees,  there  being  now  but  one 
bankruptcy  where  there  used  to  be  a  hundred 
.  .  .  and  the  hangman  complains  that  he  has 
nothing  to  do.  Very  flattering  testimony  to 
our  Governor's  jurisdiction. 

This  rule,  however  excellent,  was  not 
destined  to  be  a  long  one.    The  disafifect- 


546 


WILL   NORWAY   BECOME   A   REPUBLIC? 


'  ed  townspeople  had  always  foreseen  that 
the  conclusion  of  the  war  would  transfer 
them  either  to  France  or  Holland ;  and 
when,  on  the  Peace  of  Amiens,  the  Cape 
was  restored  to  the  Dutch,  Lady  Anne 
returned  to  England,  soon  followed  by  her 
husband.  The  passages  from  her  corre- 
spondence and  journals  added  by  the  late 
Earl  of  Crawford  to  his  *•  Lives  of  the 
Lindsays,"  give  by  far  the  livefiest  pic- 
tures left  to  Us  of  that  short  episode  in 
Cape  history  —  its  first  occupation  by  the 
English. 


From  The  National  Review. 
WILL  NORWAY  BECOME  A  REPUBLIC? 

In  order  to  understand  the  existing 
crisis  between  the  two  powers  in  the 
State  in  Norway,  it  is  necessary  to  trace 
jt  to  its  origin. 

By  the  treaty  of  Kiel,  dated  January 
14th,  1814,  Frederic  VI.  of  Denmark  was 
compelled  by  Great  Britain  and  Sweden, 
allied  against  Napoleon,  to  cede  Norway 
as  a  province  to  the  latter  power,  which 
by  this  transaction  was  to  be  recompensed 
for  the  loss  of  Finland.  By  a  public 
manifesto  the  Danish  king  informed  the 
Norwegians  that  the  forced  union  with 
Denmark,  to  which  Norway  had  been 
doomed  for  four  hundred  and  thirty-four 
years,  was  at  an  end,  but  that  a  brilliant 
future,  no  doubt,  awaited  her  people  by 
exchanging  a  Danish  master  for  a  Swed- 
ish, and  recommended  them  obedience. 
Against  this  decision  the  Norwegians 
rose  in  arms.  It  was  not  natural  that  the 
proud  Norsemen,  who  could  boast  of  hav- 
ing been  a  nation  at  a  period  when  the 
Swedes  were  hardly  more  than  squatters 
in  their  land,  and  whose  battle-cry  had 
been  heard  in  every  quarter  of  the  then 
known  world,  who  had  sent  their  Jarls  to 
redeem  the  Holy  Land,  who  had  planted 
theirstandards  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic  five  hundred  years  before  Colum- 
bus was  born,  and  who  had  founded  Nor- 
mandy, the  mightiest  and  most  civilized 
state  in  the  Europe  of  that  age,  should 
tacitly  consent  to  be  the  suffering  party 
in  a  transaction  which  resembled  the 
**  selling  up  "  of  a  bankrupt  slave-owner. 
From  Lindesnoes  to  Nordkap  every  roan 
stood  to  arms.  The  martial  spirit  of  the 
nation  was  fully  taken  advantage  of  by 
the  heir  to  the  Danish  throne,  Prince 
Christian  Fredrik,  who,  on  arriving  in 
Christiania  to  acquaint  the  Norwegians 
with  the  decision  of  his  father,  encour- 


aged the  people  to  resist  the  treaty  of 
Kiel.  This  prince,  whose  integrity  and 
honest  character  were  entirely  at  variance 
with  that  of  his  predecessors  on  the  throne, 
convened  a  congress  <at  Eidsvold,  April 
loth,  1814,  and  there  met  one  hundred 
and  twelve  representatives,  the  flower  of 
the  nation's  intelligence:  the  proud  dem* 
onstration  of  its  antiquity.  From  the  loth 
of  April  to  the  19th  of  May  these  sat  in 
council,  and  by  the  17th  of  that  month 
they  had  framed  Norges  Grundlov^  a  Con- 
stitution which  the  Norwegians  justly 
boast  of  as  making  them  the  freest  among 
nations.  This  is  the  treasure  which  the 
Storthing  labors  to  destroy. 

The  Danish  Prince  Christian  was  sub- 
sequently, by  a  somewhat  injudicious  de- 
cision, elected  king  of  Norway,  which  he 
continued  to  be  until  the  union  with  Swe- 
den on  November  the  4th,  of  the  same 
year,  the  intervening  months  being  the 
only  period  during  which  Norway  has 
been  a  separate^tate  since  1299. 

In  the  mean  time,  Marshal  Bernadotte, 
elected  as  the  Swedish  prince  regent, 
Carl  Johan,  leaving  the  allied  armies  to 
deal  with  Napoleon,  marched  into  Nor- 
way at  the  head  of  a  Swedish  army  to 
enforce  the  treaty  of  Kiel.  The  Norwe- 
gians defended  themselves  with  great  in- 
trepidity against  one  of  the  finest  and 
most  victorious  armies  of  the  day,  and, 
after  a  number  of  indecisive  engagements, 
Carl  Johan,  on  behalf  of  the  Swedish  gov- 
ernment, offered  to  renounce  the  claims 
to  which  the  treaty  of  Kiel  might  entitle 
them,  and,  what  was  still  more  important, 
to  accept  the  Constitution  of  Eidsvold. 
A  preliminary  conference  was  held  at 
Moss,  King  Christian  resigned,  and  even- 
tually an  extraordinary  Storthing  —  the 
first  Norwegian  Parliament  —  met  in 
Christiania  in  October,  and  decided  to  es- 
tablish the  union  of  Norway  and  Sweden. 
On  the  loth  of  November,  1814,  the  Swe- 
dish prince  regent  took  the  oath  as  a 
Norwegian  citizen  and  subscribed  to  the 
Constitution  of  Eidsvold. 

Thus  ended  the  struggle  between  the 
descendants  of  the  vikings  and  the  allied 
powers  of  Europe. 

From  the.jear  1814  to  1824  Norway  has 
only  a  record  of  progress  and  prosperity 
to  show.  To  form  a  true  basis  for  the 
social  freedom  and  stability  of  the  new- 
fledged  nation  a  National  Bank  was  found- 
ed in  Throndhjem ;  the  standing  army,  to 
lighten  the  burthen  of  the  tax-payers,  was 
reduced  to  twelve  thousand  men ;  benefi- 
cent laws  were  passed  to  promote  trade 
and  industry,  general  education  was  at- 


WILL  NORWAY   BECOME   A   REPUBLIC? 


S47 


tended  to,  arts  and  sciences  were  encour- 
a6[ed,  and  after  a  decade  of  independence, 
Norway  could  boast  of  a  social  happiness 
and  a  political  freedom  which  were  the 
envy  of  every  civilized  power,  and  which 
fully  demonstrated  the  capacity  of  the 
Norse  race  for  self-government. 

In  the  vear  1821  the  Storthing  decided, 
ID  accoroance  with  two  previous  resolu- 
tions {vide  the  suspensive  veto)  to  abolish 
aristocracy.  The  king,  Carl  XIII.  of 
Sddermanland,  forced  by  the  representa- 
tions of  Prussia  and  Russia,  protested, 
sent  a  Swedish  squadron  of  men-of-war  to 
Christiania  harbor,  and  assembled  an 
army  of  Swedish  and  Norwegian  soldiers 
in  the  capital,  in  order  to  intimidate  the 
Storthing;  but  the  demonstration  was  of 
no  avail,  for,  with  the  wirdows  of  the 
House  vibrating  with  theheavy  cannonade 
from  the  fleet  and  army,  the  Norwegian 
legislators  unanimously  recorded  their 
«•  Ayes,"  and  hereditary  distinctions  were 
forever  abolished  in  the  kingdom  of  Nor- 
way. 

The  Norwegian  Constitution,  the  sa- 
cred compact  between  king  and  subjects 
to  which  both  have  sworn  fealty,  enacts, 
that  Norway  shall  be  a  free  and  indepen- 
dent kingdom,  the  form  of  government 
limited  monarchy,  and  that  the  country 
shall  be  united  with  Sweden  under  the 
same  king. 

The  executive  power  (§3)  rests  with 
the  king,  who  appoints  all  servants  of 
State  —  civil  as  well  as  military — makes 
war  and  concludes  peace,  enters  into  trea- 
ties with  foreign  powers,  etc.  The  king 
chooses  his  own  advisers^  /.^.,  ministers 
"(§12) — eleven  —  of  whom  three  always 
reside  in  Stockholm,  where  the  king  also 
is  to  reside.  He  can  appoint  his  eldest 
son  viceroy  of  Norway,  at  the  head  of  the 
ministry  in  Christiania;  he  is  himself 
bound  by  the  Constitution  to  spend  three 
months  of  the  year  in  Norway.  The  min- 
isters, as  the  king's  own  chosen  council- 
lors and  servants,  have  no  seat  in  the 
Legislative  Assembly,  and  cannot  be 
called  before  the  House,  collectively,  for 
any  explanation  of  whatever  nature. 

The  legislative  power  (§49),  on  the 
other  hand,  rests  with  the  National  As- 
sembly, the  Storthing (///^r.  Great  Court). 
This  IS  elected  indirectly.  I  n  order  to  have 
a  vote  for  the  members  of  the  Storthing, 
it  is  necessary  to  be  twenty-five  years  of 
age,  not  to  have  offended  against  the  law, 
to  have  resided  in  the  country  for  five 
years  previously,  to  be,  or  to  have  been,  a 
servant  of  the  crown,  and  either  to  own 
fjtatriculated  {rtg\5itTtd)  land  in  the  coun- 


try, or  to  be  a  town  citizen  owning  prop- 
erty  of  the  value  of  Kr.  600  C£33).  No 
foreigner  can  vote  for  the  Storthing,  while 
voters  who  have  been  bankrupt  or  sold 
their  votes  are  disqualified.  The  mem- 
bers of  the  Storthing,  who  must  be  resi- 
dent in  their  constituency,  are  elected  by 
the  Valgmcend  (electors),  nominated  by 
the  voters,  and  number  one  hundred  and 
fourteen  —  thirty-eight  representatives  for 
towns  and  boroughs,  and  seventy-six  for 
the  counties  —  and  are  elected  for  three 
years.  When  the  Storthing  has  met,  the 
members  choose  three-fourths  of  their 
number  for  the  Odelsthing  and  one-fourth 
for  iht  Lagthing,  and  every  bill  is  first 
considered  in  tKe  Odelsthing,  then  in  the 
Lagthing,  and  if  agreed  to  in  both,  sent 
to  the  king  for  sanction.  Should  the 
two  Things  not  agree,  both  meet  collec- 
tively as  a  Storthing,  in  which  the  meas- 
ure is  then  decided.  The  Odelsthing  and 
the  Lagthing  are,  in  fact,  nothing  more 
than  two  "grand  committees,"  neither  of 
which  has  a  single  prerogative  in  prefer- 
ence to  the  other.  There  is  no  upper  or 
second  chamber,  a  feature  which  should 
never  be  lost  sight  of  in  this  matter.  The 
president  of  the  Thing  has  the  privi- 
leges of  the  "speaker,"  but  there  is  no 
cloture.  The  Storthing  meets  in  Chris- 
tiania every  February,  and  sits  for  two 
calendar  months,  unless  it  receives  the 
king's  permission  to  do  so  for  a  longer 
term.  During  this  period  the  members 
receive  Kr.  12  a  day,  while  their  travelling 
expenses  from  home  and  back  are  paid  by 
the  crown.  The  functions  of  the  Storth- 
ing, are,  according  to  the  Constitution,  as 
follows :  To  frame  the  laws,  control  the 
finances  of  the  country  and  regulate  the 
entire  expenditure,  take  up  loans,  ex- 
amine the  books  of  the  exchequer,  admin- 
ister the  Bank  of  Norway,  etc.  From 
these  enactments  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
Constitution,  the  compact  signed  by  king 
and  people,  clearly  distinguishes  between 
the  prerogatives  of  the  two  bodies  in  the 
State. 

In  one  important  particular  the  consti- 
tution of  Norway  diners  from  those  of  all 
other  countries,  viz.,  by  the  suspensive 
veto.  Thus,  if  a  bill  passes  unaltered 
three  consecutive  Storthings,  it  becomes 
law  without  the  king's  sanction.  This 
clause  is  the  cause  of  the  present  politi- 
cal crisis  in  Norway.  The  Constitution 
states,  in  plain  words,  that  the  king  has 
no  absolute  veto  but  only  the  suspensive 
veto.  The  republicans  now  in  the  Storth- 
ing would  apply  this  rule  to  amendments 
of  the  Constitution,  and  thereby  claim 


WILL  NORWAY   BECOME   A   REPUBLIC? 


548  ' 

that  they  alone  are  entitled  to  alter,  at 
will,  the  clauses  of  the  Constitution  — 
subscribed  to  by  both  —  to  overrule  all 
government  decisions,  and  consequently, 
if  they  should  think  fit,  may  declare 
**that  it  is  the  desire  of  this  Assembly 
that  Norway  henceforth  be  a  republic." 

Such  a  construction  of  the  veto  is,  of 
course,  inadmissible  in  any  limited  mon- 
archy where  there  is  no  second  chamber; 
it  is,  in  fact,  contrary  to  every  principle  of 
constitutional  government,  and  is  entirely 
opposed  to  the  last  clause  (§  112)  of  the 
Constitution,  which  distinctly  states  that 
both  king  and  Storthing  must  agree  to 
amend  any  clause  of  the  same,  a  principle 
in  the  Constitution  which  is  furthermore 
enacted  beyond  doubt  by  clause  82,  which 
sets  forth  the  only  six  instances  in  which 
the  king's  veto  is  not  required. 

I  will  now  proceed  to  sketch  the  history 
of  the  opposition  in  Norway. 

During  the  first  twenty  years  of  Nor- 
way's resurrection,  when  a  rapid  and 
steady  progress  was  made  in  all  branches 
of  society  and  commerce,  the  Storthings 
had  chiefly  been  composed  of  members 
of  the  bureaucracy  {Embcdsmcend)^  more 
than  half  of  the  members  belonging  to 
this  class,  and  only  from  twenty  to  thirty 
to  the  peasant  class.  But  in  the  year 
1833,  there  appeared  for  the  first  time  in 
the  House  a  man  who  formed  the  first 
opposition  in  Norway.  This  man  was 
Ole  Gabriel  Ueland,  a  peasant  pure  and 
simple.  He  was  self-educated,  but  of  a 
shrewd  and  persevering  disposition,  who 
saw  that  it  bad  been  the  intention  of  the 
framers  of  the  Constitution  to  place  the 
legislative  Jjower,  in  a  country  where  there 
were  no  landlords,  in  the  hands  of  the 
peasants,  and  round  his  standard  rallied 
all  the  rural  representatives  with  the  cry, 
"Down  with  the  bureaucracy,"  "Re- 
trenchment!" "The  Storthing  for  the 
peasants,"  etc.  At  first  the  bureaucracy, 
which  was  formed  of  some  of  the  most 
talented  and  intelligent  men  in  the  coun- 
try, and  far  superior  to  the  peasant  party 
in  education  and  natural  gifts,  suffered 
but  little  by  the  onslaught,  but  by  degrees 
their  number  decreased,  mainly  owing  to 
a  deplorable  objection  to  face  the  vulgar, 
and  very  often  coarse,  attacks  of  the  peas- 
ants, who  in  debate  returned  vituperation 
for  satire;  so  when  the  Storthing  met  in 
185 1,  there  were  only  twenty-five  members 
representing  this  class,  while  the  peasant 
party  numbered  forty-three.    The  Ueland 

Earty  described  its  policy  as  "  Liberal," 
ut  its  legislation  savored  of  a  narrow- 
mindedness  and  selfishness  hardly  con- 


sistent with  this  term.  In  support  of  this 
I  may  mention  their  attempt,  in  1845,  ^o 
exclude  all  Jews  from  the  country;  ia 
fact,  it  would  more  fitly  apply  to  the 
bureaucracy  of  the  day  than  to  the  peas- 
ant party.  Still,  Ueland  and  his  party 
were  strictly  constitutional^  and  had  as 
little  idea  of  disputing  the  king's  absolute 
veto  in  amendments  of  the  Constitution 
as  the  republicans  of  the  present  day 
have  of  respecting  it.  But  in  185 1  there 
arose  in  the  Storthing  a  man,  who  was  to 
form  a  far  stronger  party  than  Ueland, 
one  Johan  Sverdrup,  the  present  leader 
of  the  republicans  in  Norway,  and  for 
some  years  past  president  of  the  Storth- 
ing. 

Sverdrup  began  life  as  a  solicitor  in  the 
little  town  of  Laurvig,  came  of  a  good 
family,  and  was  fairly  educated ;  but  his 
ambition  soon  spurred  him  to  forsake  the 
dull  but  respectable  profession  of  a  lawyer 
for  the  more  exciting  career  of  a  political 
demagogue.  While  Ueland's  idea  had 
been  to  obtain  for  his  class,  by  constitu- 
tional means,  that  just  share  of  the  legis- 
lation of  the  country  which  belonged  to 
the  owners  of  the  soil,  Sverdrup's  dream 
was  to  see  Norway  governed  by  a  majority 
in  the  Storthing,  which  should  establish 
and  disestablish  ministries,  appoint  their 
tools  to  the  offices  of  State,  and  the  king 
a  puppet  merely  countersigning  their  de- 
cisions. This  was  Sverdrup's  idea  of  a 
true  form  of  government  —  government 
by  the  " sovereign  people"  —  and  at  the 
head  of  such  a  majority — himself.  Ue- 
land was  a  Constitutionalist,  Sverdrup  is  a 
republican.  Although  differing  so  much 
in  their  aims,  Sverdrup  and  Ueland  formed' 
an  alliance  against  their  common  enemy, 
the  upper  class,  the  former  naturally  tak- 
ing good  care  to  conceal  his  ultimate  in- 
tentions from  the  peasant  party,  which 
would  have  abhorred  his  principles.  For 
this  reason,  Sverdrup  voted  in  all  Storth- 
ings, up  to  that  of  i860,  against  the  ad- 
mission of  the  ministers  to  the  debates, 
but  in  that  year,  when  the  party  he  had 
formed  was  servile  enough  and  could  not 
do  without  him  as  a  leader,  he  spoke 
warmly  in  favor  of  the  change  in  the  Con- 
stitution mentioned  above,  and  expressed 
the  doctrine  "  that  power  in  a  well  organ'- 
ized  State  should  only  be  in  one  hand,'* 
viz.,  his  own. 

There  has,  besides  these  two  leaders, 
been  a  man  in  the  Storthing  for  many 
years  who,  although  without  a  party,  has 
exercised  an  influence  on  the  bulk  of  the 
population  in  Norway,  hardly  equalled  by 
any  in  this  century.     His  name  is  Sorea 


WILL   NORWAY   BECOME   A   REPUBLIC? 


549 


Jaaboek.  His  theories  are  social-demo- 
cratic. According  to  him,  there  should 
be  equality  not  only  of  wealth  among  the 
members  of  a  properly  constituted  com- 
munity, but  no  one  individual  should  re- 
ceive a  larger  share  of  education  than 
another;  in  fact,  education  of  any  sort, 
beyond  its  mere  rudiments,  is  detrimental. 
The  University  and  all  "higher"  schools 
should  be  abolished,  as  well  as  all  religion. 
The  "people,"  as  represented  by  the  ma- 
jority in  the  Storthing,  should  be  "sover- 
eign." His  tenets  are  borrowed  from  the 
writings  of  Saint  Simon,  Carl  marx,  and 
Lassaile ;  they  have,  I  regret  to  say,  been 
accepted  with  great  favor  by  the  peas- 
ants, and  have  even  been  erected  into  a 
creed  under  the  name  of  yaahcekianisme^ 
while  his  late  orgai;,  the  Folketidende^  the 
**  people's  journal,"  had  a  larger  circula- 
tion than  any  journal  in  Norway.  Sver- 
drup  and  Jaaboek,  whose  aims  are  so  dif- 
ferent, have  one  idea  in  common,  viz.,  the 
abolition  of  the  monarchy,  and  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  Norwegian  republic.  Hence 
their  alliance  :  they  both  mistrust  one 
another,  but  the  common  enemy,  settled 
government,  unites  them. 

I  have  now  reached  the  year  187 1,  and 
of  the  alterations  in  the  Constitution  down 
to  this  period,  I  may  name,  as  of  most 
irnportance,  the  change  from  triennial  to 
yearly  Storthings,  which  on  being  intro- 
duced by  Sverdrup  in  i860  was  thrown 
out,  but  when  proposed  by  the  govern- 
ment in  1869  was'  accepted.  Here  Sver- 
drup and  his  party  gained  a  victory;  but 
I  must,  in  passing,  call  attention  to  the 
fact  that,  on  this  as  on  all  previous  occa- 
sions, the  king's  absolute  veto  in  amend- 
fnents  of  the  constitution  was  uncondi- 
tionally admitted  by  the  Storthing. 

In  1871  the  opposition  in  the  Storthing 
was  far  differently  constituted  from  that 
in  any  previous  year.  Ueland  was  dead, 
Sverdrup  was  omnipotent.  The  party 
was  now  made  up  of  peasants,  but  not  of 
the  old  venerable  Norse  stock  which  had 
fought  under  Ueland's  banner :  they  were 
merely  landowners  in  name,  not  in  reality, 
and  along  with  these  there  mustered,  for 
the  first  time,  a  number  of  Sverdrup's 
nominees,  persons  who  took  to  politics 
for  a  living,  and  anxious  to  obtain  the  ap* 
pointments  which  remain  in  the  hands  of 
the  Storthing.  In  this  session  Sverdrup 
could  count  on  eighty  followers  against 
the  government.  The  Conservatives  were 
led  by  Anton  Martin  Schweigaard,  the 
greatest  politician  and  statesman  Norway 
has  hitherto  produced,  and  as  long  as 
be  was  alive  be  exercised  an  influence 


on  the  opposition  only  realized  after  his 
death. 

As  I  have  already  stated,  the  Norwe- 
gian Constitution  stipulates  (§  12)  that  the 
king  chooses  his  own  advisers,  who  have 
no  seat  in  the  Storthing,  and  from  the 
very  outset  of  Sverdrup*s  parliamentary 
career  it  has  been  his  aim  to  obtain  the 
admission  of  these  to  the  debates  of  the 
House.  How  could  his  ideas  of  a  true 
"government  by  the  people,"  with  him- 
self at  their  head,  be  realized  without  it? 
But  in  his  earliest  days,  while  in  partner- 
ship with  Ueland,  he  carefully  concealed 
his  views  on  the  subject,  and  spoke  and 
voted  against  the  measure  whenever  pro- 
posed. He  saw  clearly  that  this  was  a 
change  in 'the  spirit  ancf  tenor  of  the  Con- 
stitution which  its  framers  had  never 
intended,  and  which,  therefore,  the  Con- 
servative peasant  party  would  never  per- 
mit. In  i860,  Sverdrup  felt,  however, 
strong  enough  to  throw  off  the  mask,  and 
speak  in  favor  of  their  admittance.  In 
nine  subsequent  Storthings  the  bill  for 
altering  the  clause  had  been  introduced 
by  the  republicans,  and  although  their 
measure  has  gained  a  larger  majority  year 
by  year  —  in  1880,  ninety-three  voted  for 
and  twenty  against  it  —  the  king  has  as 
often  refused  to  sanction  the  same,  and  I 
will  explain  why.  According  to  the  re- 
publican idea  of  a  properly  constituted 
"government  by  the  people,*' as  proposed 
by  their  bill  the  ministers  shall  have  no 
seat  in  the  House ^  neither  be  allowed  to 
take  part  in  the  debates ^  but  simply  be 
"in  waiting"  in  the  House  to  be  cross- 
examined,  reprimanded,  or,  perhaps,  even 
insulted  by  members  at  pleasure,  and  if  a 
member  should  be  able  to  obtain  a  tem- 
porary majority  for  his  resolution — />. 
vote  of  want  of  confidence  —  the  king 
would  have  to  dismiss  his  trusted  ser- 
vants. This  view  of  a  "  properly  consti- 
tuted "government  the  Norwegian  crown 
never  took.  According  to  their  idea  there 
was  not  the  slightest  reason  why  the  min- 
isters should  not  be  allowed  to  take  part 
in  the  debate  under  the  same  rules  and 
conditions  as  those  which  exist  in  all  other 
constitutional  monarchies^  and  already  in 
1874  the  government  submitted  a  bill  to 
the  Storthing  for  the  admission  of  the 
ministers,  but  with  the  following  four 
amendments  of  the  Constitution  for  the 
safeguard  of  the  executive: — (i)  That 
the  king  should  have  the  power  of  dis- 
solving the  Storthing  and  decreeing  new 
elections;  (2)  that  the  Storthing,  if  the 
king  did  not  dissolve,  might  sit  for  four 
months,  but  that  the  remuneration  of  a 


SSo 


WILL   NORWAY   BECOME  A   REPUBLIC f 


member  should  not  exceed  Kr.  1,440  G^^) 
in  a  session;  (3)  that  a  minister  might 
demand  a  pension  of  half  his  salary  or 
Kr.  6,000  (^330);  (4)  that  the  sanctioning 
of  bills  which  had  not  been  made  before 
the  House  was  prorogued,  might  be  de- 
ferred to  the  following  session.  TAis  bill 
the  republicans^  headed  by  Sverdrup^  re- 
jected  with  scorn  / 

It  will  be  easily  conceived,  that  these 
stipulations  did  not  tend  to  '*  gather  all 
power  within  this  House,"  or  to  "consoli- 
date the  power  in  the  State  in  one  hand,'' 
as  Sverdrup  expressed  his  aim;  but  while 
the  government,  in  support  of  their  views 
of  the  safeguards  required  by  the  execu- 
tive for  altering  the  Constitution,  could 
point  to  similar  prerogatives  granted  in 
all  free  parliamentary  countries,  the  re- 
publicans had  only  those  of  Greece  to 
support  them,  where  a  system,  as  indi- 
cated above,  exists,  and  I  do  not  believe 
that  even  the  most  ardent  admirer  of  the 
Hellenic  race  will  insist  that  their  political 
and  social  status  is  the  touchstone  of  per- 
.fection. 

In  order  to  explain  the  changes  made  in 
the  Constitution  by  these  four  amend- 
ments, I  may  state  that  the  Storthing  now 
only  sits  for  two  months,  but  that  their 
sessions  have  been  prolonged  from  year 
to  year,  and  now  are  rarely  closed  until 
the  middle  of  June,  viz.,  four  months  and  a 
half;  that  the  members  now  receive  their 
remuneration  per  day,  which  m.ay  thus 
amount  to  nearly  ;£2oo  for  the  session ; 
that  ministers  now  receive  no  pensions 
except  as  grants  ("  charitable  donations  '' 
Jaabcek  calls  them)  from  the  Storthing. 

The  important  fact  that  the  government 
has  proposed  this  change  in  the  Consti- 
tution, a  proposition  which  still  lies  on  the 
table  of  the  House  {vide  King  Oscar's 
speech),  has  been  most  studiously  con- 
cealed by  Radicals  in  and  out  of  Norway. 

When  the  government  bill  was  thrown 
out,  the  ministry  acquainted  the  king  of 
the  fact  with  the  following  remark :  "  The 
nation  will  therefore  clearly  see  that  no 
blame  can  be  attached  to  your  Majesty's 
government  by  the  result." 

One  may  well  ask  who  was  the  man 
who,  as  the  chief  adviser  of  the  king,  has 
borne  the  brunt  of  these  repeated  attacks 
by  the  republicans  on  the  Constitution 
and  the  monarchy?  From  the  year  1845 
until  1880,  with  a  short  interval,  the  Nor- 
wegian government  was  Jed  by  Fredrik 
Stang,  a  man  of  rare  talent  and  acquire- 
ments, who  had  been  called  to  the  coun- 
cil table  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-seven. 
He   came  from    a  distinguished  family, 


whose  members  had  before  then   made 
their  mark  in  the  social  and  political  life 
of   Norway.      ]f  there  is  a  fault  to  be 
found  with  his  administration,  it  is  that  it 
was  too  forbearing  and  yielding  to  the  de- 
mands of  the   Storthing,   which   is  fully 
borne  out  by  the  sanction,  in  1872,  of  a 
bill  which  by  reducing  the  pensions  of  the 
civil  servants  to  a  minimum,  had  the  effect 
of  attracting  men  of  mediocre  talent  only 
to  the  government  oiHces,  whereby  Stang* 
unintentionally  inflicted  a  crushing  bloiv 
on  a  class  which,  by  their  very  position, 
should  have  formed   his  strongest    sup- 
port.    He  loved,  however,  the  Storthing 
with  all  his  heart,  and  it  was  the  dream  of 
his  life  to  work  in  harmony  with  this  free 
institution  for  the  progress  and  welfare  of 
his  fellow-citizens,  but  the  realization  of 
this  dream  the  republicans  denied  him. 
From  the  very  outset  of  his  career  Sver- 
drup had  determined  co4te  one  coUte  to 
crush  this  man,  and  he  has  tollowed  his 
aim  with  a  Zealand  personal  hatred  which 
often  has  made  him  sacrifice  the  interests 
of  the  nation  for  his   own.     Even  when 
the  venerable  statesman,  whose  head  had 
grown  grey  in  the  service  of  his  country, 
at  the  age  of  seventy-two,  asked  the  Storth- 
ing for  a  pitiful  pension  for  his  few  re- 
maining days,  Sverdrup  could  not  forego 
the  delight  of  wounding  and  insulting  the 
feelings  of  the  true  patriot  by  reducing 
the  sum  from  £fioo  to  ;f  300,  and  this  ia 
spite  of  Stang  having  renounced  a  larger 
pension  which  had  been  granted  him  a 
few  years  previously,  when  ill-health  hav- 
ing forced  on  him  a  temporary  retirement, 
he  returned,  when  restored  to  health,  to 
office,  by  which  he  had  actually  saved  the 
country    nearly    ;£ 7,000!     Jaaboek    now 
proposed    that    no    pension     should    be 
granted.    All   the  services  which   Stang 
had    rendered    his    country,  during   the 
twenty  years  he  had  been,  nrst  a  member, 
and  lastly  at  the  head  of  the  government, 
were  now  forgotten.     It  was  only  remem- 
bered that  he  had  not  taken  the  Storth- 
ing's view  in  the  question  of  admitting 
the  ministers  to  the  House,  and  particu- 
larly, that  he  had  been  the  faithful  ser- 
vant of  his  sovereign,  and  was  the  man 
whom  the  republicans  in  vain  had  tried 
every  device  to  remove.    For  these  grave 
oSences  against  the  **  people  "  he  was  to 
be  humbled  and  only  granted  a  pittance 
which  any  ordinary  civil  servant  could  de- 
mand as  a   right.    But  the  Norwegian 
nation  replied  to   these  sentiments  in  a 
plain  and  dignified  manner.    A  national 
subscription  was  opened,  and  in   a  few 
weeks  a  sum  of  ;£8,oo6  was  placed  at  the 


WILL  NORWAY  BECOME  A  REPUBLIC? 


SSf 


disposal  of  the  retiring  premier,  who  ac- 
cepted  the  interest  on  the  capital,  on  con- 
dition that  it  should,  on  his  decease,  be 
used  for  the  founding  of  a  scholarship  for 
students  of  political  science. 

When  Stang  retired,  the  republicans 
thought  that  at  last  their  day  had  come,  and 
that  King  Oscar  would  choose  his  advis- 
ers from  their  ranks ;  but  they  were  mis- 
taken. The  king  sent  instead  for  Chris- 
tian August  Selmer,  already  a  member  of 
the  Cabinet.  There  was  only  a  change 
of  names,  not  of  policy,  a  course  which 
was  fully  justified  by  a  decision  which  the 
Storthing  had  arrived  at  a  few  months 
previously. 

In  the  year  1880,  there  met  in  Chris- 
tiania  a  Storthing  destined  to  become  the 
roost  notorious  in  the  annals  of  Norwe- 
gian history.  The  bill  demanding  the 
presence  of  the  ministers  in  the  House,  in 
the  manner  desired  by  the  Republicans, 
was  again  brought  before  the  House, 
again  carried,  and  by  a  larger  majority 
than  on  any  previous  occasion,  viz.,  ninety- 
three  votes  against  twenty.  In  spite  of 
this  majority,  and  the  personal  appeals 
roade  to  his  Majesty,  King  Oscar  again 
withheld  his  signature.  The  reply  of  the 
republicans  to  the  non-sanction  was  as 
follows:  **This  Storthing  hereby  declares 
and  makes  known,  this  9th  of  June,  1880, 
that  the  king's  veto  in  amending  the  Con' 
stitution  of  Norway  is  superfluous^^  This 
decision,  the  importance  of  which  cannot 
vet  be  fully  estimated,  but  rests  on  results, 
nas,  in  clear  and  unmistakable  words,  set- 
tled the  position  of  the  republicans  and 
the  Constitutionalists  in  Norway.  Before 
the  9th  of  June,  1880,  the  opposition  in 
the  Storthing  was  constitutional  and  legit- 
imate —  it  now  became  treasonable.  The 
opposition,  which  in  1833  had  risen  to 
crush  the  bureaucracy,  had,  in  1880,  de- 
veloped into  a  revolutionary  body  for  the 
abolishing  of  the  monarchy.  From  the 
very  fact  of  Norway  being  a  constitutional 
monarchy,  without  an  upper  house,  the 
king  must  possess  a  voice  in  all  amend- 
ments of  the  Constitution^  a  prerogative 
without  which  no  sovereign  could  pos- 
sibly rule. 

The  absolute  veto  in  amendments  of  the 
Constitution  of  the  Norwegian  kings  had 
never  been  disputed  before ;  it  had  even 
by  the  Storthings  of  1824  and  i860,  been 
specially  admitted  as  one  of  their  rights, 
and  was  at  that  period  acknowledged  both 
by  Sverdrup  and  Jaabcek.  Thus,  when 
Carl  Johan  in  1824  proposed  to  transform 
the  clause  of  the  Constitution  relating  to 
the  suspensive  veto  in  matters  of  law  into 


an  absolute  one,  the  Storthing  refused  the 
request  with  the  words,  •*  that  your  Ma- 
jesty already  possesses  an  absolute  veto 
in  all  Constitutional  amendments.^^  It 
has,  in  addition,  been  admitted  by  sixty 
years  of  Constitutional  practice. 

On  an  appeal  being  made  by  the  gov- 
ernment to  the  Faculty  of  Jurisprudence 
at  the  University  of  Christiania,  it  ex- 
pressed the  unanimous  opinion  that  the 
king  has,  by  the  Grundlov,  absolute  veto 
in  Constitutional  Q^^sxXoii^^  in  which  view 
several  legal  celebrities,  as,  for  instance, 
the  eminent  German  and  Swedish  pro« 
fessors,  Conrad  Maurer,  L.  Rydin,  and  L. 
Scharring,  entirely  concur.  Still,  the  lead- 
ing cry  with  which  the  republicans  went 
to  the  country  last  year  was  "  No  absolute 
veto."  The  demand  that  any  temporary 
majority  in  a  Storthing  which  may  be 
changea  to  morrow  should  be  at  liberty  to 
amend  the  Constitution  at  pleasure  with* 
out  the  crown  having  an  equal  voice  in 
the  matter,  is  tantamount  to  demanding 
its  abolition  and  to  transferring  the  abso- 
lute veto  from  the  crown  to  an  arbitrary 
number. 

In  the  vear  1880  Christian  Selmer  be- 
came the  king's  chief  adviser,  and  under 
this  able  man's  administration  the  prerog- 
atives of  the  crown  have  been  guarded 
with  great  jealousy,  and  more  initiative 
has  been  shown  by  the  government,  while 
the  dignity  of  the  sovereign  has  been 
firmly  upheld  by  prosecuting  a  few  of  the 
most  scurrilous  writers  in  the  public  press, 
the  necessity  of  which,  I  think,  will  be 
admitted  when  I  qiiote,  as  an  example, 
what  a  civil  servant  and  a  member  of  the 
Storthing,  Herr  H.  Loberg,  thought  him- 
self justified  in  saying  of  his  sovereign  in 
his  organ,  viz.:  ^^Tliat  the  Devil  takes 
care  of  his  own^  ue.  King  Oscar."  For 
this  elegant  mot  he  was  sentenced  to  two 
months*  imprisonment 

If  we  now  examine  the  labors  of  the 
Storthing  for  the  period  1880-83,  ^'^  ^^^W 
find  that  hardly  a  dozen  measures  were 
passed  for  the  benefit  of  the  nation  ;  and 
if  we  compare  them  with  those  of  the  tri- 
ennial Storthings  up  to  1850,  we  shall  find 
that  the  Norwegian  people  benefited  more 
from  a  single  session's  legislation  by  the 
bureaucracy  of  those  days  than  by  three 
of  the  republican  ones  of  the  present. 
Whereas  the  public  time  was  formerly 
employed  for  useful  legislation,  it  is  now 
wasted,  session  after  session,  by  silly  de- 
bates, as  to  whether  the  king  shall  be 
addressed  as  **  Most  Gracious,"  or  simply 
"the  king; "  whether  the  Storthing  ought 
not  to  style  itself  "  we,"  as  the  king  em^ 


ss^ 


WILL   NORWAY  BECOME  A   REPUBLIC? 


ploys  fgo/  or  whether  the  Storthing  shall 
wait  on  his  Majesty  in  corpore,  in  accor- 
dance with  time-honored  usage,  or  show 
its  displeasure  at  non-sanctioning  of  bills 
by  studied  absence.  While  the  nation's 
time  is  thus  disposed  of,  its  money  is 
consumed  by  the  paid  legislators;  and, 
while  the  country  thirsts  for  retrenchment 
and  thrift,  in  order  to  procure  a  balance 
between  revenue  and  expenditure,  large 
sums  are  yearly  thrown  away  on  Storthing 
committees  and  needy  individuals  who 
follow  in  the  wake  of  the  republicans  to 
obtain  a  living. 

Thus  while  the  Storthing  refuses  to 
grant  supplies  for  writing  materials,  and 
Fuel  (!)  required  in  the  government  offices, 
and,  even,  as  decided  last  year,  any  money 
at  all  to  "  royal "  committees,  and  while 
faithful  crown  servants  are  refused  the 
meanest  pensions,  the  Storthing  has  no 
hesitation  in  granting  large  annuities  to 
such  men  as  Captain  Jacobsen,  because 
be  obeyed  the  command  of  Johan  Sver- 
drup  to  serve  on  a  revolutionary  military 
committee,  instead  of  that  of  his  superior 
officer,  and  suffered  dismissal  from  ser- 
vice in  consequence.  While  the  breeding 
of  sheep  and  cattle  in  the  country  leaves 
much  to  be  desired,  the  Storthing  decides 
that  no  money  shall  be  granted  to  main- 
taining the  English  stock  which  the  gov- 
ernment has  for  years  possessed  for 
cross-breeding  purposes;  and  while  the 
decreasing  mercantile  marine  of  the  coun- 
try—  only  five  years  ago  the  third  in  the 
world,  now  the  seventh  — ought  to  receive 
every  encouragement,  money  is  refused 
for  the  erection  and  maintenance  of  light- 
houses on  the  terrible  Norwegian  coast, 
and  this  in  a  land  where  three  per  cent,  of 
the  population  find  their  living  at  sea. 
The  navy  is  in  a  most  deplorable  state, 
yet  the  only  dockyard  is  nearly  closed 
from  want  of  supplies  ;  and  still  the  Storth- 
ing does  not  hesitate  to  request  the 
government  to  pay  a  sum  of  ^2,ooo  to 
Polkev(Ebnin)(ssamlt\^ene^  armed  associa- 
tion for  the  people,  whose  organization 
and  programme  has  been  proved  to  be 
that  of  a  parliamentary  army,  to  be  em- 
ployed in  case  of  a  revolution ;  or  to  bring 
in  a  bill  for  raising  the  army  to  eighty 
thousand  men,  for  the  protection  of  a 
country  which  can  badly  sifiFord  to  support 
twenty  thousand.  Why  this  systematic 
policy  of  refusing  to  grant  what  the  na- 
tion requires  in  order  to  be  governed  ? 
Simply  because  the  republicans  in  the 
Storthing  desire  the  king  to  take  a  minis- 
try from  among  a  body  of  men  who  have 
declared  that  they,  and  they  alone^  can 


amend  the  Constitution  at  will.  For  this 
Sverdrup  declares  the  nation  must  su£Eer, 
and  "on  account  of  the  political  situa- 
tion," etc.,  is  the  Storthing's  preamble  to 
everv  refusal. 

After  continuous  sessions  of  this  char- 
acter, it  became  incumbent  on  the  govern- 
ment to  speak,  and  to  speak  in  an  un- 
equivocal manner,  and  when  the  Storth- 
ing last  year  had  sat  two  months  and  a 
half  beyond  its  legal  time.  King  Oscar 
came  to  Christiania  and,  allowing  the 
Storthing  twenty-four  hours  to  finish  de» 
bating,  he  dissolved  the  House  in  per* 
son. 

King  Oscar  spoUe  to  the  Storthing 
thus :  — 

'*  More  than  two  generations  have 
elapsed  sinde  Norway  regained  indepen- 
dence under  a  free  constitution  and  a 
union  with  a  brother  people  founded  on 
equality.  During  this  period  there  has 
reigned  legitimate  freedom  and  continu- 
ous peace,  which  have  permitted  the  full- 
est development  of  all  the  resources  of 
the  nation.  Richlv  has  the  labor  been 
blessed,  and  great  has  the  progress  been 
in  every  direction.  My  desires  and  as- 
pirations have  been  to  build  further  on 
this  foundation,  and  I  have  been  herein 
inspired  by  a  true  love  of  that  Constitu- 
tion on  which  legitimate  freedom  inter- 
nally is  based,  and  by  a  sincere  devotion 
to  the  Union  on  which  our  security  exter- 
nally depends.  Guided  by  these  senti- 
ments, and  with  this  aim  before  me,  I 
depended  with  confidence  on  a  continuous 
progress  and  development,  and  I  fully 
relied  on  the  hearty  co-operation  of  the 
Storthing.  During  the  period  which  has 
elapsed  since  1  last  addressed  the  Storth- 
ing, many  a  beneficial  measure  has  been 
passed;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  pro* 
ceedings  of  this  assembly  have  often  ad- 
vanced in  a  direction  which  I,  on  my  side, 
have  been  unable  to  approve  of,  and  they 
have  at  times  passed  resolutions  to  the 
performance  of  which  I,  as  the  maintainer 
of  the  royal  power  according  to  the  Con- 
stitution, have  been  unable  to  lend  my 
hand.  The  Storthing  has  also  on  several 
occasions  let  the  regular  work  of  develop- 
ment stand  aside  in  endeavoring  to  en- 
croach on  the  prerogatives  which  by  the 
Constitution  belong  to  the  king.  It  is 
advanced  by  some  that  the  crown  has 
refused  the  concordant  labor  between  the 
two  powers  in  the  State  which  the  partici- 
pation of  the  ministers  in  the  proceedings 
of  the  Storthing  would  demand.  This 
assertion  is  unfounded.  In  order  to  meet 
the  Storthing,  I  have  repeatedly  submitted 


WILL   NORWAY   BECOME   A   REPUBLIC? 


553 


a  proposition  for  amending  the  Constitu- 
tion to  this  effect,  a  proposition  which  is 
at  the  present  moment  in  the  bands  of 
the  Storthing.  The  conditions  on  which 
the  proposition  is  based,  I  believed,  and 
do  believe,  to  be  of  extreme  importance 
with  our  Constitutional  conditions.  Simi- 
lar conditions  form  part  of  other  monar- 
chical Constitutions,  even  with  those 
which  possess  far  stronger  conservative 
guarantees  than  ours.  In  order  to  meet 
the  Storthing,  I  have,  irrespective  of  the 
serious  consideration  to  which  it  has 
given  rise,  from  year  to  year  given  my 
sanction  to  a  prolonged  session  far  be- 
yond the  period  agreed  at  the  time  of  in- 
troducing yearly  Storthings.  When  1 
was  compelled  to  withhold  my  sanction 
from  the  resolution  that  one  of  the  Storth- 
ing's committees  should  remain  together 
after  the  House  was  prorogued,  I  pro- 
posed, in  order  to  meet  the  Storthing,  a 
procedure  which  would  in  every  respect 
have  satisfied  the  demands  of  a  thorough 
investigation  of  the  case.  But  the  Storth- 
ing has  not,  by  any  step  made  by  the  ex- 
ecutive, although  emanating  from  the 
sincerest  desire  of  concord  and  under- 
standing, been  induced  to  make  a  similar 
advance. 

"  With  grave  anxiety  I  have  learned  that 
the  Storthing  maintains  that  it  can  amend 
the  Constitution  without  the  king's  sanc- 
tion. 

V  My  conviction  of  the  unrighteousness 
{lUt  Uberretti^^ede)  of  this  assertion  is  un- 
shakable (ttrokkelix)' 

**On]y  king  and  Storthing  combined 
have  the  power  of  amending  the  Consti* 
tution. 

**  With  a  deep  sense  of  my  royal  duty,  I 
will,  to  the  utmost  of  my  ability,  defend 
(veerge  om)  the  Constitution  to  which  we 
all  —  you  as  well  as  I  —  have  subscribed 
the  oath,  and  which  everybody  must  un- 
swervingly follow,  if  the  peace  and  secu- 
rity of  our  community  is  to  be  maintained. 

"  1  put  my  confidence  in  the  hope  that 
the  lamentable  division  and  excitement 
which  have  penetrated  our  public  life  will, 
by  degrees,  give  way  to  a  less  obscured 
and  soberer  understanding  of  the  existing 
conditions  and  demands  of  our  social 
life,  and  that  all  enlightened  and  patriotic 
men,  every  one  within  his  sphere,  will 
support  my  endeavors  to  this  end. 

**  May  a  gracious  Providence  avert  the 
calamitous  consequences  of  every  attempt 
to  shake  the  very  foundations  of  the  social 
order  under  which  the  Norwegian  people 
have  existed  happily  and  free  for  so  many 
years  1 


'*  With  a  prayer  to  God  that  this  will  be 
the  case,  I  remain,"  etc. 

The  king's  speech  was  applauded  by 
every  intelligent  and  patriotic  man  in 
Norway:  the  nation  had  spoken  through 
its  chief  representative,  and  far  and  wide 
did  his  voice  penetrate. 

King  Oscar's  reception  in  Christiania, 
the  stronghold  of  the  Constitutionalists, 
was  on  this  occasion  a  perfect  ovation ; 
thousands  of  people  thronged  the  streets; 
the  populace  pressed  to  his  carriage,  and, 
with  tears»in  his  eyes,  the  noble  monarch 
had  to  appear  four  times  at  the  entrance 
to  the  railway  station  to  take  leave  of  his 
enthusiastic  subjects.  This  was  an  un- 
safe moment  for  the  republicans  in  the 
capital. 

When  the  king  so  hurriedly  dissolved 
the  Storthing,  the  republicans  became 
furious,  and  while  Sverdrup,  the  presi- 
dent, excused  himself  from  attending 
when  his  sovereign  addressed  the  Storth- 
ing, but  spent  the  time  in  the  members' 
library,  the  majority  decided,  by  way  of 
showing  their  displeasure,  to  depart  from 
time-honored  custom,  and  not  to  wait  on 
his  Majesty  in  corpore.  King  Oscar  held 
his  reception  without  the  deputation  from 
the  Storthing. 

Since  these  events  a  general  election 
has  taken  place  in  Norway  for  the  Storth- 
ing 1883-85,  and  with  the  result  of  a  gain 
of  nine  votes  to  the  republicans.  There 
are,  therefore,  in  the  present  Storthing 
thirty-one  Constitutionalists  against  eigh- 
ty-three republicans,  as  against  thirty-nine 
to  seventy-five  in  the  last.  Of  these, 
seventy  republicans  represent  counties 
(amterne)  and  thirteen  towns,  whilst  six 
Constitutionalists  were  returned  in  the 
counties  and  twenty-five  in  the  towns. 
The  Constitutionalists  lost  ten  votes,  all 
in  towns,  but,  securing  one,  the  total  loss 
was  nine  votes.  The  most  important  loss 
was  in  Bergen,  the  wealthiest  commercial 
town  in  Norway,  where  three  conserva* 
tives  were  before  returned.  There  are 
only  two  relieving  features  in  the  election, 
viz.,  that,  of  the  Constitutional  members, 
twenty-five  were  returned  for  towns,  and 
that  they  are  in  talent,  position,  and  abil- 
ity, far  .'superior  to  the  republican,  some 
of  whom  have  never  before  appeared  be- 
fore the  public,  and  that  the  capital,  Chris* 
tiania,  the  emporium  of  civilization  in  the 
land,  sends  four  Constitutional  members, 
three  of  whom  are  men  and  debaters  of 
great  ability  —  one  being  the  only  son  of 
the  ex-premier,  Fredrik  Stang  —  and  the 
fourth,  the  most  eminent  professor  of  the- 
ology Norway  can  boast  of.    In  fact,  the 


SS4 


WILL  NORWAY  BECOME  A   REPUBLIC? 


defeat  of  the  republicans  in  the  capital, 
in  spite  of  all  their  efforts,  was  so  unex- 
pectedly crushing,  that  the  republican  or- 
gans have  in  consequence  never  recovered 
their  wonted  self-possession,  and  it  has 
had  the  effect  of  raising  the  anger  of 
the  republicans  to  such  an  extent,  that  it 
was  not  until  towards  the  end  of  the 
session  that  the  elections  were  declared 
legal  by  the  Storthing.  The  voice  of  the 
capital  penetrated  to  the  innermost  cor- 
ners of  the  land,  and  far  different  would, 
in  my  opinion,  the  result  of  the  last  elec- 
tion have  been,  if  it  had  sounded  at  the 
outset  of  the  battle,  not  near  its  close. 
The  opinion  expressed  by  the  capital  has 
been  fully  corroborated  by  the  recent 
municipal  elections,  when  the  Constitu- 
tional party  obtained  thirteen  hundred 
and  ten  votes,  the  republicans  thirty-three ! 

The  new  Storthing  is  constituted  as 
follows :  30  peasants  (against,47  ten  years 
ago),  27  civil  servants,  12  nierchants,  11 
vergers  (!),  11  lawyers,  w  forskjellige  Bes- 
iillingsmcend  (persons  holding  various 
civil  appointments),  8  Lensm<Bndi^\itx\^% 
officers),  2  manufacturers,  i  artisan,  and 
one  who  is  relegated  to  the  group  "oth- 
ers." Among  these  are  two,  Ldberg  and 
S6rensen,  who  have  been  sentenced  for 
crimen  Icessa  majestatis. 

The  cause  of  this  deplorable  result  is 
not  far  to  seek.  The  Constitution  enacts, 
as  previously  stated,  that  every  holder  of 
i/r<i/r/Vi//a/^^/ (registered)  soil  in  the  coun- 
try, is  enfranchised,  without,  however,  fix- 
ing the  minimum  tax  to  the  crown,  and 
this  inadvertencv  the  Storthing  of  1882 
took  an  undue  aavantage  of,  by  declaring, 
just  before  it  dissolved,  that  all  so-called 
Myrmocndy  /.^.,  owners  of  swamps,  were 
entitled  to  vote.  These  voters  are  faggot- 
voters,  who,  in  order  to  obtain  a  vote  for 
the  Storthing,  purchase  a  swamp,  a  space 
of  waste  land,  or  the  like,  perhaps  a  few 
yards  square,  the  crown  tax  of  which 
would  be  about  one  penny^  and  thereby 
obtain  the  same  voice  in  the  legislation 
of  the  country  as  the  owner  of  a  thou- 
sand fertile  acres.  This  was  a  clever 
move  of  the  republicans,  and  as  Myr- 
mcend  were  before  the  election  manufac- 
tured by  their  associations  for  a  fee  of 
Kr.  5  (5J.  6^/.)  per  individual,  the  result  of 
the  fate  election  is  not  to  be  wondered  at. 
In  support  of  the  above  statement,  1  may 
mention  that  during  the  period  1880-82, 
no  less  than  three  thousand  voters  were 
added  to  the  registers  by  this  system ;  a 
considerable  number,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered, in  a  country  with  a  limited  fran- 
chise.   Of  these,  eight  hundred  became 


qualified  by  possessing  land  paying  a 
crown  tax  of  one  halfpenny  each,  thirteen 
hundred  by  possessing  land  paying  a 
crown  tax  of  one  farthing,  while  that  of 
the  remaining  nine  hundred  was  so  small, 
that  it  could  not  be  reckoned  in  Norwe- 
gian monevl  If  the  republicans  unblnsh- 
ingly  employed  such  means  as  regards 
the  land,  in  turning  the  election,  what 
others  may  not  have  been  pursued  in 
secret?  The  Constitutionalists,  I  need 
hardly  say,  scorned  to  take  advantage  of 
this  declaration,  so  entirely  at  variance 
with  the  tenor  and  spirit  of  the  Constitu* 
tion  of  a  land-owning  nation.  I  consider 
that  the  government  committed  a  grave 
error  by  not  declaring  such  votes  illegal. 
Thus  only  in  the  most  unnecessary  place, 
the  capital,  have  any  official  investigatiooa 
been  opened. 

When  the  Storthing  dissolved  last  year, 
it  went  to  the  country  with  the  intention 
of  returning  in  order  to  impeach  the  king's 
advisers  before  the  Rigsrei.  By  the  Nor* 
wegian  constitution,  the  Rigsret  is  the 
highest  tribunal  in  the  country.  Its  func- 
tions are  to  try  ministers,  ot  members  of 
the  Storthing,  who  have  committed  a 
breach  of  office.  This  is  the  charge  which 
is  now  advanced  against  King  Oscar's 
servants. 

What  will  the  result  of  a  hostile  decis- 
ion by  this  quasi  court  of  justice  be?  la 
my  belief,  ICing  Oscar  will  act  entirely  iq 
accord  with  the  Constitution,  and  part 
with  the  Selmer  ministry;  but  he  will 
select  another,  which  is  as  determined  to 
maintain  the  monarchy  as  the  former. 
There  will  be  a  change  of  portfolios  only, 
not  of  policy.  And  then  ?  Well,  then 
the  republicans  will,  we  may  imagine, 
"make  up"  another  Rigsret;  and  when 
the  verdict  of  this  has  been  pronounced, 
similar  to  that  of  its  prececessor,  a  new 
election  will  be  at  hand.  We  may  then 
hope  that  the  ignorance  of  true  political 
freedom,  from  which  the  bulk  of  the 
youngest  of  the  people  of  Europe  nata- 
rallv  now  suffers,  may  have  given  way  to 
a  clearer  understandmg  of  what  liberty 
implies. 

Having  thus  dealt  with  the  various  ele- 
ments in  the  political  strife  in  Norway,  I 
have  only  one  more  left,  viz.,  King  Oscar. 

There  are,  in  my  opinion,  fewmen  who 
have  been  more  grossly  misjudged  than 
this  monarch.  Leaders  and  articles  have, 
during  the  last  few  years,  appeared  ia 
various  journals,  chiefly  Liberal  and  Rad* 
ical,  in  which  the  writers  have  represented 
King  Oscar  as  a  man  born  in  the  nine* 
I  teenth  century  with  the  views  of  a  Jame9 


THE  WIZARD  S   SON. 


555 


I.  or  Loais  XIV.  This  ]s  far  from  being 
the  case.  King  Oscar  began,  early  in 
life,  his  career  as  a  sub-lieutenant  in  the 
Norwegian  navy,  with  but  the  remotest 
prospect  of  ever  wearing  a  crown.  He 
passed  with  every  honor  through  all  the 
stages  of  a  naval  career,  as  no*  carpet 
officer,  as  his  colleagues  will  testify ;  he 
visited  and  studied  m  most  of  the  cities 
of  the  world,  from  the  North  Cape  to  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope ;  he  has,  as  a  sailor, 
furrowed  every  sea  on  the  globe,  and 
been  the  honored  guest  of  every  sover- 
eign in  Europe. 

But  the  republicans  say  they  will  "com- 
per*  King  Oscar  to  accept  their  terms. 
Well,  we  have  examined  the  principal 
means  they  fancy  they  possess  to  "co- 
erce" him,  viz.,  the  Rigsret.  The  next, 
that  of  refusing  the  supplies,  viz.,  the 
maintenance  of  lighthouses,  and  of  fires 
in  the  government  offices,  has  been  tried 
and  failed,  as  it  is  apparent  that  by  this 
policy  the  nation  at  large  suffers  far  more 
than  individuals.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  is  but  little  prospect  for  those  who 
may  desire  it,  that  King  Qscar,  with  his 
keen  sense  of  his  duty  towards  the  flower 
of  intelligence  jn  his  kingdom,  will  abdi- 
cate, even  if  the  Civil  List  should  be  re- 
fused. 

There  remains,  then,  only  one  means  in 
the  hands  of  the  republicans  for  accom- 
,  plishing  their  purpose,  viz.,  a  revolution. 
Can  the  republicans  in  Norway  gauge 
public  opinion  —  can  they  suppress  the 
organs  of  the  Constitutionalists  —  can 
they  extirpate  the  thinking  and  intelligent 
minority  in  the  country  —  can  they  com- 
pel the  king,  who  takes  his  stand  bv  the 
Constitution,  to  which  both  he  and  the 
Storthing  have  subscribed  the  oath,  to 
resign,  and  Sweden  to  dissolve  the  Union 
—  can  they,  in  fact,  raise  a  civil  war  and 
come  victorious  out  of  the  contest  ?  Then, 
but  not  before^  will  Norway  become  a  re- 
public! Carl  Siewers. 


'  From  Macmillam*8  Magaiine. 
THE  WIZARD»S  SON. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

Two  days  after,  Mrs.  Methven  arrived 
at  Kinlocb-houran  by  the  afternoon  coach, 
alone. 

She  had  interpreted  very  literally  the 
telegram  which  had  brought  such  a  trem- 
or yet  such  a  movement  of  joy  to  her 
heart.  Her  son  wanted  her.  Perhaps  he 
might  be  ill,  certainly  it  must  be  for  some- 


thing serious  and  painful  that  she  was 
called  ;  yet  be  wanted  her !    She  had  been 
very  quiet  and  patient,  waiting  if  perhaps 
his  heart  might  be  touched  and  he  might 
recall  the  tie  of  nature  and  his  own  prom- 
ises, feeling  with  a  sad  pride  that  she 
wanted  nothing  of  him  but  his  love,  and 
that  without  that  the  fine  houses  and  the 
new  wealth   were  nothing  to  her.    She 
was  pleased  even  to  stand  aloof,  to  be 
conscious  of  having  in  no  way  profited  by 
Walter's  advancement.    She  had  gained 
nothing  by  it,  she  wished  to  gain  nothing 
by  it.     If  Walter  were  well,  then  there 
was  no  need  for  more.    She  had  enough 
for   herself  without  troubling  him.    So 
long  as  all  was  well  I     But  this  is  at  the 
best  a  forlorn  line  of  argument,  and  it 
cannot  be  doubted  that  Mrs.  Methven's 
bosom  throbbed  with  a  great  pang  of  dis- 
appointment when  she  sat  and  smiled  to 
conceal  it,  and  answered  questions  about 
Walter,  yet  could  not  say  that  she  had 
seen  him  or  any  of  his  **  places  in  Scot- 
land," or  knew  much  more  than  her  ques- 
tioners did.    When  his  message  arrived 
her  heart   leapt  in   her    breast.    There 
were  no  explanations,  no  reason  given, 
but  that  imperative  call,  such  as  mothers 
love  to  have  addressed  to  them :  "  Come ; " 
all  considerations  of  her  own  comfort  set 
aside  in  the  necessity  for  her  which  had 
arisen  at  last.    Another  might  have  re- 
sented so  complete  an  indifference  to  what 
might  happen  to  suit  herself.     But  there 
are  connections  and  relationships  in  which 
this  is  the  highest  compliment.     He  knew 
that  it  did  not  matter  to  her  what  her  own 
convenience  was,  so  long  as  he  wanted 
her.    She  got  up  from  her  chair  at  once, 
and  proceeded  to  put  her  things  togrether 
to  get  ready  for  the   journey.    With  a 
smiling  countenance  she  prepared  herself 
for  the  night  train.    She  would  not  even 
take  a  maid.    "  He  says,  alone.     He  must 
have  some  reason  for  it,  I  suppose,"  she 
said  to  Miss  Merivale.     **  I  am  the  rea- 
son," said  Cousin   Sophy:  *Mie  doesn't 
want  me.    You  can  tell  him,  with  my  love, 
that  to  travel  all  night  is  not  at  all  in  my 
way,  and  he  need  have  had  no  fear  on 
that  subject."     But  Mrs.  Methven  would 
not  agree  to  this,  and  departed  hurriedly 
without  any  maid.     She  was  surprised  a 
little,  yet  would  not  allow  herself  to  be 
displeased,  that  no  one  came  to  meet  her ; 
but  it  was  somewhat  forlorn   to   be  set 
down  on  the  side  of  the  loch  in  the  wintry 
afternoon,  with  the  cold,  gleaming  water 
before  her,  and  no  apparent  way  of  get* 
ting  to  the  end  of  her  journey. 
"  Oh  yes,  mem,  you  might  drive  round 


THE  WIZARDS   SON. 


SS6 

the  head  of  the  loch :  but  it*s  a  lon^r  way," 
the  landlady  of  the  little  iDn  said,  smooth 
ing  down  her  apron  at  the  door,  **  and  far 
sinnpler  just  crossing  the  water,  as  every- 
body does  in  these  parts." 

Mrs.  Methven  was  a  little  nervous 
about  crossing  the  water.  She  was  tired 
and  disappointed,  and  a  chill  had  crept  to 
her  heart.     While  she  stood  hesitating  a 

?-oung  lady  came  up,  whose  boat  waited 
or  her  on  the  beach,  a  man  in  a  red  shirt 
standing  at  the  bow. 

"it  is  a  lady  for  Auchnasheen,  Miss 
Oona,"said  the  landlady,  *'and  no  boat. 
Duncan  is  away,  and  for  the  moment  I 
have  not  a  person  to  send :  and  his  lord- 
ship will  maybe  be  out  on  the  hill,  or  he 
will  have  forgotten,  or  maybe  he  wasna 
sure  when  to  expect  you,  mem  ?  " 

**  No,  he  did  not  know  when  to  expect 
me.  I  hope  there  is  no  illness,"  said 
Mrs.  Methven,  with  a  thrill  of  apprehen- 
sion. 

At  this  the  young  lady  came  forward 
with  a  shy  yet  frank  grace. 

"If  you  will  let  me  take  you  across," 
she  said,  "  my  boat  is  ready.  I  am  Oona 
Forrester.  Lord  Erradeen  is  quite  well,  1 
think,  and  I  heard  that  he  expected  —  his 
mother." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Methven.  She  gave 
the  young  stranger  a  penetrating  look. 
Her  own  aspect  was  perhaps  a  little  se- 
vere, for  her  heart  had  been  starved  and 
repressed,  and  she  wore  it  very  warm  and 
low  down  in  her  bosom,  never  upon  her 
sleeve.  There  rose  over  Oona's  counte- 
nance a  soft  and  delicate  flush  under  the 
eyes  of  Walter's  mother.  She  had  noth- 
ing in  the  world  to  blush  for,  and  proba- 
bly that  was  why  the  color  rose.  They 
were  of  infinite  interest  to  each  other,  two 
souls  meeting,  as  it  were,  in  the  dark, 
quite  unknown  to  each  other,  and  yet  — 
who  could  tell  ? —  to  be  very  near  perhaps 
in  times  to  come.  The  look  they  inter- 
changed was  a  mutual  question.  Then 
Mrs.  Methven  felt  herself  bound  to  take 
up  her  invariable  defence  of  her  son. 

"  He  did  not,  most  likely,  think  that  I 
could  arrive  so  soon.  I  was  wrong  not 
to  let  him  know.  If  1  accept  your  kind- 
ness will  it  be  an  inconvenience  to  you?" 
This  question  was  drowned  in  Oona's 
immediate  response  and  in  the  louder 
protest  of  Mrs.  Macfarlane.  "  Bless  me, 
mem,  you  canna  know  the  loch  !  for  there 
is  nobody  but  would  put  themselves  about 
to  help  a  traveller:  and  above  all  Miss 
Oona,  that  just  has  no  other  thought. 
Colin,  put  in  the  lady's  box  intill  the  boat, 
and  Hamish,  be  will  give  ye  a  band." 


Thus  it  was  settled  without  further  de- 
lay. It  seemed  to  the  elder  lady  like  a 
dream  when  she  found  herself  afloat  upoQ 
this  unknown  water,  the  mountains  stand- 
ing round,  with  their  heads  all  clear  and 
pale  in  the  wonderful  atmosphere  from 
which  the  last  rays  of  the  sunset  had  but 
lately  faded,  while  down  below  in  this 
twilight  scene  the  color  had  begun  to  go 
out  of  the  autumn  trees  and  red  walls  of 
the  ruined  castle,  at  which  she  looked 
with  a  curiosity  full  of  excitement.  "  That 
is  —  "  she  said,  pointing  with  a  strange 
sensation  of  eagerness. 

"That  is  Kinloch-houran,"  said  Oona, 
to  whose  sympathetic  mind,  she  could  not 
tell  how,  there  came  a  tender,  pitying 
comprehension  of  the  feelings  of  the 
mother,  thus  thrust  alone  and  without 
any  guide  into  the  other  life  of  her  son. 

"It  is  very  strange  to  me  —  to  see  the 
place  where  Walter You  know  per- 
haps that  neither  my  son  nor  I  were  ever 
here  until  he  —  " 

"Oh  yes,"  Oona  said  hastily,  interrupt- 
ing the  embarrassed  speech ;  and  she 
added,  "  M v  mpther  and  I  have  been  here 
always,  ancl  everybody  on  the  loch  knows 
everybody  else.     We  were,  aware *' 

And  then  she  paused  too ;  but  her  com- 
panion took  no  notice,  her  mind  being 
fully  occupied.  "I  feel," she  said,  "like 
a  woman  in  a  dream." 

It  was  very  still  on  the  loch,  scarcely  a 
breath  stirring  (which  was  very  fortunate, 
for  Mrs.  Methven,  unaccustomed,  had  a 
little  tremor  for  the  dark  water  even 
though  so  smooth).  The  autumnal  trees 
alone,  not  quite  put  out  by  the  falling 
darkness,  seemed  to  lend  a  little  light  as 
they  hung,  reflected,  over  the  loch — a 
redder  cluster  here  and  there  looking  like 
a  fairy  lamp  below  the  water.  A  thou- 
sand suggestions  were  in  the  air,  and  pre- 
visions of  she  knew  not  what,  a  hidden 
life  surrounding  her  on  every  side.  Her 
brain  was  giddy,  her  heart  full.  By-and- 
by  she  turned  to  her  young  companion, 
who  was  so  sympathetically  silent,  and 
whose  soft  voice  when  she  spoke,  with 
the  little  cadence  of  an  accent  unfamiliar 
yet  sweet,  had  a  half  caressing  sound 
which  touched  the  solitary  woman.  •*  You 
say  your  mother  and  you,"  she  said* 
"  Are  you  too  an  only  child  ?  " 

"Oh  no;  there  are  eight  of  us:  bat  I 
am  the  youngest,  the  only  one  left.  AU 
the  boys  are  away.  We  five  on  the  isle. 
I  hope  you  will  come  and  see  us.     My 

mother  will  be  glad " 

"And  she  is  not  afraid  to  trust  yoa  — 
by  yourself?    It  must  be  a  happy  thing 


THE   WIZARD  S   SON. 


SS7 


for  a  woman  to  have  a  daughter,'*  Mrs. 
Methven  said,  with  a  sigh.  **  The  boys, 
as  you  say,  go  awa^." 

••Nobody  here  is  afraid  of  the  loch," 
said  Oona.  **  Accidents  happen  —  oh, 
very  rarely.  Mamma  is  a  little  nervous 
about  yachting^,  for  the  winds  come  down 
from  the  hills  in  gusts;  but  Hamish  is 
the  steadiest  oar,  and  there  is  no  fear. 
Do  you  see  now  the  lights  at  Auchna- 
sheen  ?  There  is  some  one  waiting,  at 
the  landing-place.  It  will  be  Lord  £rra- 
deen,  or  some  one  from  the  house.  Ha- 
mish, mind  the  current.  You  know  how 
it  sweeps  the  boat  up  the  loch  ?" 

'Mt  will  just  be  the  wash  of  that  con- 
founded steamboat,"  Hamish  said. 

The  voices  sounded  in  the  air  without 
conveying  any  sense  to  her  mind.  Was 
that  Walter,  the  vague  line  of  darker 
shsldow  upon  the  shade  ?  Was  it  his 
house  she  was  going  to,  his  life  that  she 
was  entering  once  more?  All  doubts 
were  put  to  an  end  speedily  by  Walter's 
voice. 

*•  Is  it  Hamish  ?"  he  cried  out. 

"Oh,  Lord  Erradeen,  it  is  me,"  cried 
Oona,  in  her  soft  Scotch.  *'And  I  am 
bringing  you  your  mother." 

The  boat  grated  on  the  bank  as  she 
spoke,  and  this  disguised  the  tremor  in 
her  voice,  which  Mrs.  Methven,  quite  in- 
capable of  distinguishing  anything  else, 
was  yet  fully  sensible  of.  She  stepped 
out  tremulously  into  her  son's  arms. 

"  Mother,"  he  cried,  "  what  must  you 
think  of  me  for  not  coming  to  meet  you? 
I  never  thought  you  could  be  here  so 
soon." 

"  I  should  have  come  by  telegraph  if  I 
could,"  she  said  with  an  agitated  laugh : 
so  tired,  so  tremulous,  so  happy,  the 
strangest  combination  of  feelings  over- 
whelming her.  But  still  she  was  aware  of 
a  something,  a  tremor,  a  tingle  in  Oona's 
voice.  The  boat  receded  over  the  water 
almost  without  a  pause,  Hamish,  under 
impulsion  of  a  whispered  word,  having 
pushed  off  again  as  soon  as  the  traveller 
and  her  box  was  landed.  Walter  paused 
to  call  out  his  thanks  over  the  water,  and 
then  he  drew  his  mother's  arm  within  his, 
and  led  her  up  the  bank. 

"Where  is  Jane?"  he  said.  "Have 
you  no  one  with  you?  Have  you  trav- 
elled all   night,  and  alone,   mother,  for 

■MA  7  " 
me  i 

"  For  whom  should  I  do  it,  but  for  ^ou  ? 

And  did  you  think  I  would  lose  a  mmute 

after  your   message,  Walter?    But  you 

are  well,  there  is  nothing  wrong  with  your 

health  ?  " 


"  Nothing  wrong  with  my  health,"  he 
said  with  a  half  laugh.  "  No,  that  is  safe 
enough.  I  have  not  deserved  that  you 
should  come  to  me,  mother " 

"  There  is  no  such  word  as  deserving 
between  mother  and  son,"  she  said  trem- 
ulously, "so  long  as  you  want  me,  Walter." 

"  Take  care  of  those  steps,"  was  all  he 
said.  "We  are  close  now  to  the  house. 
I  hope  you  will  find  your  rooms  comfort- 
able. I  fear  they  have  not  been  occupied 
for  some  time.  But  what  shall  you  do 
without  a  maid?  Perhaps  the  house- 
keeper —  " 

"  You  said  to  come  alone,  Walter.** 

"Oh  ves.  I  was  afraid  of  Cousin 
Sophy ;  but  you  could  not  think  I  wanted 
to  impair  your  comfort,  mother?  Here 
we  are  at  the  door,  and  here  is  Syming- 
ton, very  glad  to  receive  his  lady." 

"  But  you  must  not  let  him  call  me  so.** 

"  Why  not  ?  You  are  our  lady  to  all  of 
us.  You  are  the  lady  of  the  house,  and  I 
bid  you  welcome  to  it,  mother,"  he  said, 
pausing  to  kiss  her.  She  had  a  thousand 
things  to  forgive,  but  in  that  moment  they 
were  as  though  they  had  not  been. 

And  there  was  not  much  more  said  un* 
til  she  had  settled  down  into  possession 
of  the  library,  which  answered  instead  of 
a  drawing-room,  and  had  dined,  and  been 
brought  back  to  the  glowing  peat  fire 
which  gave  an  aromatic  breath  of  warmth 
and  character  to  the  Highland  house. 
When  all  the  business  of  the  arrival  had 
thus  been  gone  through,  there  came  a 
moment  when  it  was  apparent  that  sub- 
jects of  more  importance  must  be  entered 
upon.  There  was  a  pause,  and  an  interval 
of  complete  silence  which  seemed  much 
longer  than  it  really  was.  Walter  stood 
before  the  fire  for  some  time,  while  she 
sat  close  by,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap, 
ready  to  attend.  Then  he.be<i;an  to  move 
about  uneasily,  feeling  the  compulsion  of 
the  moment,  yet  unprepared  with  any- 
thing to  say.  At  length  it  was  she  who 
began. 

"  Your  sent  for  me,  Walter  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  mother." 

Was  there  nothing  more  to  tell  her? 
He  threw  about  half  the  books  on  the  ta- 
ble, and  then  he  came  back  again,  and 
once  more  faced  her,  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  fire. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  hesitating,  *Mt  is 
with  no  reproach  I  speak,  but  only 
There  was  some  reason  for  sending  for 
me?" 

He  gave  once  more  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  You  have  good  reason  to  be  angry  if 
you  will ;  but  I'll  tell  you  the  truth,  mother. 


SS8 

]  made  use  of  you  to  get  rid  of  Under- 
wood. He  followed  me  here,  and  I  told 
him  you  were  coming,  and  that  he  could 
not  stay  against  the  will  of  the  mistress  of 
the  house.  Then  I  was  bound  to  ask 
you " 

The  poor  lady  drew  batk  a  little,  and 
instinctively  put  her  hand  to  her  heart,  in 
which  there  was  a  hot  thrill  of  sensation, 
as  if  an  arrow  had  gone  in.  And  then,  in 
the  pang  of  it  she  laughed  too,  and 
cried,  — 

*•  You  were  bound,  to  be  sure,  to  fulfil 
your  threat.  And  this  is  why  —  this  is 
why,  Walter " 

She  could  not  say  more  without  being 
hysterical,  and  departing  from  every  rule 
she  had  made  for  herself. 

Meanwhile,  Walter  stood  before  her, 
feeling  in  his  own  heart  the  twang  of  that 
arrow  which  had  gone  through  hers,  and 
the  pity  of  it  and  wonder  of  it,  with  a 
poignant  realization  of  all ;  and  yet  found 
nothing  to  say. 

After  a  while  Mrs.  Methven  regained 
her  composure,  and  spoke  with  a  smile 
that  was  almost  more  pathetic  than  tears. 

"  After  all,  it  was  a  very  good  reason.  I 
am  glad  you  used  me  to  get  rid  of  that 
roan.'* 

"I  always  told  you,  mother,"  be  said, 
*'that  you  had  a  most  absurd  prejudice 
against  that  man.  There  is  no  particular 
harm  in  the  man.  I  had  got  tired  of  him. 
He  is  well  enough  in  his  own  way,  but  he 
was  out  of  place  here.'* 

**  Well,  Walter,  we  need  not  discuss 
Captain  Underwood.  But  don't  you  see 
it  is  natural  that  I  should  exaggerate  his 
importance  by  way  of  giving  myself  the 
better  reason  for  having  come  ?  ** 

,The  touch  of  bitterness  and  sarcasm 
that  was  in  her  words  made  Walter  start 
from  his  place  again,  and  once  more  turn 
over  the  books  on  the  table.  She  was 
not  a  perfect  woman  to  dismiss  all  feeling 
from  what  she  said,  and  her  heart  was 
wrung. 

After  a  while  he  returned  to  her  again. 

"  Mother,  I  acknowledge  you  have  a 
good  right  to  be  displeased.  But  that  is 
not  all.  I  am  glad,  anyhow  —  heartily 
glad  to  have  you  here." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  eyes  full, 
and  quivering  lips.  Everything  went  by 
impulse  in  the  young  man*s  mind,  and  this 
look  —  in  which  for  once  in  his  life  he 
read  the  truth,  the  eagerness  to  forgive, 
the  willingness  to  forget,  the  possibility, 
even  in  the  moment  of  her  deepest  pain,  of 
giving  her  happiness  —  went  to  his  heart. 
After  all  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  have  a 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


human  creature  thus  altogether  dependent 
upon  your  words,  your  smile,  ready  to 
encounter  all  things  for  you,  without  hesi- 
tation, without  a  grudge.  And  why 
should  she  ?  What  had  he  ever  done  for 
her?  And  she  was  no  fool.  These 
thoughts  had  already  passed  through  his 
mind  with  a  realization  of  the  wonder  of 
it  all,  which  seldom  strikes  the  young  at 
sight  of  the  devotion  of  the  old.  All  these 
things  flashed  back  upon  him  at  sight  of 
the  dumb  anguish  yet  forgiveness  in  her 
eyes. 

•*  Mother,**  he  cried,  "  there's  enough 
of  this  between  you  and  me.  I  want  you 
not  for  Underwood,  but  for  everything. 
Why  should  you  care  for  a  cad  like  me? 
but  you  do ** 

"  Care  for  you  ?    Oh,  my  boy !  ** 

*'  I  know;  there  you  sit  that  have  trav- 
elled night  and  day  because  1  held  up  iny 
finger :  and  would  give  me  your  life  if  you 
could,  and  bear  everything,  and  never 
change  and  never  tire.  Why,  in  the  name 
of  God,  why  ?  **  he  cried  with  an  outburst. 
*'  What  have  I  ever  done  that  you  should 
do  this  for  me  ?  You  are  worth  a  score 
of  such  as  1  am,  and  yet  you  make  your- 
self a  slave.** 

"Oh,  Walter,  my  dear!  how  vain  are 
all  these  words.  I  am  your  mother,"  she 
said. 

Presently  he  drew  a  chair  close  to  her 
and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  All  these  things  have  been  put  before 
me,**  he  said,  **to  drive  me  to  despair.  I 
have  tried  to  say  that  it  was  this  vile  lord- 
ship, and  the  burden  of  the  family,  that 
has  made  me  bad,  mother.  But  you  know 
better  than  that,*'  he  said,  looking  up  at 
her  with  a  stormy  gleam  in  his  face  that 
could  not  be  called  a  smile,  "and  so  do 
1.*' 

"  Walter,  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever 
have  thought  you  bad.  You  have  been 
led  astray." 

"  To  do  —  what  I  wanted  to  do,*'  he  said 
with  another  smile,  "that  is  what  is  called 
leading  astray  between  a  man  and  those 
who  stand  between  him  and  the  devil; 
but  I  have  talked  with  one  who  thinks  of 
no  such  punctilios.  Mother,  vice  deserves 
damnation  ;  isn*t  that  your  creed  ?" 

"  Walter !  ** 

"  Oh,  I  know ;  but  listen  to  me.  If 
that  were  so,  would  a  woman  like  you 
stand  by  the  wretch  still  ?  " 

"  My  dearest  boy  1  you  are  talking 
wildly.  There  are  no  circumstances, 
none  I  in  which  I  should  not  stand  by 
you.** 

"That  is  what  I   thought,"  he  saud. 


THE  WIZARDS   SON. 


SS9 


"you  and—  But  they  say  that  you 
don*t  know,  you  women,  how  bad  a  man 
can  be:  and  that  if  you  knew  And 

then  as  for  God  —  " 

•*  God  knows  everything,  Walter." 

"Ay :  and  knows  that  never  in  my  life 
did  1  care  for  or  appeal  to  him,  till  in  de- 
spair. If  you  think  of  it,  these  are  not 
things  a  man  can  do,  mother:  take  refuge 
with  women  who  would  loathe  him  if  they 
knew ;  or  with  God,  who  does  know  that 
only  in  desperation,  only  when  nothinc; 
else  is  left  him,  he  calls  out  that  name  like 
a  spell.  Yes,  that  is  all;  like  an  incanta- 
tion, to  get  rid  of  the  fiend." 

The  veins  were  swollen  on  Walter's 
forehead ;  great  drops  of  moisture  hung 
upon  it;  on  the  other  hand  his  lips  were 
parched  and  dry,  his  eyes  gleaming  with 
a  hot,  treacherous  lustre.  Mrs.  Methven, 
as  she  looked  at  him,  grew  sick  with  ter- 
ror. She  began  to  think  that  his  brain 
was  giving  away. 

*•  What  am  I  to  say  to  you  ?  "  she  cried ; 
"who  has  been  speaking  so?  It  cannot 
be  a  friend,  Walter.  That  is  not  the  way 
to  bring  back  a  soul.'* 

He  laughed,  and  the  sound  alarmed  her 
still  more. 

"There  was  no  friendship  intended," 
he  said,  "  nor  reformation  either.  It  was 
intended  —  to  make  me  a  slave." 

"  To  whom,  oh  I  to  whom  ?  " 

He  had  relieved  his  mind  by  talking 
thus;  but  it  was  by  putting  his  burden 
upon  her.  She  was  agitated  beyond  meas- 
ure by  these  partial  confidences.  She 
took  his  hands  in  hers,  and  pleaded  with 
him, — 

"  Oh,  Walter,  my  darling,  what  has 
happened  to  you?  Tell  me  what  you 
mean." 

"  I  am  not  mad,  mother,  if  that  is  what 
you  think." 

"I  don't  think  so,  Walter.  I  don't 
know  what  to  think.  Tell  me.  Oh,  my 
boy,  have  pity  upon  me ;  tell  me." 

"  You  will  do  me  more  good,  mother,  if 
vou  will  tell  me  —  how  I  am  to  get  this 
burden  off,  and  be  a  free  man." 

"The  burden  of  — what?  Sin?  Oh, 
my  son ! "  she  cried,  rising  to  her  feet, 
with  tears  of  joy  streaming  from  her  eyes. 
She  put  her  hands  upon  his  head  and 
bade  God  bless  him.  God  bless  him! 
"There  is  no  doubt  about  that;  no  diffi- 
culty about  that,"  she  said;  "for  every- 
thing else  in  the  world  there  may  be  un- 
certainty, but  for  this  none.  God  is  more 
ready  to  forgive  than  we  are  to  ask.  If 
you  wish  it  sincerely  with  all  your  heart. 
It  is  done.    He  is  never  far  ^om  any  of 


us.  He  ts  here,  Walter  —  here,  ready  to 
pardon  1 " 

He  took  her  hands  which  she  had  put 
upon  him,  and  looked  at  her,  shaking  his 
head. 

"Mother,  you  are  going  too  fast,"  he 
said.  "  I  want  deliverance,  it  is  true ;  but 
1  don't  know  if  it  is  f/tat  I  mean." 

"That  is  at  the  bottom  of  all,  Walter." 

He  put  her  softly  into  her  chair,  and 
calmed  her  agitation ;  then  he  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

"That  is  religion,"  he  said.  "I  sup- 
pose it  is  at  the  bottom  of  all.  What  was 
it  you  used  to  teach  me,  mother,  about  a 
new  heart  ?  Can  a  man  enter  a  second 
time  —  and  be  born  ?  That  seems  all  so 
visionary  when  one  is  living  one's  life. 
You  think  of  hundreds  of  expedients  first. 
To  thrust  it  away  from  you,  and  forget  all 
about  it;  but  that  does  not  answer;  to 
defy  it  and  go  the  other  way  out  of  misery 
and  spite.  Then  to  try  compromises; 
marriage,  for  instance,  with  a  wife  per- 
haps, one  thinks " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs  Methven,  with  a 
sad  sinking  of  disappointment  in  her  heart 
after  her  previous  exultation,  yet  deter- 
mined that  her  sympathy  should  not  fail, 
**if  )*ou  had  a  good  wife  no  one  would  be 
so  happy  as  I — a  good  girl  who  would 
help  you  to  live  a  good  life." 

Here  he  came  up  to  her  again,  and, 
leaning  against  the  table,  burst  into  a 
laugh.  But  there  was  no  mirth  in  it.  A 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  is  not  always  mirth- 
ful. 

"  A  girl,"  he  said,  "  mother,  who  would 
bring  another  fortune  to  the  family :  who 
would  delude  us  with  .money,  and  fill  out 
the  lines  of  the  estates,  and  make  peace 
—  peace  between  me  and  —  And  not 
a  bad  girl  either,"  he  added  with  a  soft- 
ening tone,  "far  too  good  for  me.  An 
honest,  upright  little  soul,  only  not  —  the 
best :  only  not  the  one  who  —  would  hate 
me  if  she  knew " 

"Walter,"  said  Mrs.  Methven,  trem- 
bling, "I  don't  understand  you.  Your 
words  seem  very  wild  to  me.  I  am  all 
confused  with  them,  and  my  brain  seems 
to  be  going.  What  is  it  you  mean  ?  Oh, 
if  you  would  tell  me  all  you  mean  and  not 
only  a  part  which  I  cannot  understand  1 " 

There  never  happens  in  any  house  a 
conversation  of  a  vital  kind  which  is  not 
interrupted  at  a  critical  moment  by  the 
entrance  of  the  servants,  those  legitimate 
intruders  who  can  never  be  staved  o£E. 
It  was  Symington  now  who  came  in  with 
tea,  which,  with  a  woman's  natural  desire 
to  prevent  any  suspicion  of  agitation  ia 


S6o 

the  family,  she  accepted.    When  he  had 

f;one  the  whole  atmosphere  was  changed. 
Valter  had  seated  hfmself  by  the  fire 
with  the  newspapers  which  had  just  come 
in,  and  all  the  emotion  and  atiendrisse' 
tnent  were  over.  He  said  to  her,  looking 
up  from  his  reading,— 

"  By-the-by,  mother,  Julia  Herbert  is 
here  with  some  cousins ;  they  will  be  sure 
to  call  on  you.  But  I  don't  want  to  have 
any  more  to  do  with  them  than  we  can 
help.    You  will  manage  that  ?  " 

"Julia  Herbert ! "  she  said.  The  coun* 
tenance  which  had  melted  into  so  much 
softness,  froze  again  and  grew  severe. 
"Here!  why  should  she  be  here?  In- 
deed, I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  manage 
that,  as  you  say." 

,  But  oh,  what  ignoble  offices  for  a  woman 
who  would  have  given  her  life  for  him,  as 
he  knew  1  To  frighten  away  Underwood, 
to  "manage**  Julia.  Patience  I  so  long 
as  it  was  for  her  boy. 


A   KNIGHT-ERRANT  S   PILGRIMAGE. 


From  Temple  Bar. 
A  KNIGHT-ERRANTS  PILGRIMAGE. 

"Tell  me;  dos't  think  that  this  knight-errant  pil- 
grimage will  be  likely  to  win  the  Spanish  lady  ?  " 

King  James  to  the  Lord  K**p«r  IviUiams, 

At  a  late  hour  of  the  evening  of  March 
7,  1623,  two  travellers,  wearied  and  dust- 
stained,  rode  their  horses  into  the  court- 
yard of  the  house  of  the  Earl  of  Bristol 
at  Madrid,  and  demanded  an  audience  of 
its  owner.  They  gave  their  names  as 
Jack  and  Tom  Smith.  Among  the  diplo- 
matists of  his  day,  the  Earl  of  Bristol 
held  high  rank.  Sprung  from  a  family 
which  had  owned  land  in  the  fair  county 
of  Warwickshire  since  the  days  of  the 
first  Crusade,  John  Digby  had  early  been 
presented  at  the  court  of  his  sovereign, 
and  was  soon  one  of  its  established  favor- 
ites. Handsome,  accomplished,  and  a 
master  of  those  arts  and  graces  which  in 
the  seventeenth  century  were  indispensa- 
ble to  the  education  ot  the  finished  gen- 
tleman, young  Digby  was  precisely  the 
roan  to  rise  rapidly  in  the  estimation  of 
one  who,  like  James  I.,  was  much  im- 
pressed by  the  charms  of  personal  appear- 
ance and  a  high-bred  manner.  After  a 
brief  apprenticeship  as  a  courtier,  Digby 
was  appointed  a  gentleman  of  the  Privy 
Chamber,  a  member  of  the  Council,  and 
on  receiving  the  accolade  of  knighthood 
crossed  the  Pyrenees  as  ambassador  to 
Spain.  His  conduct  at  Madrid  proved 
him  worthy  of  being  entrusted  with  the 


more  complicated  branches  of  diplomacy, 
and  he  was  sent  to  Germany  to  bring  about 
a  peace  for  the  elector  Palatine,  thea 
robbed  of  his  country,  and  in  deep  dis- 
tress. His  services,  though  unsuccessful 
on  this  occasion,  were  not  to  be  ignored  ; 
the  envoy  was  raised  to  the  peerage  as 
Baron  Digby,  and  the  castle  and  lands  of 
Sherburne,  which  had  once  been  held  by 
the  ill-fated  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  now  ac- 
knowledged him  as  their  master. 

On  three  separate  occasions  he  had 
proceeded  to  Spain  as  the  representative 
of  his  sovereign,  and  had  acquitted  him- 
self with  such  credit  as  to  make  all  that 
concerned  Spanish  politics  his  especial 
province.  For  the  fourth  time  he  was  to 
journey  from  London  to  Madrid  as  the 
accredited  agent  of  his  master,  on  one  of 
the  most  important  missions  that  had  ever 
occupied  his  able  and  vigilant  brain. 
King  James  had  long  been  scheming,  with 
those  who  counselled  the  young  monarch 
who  then  sat  on  the  throne  of  Spain,  for 
a  matrimonial  alliance  between  Charles, 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  the  fair  infanta 
Maria,  the  sister  of  Philip  IV.  No  in- 
surmountable obstacles  had  at  first  pre- 
sented themselves  to  the  union,  yet,  as 
various  important  matters  had  to  be  con- 
sidered, knotty  points  to  be  settled,  and 
weighty  deliberations  to  be  entered  into, 
it  was  deemed  advisable  to  despatch  Lord 
Digby  as  ambassador  extraordinary  to 
Spain.  Our  representative  at  Madrid  at 
that  date  was  Sir  Walter  Aston,  a  loyal 
and  cautious  diplomatist,  but  lacking,  it 
was  thought,  the  experience  and  finesse 
necessary  for  so  complicated  a  negotia- 
tion as  a  marriage  between  a  Catholic  in- 
fanta and  a  Protestant  Prince  of  Wales. 
To  give  increased  weight  to  the  mission 
of  Lord  Digby,  that  distinguished  person- 
age was  raised  to  the  peerage  by  the  style 
of  Earl  of  Bristol. 

To  Charles  the  proposed  union  was 
everything  that  w*as  desirable.  The  por- 
trait he  possessed  of  the  infanta  showed 
him  a  fair-haired  girl,  like  one  of  the  hero- 
ines of  Goethe,  with  soft  blue  eyes,  the 
arched  eyebrows  of  the  Peninsula,  a  full, 

C outing  mouth  idealized  into  the  Cupid^s 
ow  of  the  artist,  whilst  the  expression 
of  the  classic  oval  of  the  face  was  full  of 
thought  and  amiability.  Young,  ardent, 
and  endowed  in  no  small  measure  with 
the  sentimentality  of  lads  of  his  age,  the 
prince,  always  impulsive,  could  ill  brook 
the  slow  and  formal  proceedings  of  diplo- 
macy. He  wished  to  see  the  infanta,  to 
meet  her  face  to  face,  to  inspire  within 
her  the  passion  he  himself  entertained. 


A   KNIGHT-ERRANT  S   PILGRIMAGE, 


and. to  make  his  suit,  not  through  a  pre- 
cise aad  hair-splitting  envoy,  but  in  his 
own  person.  His  desire  bad  been  clev- 
erly stimulated  by  a  former  Spanish  am- 
bassador at  London,  who,  on  his  return 
to  Madrid,  had  written  to  Buckingham, 
that  if  the  prince  would  only  pay  a  visit 
to  Spain,  all  would  be  satisfactorily  set- 
tled, and  according  to  the  wishes  of  his 
Royal  Highness.  "  Bring  him  here,"  said 
Gondomar,  **and  I  will  engage  that  the 
a£fair  will  be  speedily  settled.'' 

As  the  negotiations  slowly  proceeded 
between  the  careful  Bristol  and  Olivarez, 
the  astute  but  shifty  prime  minister  of 
Spain  —  touching  the  papal  dispensation 
necessary  to  sanction  the  mixed  marriage ; 
the  relief  to  be  granted  to  the  English 
Papists ;  the  establishment  to  be  accorded 
to  the  infanta  on  her  arrival  in  London  ; 
and  the  restoration  of  the  Palatinate  — all 
of  which  filled  volumes  of  State  papers 
and  were  the  subject  of  frequent  confer- 
ences held  at  Madrid  and  St.  Lorenzo  — 
as  these  long-drawn-out  diplomatic  delib- 
erations pursued  their  tardy  course,  the 
young  prince  grew  hot  and  hasty.  Why 
should  he  not  take  the  matter  himself  in 
band?  A  union  between  Spain  and  En- 
gland was  most  desirable  for  each  country 
to  obtain  the  end  it  had  in  view  —  for 
England  to  stem  the  power  of  the  house 
of  Austria;  for  Spain  to  make  England 
Catholic  —  why  then  should  he  not  hasten 
over  the  Pyrenees  and  press. his  suit  in 
person  ?  How  could  it  be  expected  that 
the  infanta,  naturally  prejudiced  against 
him  as  a  Protestant,  should  be  enthusi- 
astic as  to  her  marriage  with  one  she  had 
never  seen,  whose  portrait  she  did  not 
even  possess,  and  who  only  knew  about 
her  suitor  by  hearsay?  li  the  hint  of 
Gondomar  were  acted  upon,  how  different 
might  be  the  result !  As  Charles  looked 
at  himself  in  the  mirror  he  felt  he  had  no 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  the  reflection 
which  met  his  gaze,  or  to  fear  that  his 
wooing  would  be  fruitless.  He  was  not 
like  many  of  the  princes  of  his  day,  who 
had  to  court  by  proxy,  not  so  much  on 
account  of  State  reasons,  as  because  they 
were  among  the  most  repulsive  works  of 
nature — deformed,  dissipated,  or  diseased. 
Charles  in  his  youth,  as  in  his  later  days, 
was  eminently  a  handsome  man;  indeed, 
he  owes  no  little  of  the  sympathy  with 
which  posterity  for  the  most  part  regards 
his  fate,  to  his  silky  locks,  his  well-mould- 
ed brow,  his  dark,  expressive  eyes,  the 
carefully  trimmed  moustache  and  imperial, 
that  high-bred  look  which  we  generally  as- 
sociate with  the  gentleman  of  ancient  race, 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  22/2 


S6i 

his  tall  and  distinguished  figure.  Even 
Buckingham,  who  was  one  of  the  hand- 
somest subjects  of  his  time,  was  consid- 
ered by  many  to  be  inferior,  so  far  as 
personal  attractions  were  concerned,  to 
the  Prince  of  Wales.  Nor  was  Charles 
a  mere  beauty  man  —  empty-headed,  re- 
sourceless,  and  indifferent  to  everything 
which  did  not  minister  to  the  vanity  of 
the  moment.  He  was  well  read  and  upon 
subjects  which  do  not  always  come  within 
the  perusal  of  even  the  scholar;  he  had  a 
keen  and  cultivated  taste  for  art,  and  was 
an  excellent  judge  of  paintings;  in  music 
he  was  no  mean  pro^cient;  though  shy 
with  strangers,  he  spoke  well  and  sensibly 
when  amid  those  he.  knew  intimately;  he 
was  a  graceful  dancer,  and  in  all  the 
manly  exercises  of  his  age  he  excelled. 
So  endowed,  physically  and  intellectually, 
Charles  may  well  have  thought  that  obsta- 
cles, which  appeared  grave  and  weighty 
when  considered  in  a  despatch  or  at  a 
Council,  would  fade  away  before  the  sun- 
shine of  his  presence.  Absence  may 
make  the  heart  grow  fonder,  but  where 
there  is  no  fondness  —  as  was  the  case 
then  with  the  infanta  —  the  absent  are 
always  at  a  disadvantage. 

A  tour  to  Spain  was  the  subject  of  fre- 
quent discussion  between  the  prince  and 
his  one  great  friend  Buckingham.  We 
often  find  that  the  most  complete  intimacy 
exists  between  characters  the  exact  oppo- 
site of  each  other.  *'  Steenie,"  as  James 
nicknamed  Buckingham  on  account  of  a 
supposed  resemblance  to  St.  Stephen, 
was  in  every  respect  a  decided  contrast 
to  "Baby  Charles,*'  as  the  doting  father 
called  his  heir.  Beyond  that  both  men 
were  singularly  handsome,  they  had  not 
a  single  feature  in  common ;  each  was 
morally  and  physically  the  antithesis  of 
the  other.  The  prince  was  so  correct  of 
life  that  the  wits  at  Paris  vowed  he  was  as 
virgin  as  his  sword;  the  favorite,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  loose  and  dissolute  in  the 
extreme.  Charles  was  quiet,  sensitive, 
and  the  most  polished  of  gentlemen; 
Buckingham,  when  the  veneer  of  the 
courtier  had  worn  off,  was  bold,  noisy, 
overbearing,  and  offensive.  Charles  was 
a  man  of  culture  and  fond  of  all  that  cul- 
ture enjoins ;  Buckingham  had  no  ideas 
beyond  those  of  the  dissipated  man  of 
fashion :  he  filled  high  offices  —  he  was 
lord  high  admiral,  lord  president  of  the 
Council,  a  knight  of  the  Garter,  the  first 
minister  in  the  realm,  a  marquis  with  a 
dukedom  in  expectancy  —  but  he  did 
nothing;  he  was  appointed  to  various 
commands,  and   he  only  proved  bis  ia* 


5^2 

competency;  his  aim  was  to  shine  —  and 
there  he  shone  resplendently  when  his 
temper  had  not  been  crossed  —  in  the 
boudoir  and  the  salon.  Charles  was  a 
prince,  conscious  of  the  responsibilities  of 
his  position,  and  desirous  of  sustaining 
them  with  dij^nity;  Duckinorham  was  a 
successful  adventurer,  with  all  the  arro- 
gance and  agt^ressiveness  of  the  upstart 
Yet  between  these  two  men  the  warmest 
and  most  loyal  friendship  prevailed. 
Steenie,  as  the  elder  by  some  eight  years, 
suggested  and  Baby  Charles  followed. 
The  prince  never  engaged  in  any  enter- 
prise without  first  consulting  his  faithful 
friend  and  adviser;  Buckingham  was  in 
those  days  to  Charles  all  that  Strafford 
and  Laud  were  to  him  in  after  years.  The 
two  were  inseparable,  but  it  was  a  union 
in  which  the  one  leads  whilst  the  other 
obeys.  It  was  therefore  not  to  be  ex- 
pected, when  Buckingham  suggested  that 
the  advice  of  Gondamar  should  be  acted 
upon  and  that  the  longtalked-of  visit  to 
Madrid  should  really  be  paid,  that  Charles 
should  be  averse  to  the  proposal.  The 
prince  gladly  assented  to  the  plan.  It 
was  agreed  that  the  two  young  men,  un- 
der false  names,  should  cross  over  to 
Paris,  and  there  take  horse  and  ride 
straight  with  as  little  delay  as  possible  on 
the  road  to  Madrid. 

The  journey  was  to  be  kept  a  strict 
secret  until  the  travellers  had  reached 
their  destination ;  it  was  not  to  be 
broached  to  the  Council,  only  the  king 
was  to  be  informed  of  it,  in  order  to  ob- 
tain his  assent.  At  first  James  would  not 
listen  to  the  idea;  he  was  fearful  of  the 
dangers  which  his  "  deare  boys  "  might 
encounter  on  their  travels ;  he  spoke  of 
the  harm  which  might  ensue  to  the  nation, 
should  anything  happen  to  the  sovereign 
whilst  the  heir-apparent  was  out  of  the 
country;  he  did  not  think  such  a  roman- 
tic step  would  promote  the  match,  the 
Council  and  the  nation  would  be  opposed 
to  it;  and  then  he  was  eloquent  upon  the 
chance  of  the  prince,  once  lodged  at  Ma- 
drid, not  being  permitted  to  return  home, 
but  treated  as  a  hostage  until  all  the  terms 
required  by  Spain  had  been  agreed  to. 
Steenie  and  Baby  Charles  declined,  how- 
ever, to  be  deterred  from  their  purpose, 
and  after  nearly  two  months  spent  in  the 
employment  of  all  the  wiles  of  persuasion 
and  opposition,  the  king  reluctantly  gave 
sanction  to  what  he  termed  a  "  mad 
course."  Assent  once  obtained,  the  ar- 
dent travellers  were  not  long  in  carrying 
their  scheme  into  execution.  Disguised 
and  their  faces  hidden  by  false  beards, 


A   KNIGHT-ERRANT  S   PILGRIMAGE, 


they  made  their  way  to  Dover,  there  took 
boat  for  Ca>ais,  then  pushed  on  to  Paris, 
where  they  stayed  a  few  days,  and  where 
Charles  saw  his  future  wife,  Henrietta 
Maria,  at  a  masque  at  the  Luxembourg; 
quitting  Paris,  a  hard  ride  of  thirteen 
days  brought  them  to  Madrid,  where  we 
meet  them  as  Jack  and  Tom  Smith,  dis- 
mounting in  the  courtyard  of  the  palace 
occupied  by  my  lord  of  Bristol. 

The  presence  of  such  distinguished 
strangers  was  soon  an  open  secret  among 
the  Madrilefios,  and  it  was  wished  that  no 
honors  which  court  etiquette  could  sug- 
gest should  be  withheld.  The  day  after 
his  arrival,  Buckingham,  accompanied  by 
Lord  Bristol,  Sir  Walter  Aston,  and  Gon- 
domar,  called  upon  the  Conde-Duque  de 
Olivarez. 

Olivarez  was  in  Spain  what  Richelieu 
was  in  France,  and  Buckingham  in  En- 
gland—  the  chief  adviser  of  the  crown, 
and  practically  the  ruler  of  the  country. 
He  had  early  obtained  considerable  influ- 
ence over  Philip  IV.,  when  infante,  and 
on  the  young  kins;*s  accession  wielded 
absolute  sway  in  all  affairs  of  government. 
Endowed  with  an  energy  which  was  inde- 
fatigable, unscrupulous,  vindictive,  and 
domineering,  he  allowed  no  rival  to  come 
between  him  and  his  sovereign.  It  was 
he  and  he  alone  who  drew  up  every  im- 
portant State  paper,  who  influenced  the 
decisions  of  councils  and  juntas,  and  who 
in  all  moments  of  emergency  fashioned 
the  policy  that  was  to  be  adopted.  The 
one  aim  of  Don  Gaspar  Guzman,  Conde- 
Duque  de  Olivarez,  was  to  give  the 
house  of  Austria  a  dominant  influence  in 
the  affairs  of  Europe,  and  to  make  it  the 
one  house  whose  power  whenever  exer- 
cised should  cause  the  scale  to  be  turned 
in  its  favor.  He  was  secretly  oppK>sed  to 
the  alliance  with  England,  wishing  the 
infanta  to  marrv  a  son  of  the  .emperor, 
and  he  evinced  his  opposition  not  overtly, 
but  by  raising  demands  one  after  the 
other  to  which  he  felt  sure  that  Bristol,  as 
the  representative  of  a  Protestant  power, 
could  not  accede.  Outwardly  he  expressed 
himself  as  devoted  to  the  interests  of  En- 
gland, and  as  a  warm  ally  of  the  Prince  of 
wales.  In  the  then  tortuous  and  in- 
volved condition  of  European  politics,  it 
was  not  advisable  for  him  to  make  an  en- 
emy of  James. 

On  the  conclusion  of  the  interview,  Oli- 
varez escorted  Buckingham  to  the  palace 
of  Philip  IV. 

The  Conde  de  Olivarez  [we  are  told]  •  after 
*  Sute  Papers  — Spain,  March,  1623,  "Relation of 


A  KNIGHT -ERRANT  S   PILGRIMAGE. 


5^3 


they  had  conversed  a  while  together,  carried 
my  Lord  Marquis  up  a  back  way  into  the 
King's  quarter,  where  he  had  private  audience 
of  the  King,  who  received  him  with  extraor- 
dinary courtesy,  and  with  the  expression  of  so 
great  joy  that  it  appeared  unto  my  Lord  Mar- 
quis i)efore  he  took  his  leave  of  the  King  that 
his  Majesty  was  not  ignorant  of  his  High- 
nesses arrival ;  also  the  Conde  de  Olivarez 
having  procured  the  King^s  leave,  came  back 
with  my  Lord  Marquis  that  night,  and  kissed 
his  Highnesses  hands,  in  whose  presence  he 
would  by  no  means  be  covered,  although  he 
was  a  grandee  who  usually  kept  his  hat  on  be- 
fore his  own  King. 

The  prince  was  most  anxious  to  see  the 
infanta,  but  as  yet  this  desire,  owing  to 
Spanish  etiquette,  could  only  be  gratified 
surreptitiously. 

The  next  day  being  Sunday  [says  our  chron- 
icler]* the  King,  that  he  might  satisfy  the  de- 
sire which  he  understood  by  my  Lord  Mar- 
quis his  Highness  had  of  seeing  the  Infanta 
his  mistress,  came  abroad  to  visit  a  monastery, 
having  with  him  in  his  coach  the  Infanta,  and 
Don  Carlos  and  the  Infante  Cardinal  his 
brothers ;  so  that  his  Highness  going  forth 
secretly  in  a  coach  had  his  full  sight  of  them 
all  at  three  several  places  as  they  passed. 

Shortly  after  sunset  Philip,  who  "  had 
not  the  patience  to  abstain  any  longer," 
begged  an  interview  with  the  prince.  It 
was  accorded,  and  the  two  men  met  on 
the  Prado. 

Here,  having  embraced  and  saluted  each 
■the  other  with  as  much  kindness  as  possibly 
can  be  imagined,  they  spent  some  half  an  hour 
together  in  the  King's  coach  in  discourse,  my 
Lord  of  Bristol  serving  as  interpreter;  the 
King  forced  his  Highness  (as  at  all  other  meet- 
ings which  they  had  afterwards)  to  take  the 
hand  and  place  of  him.t 

Two  davs  afterwards,  od  the  evening  of 
the  Tuesclay  following, 

His  Highness  and  the  King  met  a  second 
time  privately  in  a  place  not  far  from  the 
King's  palace,  where  the  King,  taking  his 
Highness  into  his  coach,  and  with  him  the 
Lord  Marquis,  the  Conde  de  Olivarez,  and  my 
Lord  of  Bristol,  carried  him  to  a  house  of 
pleasure  hard  by  called  Casa  del  Campo  (this 
was  a  small  royal  palace  near  Madrid  with  a 
lovely  garden),  where,  after  they  had  passed 
more'  than  an  hour  together,  when  his  High- 
ness was  to  return,  he  could  by  no  striving  pre- 
vail with  the  King  but  he  would  bring  him 
better  than  an  English  mile  homewards  as  far 
as  with  conveniency  he  could.| 

the  Prince,  his  Arrival  in  Spaio,  his  Reception  and 
Entertainment." 

•  Ibid. 

t  Ibid. 

t  Ibid. 


During  the  next  few  days  Charles 
amused  himself  in  the  fields  **a  hawking 
with  my  Lord  of  Bristol  his  hawks.*' 

The  public  entry  of  the  prince  into 
Madrid  was  arranged  for  the  26th  of 
March ;  and  never,  we  are  told,  **  had  a 
more  solemn  reception  been  given  on  any 
occasion  by  Spain  to  her  own  kings." 
Philip  met  his  guest  at  the  Convent  of 
San  Geronimo,  from  which  establishment  ^ 
it  was  the  custom  for  the  kings  of  Castile 
to  make  their  ceremonial  ingress  into  the 
city  on  the  occasion  of  their  coronation. 
Thus  it  pleased  Spain  to  treat  the  young 
prince  as  one  of  her  own  kings,  an  honor 
then  perfectly  exceptional.  The  hour  was 
four  o'clock.  Two  magnificently  capari- 
soned genets  were  brought  round  to  the 
entrance  door  of  the  convent,  and  as  sooa 
as  Philip  and  Charles  had  settled  them- 
selves in  their  saddles  the  procession 
started. 

And  so  [records  the  chronicler]*  the  King 
giving  his  Highness  the  hand,  they  passed 
towards  the  palace  under  a  canopy  of  state 
carried  by  the  regidars  (who  are  those  which 
have  the  government  of  the  town)  unto  whom 
it  belongeth,  by  their  offices,  who  to  the  num- 
l)er  of  about  thirty  were  for  that  purpose 
clothed  in  cloth  of  tissue,  lined  with  crimson 
cloth  of  gold :  before  them  went  the  nobility 
and  grandees,  all  very  rich,  attended  by  their 
several  liveries,  which  were  also  very  rich  and 
costly ;  next  after  them  came  my  Lord  Mar- 
quis and  the  Conde  de  Olivarez,  executing 
their  places  as  the  masters  of  the  horse,  the 
Conde  giving  my  Lord  Marquis  the  hand. 
After  them  followed  my  Lord  of  Bristol  and 
Sir  Walter  Aston,  accompanied  with  divers 
counsellors  of  state  and  the  gentlemen  of  the 
King's  chamber.  Having  passed  in  this  man- 
ner through  the  town  to  the  King's  palace,  the 
King,  as  soon  as  they  were  alighted,  brought 
his  Highness  up  to  the  Queen's  quarter,  where 
he  was  received  by  her  with  much  courtesy, 
and  after  conducteci  by  the  King  to  those  lodg- 
ings which  were  appointed  for  his  Highness  in 
the  palace ;  where,  after  they  had  been  and 
conversed  a  while,  the  King  left  the  Prince, 
not  suffering  his  Highness  to  accompany  him 
any  farther  than  the  door. 

Keys  were  then  given  to  Charles  and 
Buckingham  which  would  admit  them 
whenever  they  chose  into  the  private 
apartments  of  his  Majesty. 

The  prince  was  now  the  hero  of  the 
hour.  The  romance  which  was  attached 
to  his  visit,  his  handsome  face  and  dig- 
nified bearing,  the  sweetness  of  his  dis- 
position, his  careful  regard  for  all   the 

•  State  Papers  —  Spain,  March,  1633,  **  Relation  of 
the  Prince,  his  Arrival  in  Spain,  his  Reception  and 
Entertainment" 


S6^ 

restrictions  enjoined  by  the  most  rigid 
court  in  Europe,  made  him  intensely  pop- 
ular in  the  capital. 

They  seem  here  [writes  Bristol  to  Sir  Dud- 
ley Carleton]  *  in  a  manner  ravished  with  the 
rareness  of  the  accident,  and  know  not  what 
expression  of  their  joy  and  affection  may  be 
answerable  thereunto ;  and  I  persuade  myself, 
if  it  be  possible  that  they  can  forget  for  a  while 
their  Spanish  gravity,  it  will  be  now.  I  am 
sure  they  have  passed  already  farther  than  the 
usual  fashions  and  customs  of  this  Court  and 
State. 

Charles  never  forgot  that  be  was  a 
prince  as  well  as  a  lover,  and  the  studied 
dignity  of  his  manner  impressed  a  nation 
especially  alive  to  all  the  graces  of  good 
breeding. 

His  comportment  is  so  noble  [writes  Simon 
Digby,  Lord  Bristol's  private  secretary]  as 
draweth  all  that  see  it  into  admiration  of  him, 
and  he  hath  already  won  the  hearts  of  this 
people  so  that  they  are  all  his  servants ;  and 
verily  a  prince  of  a  nobler  disposition  lives  not 
in  the  world. 

On  all  sides  we  hear  nothing  but  praise 
of  the  conduct  of  Charles  at  this  time. 
The  Spaniards  were  as  pleased  with  him 
as  the  £na;lish  were  proud  of  him.  The 
arrival  of  the  heir- apparent  naturall3' 
created  no  little  flutter  at  the  English  em- 
bassy at  Madrid. 

During  the  first  weeks  after  his  arrival, 
the  life  of  the  prince  was  one  round  of 
gaiety.  Masques,  balls,  banquets,  were 
constantly  being  given  in  his  honor.  He 
hunted  the  wild  boar,  went  a-hawking, 
and  was  a  frequent  attendant  at  the  bull- 
fight, which  then  as  now  constituted  the 
most  prominent  of  the  amusements  fur- 
nished bv  Madrid. 

Still  pleasure  was  not  permitted  to  in- 
terfere with  the  graver  details  of  business. 
The  prince  had  come  to  marry  the  infanta, 
and  not  to  pass  his  time  as  a  mere  tourist 
in  watching  Spanish  manners  and  cus- 
toms, or  as  a  distinguished  visitor  enjoy- 
ing the  hospitalities  of  the  court  ana  of 
its  grandees.  After  his  public  entry  into 
Madrid  he  had  been  introduced  to  his 
lady-love,  and  he  was  even  more  fascinated 
by  her  charms  and  accomplishments  than 
he  had  expected,  though  his  expectations 
had  been  high.  Before  he  had  paid  his 
court  a  month  to  the  infanta — though 
the  courtship  had  to  be  carried  on  under 
the  terrible  restrictions  of  Spanish  eti- 
quette —  he  was  so  deeply  enamored  of 
bis  mistress  that  he  was  ready  to  agree  to 
any  terms  that  Olivarez  or  the  Junta  of 

*  State  Papers— Spain,  March  xo,  1633. 


A   KNIGHT-ERRANT  S    PILGRIMAGE, 


Theologians  might  impose  upon  hire. 
The  course  of  true  love,  we  know  from 
high  poetic  authority,  seldom  runs  smooth, 
nor  was  the  Spanish  match  to  be  any  ex- 
ception to  the  rule.  The  religious  ques- 
tion, as  in  all  mixed  marriages,  was  the 
most  formidable  of  the  difficulties  that 
came  up  for  settlement.  Charles  was  a 
Protestant,  and  his  flame  the  roost  loyal 
and  devout  of  Catholics.  The  prince 
would  agree  to  use  his  influence  with 
Parliament  and  the  Privy  Council  for  the 
redress  of  the  grievances  under  which 
the  English  Papists  then  labored;  he 
made  no  objection  to  the  infanta,  when 
his  wife,  having  a  Catholic  establishment 
of  her  own  and  practising  the  Roman 
ritual ;  he  was  willing  that  the  children 
resulting  from  the  marriage  should  up  to 
a  certam  age  be  subject  to  the  control  of 
the  mother ;  but  he  could  not  himself 
change  his  faith,  as  Olivarez  had  fondly 
anticipated,  and  be  converted  to  Roman 
Catholicism.  And  this  was  now  the  chief 
obstacle  that  had  to  be  overcome.  The 
prince  was  firm  in  his  Protestantism, 
though  he  had  been  advised  to  express 
himself  as  "open  to  conviction;"  the 
infanta  was  a  Papist  and  ought  not,  she 
affirmed,  struggling  between  inclination 
and  conscience,  to  marry  a  heretic.  In 
this  remonstrance  she  was  strengthened 
by  those  around  her. 

Her  confessor  [writes  Bristol  to  James],*  a 
Franciscan  friar,  has  done  all  the  ill  offices  he 
could  to  divert  her  from  the  match,  telling  her 
that  "^  heretic  was  worse  than  a  devil,  and 
therefore  what  a  comfortable  bedfellow  she 
was  like  to  have  when  he  that  was  to  lie  by  her 
side  and  to  be  father  of  her  children,  was  sure 
to  go  to  hell ;"  and  this  language  was  likewise 
held  to  her  by  divers  women  about  her,  where- 
upon the  poor  young  lady  grew  to  be  much 
distracted  and  to  have  the  match  in  a  kind  of 
horror. 

Indeed  the  poor  infanta  knew  not  what 
course  to  adopt ;  pious  and  amiable,  she 
was  at  her  wits'  end  between  the  dictates 
of  her  heart  —  which  were  not  hostile  to 
the  handsome  young  prince  —  the  wishes 
of  her  brother  —  who  was  in  favor  of  the 
match,  hoping  thereby  to  convert  heretic 
England  —  and  the  tortuous  counsels  of 
Olivarez.  Among  the  Spanish  State  pa- 
pers there  is  a  portrait  of  this  suffering 
damsel  drawn  at  full  length  by  the  careful 
hand  of  Sir  Toby  Matthew,  the  son  of  the 
Archbishop  of  York,  but  a  pervert  who 
had  been  sent  to  Madrid  on  a  special  mis- 
sion in  connection  with  the  match. 

*  State  Papers  —  Spain,  August  18,  162J. 


A   KNIGHT-ERRANT  S   PILGRIMAGE, 


The  Infanta  Donna  Maria  [he  writes]  •will 
have  seventeen  years  of  age  this  next  August ; 
as  yet  she  seems  but  low  of  stature,  for  she 
useih  no  help  at  all  [2^.,  does  not  wear  high* 
heeled  shoes  ?],  and  the  women  of  this  country 
are  not  generally  tall :  but  the  Infanta  is  much 
of  the  same  stature  which  those  ladies  have 
who  live  in  the  Court  of  Spain  and  are  of  the 
same  years  as  her.  She  is  fair  in  all  perfec- 
tion. Her  favor  [Face]  is  very  good  and  far 
from  having  any  one  ill  feature  in  it.  Her 
countenance  is  sweet  in  a  very  extraordinary 
manner,  and  shows  her  to  be  both  highly 
borne ;  and  with  all  that  she  placeth  no  great 
felicity  in  that,  for  really  there  seems  to  shine 
from  her  soul  through  her  body  as  great  sweet- 
ness and  goodness  as  can  be  desired  in  a  crea- 
ture. Her  close  ruff  and  cuffs  are  said  by 
them  who  know  it  best  to  be  greatly  to  her 
disadvantage  ;  for  that  both  her  head  is  rarely 
well  set  on  her  neck,  and  so  are  her  excellent 
hands  to  her  arms,  and  they  say  [ouaintly  re- 
marks Sir  Toby]  that  before  she  is  dressed  she 
is  incomparably  better  than  afterwards. 

But  as  for  the  virtue  of  her  mind  [he  con- 
tinues] it  is  held  to  exceed  the  beauty  of  her 
person  very  far.  In  her  religion  she  is  very 
pious  and  devout.  She  daily  spendeth  two  or 
three  hours  in  prayer.  She  confesseth  and 
communicateth  twice  every  week  —  namely, 
upon  every  Wednesday  and  every  Saturday. 
She  carryeth  a  particular  and  most  tender  de- 
votion to  the  Blessed  Sacrament  and  the  Im- 
maculate Conception  of  Our  Blessed  Lady. 
She  doth  usually  make  some  little  thing  with 
her  own  hands  day  by  day  which  may  be  for 
the  use  of  sick  or  wounded  persons  in  the 
hospitals;  and  many  times  it  is  but  drawing 
lint  out  of  linen  which  may  serve  for  wounds. 
All  that  which  the  King  her  brother  giveth 
her  for  play  or  for  toys,  according  to  her  fancy 
(which  comes  to  about  a  hundred  pounds  a 
month),  she  employeth  wholly  upon  the  poor. 
She  is  generally  of  few  words,  but  yet  of  very 
sweet  and  easy  conversation  when  she  is  pri- 
vate with  Her  ladies. 

Her  mind,  they  say  [proceeds  the  analyst]  is 
more  awake  than  they  who  know  her  not  well 
would  easily  Ijelieve.  They  who  have  studied 
her  most  tell  me  that  she  is  very  sensible  of 
any  real  unkindness ;  but  that  this  costcth  no 
body  anything  but  herself,  for  she  makes  no 
noise  and  expostulates  not,  but  only  grieves. 
Of  her  person  and  beauty  and  dressing  she  is 
careless,  and  takes  what  they  bring  her  without 
more  ado.  She  is  thought  to  be  of  great  cour- 
age for  a  woman,  and  to  despise  danger.  For, 
besides  that  she  never  starts  as  many  women 
do  at  sudden  things,  nor  is  frightened  by  thun- 
der or  lightning,  or  the  like,  they  observe  how 
that  when  that  the  last  year  at  Aranjuez, 
where  the  Queen  made  a  show  or  public  enter- 
tainment for  the  King  into  which  themselves 
did  enter  with  many  other  ladies,  and  when 
the  scaffolds  and  boughs  fell  into  a  sudden  fire, 
and  when  the  company  was  much  frightened 

*  Sute  Papen~  Spain,  June  28,  1633. 


S6S 

with  the  imminent  danger  thereof  and  was  fly- 
ing from  there  at  full  speed,  the  Infanta  did 
but  call  the  Conde  de  Olivares  to  her  and 
willed  him  to  defend  her  from  the  press  of  the 
people,  and  so  she  went  off  with  her  usual 
pace  and  without  shewing  to  be  in  any  disorder 
at  all,  even  so  much  as  by  the  least  change  of 
her  color.  Many  virtues  are  said  to  live  in  the 
heart  of  this  lady,  but  that  which  reigns  and 
is  sovereign  in  her  is  a  resolution  which  she 
hath  maintained  inviolable  from  her  very  in- 
fancy—  never  to  speak  ill  of  any  creature; 
and  not  only  so,  but  to  shew  a  plain  dislike  of 
them  who  speak  ill  of  others,  saying  some- 
times, "perhaps  it  is  not  so,"  or  else,  **a  body 
can  believe  nothing  but  what  they  see,"  or  else, 
**itis  good  to  hear  both  sides,"  and  the  like. 
The  world  in  Spain  doth  all  conspire  to  honor, 
love,  and  admire  this  lady,  but  the  King  her 
brother  doth  make  more  proof  of  it  than  they 
all,  for  there  is  no  one  evening  wherein  he 
goeth  not  to  visit  her  in  her  own  lodgings,  and 
he  will  sit  by  her  sometimes  whilst  she  is 
making  herself  ready.  And  he  is  often  giving 
her  presents  and  would  have  her  command  him 
to  give  her  more ;  but  as  for  that,  there  is  no 
remedy,  for  she  could  never  be  entreated  to 
ask  anything  for  herself. 

To  the  king  of  England  she  expressed 
herself  as  much  beholden. 

She  hath  been  often  heard  [continues  Sir 
Toby]  upon  several  occasions  to  speak  with 
great  tenderness  of  the  King  our  sovereign, 
and  how  deeply  she  holdeth  herself  obliged  to 
him  for  the  great  honor  and  favor  which  she 
understands  his  Majesty  to  have  done  her,  and 
for  the  tender  care  which  he  vouchsafes  to  have 
of  her.  And  I  have  particular  reasons  which 
make  me  think  that  I  know  that  the  loving 
reverence  which  she  will  bear  towards  him, 
and  the  hearty  obedience  which  she  will  per- 
form to  his  Majesty,  will  give  him  such  an  un- 
speakable kind  of  comfort  as  perhaps  he  did 
little  look  for  in  this  kind  in  this  life. 

As  to  the  light  in  which  the  infanta  re- 
gards Charles,  Sir  Toby  is  more  cautious. 

How  much  the  Infanta  [he  proceeds]  doth 
honor  and  esteem  the  Prince  the  vulgar  cannot 
say ;  but  there  be  enough  in  the  world  who 
know  that  she  doth  it  extremely  much  accord- 
ing to  her  great  obligation.  The  time  is  not  yet 
arrived  for  her  to  make  those  public  expres- 
sions thereof  which  are  not  warranted  by  the 
style  of  this  Court,  till  the  treaty  he  absolutely 
at  an  end.  Yet  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  this 
time  is  near  at  hand,  and  my  heart  is  full  of 
joy  to  think  how  happy  our  excellent  Prince 
shall  be  in  the  sweet  society  o(  such  a  wife,  and 
how  happy  they  will  make  the  world  by  a  glo- 
rious issue.  And  in  the  mean  time  a  man  may 
guess  how  the  Infanta's  pulse  beateth  towards 
his  Highness,  since  by  occasion  of  my  Lord 
Admiral's  indisposition  this  last  week,  through 
the  swelling  of  his  face  caused  by  the  drawing 
of  a  tooth,  the  Infanta  hearing  of  it  did  express 


S66 

to  have  mach  grief  for  his  pain,  and  was  still 
inquiring  of  her  ladies  how  he  did,  declaring 
that  she  would  not  for  anything  of  this  world 
that  any  ill  accident  should  lay  hold  upon  him, 
especially  in  this  journey  which  he  had  under- 
taken in  the  service  of  the  Prince  upon  this 
occasion. 

Love  me,  love  my  dog ;  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  Buckingham  was  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  Charles. 

Upon  the  arrival  of  the  prince  at  Ma- 
drid, it  had  been  confidently  expected  by 
those  about  the  king  that  he  would  prove 
himself  willing  to  abjure  his  Anglicanism 
and  embrace  the  creed  of  Rome.  It  was 
felt  that  unless  Charles  had  entertained 
some  such  idea,  he  would  not  have  ex- 
pressed so  keen  a  desire  to  be  linked  with 
a  Catholic,  or  have  hurried  across  the 
Pyrenees  to  woo  the  infanta  in  person.  It 
is  said  that  Philip,  on  first  hearing  of  the 
arrival  of  his  distinguished  visitor,  judged, 
*Mike  all  other  prudent  men,  that  the 
prince's  journey  proceeded  from  a  delib- 
erate resolve  to  overcome  the  difficulties 
of  religion  without  which  the  marriage 
could  not  take  effect,*'  and  that  he  was 
"  infinitely  delighted  "  therewith.  Yet  his 
joy  at  the  prospective  conversion  of  one 
who  was  to  be  his  brother-in-law  was  not 
to  throw  him  off  his  guard  and  make  him 
less  severe  in  the  conditions  he  demanded, 
for,  we  are  told  that,  approaching  a  cru- 
cifix which  was  at  the  head  of  his  bed,  be 
exclaimed 

in  the  spirit  which  inspired  Charles  the  Fifth 
when  he  saw  such  an  image  which  had  been 
shot  at  by  the  heretics  in  the  river  Elbe  : 
*•  Lord,  I  swear  to  Thee  by  the  crucified  union 
of  God  and  man  which  I  adore  in  Thee,  at 
whose  feet  I  place  my  lips,  that  not  only  shall 
the  coming  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  not  prevail 
with  me,  in  anything  touching  Thy  holy  Cath- 
olic religion,  to  go  a  step  beyond  that  which 
Thy  vicar  the  Roman  Pontiff  may  resolve,  but 
that  I  will  keep  my  resolution  even  if  it  were 
to  involve  the  loss  of  all  the  kingdoms  which 
by  Thy  favor  and  mercy  I  possess."  « 

During  the  first  few  days  after  his  ar- 
rival, the  conduct  of  the  prince  gave,  it  is 
true,  a  certain  color  to  these  hopes.  He 
attended  mass,  he  conversed  freely  with 
the  ecclesiastics  attached  to  the  palace, 
be  exhibited  none  of  the  levity  and  preju- 
dices of  the  ordinary  Protestant  towards 
things  held  sacred  by  the  Papist;  and  the 
Catholic  clergy  joyfully  predicted  that  not 
only  the  prince,  but  bis  kingdom,  would 

•  Narrative  of  the  Spanish  Marriage  Treaty,  by 
Francisco  de  Je»us.  Edited  and  translated  by  Samuel 
Rawsou  Gardiner.    Camden  Society. 


A   KNIGHT-ERRANT  S   PILGRIMAGE. 


speedily  swear  fealty  to  the  Roman  see, 
and  what  the  Armada  had  failed  in  accom* 
plishing  would  be  effected  by  the  union 
with  the  infanta. 

This  fond  assurance  was,  however, 
somewhat  rudely  shaken  by  the  presence 
at  Madrid  of  two  Anglican  priests,  Mawe 
and  Wren,  who  had  been  especially  de- 
spatched by  the  king  of  England  to  act  as 
chaplains  to  the  household  of  the  prince. 
The  instructions  which  were  to  guide  the 
behavior  of  these  divines  on  this  occasion 
had  been  drawn  up  by  James  himself,  and 
were  very  careful  and  explicit.  A  room 
was  to  be  set  apart  in  the  quarters  of  the 
prince,  to  be  used  as  a  place  for  divine 
worship,  and  for  no  other  purpose.  It  was 
to  be  decently  adorned  "chapel-wise;" 
an  altar  was  to  be  erected  at  its  east  end ; 
and  there  were  to  be  provided  palls,  linen 
coverings,  a  carpet,  four  surplices,  candle- 
sticks, tapers,  chalices,  patens,  wafers  for 
the  holy  communion,  two  copes,  a  basin 
and  flagons,  "  a  fine  towel  for  the  prince," 
and  other  towels  for  the  household. 
Prayers  were  to  be  held  twice  a  day,  and 
every  reverence  was  to  be  displayed  by 
the  congregation,  who  were  enjoined  to 
worship  with  their  heads  uncovered,  to 
kneel  at  the  appointed  times,  to  stand  up 
at  the  creed  and  gospel,  and  to  bow  at  the 
name  of  Jesus.  Holy  communion  was  to 
be  celebrated  as  often  as  the  prince 
thought  fit;  "smooth  wafers,"  ritualists 
will  be  glad  to  learn,  "  were  to  be  used  for 
the  bread,"  and  the  wine  was  to  be  mixed 
with  water.  In  the  sermons  that  were  to 
be  delivered  there  was  to  be  no  polemical 
preaching;  the  chaplains  being  directed 
"  to  confirm  the  doctrine  and  tenets  of  the 
Church  of  England  bv  all  positive  argu- 
ments either  in  funcfamental  or  moral 
points,  and  especially  to  apply  ourselves 
to  moral  lessons  to  preach  Christ  Jesus 
crucified.*'  The  works  of  the  king  on 
theology  were  also  to  be  studied  and  ex- 
pounded.* 

These  directions  were  rendered  some* 
what  null  by  the  hostility  which  the  Span- 
iards at  once  displayed  towards  these 
worthy  divines,  who  were  rudely  refused 
permission  to  take  up  their  abode  in  the 
palace,  and  after  some  little  squabble  had 
to  content  themselves  with  the  safety  and 
seclusion  kindly  provided  for  them  by 
Lord  Bristol  in  his  own  house.  The 
Catholic  clergy,  however,  amply  compen- 
sated for  this  enforced  silence  on  the  part 
of  the  Protestant  chaplains.    No  effort 

•  State  Papers—  Spain,  March  ao.  1623,  "  His  Maj* 
esty's  Instructions  to  the  Chaplains  of  the  Prince." 


A   KNIGHT-ERRANT  S    PILGRIMAGE. 


was  spared  to  turn  the  prince  from  the 
errors  of  his  ways,  to  convince  him  of  the 
truth  and  purity  of  the  Catholic  religion, 
and  to  enlighten  him  upon  the  position  of 
the  supreme  pontiff,  the  doctrine  of  tran- 
substantiation,  and  the  heresies  of  all  out- 
side the  pale  of  Rome.  Charles  listened 
with  his  usual  courtesy,  argued  the  differ- 
ent questions  with  no  little  ability,  and 
made  a  favorable  impression  upon  his  in- 
structors by  the  intelligence  he  displayed. 
Buckingham,  on  the  contrary,  stood 
haughtily  aloof  from  the  controversial 
ecclesiastics;  he  declined  to  enter  into 
any  discussion  whatever  upon  the  sub- 
ject ;  and  on  one  occasion  became  so  ex- 
cited at  these  attempts  to  pervert  the 
prince  that  "he  went  down  to  a  place 
where  he  could  be  alone,  in  order  to  shew 
his  extreme  indignation,  going  so  far  as 
to  pull  off  his  hat  and  to  trample  it  under 
feet." 

Meanwhile  that  without  which  no  pre- 
liminary matter  could  even  be  agreed 
upon  had  arrived.  Early  in  May  a  courier 
reached  Madrid  with  the  much-talked-of 
papal  dispensation.  The  articles  were 
numerous  and  full  of  detail,  but  we  need 
only  concern  ourselves  with  the  more  im- 
portant conditions.  Briefly  they  were  as 
follows.  No  matter  was  to  be  agreed 
upon  without  the  sanction  of  the  pope. 
No  attempt  was  ever  to  be  made  to  con- 
vert the  infanta  to  Protestantism,  or  to 
speak  against  her  religion  upon  her  arrival 
in  London.  Upon  taking  up  her  resi- 
dence in  England,  the  infanta  was  to  be 
surrounded  by  a  household  openly  pro- 
fessing the  Catholic  religion,  and  that 
"no  one  shall  dare  to  deride  them,  or 
offer  them  any  discourtesy  under  penal- 
ty of  heavy  punishment;"  a  good-sized 
church  was  to  be  erected  close  to  the  es- 
tablishment of  the  infanta,  for  the  free 
and  open  use  of  the  Catholics  then  in 
England.  All  children  sprung  from  the 
marriage  were  to  be  baptized  after  the 
Catholic  rite,  to  be  educated  by  the  in- 
fanta until  they  had  attained  the  age  of 
twelve  years,  and  if  afterwards  they  chose 
to  become  Catholics  no  obstacle  was  to 
be  thrown  in  their  way,  nor  was  their  suc- 
cession to  be  prejudiced  by  their  conver- 
sion. The  free  exercise  of  the  Catholic 
religion  was  to  be  permitted  throughout 
England,  whilst  all  laws  against  English 
Papists  were  to  be  suspended;  the  oath 
of  allegiance  was  to  be  altered,  so  that  it 
might  bind  English  Papists,  •*  merely  in 
temporal  and  political  things,  and  not  in 
any  matter  touching  religion.'*  Catholics 
**  to  some  good  number  "  were  to  be  sworn 


567 

of  the  Council;  and  finally  ''everything 
that  is  sought  in  favor  of  the  Catholics  of 
England  may  be  understood  of  the  Cath- 
olics of  Ireland  and  Scotland."  These 
conditions  were  to  be  sanctioned  within 
one  year  by  the  Privy  Council  and  Parlia- 
ment of  England. 

In  addition  to  these  articles,  the  follow- 
ing private  instructions  were  at  the  same 
time  enclosed  to  the  nuncio  at  Madrid. 
As  soon  as  the  condition  demanding  pub- 
lic liberty  of  conscience  in  England  had 
been  agreed  upon,  the  attempt  to  convert 
the  prince  was  to  be  proceeded  with  **  in 
all  earnestness."  This  put  in  operation, 
the  nuncio  was  then  to  demand  of  the 
king  of  Spain,  **  as  a  necessary  condition, 
without  which  the  dispensation  would  be 
null,  to  give  assurance  upon  oath  to  the 
Holy  See  that  the  king  of  Great  Britain 
and  the  prince  his  son  would  fulfil  every- 
thing that  for  the  sake  of  this  marriage 
they  might  promise  to  do  in  matters  of 
religion."  Thus,  before  the  prince  could 
be  united  to  the  infanta,  complete  tolera- 
tion had  to  be  accorded  to  the  Papists  in 
England,  the  suspension  of  the  penal 
laws  against  Catholics  had  to  be  approved 
of  by  the  English  Privy  Council  and  Par- 
liament, and  the  king  of  Spain  had  to  bind 
himself  as  surety  that  his  brother  of  En- 
gland would  carry  out  all  that  had  been 
promised. 

Meanwhile  the  anxious  father,  both  at 
Theobald's  and  at  Whitehall,  sorely 
missed  the  society  of  his  cherished  son 
and- the  companionship  of  the  fascinating 
"  Steenie."  James  was  in  ill-health  and 
worried  with  many  fears.  He  did  not  like 
the  long  distance  which  separated  him 
from  the  prince.  He  trembled  lest  the 
Spaniards  should  do  the  **swete  boy" 
hurt,  or,  worse  still,  transform  him  into  a 
Papist.  There  was  no  necessity,  he  con- 
sidered, for  the  prince  to  remain  any 
longer  in  Madrid.  His  presence  did  not 
hasten  on  the  proceedings,  as  had  been 
fondly  hoped;  and  as  the  negotiations 
then  stood,  Bristol  and  Aston  were  quite 
competent  to  pull  the  strings  of  diplomacy 
without  any  direct  interference  from  high 
quarters.  James  therefore  wrote  beseech- 
ingly to  Charles  to  hurry  home  to  his 
doting  dad.  He  reminded  the  prince  that 
it  was  only  upon  his  own  earnest  entreaty 
that  **  I  suffered  you  to  leave  me  and 
make  so  far  and  hazardous  a  journey  ;  ye 
know  that  it  is  without  example  in  many 
ages  past  that  a  king's  only  son  should  ^o 
to  woo  another  king's  daughter."  Then 
he  bade  him  return,  as  he  had  already 
been  away  long  enough. 


S68 

Yoa  must  also  remember  [he  pleads]  that  I 
am  old  and  not  able  to  bear  the  great  burden 
of  my  affairs  alone,  having  trained  you  up  these 
three  or  four  years  past  in  my  service  for  this 
purpose  ;  besides  all  this,  I  am  mortal,  and  you 
may  easily  consider  what  a  loss  it  would  be  to 
the  whole  kingdom  if  in  your  absence  God 
should  call  me.  Therefore  I  do  heartily  charge 
you  upon  my  blessing,  both  by  my  kingly  and 
fatherly  authority,  that  you  come  presently 
home,  in  company  of  that  worthy  renowned 
lady  your  mistress,  if  it  can  be,  which  is  my 
chief  desire,  but  rather  than  delay  come  alone, 
for  such  is  my  absolute  pleasure.  Vou  have 
two  ships  of  mine  already  there  that  may  well 
enough  transport  you ;  and  so  with  my  bless- 
ing I  bid  you  heartily  farewelU 

At  the  same  time  he  wrote  a  second 
letter,  not  merely  to  the  prince,  but  to 
both  of  his  "swete  boyes  "  —  Baby  and 
Steenie  —  imploring  them  to  return  if  they 
wished  to  see  him  alive. 

Alas !  [he  mourned]  I  now  repent  me  sore 
that  ever  I  suffered  you  to  go  away.  I  care 
for  the  match  nor  nothing  so  I  may  once  have 
you  in  my  arms  again.     God  grant  it,  God 

frant  it,  God  grant  it ;  Amen.  Amen.  Amen, 
protest  you  shall  be  as  heartily  welcome  as  if 
you  had  done  all  things  you  went  for,  so  that  I 
may  once  have  you  in  my  arms  again,  and  so 
God  bless  you  both,  my  only  sweet  son  and  my 
only  best  sweet  servant,  and  let  me  hear  from 
you  quickly  with  all  speed  as  you  love  my  life  ; 
and  so  God  send  you  a  happy  and  joyful  meet- 
ing in  the  arms  of  your  dear  dad.* 

Into  all  the  details  of  this  chapter  of 
diplomacy  there  is  at  the  present  day  lit- 
tle profit  in  entering.  Those  who  wish  to 
read  how  Charles  threatened  to  return 
home  unless  bis  wishes  were  complied 
with  ;  how  James  gave  him  carte  blanche 
to  act  as  he  thought  best ;  how  he  was 
dissuaded,  and  consented  to  agree  to  the 
conditions  demanded  of  him,  though  he 
must  have  known  at  the  time  that  when 
they  came  before  Parliament,  as  come  be- 
fore Parliament  they  must,  they  would  be 
indignantly  repudiated;  how  enamored  for 
the  moment  he  was  with  the  infanta;  how 
frequent  and  conflicting  were  the  commu- 
nications that  passed  between  Madrid  and 
Whitehall ;  how  exacting  was  the  policy 
of  Olivarez,  how  offensive  was  the  conduct 
of  Buckingham,  and  the  rest — have  only 
to  read  the  careful  narrative  drawn  up 
by  the  Spanish  court  chaplain.  Fray  Fran- 
cisco. At  last,  however  the  political 
advantages,  consequent  upon  a  union 
between  England  and  Spain,  were  con- 
sidered to  counterbalance  the  religious 
difficulty,  and   the  negotiation  was  com- 

*  Sute  Papers— Spain,  June  14,  1633. 


A   KNIGHT-ERRANT  S    PILGRIMAGE, 


pleted.  The  prince  assented  to  the  con* 
ditions  imposed  upon  him.  James  too 
gave  his  consent,  and  the  Council  was 
forced  in  its  turn  to  sanction  the  terms 
demanded  by  Spain.  Charles  declared 
that  **  he  had  seriously  made  up  his  mind 
to  accept  the  proposals  made  to  him  with 
respect  to  religion,  and  also  to  give  the 
securities  demanded  for  their  execution.*' 
Sir  Francis  Cottington,  the  secretary  of 
the  prince,  was  sent  to  London  on  a  spe- 
cial mission,  and  returned 

with  a  despatch  containing  the  result  of  his 
negotiation  with  his  master,  which  was,  in  fine, 
a  public  instrument  written  on  parchment  cer- 
tifying the  oath  which  had  been  taken,  Julv  20y 
by  the  King  and  his  Privy  Council,  by  which 
they  engaged  to  keep  and  fulfil  the  conditions 
touching  religion  which  were  demanded  in  re- 
spect to  the  marriage,  and  that  they  would  ob- 
serve the  securities  asked  for. 

James  and  the  Council  also  pledged 
themselves  to  use  their  influence  to  per- 
suade Parliament  to  support  the  clauses 
of  the  treaty.  A  courier  was  despatched 
to  Rome,  to  inform  his  Holiness  of  what 
had  been  done,  in  order  that  he  might 
express  his  approbation  afresh,  and  all 
was  as  merry  as  a  marriage  bell.  An  oath 
sworn  to  by  the  king  and\\\%  Privy  Coun- 
cil was  a  very  different  thing  to  an  oath 
merely  sworn  to  by  the  sovereign  himself ; 
such  a  solemn  assurance,  it  was  felt  at 
Madrid,  could  not  be  disregarded.  Oli- 
varez therefore  had  to  change  his  tactics, 
and  to  express  himself  in  favor  of  the 
union ;  the  Junta  of  Theologians  declared 
themselves  satisfied  with  the  security  laid 
before  them;  the  infanta  was  willing  to 
be  led  as  her  counsellors  advised,  since 
she  hoped,  like  many  a  fond  damsel  in 
her  situation,  to  be  able  to  convert  her 
husband ;  whilst  Charles,  who  only  cared 
about  gratifying  the  inclination'  which 
stimulated  him  for  the  moment,  and  never 
troubled  himself  as  to  the  consequences 
attending  upon  it,  was  supremely  happy. 
It  was  arranged  that  the  ceremony  of 
marriage  should  be  gone  through  shortly 
after  the  arrival  of  the  papal  approval, 
though  the  "commemoration"  of  the 
marriage  was  not  to  take  place  until  after 
the  interval  of  a  year,  in  order  that  it 
might  be  seen  how  far  the  promises  as  to 
Catholic  emancipation  had  been  carried 
out.  This  happy  termination  of  the  nego- 
tiation gave  rise  to  much  rejoicing.  Ma- 
drid was  illuminated,  and  balls,  banquets, 
and  masques  were  freely  given  by  the 
leaders  of  the  society  of  the  capital. 

On  the  2 1st,  being  Monday  [writes  Sir  Wal* 


A   KNIGHT-ERRANT  S   PILGRIMAGE. 


ter  Aston  to  Sir  Dudley  Carleton]  •  the  King 
entertained  the  Prince,  according  to  the  fashion 
of  this  place,  with  ?i  fiesta  of  Canasf  and 
Toros,  in  which  the  King  entered  in  person 
and  held  them  in  celebration  of  the  conclusion 
of  the  match  betwixt  the  Prince  and  his  sister. 
The  Canas  consisted  of  eighty  persons,  whereof 
the  King  led  the  one  half  and  the  Duke  of  Zea 
the  other.  The  first  show  that  entered  into 
the  Place  were  sixty  of  his  Majesty**  horses  led 
by  their  keepers,  each  of  them  having  a  large 
covering  of  crimson  velvet  richly  embroidered 
with  gold ;  then  successively  entered  the  gen- 
tlemen of  the  horse  of  divers  of  the  principal 
persons  of  this  Court,  being  severally  accom- 
panied with  many  lackeys  in  rich  liveries,  who 
led  such  horses  as  their  masters  were  able  to 
contribute  to  this  show.  The  Duke  of  Infan- 
tado  had  there  thirty  horses  and  a  hundred 
liveries ;  the  Conde  of  Monterrey  had  a  hun- 
dred liveries  and  fifty  horses ;  the  whole  num- 
ber of  spare  horses  that  were  there  ready  to 
supply  all  occasions  were  three  hundred  and 
twenty-one.  Then  having  given  one  turn 
about  the  Place  they  went  forth  in  the  same 
order  as  they  entered.  The  King  presently 
after  took  his  leave  of  the  Prince  and  went  to 
dress  himself  for  the  Canas ;  during  his  Maj- 
esty's absence,  which  was  about  an  hour,  the 
Prince  was  entertained  with  the  sport  of  killing 
eight  bulls  according  to  the  usual  manner  of 
^2X.  fiesta  here.  Presently  after  his  Majesty 
entered,  and  the  whole  company  that  attended 
him,  running  two  by  two,  crossed  the  great 
market-place.  'Y\\^  fiesta  was  extraordinarily 
well  performed ;  their  clothes  and  their  saddles 
were  all  embroidered,  and  the  richest  that  have 
been  seen  in  any  feast  here. 

The  conduct  of  the  prince  at  this  time, 
however,  somewhat  marred  the  festivities 
held  in  his  honor.  Charles  was  far  from 
approving  of  the  lonj;  interval  which  cau- 
tion had  decreed  should  elapse  before  he 
could  really  call  the  infanta  his  own.  He 
begg;ed  that  the  probationary  period  of 
one  year  might  be  curtailed,  and  that  he 
should  be  permitted  to  claim  his  bride  a 
few  months  after  the  marriage  ceremony 
bad  been  gone  through.  It  would  make 
no  difference,  he  said,  in  the  carrying  out 
of  the  Catholic  conditions.  The  Junta  of 
Theologians  —  who  were  the  trustees,  as 
it  were,  of  the  marriage  settlement  — 
however,  stoutly  refused  to  accede  to  this 
request.    They  answered  that  it 

was  neither  possible  nor  right  to  make  any 
change  in  that  which  had  been  agreed  upon 
on  this  point,  because  the  more  they  thought 
about  the  matter  the  more  they  were  confirmed 
in  their  opinion  by  argument,  by  past  history 

•  State  Papers—  Spun,  August  30,  1623. 

t  Fiesta  dt  Cafias.  A  sport  or  exercise  used  in 
Spain  by  gentlemen  on  horseback  representing  a  fight 
with  reeds  instead  of  canes.  (Pineda's  Spanish  Dic- 
tieoaxy.) 


569 

and  by  the  experience  which  arose  from  tho 
accidents  continually  occurring. 

At  this  refusal,  Charles,  who  was  ac- 
customed to  have  his  own  way  when  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  have  it,  became 
petulant  and  combative.  He  complained 
of  the  doubts  so  constantly  thrown  upon 
his  royal  word,  he  vowed  he  could  do 
nothing  without  the  sanction  of  that  ter- 
rible Junta  of  Theologians,  and  declared 
that,  considering  what  he  had  gone  through 
for  the  sake  of  the  infanta,  he  was  de* 
serving  of  better  treatment.  His  remon« 
strances  were  in  vain.  Then  worked  upoa 
by  Buckingham,  who  had  become  exceed- 
ingly unpopular  in  Madrid,  and  hated 
Spam  accordingly  and  all  its  associations, 
Charles  expressed  his  intention  to  return 
to  England  at  once.  He  declined  to  re- 
main any  longer.  A  further  stay  in  Ma- 
drid could  serve  no  useful  purpose,  and  as 
to  the  empty  marriage  ceremony,  he  would 
leave  powers  for  its  celebration  in  his 
absence.  He  fixed  the  second  week  in 
September  as  the  date  of  his  departure, 
and  refused,  by  any  condition  save  the 
one  he  demanded,  to  be  turned  from  his 
purposre.  If  he  hoped  by  this  resolve  to 
cau.se  the  Spanish  advisers  to  shorten  the 
period  of  probation,  he  was  disappointed ; 
Olivarez  would  not  curtail  a  month  of  the 
time  fixed. 

Before  quitting  Madrid  the  prince, 
whose  generosity  was  among  the  best 
traits  in  his  character,  distributed  numer- 
ous costly  gifts  among  those  with  whom 
he  had  come  in  contact  during  his  stay  in 
Spain.  To  the  king  he  gave  a  diamond- 
hilted  sword,  worth  twelve  thousand  duc- 
ats ;  to  the  queen,  a  diamond  brooch 
with  a  pearl  pendant,  worth  twenty-four 
thousand  ducats;  to  the  infanta,  a  tiara  of 
diamonds,  and  ropes  of  pearls,  worth 
eighty  thousand  ducats ;  to  Don  Carlos,  a 
ring  set  with  diamonds,  of  the  value  of 
live  thousand  ducats ;  to  the  infante  car- 
dinal, a  cross,  worth  eight  thousand  duc- 
ats; to  Olivarez  and  his  countes.s,  dia- 
monds of  the  value  of  eighteen  thousand 
ducats;  to  the  ministers  and  others  who 
had  assisted  him  in  the  negotiation,  or 
who  had  shown  him  hospitality,  he  also 
gave  presents  of  a  very  handsome  nature. 
It  is  computed  that  his  gifts  on  this  occa- 
sion represented  a  sum  of  nearly  two  hun- 
dred thousand  ducats.  Nor  was  Spanish 
liberality  to  be  outdone  by  English  gener- 
osity. To  Charles,  the  king  of  Spain 
gave  ten  genets,  twelve  mares,  and  four 
cart-loads  of  rapier-blades,  crossbows,  pis- 
tols, and  arquebuses;  '*the  picture  of  Ve- 
nus which  was  at  the  Prado,  made  by 


S70 


A   KNIGHT^ERRANT  S    PILGRIMAGE. 


Firicioo ;  '*  and  "the  picture  of  Our  Lady, 
St.  Joseph  and  Christ,  made  by  Corre- 
gio.*'  To  the  members  of  the  household 
of  Charles,  his  Majesty  presented  horses 
and  diamonds.  We  also  learn  that  the 
gifts  which  the  king  of  Spain  always  con- 
sidered as  the  most  acceptable  were  am- 
bling nags,  fowling-pieces,  crossbows, 
white  hawks,  cormorants,  Irish  grey- 
hounds, and  "  thumblers  "  [pigeons  ?].* 

The  prince  quitted  Madrid  September 
8,  1623.  He  parted  with  the  infanta  on 
the  most  affectionate  terms,  —  was  not  his 
sudden  departure  a  compliment  to  her, 
since  it  was  caused  by  his  not  being  able 
to  claim  her  person  sooner  than  her  ad- 
visers had  deemed  expedient?  —  and  ac- 
companied by  Philip  and  his  two  brothers, 
rode  on  to  the  Escurial,  where  he  spent  a 
couple  of  days.  It  had  been  the  wish  of 
the  king  of  Spain  to  escort  his  guest  to 
Santander,  where  the  prince  was  to  em- 
bark for  England,  but  owing  to  the  inter- 
esting condition  of  the  queen,  who  was 
daily  expecting  her  confinement,  he  had 
to  abandon  the  idea.  Charles  and  his 
future  brother-in-law  separated  on  the 
best  of  terms;  the  prince  declaring  that 
he  would  carry  out  all  that  he  had  prom- 
ised, whilst  the  king  in  his  turn  assured 
him  that  he  would  do  all  in  his  power  to 
shorten  the  period  fixed  by  the  theologi- 
ans before  the  Infanta  could  be  permitted 
to  return  to  England.  During  the  next 
few  days,  whilst  Charles  was  riding  in  the 
scorching  heat  of  a  Spanish  sun  across 
country  to  Santander,  an  interesting  cor- 
respondence took  place  between  him  and 
Philip.  The  king  despatched  the  first 
epistle. 

Most  illustrious  Lord  [he  wrote]  —  t 
Since  it  hath  not  been  possible  for  me,  by  reason 
of  your  Highnesses  short  departure,  to  accom- 
pany you  to  the  seaside  as  I  could  wish,  I  have 
thought  upon  our  leave-taking  to  tell  your 
Highness  that  I  do  find  myself  so  much  obliged 
to  you  and  to  the  King  of  Great  Britain  that 
all  the  power  in  the  world  together  shall  not 
remove  me  the  lebs  point  from  the  punctual 
performance  of  all  that  hath  been  agreed  and 
settled  with  your  Highness,  as  also  any  other 
thing  that  shall  hereafter  be  requisite  to  agree 
upon  for  the  more  firm  and  strict  assurances  of 
friendship  and  alliance.  And  I  do  promise 
your  Highness  to  root  out  and  dissipate  what- 
soever cross  and  hindrance  in  my  kingdoms 
that  shall  be  against  this,  and  I  hope  and  am 
confident  that  your  Highness  and  the  King  of 
Great  Britain  shall  also  do  the  like.    Our  in- 

•  State  Papers  —  Spain,  August  and  October,  1623. 

t  State  Papers:  Spain  — St.  Lorenzo  [the  Esc'irial) 
September  la,  ibat.  Among  the  Spanish  State  Papers 
there  are  eleven  oi  these  letters. 


tentions  being  the  same,  for  I  will  and  desiro 
what  your  Highness  and  the  King  of  Great 
Britain  shall  will  and  desire,  and  in  token  and 
testimory  of  this  confidence  and  true  friend- 
ship I  protest  what  I  have  said  and  I  give  my 
hand  and  my  arms  to  yoar  Highness. 

The  following  day  the  king  again  wrote 
to  the  prince. 

I  shall  always  remain  [he  said]  with  that 
care  and  solicitude  that  the  obligations  and 
the  love  and  estimation  I  owe  to  your.  High- 
ness requires,  until  I  receive  news  of  yoor 
arrival.  I  am  arrived  in  Madrid  in  good 
health,  thanks  be  to  God,  and  I  have  found  the 
Queen  and  my  sister  in  good  health.  AH  they 
do  kiss  your  Highness's  hands. 

News  had  reached  the  palace  that 
Charles  had  made  out  his  journey  to  Se- 
govia with  perfect  safety,  and  in  spite  of 
the  intense  heat  was  pushing  on  to  San- 
tander by  way  of  Olmedo  and  Carrion. 
Philip  once  more  wrote  to  him  begging 
him  to  be  careful,  and  to  remember  that 
the  sun  in  Spain  was  very  dififerent  to 
what  it  was  in  foggy  England. 

'I  cannot  choose  [says  his  most  Catholic 
Majesty]  but  to  quarrel  with  your  Highness 
for  your  travelling  so  in  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
so  hot,  for  it  cannot  be  otherwise,  but  that  it 
will  be  very  hurtful  to  your  health,  a  thing 
which  I  do  so  much  desire  it  should  not  hap- 
pen, and  so  I  cannot  omit  to  entreat  yoar 
Highness  most  particularly  that  you  would  by 
all  means  forbear  travelling  at  such  hours  in 
which  the  sun  may  offend  your  Highness.  In 
these  parts  the  heat  is  grown  so  great  and  so 
violent  that  it  seemeth  that  summer  is  but  now 
a  beginning. 

To  the  first  letter  received  from  the 
king  the  prince  returned  the  following 
reply :  ♦  — 

I  can  receive  no  manner  of  comfort  since 
my  absence  from  your  Majesty,  nor  out  of  the 
solitariness  that  I  am  in,  since  I  am  deprived 
of  the  favor  and  contentment  which  I  received 
in  your  Majesty^s  company,  unless  it  be  by  the 
excuse  of  your  Majesty's  resolution  to  bring 
me  to  the  seaside  upon  my  short  departure, 
and  the  Queen's  Majesty  being  so  great  with 
child  and  the  heat  bemg  so  great  your  Majesty 
would  put  your  health  in  hazard.  And  I  wish 
that  your  Majestv  may  have  it  certain  and  per- 
fect, being  it  doth  import  to  the  King  my  lord 
and  father  and  me,  as  I  have  known  by  expe- 
rience through  your  Majesty's  love  and  affec- 
tion, as  also  in  that  which  your  Majesty  hath 
written  to  me  with  your  own  hand.  And  there- 
fore  I  have  been  willing  to  tell  your  Majesty 
with  mine  own  that  I  do  not  only  hold  and 
go  with  a  firm  and  constant  resolution  to  ac- 
complish all  those  things  which  my  father  and 

*  Sute  Papers:    Spain  —  Sesovia,  Septembor  ijt 
1633. 


A   KNIGHT-ERRANT  S    PILGRIMAGE. 


S7» 


I  have  treated  and  accorded  with  your  Maies- 
ty,  but  also  to  do  all  other  things  that  shall  be 
necessary  to  strengthen  and  bind  as  much  as 
shall  be  possible  fraternity  and  sincere  love 
with  your  Majesty.  And  although  all  the 
world  together  would  oppose  and  hinder  it, 
yet  they  shall  not,  neither  with  my  father  nor 
me,  have  any  effect ;  rather  we  will  declare 
ourselves  for  enemies  to  those  that  shall  at- 
tempt it.  And  in  testimony  of  this  true  love 
I  protest  all  that  I  have  said  and  I  have  given 
my  hands  and  arms  to  your  Majesty  whom 
God  save  as  I  desire.  Charles  P. 

In  spite  of  the  warmth  of  these  prot- 
estations Charles  was  acting  at  this  very 
time  with  true  Stuart  treachery  and  double 
dealing.  On  his  leavins:  Madrid  he  had 
placed  in  the  hands  of  Bristol  the  neces- 
sary powers  for  the  celebration  of  the 
marriage  in  his  absence  as  soon  as  the 
papal  approval  had  been  received.  It  had 
been  arranged  that  ten  days  after  the  ar- 
rival of  the  papal  approbation  the  mar- 
riage ceremony  was  to  take  place.  This 
proxy  Charles  now  revoked  in  the  follow- 
ing letter  which  he  sent  from  Segovia  by 
a  secret  messenger :  *  — 

Bristol,  —  You  may  remember  that  a  little 
before  I  came  from  Laureco  [St.  Lorenzo,  the 
Hscuria)]  I  spoke  to  you  concerning  a  fear  I 
had  that  the  infanta  might  be  forced  to  go 
into  a  monastery  after  she  is  betrothed,  which 
you  know  she  may  do  with  a  dispensation. 
Though  at  that  time  I  was  loath  to  press  it 
because  I  thought  it  fit  at  the  time  of  my  part- 
ing  to  eschew  distaste  or  dispute  as  much  as  I 
could :  yet  since  considering  that  if  I  should 
be  betrothed  before  that  doubt  be  removed, 
and  that  upon  ill-grounded  suspicion  or  other 
cause  whatsoever  they  should  take  this  way  to 
break  the  marriage,  the  King  my  father  and 
all  the  world  might  justly  condemn  me  for  a 
rash-headed  fool  not  to  foresee  and  prevent 
this  in  time.  Wherefore  I  thought  it  neces- 
sary by  this  letter  to  command  you  not  to  de- 
liver my  proxy  to  the  King  of  Spain  until  I 
may  have  suf^cient  security  both  from  him 
and  the  infanta  that  after  I  am  betrothed  a 
monastery  may  not  rob  me  of  my  wife.  And 
after  you  have  gotten  this  security  send  with 
all  possible  speed  to  me,  that  if  I  find  it  suffi- 
cient (as  I  hope  I  shall)  I  may  send  you  order 
by  the  delivering  of  my  proxy  to  despatch  the 
marriage.  So  not  doubting  but  that  you  will 
punctually  observe  this  command  I  rest  your 
loving  friend,  CHARLES  r. 

The  ostensible  reason  which  gave  rise 
to  this  revocation  was,  as  we  see,  that 
Charles  pretended  to  be  fearful  that  his 
future  wife,  if  the  conditions  as  to  Catholic 
emancipation  in  England  were  not  car- 
ried out,  mii^ht  be  immured  in  a  convent; 
but  the  real  reason  was  that  the  prince, 
d)en  much  concerned  at  the  parlous  state 

*  Sute  Papen^  Spain*  September  a4»  i6a3« 


of  the  Palatinate,  was  desirous  of  finding 
a  loophole  of  escape  from  his  past  en- 
gagements and  an  opportunity  to  impose 
fresh  conditions.  Upon  the  death  of  the 
emperor  Matthias,  Bohemia  and  Hungary 
objected  to  the  rule  of  his  successor,  Fer- 
dinand of  Gratz.  The  Bohemians  formal- 
ly deposed  Ferdinand,  and  named  Fred- 
erick v.,  the  elector  Palatine,  who  had 
married  Elizabeth,  the  daughter  of  James 
of  England,  as  their  king,  whilst  Bethlem 
Gabor,  voeivoid  of  Transylvania,  was  pro- 
claimed king  of  Hungary.  The  Catholic 
princes  espoused  the  cause  of  Ferdinand, 
and  the  Protestants  the  cause  of  Fred- 
erick. The  Catholics  triumphed ;  Fred- 
erick was  totally  routed  near  Prague,  put 
under  the  ban  of  the  empire,  and  was 
robbed  of  the  fair  provinces  of  the  Palat- 
inate. To  recover  his  former  dominions 
was  the  one  aim  of  Frederick,  and  he  was 
supported  in  his  futile  attempts,  after  a 
tardy  and  hesitating  fashion,  by  his  father- 
in-law.  In  marrying  his  son  Charles  to 
the  infanta,  James  had  thought  that  Spain 
would  offer  her  assistance,  and  through 
her  aid  Frederick  would  be  restored  to 
power.  Olivarez  was  however  in  favor  of 
extending  and  not  limiting  the  influence 
of  the  house  .of  Austria,  and  threw  the 
coldest  of  water  upon  any  suggestions  that 
Spain  should  unite  with  England  for  the 
recovery  of  the  Palatinate.  The  Conde- 
Duque  did  not  care  one  jot  for  Protestant 
England,  but  he  cared  much  for  Catholic 
Germany.  At  first  when  the  question  of 
the  marriage  of  the  infanta  with  the 
Prince  of  Wales  was  under  discussion, 
the  claims  of  the  Palatinate  had  been  in- 
troduced among  the  articles  of  the  treaty ; 
but  upon  the  discovery  of  the  opposition 
of  Spain  to  such  foreign  matter,  Bristol 
thought  it  prudent  to  postpone  all  ques- 
tion of  the  Palatinate  to  a  more  favorable 
opportunity.  Charles  himself  being  pas- 
sionately attached  to  his  sister  and  de- 
voted to  her  cause,  had  more  than  once 
broached  the  subject  to  Olivarez,  but  oa 
perceiving  the  hostility  his  views  encoun- 
tered, had  thought,  like  Bristol,  that  it  was 
wiser  to  wait  for  a  more  auspicious  occa« 
sion.  That  moment  he  considered  had 
now  arrived.  He  was  engaged  to  the  in- 
fanta, he  had  pledged  himself  to  carry 
out  certain  promises^  he  had  been  dictated 
to  by  a  foreign  power  —  the  giving,  in  his 
opinion,  was  not  to  be  all  on  one  side,  and 
he  now  resolved  that  the  assistance  of 
Spain  in  recovering  the  Palatinate  should 
be  one  of  the  conditions  of  the  marriage. 
In  this  determination  he  was  supported 
on  his  return  to  England  by  James,  by 
Buckingham  —  who,  from    the    frequent 


57' 


A  KNIGHT-ERRANT  S   PILGRIMAGE. 


snubbings  he  had  received  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Pyrenees,  was  most  anxious  to 
break  ofiE  the  Spanish  match  —  and  by  the 
members  of  the  Privy  Council,  who,  know- 
ino:  that  their  oaths  would  not  be  ratified 
by  Parliament,  were  not  sorry  at  seeing 
new  difficulties  created. 

Honest  Watt — [wrote  Charles  to  Sir 
Walter  Aston  shortly  after  his  arrival  in  En- 
gland],—  *The  King  my  Father  has  sent  a 
command  to  Bristol  not  to  deliver  my  proxie 
untill  we  may  know  certainlie  what  the  King 
of  Spaine  will  doe  concerning  the  Palatinat,  if 
you  fynd  that  this  doe  make  them  startel  give 
them  all  the  assurance  that  you  can  thinke  of 
that  I  doe  realie  intend  and  desyer  this  match, 
and  the  chief  end  of  this  is  that  wee  may  be 
as  well  hartie  frends  as  neer  allyes,  and  to 
deal  freelie  with  you  so  that  we  may  have  sat- 
isfaction concerning  the  Pallatinat  I  will  be 
content  to  forget  all  ill  usage  and  be  hartie 
frends,  but  if  not  I  can  never  match  wher  I 
have  had  so  dry  entertainment  although  I  shall 
be  infinitlie  sorrie  for  the  lose  of  the  Infanta. 
So  intreating  you  to  give  my  Mistress  at  all 
occasions  asseurance  of  my  constant  love  and 
service,  I  rest  your  constant  loving  frend, 

Charles  P. 

The  simple  fact  was  that  the  old  Stuart 
failino^  was  at  the  bottom  of  this  change 
of  policy.  James  was  in  want  of  money; 
he  had  to  meet  his  Parliament,  and  he  saw 
that  the  Spanish  alliance  was  not  ap- 
proved of  by  the  nation,  that  loud  mur- 
murs had  been  raised  as  to  the  condi- 
tions relative  to  the  emancipation  of  the 
Catholics,  and  that  the  people  at  large 
were  hotly  in  favor,  Spanish  *aid  or  not,  of 
waging  war  to  recover  the  Palatinate. 
Charles  in  his  turn,  now  that  he  was  re- 
moved from  the  fascinating  presence  of 
the  infanta,  allowed  himself,  with  his 
usual  instability  of  character,  to  be  easily 
led,  and  to  be  influenced  entirely  by  the 
counsels  of  Buckingham.  That  his  heart 
was  consoled  without  difficulty  is  evident 
from  the  negotiations  which  now  ensued 
between  London  and  Paris,  touching  a 
union,  in  case  the  Spanish  match  fell 
through,  between  the  prince  and  Henri- 
etta Maria.  Though  the  union  with 
Spain  was  still  on  the  tapis^  and  Charles 
had  been  only  a  few  days  before  loud  in 
his  professions  of  fidelity  to  the  infanta, 
yet  he  did  not  scruple  to  express  his  readi- 
ness to  entertain  the  proposal,  and,  if  re- 
quired, to  substitute  the  daughter  of 
France  for  the  daughter  of  Spain.  Ab- 
sence, instead  of  making  the  heart  of  the 
prince  grow  fonder,  had  on  this  occasion 
caused  Charles,  it  would  appear,  seriously 

•  State  Papers:  Spain — Royston,  October  8,  1623. 
The  letter  is  in  the  priuce's  handwriting.  I  have  not 
•Itored  the  spelling. 


to  reflect  upon  the  character  of  the  nego- 
tiations of  the  past.  He  thought  over  his 
disputes  with  the  divines,  of  the  irritating 
interference  of  the  Junta  of  Theologians, 
of  the  strictness  of  the  fashion  in  which 
he  had  been  kept  to  the  conditions  im- 
posed upon  him,  of  the  system  of  espi- 
onage which  had  always  attended  upon 
his  interviews  with  the  infanta,  of  the  op- 
position of  OlivaYez,  and  the  dislike 
evinced  towards  him  by  bigoted  grandees 
on  account  of  his  being  a  heretic,  and  of 
the  rest  of  the  annoyances  to  which  he 
had  been  subject  during  the  past  few 
months.  At  Madrid  he  had  been  intoxi- 
icated,  excited,  and  ready  to  swear  and  do 
anything  ;  but  now  in  London,  he  became 
sobered,  irritated  with  himself,  and  not  a 
little  vindictive.  Thus,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  jaundiced  counsels  of  Buck- 
ingham, he  saw  how  distasteful  to  his 
future  subjects  were  the  conditions  that 
he  had  entered  into,  and  how  impossible 
it  was  for  him  to  carry  out  the  promises 
he  had  pledged  himself  to  perform.  He 
had  no  alternative  but  to  eat  his  words, 
and  sneak  out  as  best  he  could  —  out  of 
his  engagements.  He  was  still  perfectly 
willing,  he  magniflcently  admitted,  to  mar- 
ry the  infanta,  but  then  his  views  upon 
the  matter  must  be  accepted ;  that  is  to 
say,  the  Catholic  conditions  must  no 
longer  be  insisted  upon,  as  a  sine  qud  Hon 
the  Palatinate  must  be  recovered  by  Span- 
ish help,  and  the  infanta  must  come  over 
to  England  shortly  after  the  ceremony  of 
marriage  had  been  gone  through.  Under 
such  circumstances  he  certainly  would 
marry  the  infanta;  but  should  his  terms 
not  be  acceded  to,  why  then  should  he 
trouble  himself  any  further  in  the  matter? 
Was  there  qotthe  fair  daughter  of  France 
in  reserve  for  him?  Better  Henrietta 
Nfaria  with  the  approval  of  the  English 
people,  than  the  infanta  with  all  her 
wealth  and  without  such  approval. 

As  we  know,  the  Spanish  match  was 
broken  off,  and  the  romantic  ride  to  Ma- 
drid had  been  undertaken  in  vain.  The 
king  of  Spain  was  willing  to  meet  the  de- 
mands of  James  half-way,  but  he  declined 
to  comply  with  them  wholly  and  uncondi- 
tionally. The  restitution  of  the  Palati- 
nate, he  very  truly  said,  had  never  been 
made  a  condition  of  the  marriage,  and  it 
was  impossible  to  think  that  under  any 
circumstances  he  could  wage  war  against 
the  emperor.  He  would,  however,  suggest 
a  compromise.  Let  the  elector  Palatine 
make  a  due  submission  to  the  emperor, 
let  his  eldest  son  marry  a  daughter  of  the 
emperor,  let  Frederick  consent  to  abdi- 
cate, then  oa  the  death  of  the  Duke  of 


MR.   TROLLOPE   AS   CRITIC. 


S73 


Bavaria,  his  eldest  son  would  be  re-estab- 
lished in  the  electoral  dignity.  These 
terms  were  refused,  and  the  engagement 
between  the  infanta  and  Charles  was  defi- 
nitely at  an  end.  The  infanta  ceased  to 
bear  the  title  of  Princess  of  Wales,  and 
returned  the  jewels  that  had  been  given 
her.  Bristol  was  recalled  to  become  the 
sport  of  the  vindictiveness  of  Bucking- 
ham ;  English  troops  were  despatched  to 
assist  in  the  recovery  of  the  Palatinate; 
and  instead  of  the  treaty  of  amity,  which 
the  Spanish  match  was  supposed  to  draw 
up  and  consolidate,  a  war  with  Spain  en- 
sued. Such  was  the  end  of  this  romance. 
In  this  instance  the  conduct  of  the  youth 
painfully  foreshadows  the  conduct  of  the 
man,  and  Charles  Prince  of  Wales  proves 
himself  a  true  predecessor  of  the  Charles 
who  was  afterwards  to  be  king  of  En- 
gland. The  lad  who  allowed  himself  to 
be  guided  by  the  evil  councils  of  a  domi- 
neering and  intolerant  favorite,  who  sol- 
emnly promised  what  he  knew  he  was 
incapable  of  performing,  who  calmly  aban- 
doned her  he  had  sworn  to  love  the  mo- 
ment difficulties  stood  in  the  way,  and  who 
without  scruple  or  hesitation  repudiated 
his  obligations  and  threw  over  his  pledges, 
was  indeed  the  forerunner  of  the  king 
who  gave  sureties  to  his  Commons,  and 
then  sought  to  evade  them,  who  was  lavish 
in  promise  but  knavish  in  performance, 
who  to  gain  his  own  immediate  ends  was 
careless  as  to  what  tortuous  course  he 
pursued,  and  who  when  it  suited  his  selfish 
purpose  deserted  Strafford,  as  meanly  as 
he  had  eighteen  years  before  deserted  the 
infanta.  The  history  of  the  personal  rule 
of  our  first  Charles  is  but  the  sequel  to 
the  history  of  the  Spanish  match. 

Alex.  Charles  Ewald. 


From  The  Spectator. 
MR.  TROLLOPE  AS  CRITIC 

In  Mr.  Trollope's  **  Autobiography  *'  he 
gives  us  a  brief  estimate  both  of  his  own 
works  of  fiction,  and,  to  some  extent,  at 
least,  of  the  novels  of  his  contempora- 
ries. What  does  one  gather  from  these 
chapters  of  his  own  power  as  a  critic? 
Certainly  this,  —  that  his  critical  powers 
did  not  in  any  degree  approach  the  calibre 
of  his  creative  and  constructive  powers. 
That  he  had  a  substantially  sound  judg- 
ment on  su«i^  matters  is  a  matter  of  course, 
for  the  great  characteristic  of  all  his  nov- 
els is  knowledge  of  the  world ;  and  a  per- 
fect knowledge  of  the  world,  even  taken 
alone,  implies  that  there  could  not  have  | 


been  in  him  any  wide  deviation  from  the 
healthy  taste  of  cultivated  Englishmen. 
Mr.  TroUope's  taste  in  novels  was  doubt* 
less  a  sound  one.  Especially  in  relation 
to  the  novels  of  domestic  lite  he  was  an 
admirable  judge.  He  thought  for  a  long 
time  that  Miss  Austen's  **  Pride  and  Prej- 
udice" was  the  best  novel  in  the  En- 
glish language.  Then  he  placed  **  Ivan- 
hoe"  above  it.  Then  he  accorded  the 
highest  position  to  Thackeray's  *f  Es- 
mond." Whether  the  finest  critical  judg- 
ment would  endorse  these  views  we 
greatly  doubt,  but  they  are  sufficiently  in 
accordance  with  the  average  judgment  of 
educated  men  to  show  the  thorough  sanity 
of  Mr.  Trollope's  taste.  Again,  of  the 
novelists  of  his  day,  he  puts  George  Eliot 
second  to  Thackeray,  and  greatly  prefers 
the  novels  of  her  first  period,  those  down 
to  and  including  **  Silas  Marner,"  to  her 
later  tales.  He  has  no  high  estimate  of 
Dickens's  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
thinks  his  pathos  somewhat  false  in  ring, 
and  cannot  even  justify  to  his  own  judg- 
ment the  vast  popularity  of  Dickens's 
humor.  Of  Bulwer,  Mr.  Trollope's  esti- 
mate is  altogether  low,  and  though  he 
recognizes  his  great  talent,  he  finds  man- 
nerism and  affectation  in  all  his  works. 
Of  Wilkie  Collins  and  his  school,  again, 
Mr.  Trollope  speaks  with  great  frankness 
and  good  sense.  It  vexes  him  that  "the 
author  seems  always  to  be  warning  me  to 
remember  that  something  happened  at 
exactly  half  past  two  o'clock  on  Tuesday 
morning;  or  that  a  woman  disappeared 
from  the  road  just  fifteen  yards  beyond 
the  fourth  milestone."  Again,  on  his  own 
works,  —  whether  he  judges  with  delicacy, 
or  not,  —  Mr.  Trollope's  judgment  is 
thoroughly  sane.  He  prefers  the  Barset- 
shire  series  to  any  other  class  of  his 
novels,  and  thinks  **The  Last  Chronicle 
of  Barset"  the  best  of  the  series.  He 
could  remember  less,  he  said,  of  **The 
Belton  Estate  "  than  of  any  book  he  had 
ever  written,  and  doubtless  there  was  less 
of  his  own  mind  in  it  than  in  any  book 
he  ever  wrote.  All  these  opinions  show 
Mr.  Trollope's  judgment,  we  do  not  say 
to  be  of  the  highest  kind,  —  his  estimate 
of  Dickens's  humor.seems  to  us  palpably 
and  absurdly  defective,  —  but  thoroughly 
healthy  and  marked  by  the  right  tenden- 
cies. But  there  was  very  little  of  the 
finest  elements  of  the  critic  in  him.  No 
great  critic,  we  take  it,  could  possibly  have 
preferred  Thackeray's  **  Esmond,''  with 
all  its  skill  and  fineness  of  texture,  to  the 
overflowing  wealth  and  power  of  "  Vanity 
Fair."  In  "Esmond,"  Thackeray's  crea- 
tive power  was  certainly  much  less  prodi- 


'S74 


MR.  TROLLOPE   AS   CRITIC. 


galy  mach  less  magnificent  in  its  effects, 
than  it  was  in  "  Vanity  Fair."  Again, 
even  in  "Esmond,"  Mr,  Trollope  does 
not  single  out  anything  like  the  finest 
scene,  when  he  selects  Lady  Castlewood's 
defence  of  Henry  Esmond  to  the  Duke 
of  Hamilton,  as  the  scene  of  the  book. 
Thackeray  rose  far  higher  in  the  passion 
of  the  scene  in  which  Lady  Castlewood 
welcomes  Henry  Esmond  back  from  the 
Continent,  after  the  even-song  in  Winches- 
ter Cathedral,  than  in  that  of  the  scene 
with  the  Duke  of  Hamilton.  Indeed 
Thackeray  is  almost  always  much  greater 
when  he  paints  the  unchecked  overflow 
of  a  woman's  love,  than  when  he  paints 
her  in  a  dramatic  position  addressing  her- 
self to  a  number  of  hearers.  His  passion 
is  tender  and  deep ;  in  the  scenes  of  social 
effect  he  cannot  help  showing  that  he  is 
not  only  a  painter  of  the  heart,  but  a 
satirist  of  the  weaknesses  of  men. 

The  truth  was,  as  is  evident  from  his 
"Autobiography,"  that  Mr.  Trollope, 
knowing  how  inferior  is  the  function  of 
criticism  to  the  function  of  creative  gen- 
ius, never  recognized  the  distinction  be- 
tween the  two,  and  was  not  aware  that,  as 
a  rule,  vast  creative  power  is  too  active, 
too  positive,  to  be  receptive  and  to  dis- 
criminate very  finely  the  shades  of  effect 
in  the  works  of  other  authors.  It  is  com- 
paratively seldom  that  redundant  creative 
power  is  accompanied  by  fine  critical 
power.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  the  most  pow- 
erful by  far  of  all  English  novelists,  was, 
like  Mr.  Trollope  himself,  a  sound  and 
sensible,  but  by  no  means  a  fine  critic. 
Sir  Walter  was  too  much  occupied  bv  the 
hardy  and  teeming  life  in  his  own  Drain 
to  lend  fully  his  imaginative  life  to  the 
service  of  others.  It  is  the  same  with 
Dickens,  and  apparently  even  with  George 
Eliot.  What  is  wantea  for  truly  fine  crit- 
icism is  the  receptive  side  of  the  poet, 
without  an  imagination  so  teeming  as  to 
interfere  with  the  fullest  exercise  of  the 
receptive  powers.  Some  of  the  best  crit- 
icisms of  our  centurv  have  been  the  criti- 
cisms of  Goethe  anci  of  Matthew  Arnold, 
both  of  them  fine  poets,  but  both  of  them 
poets  without  hurry  of  creative  impulse, 
without  imaginative  idiosyncrasy  so  pre- 
ponderant as  to  prevent  them  from  fully 
submitting  their  minds  to  the  influence  of 
other  men  of  genius  of  whose  work  they 
desired  to  form  a  true  estimate.  Nothing 
can  be  less  like  such  a  temperament  as 
this  than  the  temperament  of  Mr.  Trol- 
lope. Let  us  see  how  he  himself  describes 
his  own  creative  power,  and  the  manner 
in  which  it  worked  :  — 

X  had  long  since  convinced  myself  that  in 


such  work  as  mine  the  great  secret  consisted 
in  acknowledging  myself  to  be  bound  to  rules 
of  labor  similar  to  those  which  an  artisan  or 
a  mechanic  is  forced  to  obey.  A  shoemakett 
when  he  has  finished  one  pair  of  shoes,  does 
not  sit  down  and  contemplate  his  work  in  idle 
satisfaction.  "  There  is  my  pair  of  shoes  fin- 
ished at  last !  What  a  pair  of  shoes  it  is  !  " 
The  shoemaker  who  so  indulged  himself  would 
be  without  wages  half  his  time.  It  is  the  same 
with  a  professional  writer  of  books.  An  au- 
thor may,  of  course,  want  time  to  study  a  new 
subject  He  will  at  any  rate  assure  himself 
that  there  is  some  such  good  reason  why  he 
should  pause.  He  does  pause,  and  will  be  idle 
for  a  month  or  two  while  he  tells  himself  how 
beautiful  is  that  last  pair  of  shoes  which  he 
has  finished  I  Having  thought  much  of  all 
this,  and  having  made  up  my  mind  that  I  could 
be  really  happy  only  when  I  was  at  work,  I 
had  now  quite  accustomed  myself  to  begin  a 
second  pair  as  soon  as  the  first  was  out  of  ray 
hands. 

And  yet  though  Mr.  Trollope  has  almost 
always  begun  one  novel  on  the  day  suc- 
ceeding that  on  which  the  previous  novel 
was  finished,  he  has,  he  tells  us,  beea 
entirely  wrapped  up  in  his  creations,  and 
has  lived  his  life  with  them  as  if  they 
were  the  inhabitants  of  his  own  world  :  — 

But  the  novelist  has  other  aims  than  the 
elucidation  of  his  plot  He  desires  to  make 
his  readers  so  intimately  acquainted  with  his 
characters  that  the  creatures  of  his  brain  should 
be  to  them  speaking,  moving,  living,  human 
creatures.  This  he  can  never  do  unless  he 
know  those  fictitious  personages  himself,  and 
he  can  never  know  them  unless  he  can  live 
with  them  in  the  full  reality  of  established  in- 
timacy. They  must  be  with  him  as  he  lies 
down  to  sleep,  and  as  he  wakes  from  his 
dreams.  He  must  learn  to  hate  them  and  to 
love  them.  He  must  argue  with  them,  quarrel 
with  them,  forgive  them,  and  even  submit  to 
thenu  He  must  know  of  them  whether  they 
be  cold-blooded  or  passionate,  whether  true  or 
false,  and  how  far  true,  and  bow  far  false. 
The  depth  and  the  breadth,  and  the  narrow- 
ness and  the  shallowness  of  each  should  be 
clear  to  him.  And  as  here,  in  our  outer 
world,  we  know  that  men  and  women  change, 
—  become  worse  or  better  as  temptation  or 
conscience  raav  guide  them,  —  so  should  these 
creations  of  his  change,  and  every  change 
should  be  noted  by  him.  On  the  last  day  o£ 
each  month  recorded,  every  person  in  his  novel 
should  be  a  month  older  than  on  the  first  If 
the  would-be  novelist  have  aptitudes  that  way, 
all  this  will  come  to  him  without  much  strug- 
gling ;  but  if  it  do  not  come,  I  think  he  can 
only  make  novels  of  wood.  It  is  so  that  I 
have  lived  with  my  characters,  and  thence  has 
come  whatever  success  I  have  obtained.  There 
is  a  gallery  of  them,  and  of  all  in  that  gallery 
I  may  say  that  I  know  the  tone  of  the  voice, 
and  the  color  of  the  hair,  every  flame  of  the 
eye,  and  the  very  clothes  they  wear.  Of  each 
man  I  could  assert  whether  he  would  have  said 


WHITBY   IN  THE   HERRING  SEASON. 


S7S 


these  or  the  other  words ;  of  every  woman, 
whether  she  would  then  have  smiled  or  so  have 
frowned.  When  I  shall  feel  that  this  intimacy 
ceases,  then  I  shall  know  that  the  old  horse 
should  be  turned  out  to  grass. 

Is  it  possible  that  an  author  who  has  lived 
this  sort  of  imaginative  life  for  day  after 
day  during  thirty  years,  giving  himself  no 
rest,  but  entering  a  new  imai^inary  world 
on  the  very  morrow  of  the  day  on  which 
he  quitted  the  world  which  had  just  grown 
familiar  to  him,  should  be  capable  of  that 
fine  receptivity  of  mind  which  is  requisite 
to  appreciate  with  any  delicacy  the  pro- 
ductions of  others?  It  seems  to  us  quite 
certain  that  neither  Sir  Waller  Scott  nor 
Mr.  Trollope,  —  both  of  whom,  in  their 
very  different  spheres,  led  this  kind  of 
imaginative  life,  —  did  appreciate  with 
any  delicacy  the  productions  of  others. 
Nor  could  Mr.  Trollope  give  us  a  belter 
proof  of  this  than  his  very  unhappy  re- 
inark  in  relation  to  Lady  Eustace  of  "The 
Eustace  Diamonds."  "As  I  wrote  the 
book,  the  idea  constantly  presented  itself 
to  me  that  Lizzie  Eustace  was  but  a  sec- 
ond Becky  Sharpe;  but  in  planning  the 
character  I  had  not  thoua[ht  of  this,  and 
I  believe  that  Lizzie  would  have  been  just 
as  she  is,  though  Becky  Sharpe  had  never 
been  described."  Mr.  Trollope  need  not 
have  given  us  this  assurance.  He  might 
almost  as  well  have  warned  us  that  Arch- 
deacon Grantiey  was  not  taken  from 
Shakespeare's  **  Wolsey."  Becky  Sharp, 
—  he  spells  her  wronglyi  as  he  aoes..also 
Colonel  Newcome,  wliom  he  repeatedly 
calls  Colonel  Newcoro^e,  —  is  a  type  of 
the  infinite  resource  and  unscrupulous 
genius  of  feminine  intrigue,  —  a  type  of 
audacious  craft  as  rich  and  humorous,  and 
as  full  of  the  buoyant  energy  of  selfish- 
ness, as  I  ago  is  rich  and  unscrupulous 
and  full  of  buoyant  malignity  and  evil. 
Lizzie  Eustace  is  a  treacherous,  cunning 
little  drawing-room  woman,  of  no  humor, 
no  great  power,  and  far,  indeed,  from  the 
dimensions  of  Becky  Sharp.  If  Mr.  Trol- 
lope had  compared  Lizzie  Eustace  to 
Thackeray's  Blanche  Amory,  he  would 
have  been  nearer  the  mark.  Becky  Sharp 
is  one  of  the  greatest  creations  of  Thack- 
eray's genius.  Lizzie  Eustace  is  not  even 
one  of  the  best  creations  of  Mr.  Trol- 
lope's. 

Indeed,  one  of  the  best  evidences  that 
Mr.  Trollope's  power  is  not  in  the  main 
of  that  receptive  kind  which  makes  the 
critic,  is  the  great  inferiority  of  his  women 
to  his  men.  We  agree  with  him  that  Lily 
Dale  is  a  good  deal  of  a  prig.  But  we  do 
not  agree  with  him  in  any  depth  of  admi- 
ration for  Lucy  Robarts,  or  indeed  for  any 


other  of  his  heroines,  though  we  like 
Grace  Crawley  the  best.  The  feminine 
essence  is  beyond  the  reach  of  men  unless 
they  be  true  poets,  and  never  was  there  a 
man  of  great  creative  power  who  had  less 
of  the  poet  in  him  than  Mr.  Trollope. 
He  speaks  of  the  necessity  of  a  certain 
rhythm  and  harmony  of  style,  but  his  own 
victories  were  achieved  in  spite  of  a  style 
that  was  almost  painfully  devoid  of  grace 
or  inward  expressiveness.  He  has  what 
we  may  call,  a  bouncing  style, —  not,  of 
course,  a  style  of  bounce,  but  the  style  of 
a  bouncing  ball,  —  one  not  ineffective  to 
produce  the  impression  that  the  events 
narrated  by  Mr.  Trollope  are  real  events, 
happening  to  real  people,  and  reported  by 
a  real  observer,  —  but  effective  rather  be- 
cause it  is  the  style  of  a  reporter  hurrying 
on  with  the  chronicle  of  matters  which  he 
has  undertaken  punctually  to  note  down, 
than  because  it  reflects  any  profound  im- 
pression made  on  the  feelings  and  imag- 
ination of  the  narrator.  His  style  is  clear, 
business-like,  rapidly  moving,  noisy,  and 
a  little  defiant,  as  if  the  writer  would  be 
beforehand  with  you,  and  wished  to  assert 
his  own  right  to  be  heard  before  you  had 
had  time  to  dispute  that  right.  It  is  a 
hard  and  rather  dictatorial  style,  that  does 
not  seem  so  much  to  come  from  deep-felt 
impressions  as  from  certain  knowledge. 
That  is  a  good  style  to  produce  the  sense 
of  reality,  but  it  is  not  the  style  of  a  fine 
critic,  and  though  Mr.  Trollope  was  a 
sensible  critic,  —  as  indeed  he  was  sensi- 
ble in  everything,  —  a  fine  critic,  even  of 
his  own  writings,  he  was  not.  And  for 
the  same  reason,  probably,  he  was  not  a 
successful  editor.  His  editing  of  the 
S/,  PauPs  Magazine  was  conventional. 
He  did  not  really  know  how  to  use  con- 
tributors, how  to  make  the  most  of  them. 
Mr.  TroIIope's  stories  were  well  spun  out 
of  the  imagination  of  a  keen  and  vigilant 
observer;  but  all  his  observing  power 
was  assimilated  in  the  work  of  creation, 
was  used  up  as  the  flax  is  used  up  in  the 
making  of  linen,  and  apparently  he  had 
little  opportunity  left  for  reflecting  on  the 
works  of  others,  and  for  discriminating 
the  fine  threads  and  delicate  colors  by  the 
use  of  which  they  had  made  their  work 
characteristic  and  unique. 


From  The  Leeds  Mercury. 
WHITBY  IN  THE  HERRING  SEASON. 

It  is  a  glorious  evening  as  the  boats 
move  out  to  seek  for  a  favorable  spot  to 
<•  shoot "  the  enormous  expanse  of  brown 


WHITBY   IN   THE   HERRING   SEASON. 


net,  which,  buoyed  at  the  top  and  weight- 
ed at  the  bottom,  is  to  hang  in  the  water, 
a  huge  barrier  and  trap  for  any  shoal  in 
the  line  of  whose  path  it  may  be  spread. 
The  nets  having  been  "shot,"  the  boats 
lie  by  them  all  night,  and  on  this  calm 
night,  which  tempts  the  visitor  to  another 
and  yet  another  turn  on  the  pier  in  the 
starlight,  the  twinkling  mast-head  lights 
encircle  the  bay  with  a  ring  of  fire-spots, 
and  give  the  impression  of  a  vast  and 
silent  city  suddenly  sprung  from  the  sea. 
With  the  morning  comes  the  rush  of  toil. 
The  nets  have  to  be  hauled  on  board  and 
the  fish  extricated  from  the  meshes,  and 
then  off  to  the  shore  with  all  speed,  sails 
spread  if  the  breeze  favors,  and  if  not, 
then  with  hard  labor  at  the  oars.  It  is  a 
race  for  local  fame  and  comparative 
wealth,  for  the  first  boat-load  of  fish  to 
hand  may  save  a  train  and  command  a 
better  price  than  the  ruck  will  get.  To- 
day the  tide  does  not  serve ;  the  little  har- 
bor is  empty  to  the  pier-heads,  save  for 
the  dribbling  channel  of  the  river,  whose 
mouth  forms  the  harbor  here.  The  fleet 
lies  at  anchor  in  the  roads,  and  the  smaller 
cobbles  scurry  in,  deep  down  by  the  stern, 
with  the  finny  prize.  The  struggle  is  to 
get  as  near  as  possible  to  the  part  of  the 
quay-side  where  the  auction  sales  are  held, 
for  all  the  fish  is  sold  in  that  manner. 
The  herrings  lie  by  thousands  in  a  boat, 
and  men  and  women  are  up  to  their  knees 
amongst  them,  counting  them  into  bas- 
kets, two  in  each  hand  to  a  "cast,"  and 
thirty-two  casts  to  a  "  hundred."  The 
fish  are  rapidly  carried  up  the  slippery 
stone  steps  on  the  heads  of  lissom  women 
or  on  the  shoulders  of  strapping  men,  and 
a  sample  hundred  is  turned  out  on  the 
stones  for  inspection.  Now  the  auctioneer 
Steps  forward  and  rings  his  bell;  quickly 
the  bidding  is  done,  and  the  lot  seized  by 
the  dealer's  men,  and  tumbled  into  bar- 
rels, with  a  sprinkling  of  coarse  salt  and  a 
topping  of  ice.  A  canvas  cover  is  fas- 
tened on,  and  in  quick  time  carts  are 
rattling  ofi  to  the  station  with  a  load  which 
before  night  will  be  distributed  to  con- 
sumers in  some  far  inland  town.  Now 
with  the  incoming  tide  come  the  boats 
thick  and  fast,  the  men  straining  every 
nerve  to  secure  a  good  unloading  berth  at 
the  quay-side.  The  complications  are 
astonishing,  and  to  a  landsman  a  disaster 
of  some  sort  seems  inevitable.  But  the 
quick  self-reliance  which  seems  to  be  bred 
of  the  sea  enables  the  men  to  get  their 
boats  triumphantly  out  of  every  aifficulty. 
The  scene  on  the  quay  is  one  of  great 
animation  and  excitement,  fashionable 
visitors  and  frowsy    town  loungers  are 


mixed  up  with  the  busv  crowd  of  blue 
guernseys  and  yellow  oilskins  and  seven- 
league  boots,  which  form  the  characteris- 
tic and  picturesque  attire  of  the  bronzed, 
stalwart,  handsome  men  who  surge  round 
the  auction  mart,  anxiously  regarding  the 
fluctuations  of  price.    The  laggards  of  the 
fleet  have   now  come  in   and   have  dis- 
charged their  cargo,  and  nothing  remains 
but  to  mend  broken  nets  and  rearrange 
matters  on  board  the  boats  preparatory  to 
the  snatching  by  the  men  of  a  brief  spell 
of   idleness  before    the    summons   "All 
hands  aboard  "calls  them  to  another  night 
of  toil.     It  is  not  always  that  such  a  sight 
is  to  be  .seen  even  in  VVhitby;  the  harvest 
of  the  sea  is    in  richer  profusion  than 
usual,  and  the  spectacle  is  one  of  unwont- 
ed interest.    The  method  of  landing  the 
fish  strikes  the  visitor  as   being  of  the 
most    primitive    kind,     involving     much 
waste  of  energy ;  but  the  fact  that  whilst 
one  boat  may  secure  thousands  of  fish,  its 
next  neighbor  may  only  get  as  many  hun- 
dred,  may  make  it  impossible  to  adopt 
any     more    expeditious     arrangements. 
Apart  from  this  exhibition  of  the  fishing 
industry,  Whitby  has  many  points  of  in- 
terest for  the  seeker  of  health.     Across 
the  swing  bridge  a  narrow  lane  of  squalid 
houses  leads  to  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  and 
the  entrance  to    the 'old   church   which 
crowns  the  height  of  the  crumbling  cliff, 
which  in  its  advancing  ruin  has  already 
carried  away  part  of  the  churchyard,  with 
graves  and  tombstones,  and  now  threatens 
the  church  itself  with  inevitable  destruc- 
tion.    From  this  cliff,  with  the  ruins  of 
St.  Hilda^s  Abbey  at  our  back,  the  view 
is  magnificent.    The  harbor  and  the  old 
town  are  at  our  feet.    On  the  left  hand  the 
river  winds  up  the  woody  valley  to  where 
the  purple  heather  adds  a  charm  of  color 
to  the  moorland   hills.     In  front,  across 
the  harbor,  is  the   fashionable  Quarter, 
high   up  on   the  corresponding  cliffs,  at 
whose  base  are  the  hard  yellow  sands, 
where  all  day  long    the  merry  children 
sport  in  the  tumbling  blue.    To  the  right 
is    the    German    Ocean  —  the    treasure- 
house  of  food  for  England's  thousands  — 
where,  in  the  distance,  the  busy  steamers 
speed  from  port  to  port.     To-day  the  sea 
glistens  in  the  sunlight,  in  the  perfection 
of    calm    beauty;    but  when   the  strong 
north-east  winds  drive  the  foaming  bil- 
lows in  upon  this  coast,  the  fishing  indus- 
try is  a  terrible  risk  to  all  who  are  en- 
gaged in  it;    and   the  honor  which  we 
accord  to  brave  men  is  due  to  those  who 
face  the  resistless  sea  to  wrest  a  meagre 
subsistence  from  its  uncertain  stores. 


LITTELL'S  LIVING  AGE. 


Fifth  Seriesi 
VolnmA  ZLIV. 


.] 


No.  2059.— Deoember  8,  1883. 


{From  Beginning! 
Vol.  OLIZ. 


CONTENTS. 

I.  Autobiography  of  Anthony  Trollops,  .  Blackwood's  Magazine^ 

II.  The  Wizard's  Son.     Part  XIX.,         •        .  MacmillarCs  Magazine^ 

III.  Letters  from  Galilee.    Part  IIL,     .        •  Blackwood* s  Magamne^ 

IV.  The  Double  Ghost  we  saw  in  Galicia,  Blackwoods  Magazine^ 
V.  Florida  "Crackers,".        .        ...        .  Chambers^  Journal^      • 

VI.  Odet  de  Coligny,  Cardinal  Chatillon,  Saturday  BevieWf        • 

VII.  A  Statue  TO  Alexandre  Dumas,     .       .  Times^,       , 

VIIL  Evolution  and  Mind, Spectator,     . 

IX.  Sayings  of  Children,  •       .       •  *      •       .  Chamber^  Journal^     • 


579 
593 

602 

6ii 
625 
629 

634 

636 

638 


Crimson, 

The  Prize  Flower, 


POXTRY. 

578 1 A  Translation, 
578 


Miscellany. 


578 


640 


PUBUSHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,   BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  Dollars,  remitUd  dirtetly  to  th$  Pttbluktrt,  the  Living  Acb  will  be  punctually  forwarded 
for  akytZT,/ree  o/poslare. 

KeiDlttances  shoulcfbe  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-office  money-order,  if  possible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  b«  procured,  the  moneyshouldbe  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  postmasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.  JDrafts,  checks  and  money^^rders  should  be  made  payable  to  the  craarol 
LiTTBLL  &  Co. 

Single  Numbers  of  Ths  Livaro  Aci^  18 owtib 


578 


CRIMSON,   ETC.. 


CRIMSON. 

A  LONELY  villa  on  the  hill, 

Where  sighs  the  wind  thro*  woods  of  pine. 
And  terraces,  where  climb  at  will 

Red  glories  of  Virginian  vine, 
And  garden  beds  all  wildly  sweet, 

Where  crimson  roses  blush  and  bloom. 
Dropping  rich  petals  at  their  feet, 

And  shedding  round  them  faint  perfume. 

Just  where  the  red  geraniums  blend 

With  aster  stars  of  violet, 
And  planes  their  thickest  shadows  lend. 

The  pleasant  garden  seats  are  set 
Seen  through  a  trellis  hung  with  vines 

The  blue  lake  flashes  far  below, 
While  in  the  distance  faintly  shines 

The  Dent  du  Midi's  crest  of  snow. 

A  Bush  of  sunset  in  the  west 

Hangs  crimson  banners  in  the  sky, 
Lights  up  each  solemn  mountain  crest, 

And  glistens  in  the  lake's  blue  eye ; 
The  stern  old  hills  for  many  a  mile 

Grow  soft  in  that  reflected  ray, 
As  white-hairedelders  stand  and  smile, 

Watching  a  little  child  at  play. 

Belated  bees  are  humming  still 

From  yonder  sunflowers'  golden  row ; 
Sometimes  a  laugh  floats  up  the  hill 

From  happy  voices  far  below ; 
And  in  the  flower-scented  grass 

A  brisk,  unceasing  rustle  tells 
Where,  with  gay  bounds,  incessant  pass 

The  never-wearied  sauterelles. 

Oh,  is  not  this  the  home  of  peace  ? 

A  shelter  from  the  cares  of  life. 
Where  every  jarring  voice  must  cease, 

And  hushed  be  every  sound  of  strife  ? 
Where  ever  fresh  the  happy  hours 

On  noiseless  pinions  gently  pass, 
Where  nothing  fades,  nor  shadow  lowers, 

Save  the  cloud  shadows  on  the  grass  ? 

Nay,  that  would  be  a  Paradise, 

And  Paradise  is  lost  to  men, 
Till,  freed  from  earthly  stains,  they  rise 

To  tread  its  fadeless  bowers  again. 
Here  comes  the  thought  of  death  and  sin. 

Of  battle-fields  where  thousands  die. 
Before  whose  carnage  and  its  din 

Pale  the  red  glories  of  the  sky. 

Called  from  his  home  by  war's  alarms, 

Drawn  as  by  some  resistless  fate. 
The  Russian  soldier  sprang  to  arms, 

And  left  this  fair  spot  desolate. 
And  as  we  pause,  and,  musing,  stand 

To  wonder  if  he  live  or  fall. 
Like  fingers  of  a  bloody  hand. 

Glows  the  red  creeper  on  the  wall. 

S.  M.  GiDLEY. 

Glion-sur-Montreux,  October,  1877. 

Sunday  Magazine. 


THE  PRIZE  FLOWER. 


The  prize  for  window  gardening  was  won,  some  time 
ago,  by  a  poor  man  living  in  an  attic  where  the  sun 
shone  but  for  a  few  niinutes  every  day,  when  hd 
would  hold  his  flower  up  and  turn  it  round  while 
the  sunshine  lasted. 

It  was  high  noon ;  and  through   the  dusty 

streets 
A  worn,  stooped  form,  among  the  busy  throng. 
Wended  his  way.     A  little  flower  he  bore 
Within  his  arm,  and  when  he  reached  the  place 
Where  they  bad  bid  him  come,  he  laid  it  down 
Amongst  the  rest ;  he  standing  near  to  wait. 
Flowers   of    the    richest    hue,   sweet-scented 

ones, 
And  those  of  dazzling  splendor  were  there. 

too; 
•His  eye  scarce  moved  to  them,  whate'er  they 

were; 
Shy,  silent,  and  unnoticing  he  stood 
As  guardian  of  his  own  bright,  peerless  one, 
For  it  had  been  the  sweetest  thing  to  him 
In  his  lone  life ;  and  as  it  grew,  he  watched 
The  velvet  petals  opening  from  the  buds. 
As  mother  would  the  features  of  her  child. 
Its  sweet,  delicious  fragrance  was  to  him 
As  grateful  love ;  it  was  a  thing  divine. 
So  exquisitely  wrought !  and  when  he  felt 
Oppressed   by   anxious  care,    'twould   softly 

breathe 
Sweet  words  from  Holy  Writ,  "  And  shall  He 

not 
Clothe  you  much  more?*'  and  soothed  his 

heart  to  rest. 
At  length  his  name  was  called,  but  he  remained 
Absorbed  in  thought,  and  Heaven  had  those 

thoughts ; 
And  when  one  came  and  said  to  him,  '*  Your 

flower 
Has  gained  the  prize,"  he  knew  not  what  was 

said; 
But  when  he  knew  his  eye  grew  bright,  tears 

coursed 
The  aged  cheek,  for  very  joy  of  heart 
And  there  was  pride,  not  for  himself,  nor  all 
His  care ;  but  such  we  feel  when  noble  things 
Are  done  by  those  we  love  1 
Golden  Hours.  M.   C. 


A  TRANSLATION. 
FROM  GAUTIER. 

Though  muffled  in  your  veil  you  go 

With  face  concealed  from  those  you  meet. 

Yet  you  should  fear,  in  such  a  snow. 
Your  Andalusian  feet. 

As  in  a  mould  the  snow  imbeds 

The  foot,  so  elegant  and  sure. 
Which  on  the  white  sheet  that  it  treads 

Inscribes  your  signature. 

Guided  by  which  your  tyrant  old 
Might  learn  to  track  the  hidden  nest. 

Where,  his  young  cheek  still  flushed  with  cold, 
Love  sinks  on  Psyche's  breast. 
Academy.  H«  G.  Keens. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   ANTHONY   TROLLOPE. 


S79 


From  Blackwood's  Magazine. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    ANTHONY 
TROLLOPE.* 

A  FEW  words  must  be  premised  to  this 
notice.  For  many  reasons,  it  makes  no 
pretence  to  the  coldness  of  criticism.  In 
all  cases,  an  autobiography,  left  as  a  leg- 
acy to  the  public  by  one  of  their  favorite 
writers,  appeals  strongly  to  our  kindlier 
sympathies  —  especially  a  record  so  trans- 
parently honest  as  this.  If  any  present 
reader  knew  nothing  of  Anthony  Trol- 
lope  except  through  his  books,  let  him 
take  these  pages  on  trust,  as  from  those 
who  knew  him  well,  and  believe  that  we 
speak  here  only  **  that  which  we  do 
know."  To  any  who  have  known  and 
loved  him,  they  will  not  appear  too  partial. 
If  they  meet  the  eyes  of  any  who  knew 
him  and  loved  him  not,  let  him  pass  on  at 
once  to  some  other  article,  —  he  will  as- 
suredly find  little  here  with  which  he  can 
sympathize. 

The  record  before  us  was  finally  closed 
by  its  author  more  than  seven  years  be- 
fore his  death.  Why  he  chose  to  cut  his 
own  written  life  short,  and  consider  it,  as 
would  appear,  rounded  and  completed  at 
that  particular  date,  we  have  no  kind  of 
intimation  given  us  in  the  volumes  them- 
selves, or  in  the  few  pages  of  preface 
added  by  his  son.  Possibly  the  solution 
is  to  be  found  in  some  words  in  one  of 
the  earlier  chapters.  After  speaking  of 
his  youthful  days  as  having  been  anything 
but  happy,  he  goes  on  to  say,  — 

Since  that  time,  who  has  had  a  happier  life 
than  mine  ?  Looking  round  upon  all  those  I 
know,  I  cannot  put  my  hand  upon  one.  But 
all  is  not  over  yet.  And,  mindful  of  that,  — 
remembering  how  great  is  the  agony  of  adver- 
sity, how  crushing  the  despondency  of  degra- 
dation, bow  susceptible  I  am  myself  to  the 
misery  coming  from  contempt,  — remembering 
always  how  quickly  good  things  may  go,  and 
evil  things  come,  —  I  am  often  tempted  to 
hope  that  the  end  may  be  near. 

Let  the  motive  have  been  what  it  may,  it 
was  evidently  with  determinate  purpose 
to  write  no  more  about  himself  that  He 
penned  his  closing  sentence :  — 

*  Am  Aut^tography,  By  Awthohy  Trollops. 
In  two  volumes.  William  Blackwood  &  Sods,  Edin- 
burgh and  London.    1883. 


And  now  I  stretch  out  my  hand,  and  from 
the  further  shore  I  bid  adieu  to  all  who  have 
cared  to  read  any  among  the  many  words  that 
I  have  written. 

His  purpose  was  not,  he  distinctly  tells 
us,  to  give  any  kind  of  record  of  his  ** in- 
ner life : "  "  no  man  ever  did  so  truly,  and 
no  man  ever  will."  He  wishes  it  ^o  be 
considered  the  biography  of  the  author, 
rather  than  of  the  man  :  — 

It  will  not  be  so  much  my  intention  to  speak 
of  the  little  details  of  my  private  life  as  of 
what  I,  and  perhaps  others  round  me,  have 
done  in  literature  ;  of  my  failures  and  Suc- 
cesses such  as  they  have  been,  and  their 
causes  ;  and  of  the  opening  which  a  literary 
career  offers  to  men  and  women  for  the  earn- 
ing of  their  bread. 

Many  readers  may  regret  that  he  has  not 
told  us  something  more  about  himself, 
even  at  the  cost  of  having  to  condense 
some  of  his  dissertations  upon  literary 
questions  —  as,  for  instance,  in  the  matter 
of  copyright;  but  we  must  take  these 
charming  volumes  as  he  has  given  them. 
His  boyhood  was,  he  tells  us,  "as  un- 
happy as  that  of  a  young  gentleman  could 
well  be.*'  It  was  made  so  by  unfortunate 
family  circumstances.  He  was  sent  first 
to  Harrow,  then  to  a  private  school,  then 
to  Winchester,  and  then  to  Harrow  again ; 
but  at  all  these  places  his  life  was  made 
miserable  by  the  impossibility  of  asso- 
ciating on  equal  terms  with  other  boys. 
He  attributes  this  in  some  degree,  with  a 
pathetic  honesty,  to  **  an  utter  want  of 
juvenile  manhood  "  on  his  own  part.  But 
how  could  a  boy  be  other  than  cowed  and 
dispirited,  who  had  to  trudge  three  miles 
and  back,  through  mud  or  dust  as  it  might 
be,  twice  a  day,  to  such  a  school  as  Har- 
row,—  who  never  had  a  shilling  in  his 
pocket,  or  a  decent  suit  of  clothes  on  his 
back  ?  Boys  are  notoriously  cruel  to  one 
another  in  such  cases,  and  were  even  more 
so  fifty  years  ago  than  they  are  now  :  the 
"poor  scholar"  at  a  public  school  must 
be  endowed  with  some  exceptional  vigor 
of  character,  or  transcendent  intellectual 
abilities,  to  hold  his  own  in  the  battle  of 
school  life.  But  he  su£fered  not  only 
from  the  boys  —  that  age,  as  La  Fontaine 
acutely  remarked,  has  no  feeling  of  pity 
—  even  the  masters,  to  their  great  di3« 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 


580 

credit,  added  their  taunts  to  the  persecu- 
tion. Dr.  Butler  stopped  him  one  day  to 
ask  whether  it  were  possible  that  "  such 
a  disreputably  dirty  little  boy  "could  be- 
long to  the  school  ?  The  Harrow  school 
tutor,  who  in  consideration  of  his  fa- 
ther's circumstances  had  consented  to  take 
the  boy  without  the  usual  fee,  compen- 
sated himself  by  proclaiming  that  fact  in 
the  pupil-room.  Mr.  Trollope,  the  father, 
was  a  man  little  fitted  for  the  responsibili- 
ties of  a  parent.  The  character  which 
his  son  gives  of  him  does  not  err,  we  may 
be  sure,  on  the  side  of  harsh  judgment :  — 

He  was  a  man  finely  educated,  of  great  parts, 
with  immense  capacity  for  work,  physically 
strong  very  much  beyond  the  average  of  men, 
addicted  to  no  vices,  carried  off  by  no  pleas- 
ures, affectionate  by  nature,  most  anxious  for 
the  welfare  of  his  children,  born  to  fair  for- 
tunes,—  who,  when  he  started  in  the  world, 
may  be  said  to  have  had  everything  at  his  feet 
But  everything  went  wrong  with  him.  The 
touch  of  his  hand  seemed  to  create  failure. 
He  embarked  in  one  hopeless  enterprise  after 
another,  spending  on  each  all  the  money  he 
could  at  the  time  command.  But  the  worst 
curse  to  him  was  a  temper  so  irritable  that 
even  those  whom  he  loved  the  best  could  not 
endure  it.  We  were  all  estranged  from  him, 
and  yet  I  believe  that  he  would  have  given  his 
heart's  blood  for  any  of  us.  His  life  as  I 
knew  it  was  one  long  tragedy. 

He  was  a  Chancery  barrister,  considered 
by  those  who  knew  him  best  as  **  an  excel- 
lent and  most  conscientious  lawyer,  "  and 
practising  in  chambers  in  Lincoln's  Inn, 
until  his  bad  temper  drove  the  lawyers 
from  him.  His  prospects  at  the  time  of 
Anthony's  birth  appeared  to  justify  his 
taking  a  farm  on  lease  at  Harrow,  and 
building  himself  a  country  house  there. 
This  investment  was  fated  to  be  "the 
grave  of  all  his  hopes,  ambition,  and  pros* 
perity."  He  had  been  a  Wykehamist  and 
fellow  of  New  College,  and  for  Winches- 
ter and  New  College  young  Anthony  and 
his  two  elder  brothers,  Thomas-Adolphus 
and  Henry,  were  eventually  intended. 
But  meanwhile  the  father  determined  to 
take  advantage  of  the  almost  gratui- 
tous education  offered  at  Harrow  to  the 
sons  of  residents ;  and  to  Harrow  the 
three  brothers  were  sent  as  day-boys,  in 
succession,  at    the  early  age  of    seven. 


The  two  elder,  their  brother  thinks,  might 
perhaps  have  made  out  some  kind  of  tol- 
erable existence  there,  because  during 
their  school-days  the  father  was  still  living 
in  a  good  house  and  with  fair  means  ;  but 
things  were  going  badly  with  him  at  the 
time  when  the  little  Anthony  was  sent  to 
school.  He  had  by  that  time  been  com- 
pelled to  let  both  his  house  in  London 
and  that  which  he  had  built  at  Harrow, 
and  degrade  into  a  farmhouse  belonging 
to  the  land  —  a  house  that  "  had  been 
gradually  added  to  and  ornamented  till  it 
was  commodious,  irregular,  picturesque, 
and  straggling."  This  was  the  "Orley 
Farm,"  so  described  in  the  novel,  and 
sketched  on  the  spot  by  Millais  for  the 
frontispiece  of  the  original  edition. 

Anthony  was  taken  away  from  Harrow 
at  the  expiration  of  three  years  —  being 
then  the  last  boy  in  the  school,  as  he  was 
when  he  entered  it.  On  the  details  of  his 
school  life,  its  humiliations  and  its  misery, 
—  whether  at  Harrow,  at  Mr.  Drury's  at 
Sunbury,  or  at  Winchester  —  for  the  same 
res  angusta  domi  cramped  and  depressed 
his  joyless  boyhood  wherever  he  went, 
and  made  him  almost  an  outcast  amongst 
his  more  fortunate  schoolfellows,  —  on  all 
this  we  do  not  care  to  dwell.  We  could 
even  wish  that  the  tale  had  not  been  told 
to  the  public  ear.  Yet  the  feeling  which 
dictated  it  is  intelligible  enough.  The 
writer  was  delivering  his  soul.  "  It  was 
fifty  years  ago,"  he  says,  speaking  of  one 
act  of  injustice  from  a  roaster,  "and  it 
burns  me  now  as  if  it  were  yesterday." 
There  was  also,  no  doubt,  a  justifiable 
self-appreciation  in  recording  this  con- 
trast between  his  early  and  his  later  life ; 
how,  in  his  particular  case,  the  boy  could 
hardly  be  said  to  have  been  the  father 
of  the  man ;  how,  through  all  these  de- 
pressing circumstances,  with  faculties  and 
feelings  cramped  and  chilled  instead  of 
expanded  by  a  public-school  life,  he  had 
worked  his  way  by  sheer  energy  to  literary 
fame  and  social  position. 

At  the  age  of  twelve  —  having  spent 
the  last  two  years  at  a  private  school -~ 
he  followed  his  two  brothers  to  Winches- 
ter; his  father,  apparently,  commanding 
sufficient  Wykehamist  influence  to  get 
them  all  three  upon  the  foundation.     His 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   ANTHONY   TROLLOPE, 


eldest  brother  was  his  boy-tutor  there  — 
his  teacher,  patron,  and  mentor  —  an  ar- 
rangement peculiar  to  Winchester,  dating 
from  very  early  times,  and  having,  as  old 
Wykehamists  will  remember,  its  advan- 
tages and  its  abuses.  The  elder  brother 
"  had  studied  the  theories  of  Draco,"  and 
discharged  his  tutorial  duties  mainly  by 
thrashing  his  junior  soundly,  every  day. 
In  addition  to  this  fraternal  discipline,  he 
received  more  than  his  share  of  attention 
from  the  Winchester  executive  of  that 
day. 

I  feel  convinced  in  my  mind  that  I  have 
been  flogged  oftener  than  any  human  being 
alive.  It  was  just  possible  to  obtain  five 
scourgings  it^  one  day  at  Winchester,  and  I 
have  often  boasted  that  I  obtained  them  all. 
Looking  back  half  a  century,  I  am  not  quite 
sure  whether  the  boast  is  true;  but  if  I  did 
not,  nobody  ever  did. 

While  he  was  at  Winchester,  his  father's 
affairs  were  going  from  bad  to  worse. 
He  had  given  up  his  chamber  practice  in 
London  —  or  rather  it  had  given  him  up 
—  and  taken  another  farm;  **the  last 
step,''  says  the  son,  'Uo  his  final  ruin." 
Then  his  mother,  an  energetic,  jovial 
woman,  but  with  a  strong  taste  for  read- 
ing, took  the  decided  step  of  making  a 
personal  journey  to  America,  in  the  hope 
of  doing  something  there  to  retrieve  the 
family  fortunes.  She  was  destined  to  do 
so,  though  not  in  the  way  that  she  pro- 
posed. Her  immediate  object  seems  to 
have  been  to  set  up  some  kind  of  store 
for  small  English  wares,  of  which  the 
second  son,  Henry  (who,  with  two  sisters, 
accompanied  her),  was  eventually  to  take 
the  management.  She  built  a  bazaar  for 
that  purpose  in  the  town  of  Cincinnati  — 
which  Anthony  found  yet  standing  when 
he  visited  the  country  thirty  years  after- 
wards. The  father  followed,  but  soon 
came  back  again ;  and  the  speculation, 
like  other  family  ventures,  seems  to  have 
failed  eiitirely,  involving  a  pecuniary  loss 
which  could  be  very  ill  afforded. 

Mr.  Trollope  senior,  leaving  his  wife  in 
America,  took  up  his  residence  on  his 
return  no  longer  at  "  Orley  Farm,"  but  in 
"  a  wretched  tumbledown  house  "  on  an- 
other farm  which  he  had  taken  at  Harrow 
W>ald.    In  that  house  young  Anthony, 


now  fifteen  years  old,  lived  for  some  time 
alone  with  his  father;  for  his  brother 
Thomas  had  gone  to  Oxford.  He  him- 
self was  at  once  removed  from  Winches- 
ter, and  sent  a  second  time  as  a  day-boy 
to  Harrow:  and  it  was  from  that  house, 
three  miles  from  the  school,  but  still  with- 
in the  parish,  that  he  had  to  trudge  twice 
daily  to  and  fro,  wet  or  dry,  —  known  to 
all  the  young  aristocrats  of  Harrow  **a 
hundred  yards  off  by  his  boots  and  trou- 
sers." His  home  life  at  this  time  was  not 
much  better  than  his  purgatory  at  school. 
Of  the  gloom  of  that  farmhouse  he  pro- 
tests he  can  give  no  adequate  description. 
His  father  was  not  actually  unkind ;  and 
he  was  honestly  anxious  to  give  his  boys 
the  best  education  his  circumstances 
would  allow.  He  had  made  little  An- 
thony, when  quite  a  child,  sit  beside  him 
while  he  shaved  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  to  repeat  his  Latin  grammar, 
with  his  small  head  conveniently  inclined 
towards  the  paternal  hand,  so  that  when 
the  child  made  a  mistake  he  miglu  be 
able  to  "pull  his  hair  without  stopping 
his  razor."  And  now,  when  the  boy  was 
fifteen,  he  would  insist  on  his  sitting  for 
some  time  every  day,  when  not  in  school, 
with  a  lexicon  and  gradus  before  him,  to 
prepare  his  lessons.  The  father  could 
not  now  afford  time  to  teach  h'im  person- 
ally;  for  all  the  hours  he  could  spare  from 
farming  and  gardening  —  in  which  he 
tried  without  success  to  get  his  son  to 
help  him  —  were  devoted  to  a  great  work 
which  he  had  been  for  some  time  prepar- 
ing, reminding  one  forcibly  of  that  **  Key 
to  all  Mythologies  "which  poor  Mr.  Ca- 
saubon  worked  at  with  such  vague  and 
hopeless  industry.  Mr.  Trollope  called 
his  work  an  "  Encyclopaedia  Ecclesias- 
tica;"  and  in  spite  of  agonizing  head- 
aches which  sometimes  confined  him  to 
his  bed  for  days,  in  spite  of  the  difficulties 
of  access  to  any  library  of  reference,  he 
labored  at  it  indefatigably  almost  to  the 
day  of  his  death.  Three  numbers  were 
actually  published  —  by  subscription  — 
probably  with  small  pecuniary  result. 

But  with  the  return  of  the  mother  from 
America  in  183 1  there  came  a  gleam  of 
prosperity.  The  store  at  Cincinnati  had 
lamentably  failed;  but  it  had  occurred  to 


S82 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 


her  active  mind  to  employ  the  three  years 
of  her  sojourn  in  the  States  in  writing  a 
book,  which  was  to  meet  with  a  fate  very 
different  from  that  of  the  unhappy  Cyclo- 
pedia. We  can  remember,  though  in  the 
far-off  years  (for  "  Maga*s  '*  memory  goes 
baciv  a  long  way),  when  the  three  volumes 
of  "  The  Domestic  Manners  of  the  Amer- 
icans" flashed  upon  the  readers  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic,  and  were  received 
with  a  somewhat  malicious  amusement  on 
the  one  side,  and  indignant  protests  on 
the  other.  We  are  not  called  upon  here 
to  criticise  that  very  amusing  book;  but 
the  son's  estimate  of  it  may  be  quoted  as 
perfectly  fair:  — 

No  observer  was  certainly  ever  less  qualified 
to  judge  of  the  prospects  or  even  of  the  hap- 
piness of  a  young  people.  No  one  could  have 
been  worse  adapted  by  nature  for  the  task  of 
learning  whether  a  nation  was  in  a  way  to 
thrive.  Whatever  she  saw  she  judged,  as  most 
women  do,  from  her  own  standing*point.  If 
a  thing  were  ugly  to  her  eyes,  it  ought  to  be 
ugly  to  all  eyes,  —  and  if  ugly,  it  must  be  bad. 
What  though  people  had  plenty  to  eat  and 
clothes  to  wear,  if  they  put  their  feet  upon  the 
tables,  and  did  not  reverence  their  betters  ? 
The  Americans  were  to  her  rough,  uncouth, 
and  vulgar  —  and  she  told  them  so.  Her  vol- 
umes were  very  bitter ;  but  they  were  very 
clever,  and  they  saved  the  family  from  ruin. 

Mrs.  Trollope  received  for  these  vol- 
umes, from  her  publishers,  ;£8oo  in  the 
course  of  a  few  months :  she  was  now 
fifty  years  old,  and  had  never  before 
earned  a  shilling ;  but  from  this  time  forth, 
for  more  than  twenty  years,  she  was  in 
the  receipt  of  a  considerable  income  from 
her  writings.  None  of  them  rivalled  in 
popularity  her  6rst  American  book;  but 
her  novels  —  notably  the  "Widow  Bar- 
naby"  —  if  not  very  refined,  were  clever 
and  readable.  With  these  her  first  earn- 
ings she  refurnished  "  Orley  Farm,'*  and 
for  the  next  two  years  the  family  lived 
th'ere  in  moderate  comfort. 

Then  came  a  financial  crash,  which 
must  have  been  for  sometime  impending, 
and  which  this  new  literary  income  was 
insufficient  to  prevent.  An  execution  was 
put  into  the  house,  and  the  father  fled  to 
Ostend.  The  rest  of  the  family  were 
sheltered  for  a  time  by  a  most  hospitable 
neighbor,  Colonel  Grant ;  and  subsequent- 
ly the  ruined  household  found  themselves 
reunited  in  a  house  —  again  furnished  out 
of  the  brave  mother's  earnings  —  in  a 
suburb  of  Bruges.  Anthony  was  then 
just  nineteen,  and  would  have  left  Harrow 
in  any  case.  He  was  then  seventh  moni- 
tor—  a  position  which  he  had  reached  by 


"gravitation  upwards;"  for  during  the 
twelve  years  of  his  school  life  he  "does 
not  remember  that  he  ever  knew  a  les- 
son." He  had  twice  tried  for  a  sizarship 
at  Cambridge,  and  once  for  a  scholarship 
at  Oxford  :  it  is  not  surprising  to  read 
that  he  failed.  He  claims  as  "  the  solitary 
glory  of  his  school-days'*  the  fact  that  he 
had  once  risen  against  one  of  his  school 
tyrants,  and,  in  a  great  flght,  thrashed  him 
so  thoroughly  that  "  he  had  to  be  taken 
home  to  be  cured."  Perhaps  in  his  secret 
heart  he  cherished  also  that  other  distinc- 
tion —  of  having  taken  more  floggings 
than  any  other  known  boy  at  Winchester. 

They  were  six  in  family  in  their  new 
residence  at  Bruges,  and  three  of  them 
were  hopeless  invalids.  Henry,  the  sec- 
ond son,  had  been  obliged  to  leave  Cam- 
bridge, and  was  slowly  dying  of  consump- 
tion :  Emily,  the  younger  daughter,  sooa 
betrayed  symptoms  of  the  same  disease : 
the  father  was  ill  and  broken-hearted, 
though  he  still  worked  at  his  Cyclopaedia 
whenever  he  could  sit  to  his  writing-table. 
And  in  the  midst  of  all  this  family  sorrow, 
acting  herself  as  head  nurse  (for  they  had 
only  two  Belgian  maidservants),  the  brave 
mother  wrote  on  at  the  novels  which  were 
to  supply  the  means  of  existence.  Like  her 
son  in  after  years,  she  began  to  write  very 
earlv  in  the  morning  —  sometimes  as  early 
as  four  o'clock  —  and  had  finished  her 
day's  work  before  many  people  had  begun 
theirs.  "  I  have  written  many  novels," 
says  he  who  now  tells  the  tale,  "  under 
many  circumstances  ;  but  I  doubt  whether 
I  could  write  one  when  my  whole  heart 
was  bv  the  bedside  of  a  dying  son." 
Happily,  he  was  spared  any  such  bitter 
trial ;  but  we  can  see  from  what  source  he 
drew  his  own  indomitable  power  of  work, 
as  well  as  his  affectionate  nature.  Mrs. 
Trollope  was  to  go  on  writing,  though  lat- 
terly under  happier  circumstances,  until 
her  seventy-sixth  year,  by  which  time  she 
had  produced  not  less  than  one  hundred 
and  fourteen  volumes  of  one  kind  or  an- 
other, though  she  had  begun  so  late  in 
life.  Whatever  may  be  the  value  of  her 
work,  let  us  cordially  endorse  the  testi- 
mony of  her  son,  *'  An  unselfish,  afiPec* 
tionate,  and  most  industrious  woman." 
After  the  deaths  of  her  husband  and  her 
son  Henry  she  removed  to  England,  and 
finally  to  Florence,  where  she  died  in  her 
eighty-third  year. 

Anthony  was  now  offered  through  some 
friend  a  commission  in  the  Austrian  cav- 
alry. It  was  necessary  that  he  should 
know  something  of  French  and  German; 
and  with  this  view  he  took  an  ushership 


i 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   ANTHONY   TROLLOPE. 


583 


in  a  school  at  Brussels,  kept  by  William 
Drury,  previously  a  master  at  Harrow. 
When  he  had  been  there  six  weeks,  there 
came  another  offer,  through  a  daughter- 
in-law  of  the  well-known  Sir  Francis 
Freeling,  of  a  clerkship  in  the  Post-Office, 
of  which  Sir  Francis  was  then  the  head. 
On  his  way  to  London  to  undergo  his  pre- 
liminary examination,  he  passed  throu(;h 
Bruges,  and  there  saw  his  father  and 
brother  for  the  last  time. 

How  young  candidates  for  the  civil  ser- 
vice were  examined  in  those  days  — or  at 
least  how  he  was  examined  —  is  accu- 
rately recorded,  he  tells  us,  in  the  examina- 
tion of  Charley  Tudor  for  "  The  Internal 
Navigation- Office,"  in  the  second  chapter 
of  "  the  Three  Clerks."  It  was  really 
no  examination  at  all.  In  point  of  fact, 
he  thinks  there  was  '*  no  subject  on  which 
he  could  have  gone  through  an  examina- 
tion otherwise  than  disgracefully."  There 
has  been  a  great  change  since  then,  as  we 
all  know,  and  as  Mr.  Trollope  admits, 
'•  in  some  respects  a  great  improvement." 
But  the  judgment  which  he  records,  in  all 
the  calmness  of  retrospective  thought,  on 
what  he  calls  **  the  dangerous  optimism  of 
competitive  choice,"  is  well  worth  noting, 
especially  as  coming  from  one  whose  po- 
litical views  were  nothing  if  not  liberal, 
and  who  would  have  been  the  last  man  to 
defend  a  system  on  the  mere  ground  of 
its  having  suited  our  forefathers. 

I  object  to  this  system,  that  at  present  there 
exists  no  known  mode  of  learning  who  is  best, 
and  that  the  method  employed  has  no  tendency 
to  elicit  the  best.  That  method  pretends  only 
to  decide  who  among  a  certain  number  of  lads 
will  best  answer  a  string  of  questions,  for  the 
answering  of  which  they  are  prepared  by  tu- 
tors, who  have  sprung  up  for  the  purpose  since 
this  fashion  of  election  has  been  adopted.  .  . . 

As  what  1  now  write  will  certainly  never  be 
read  till  I  am  dead,  I  may  dare  to  say  what  no 
one  now  does  dare  to  say  in  print,  —  though 
some  of  us  whisper  it  occasionally  into  our 
friends'  ears.  There  are  places  in  life  which 
can  hardly  be  well  filled  except  by  "Gentle- 
men." The  word  is  one  the  use  of  which 
almost  subjects  one  to  ignominy.  If  I  say 
that  a  judge  should  be  a  gentleman,  or  a  bish- 
op, I  am  met  with  a  scornful  allusion  to  **  Na- 
ture's gentlemen."  Were  I  to  make  such  an 
assertion  with  reference  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, nothing  that  I  ever  said  again  would 
receive  the  slightest  attention.  ...  It  may  be 
that  the  son  of  the  butcher  of  the  village  shall 
become  as  well  fitted  for  employment  requir- 
ing gentle  culture  as  the  son  of  the  parson. 
Such  is  often  the  case.  When  such  is  the 
case,  no  one  has  been  more  prone  to  give  the 
butcher's  son  all  the  welcome  he  has  merited 
than  I  myself ;  but  the  chances  are  greatly  in 


favor  of  the  parson's  son.  The  gates  of  the 
one  class  should  be  open  to  the  other ;  but 
neither  to  the  one  class  nor  to  the  other  can 
good  be  done  by  declarincj  that  there  are  no 
gates,  no  barrier,  no  difference. 

But  though  the  young  post-office  clerk 
could  at  that  time  spell  but  indifferently 
and  wrote  a  villanous  hand,  he  was  by  no 
means  illiterate.  He  could  have  given  a 
pretty  fair  list  of  the  poets,  and  perhaps  of 
the  historians,  of  all  countries,  with  their 
subjects  and  the  periods  at  which  they 
wrote.  He  had  read  and  could  talk  about 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and  Byron  and 
Scott.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
"  Pride  and  Prejudice  "  was  the  best  En- 
glish novel,  —  "a  palm  which  he  only  par- 
tially withdrew  after  a  second  reading  of 
*  Ivanhoe,*  and  did  not  completely  bestow 
elsewhere  until  *  Esmond  *  was  written." 
And  if  he  had  a  thing  to  say,  he  could  even 
then  say  it  in  writing,  so  that  people  should 
know  what  he  meant.  He  had  indulged, 
too,  in  boyish  day  dreams  on  which  he 
afterwards  looked  back  with  dismay,  but 
which  he  is  right  no  doubt  in  supposing 
tended  to  make  him  what  he  was.  His 
boy  life  was  sadly  isolated,  as  we  have 
seen :  he  was  compelled  to  be  his  own 
playfellow,  and  waS  always  building  some 
castle  in  the  air. 

For  weeks,  for  months,  if  I  remember  right- 
ly, from  year  to  year,  I  would  carry  on  in  my 
mind  the  same  tale,  binding  myself  down  to 
certain  taws,  to  certain  proportions,  and  pro- 
prieties, and  unities.  Nothing  impossible  was 
ever  introduced, —nor  even  anything 'which, 
from  outward  circumstances,  would  seem  vio- 
lently improbable.  I  myself  was  of  course 
my  own  hero.  Such  is  a  necessity  of  castle- 
building.  But  I  never  became  a  king,  or  a 
duke, — much  less,  when  my  height  and  per- 
sonal appearance  were  fixed,  could  I  be  an 
AntinoUs  of  six  feet  high.  I  never  was  a 
learned  man,  or  even  a  philosopher.  But  I 
was  a  very  clever  person,  and  beautiful  young 
women  used  to  be  fond  of  me.  And  I  strove 
to  be  kind  of  heart,  and  open  of  hand,  and 
noble  in  thought,  despising  mean  things  :  and 
altogether  I  was  a  much  better  fellow  than  I 
have  ever  succeeded  in  being  since. 

That  verdict  on  himself  we  take  leave  to 
traverse.  He  was  not  an  AntinoUs,  not  a 
learned  man,  perhaps  not  very  much  of  a 
philosopher,  in  real  life  any  more  than  in 
his  dreams.  He  was  hardly  that  "very 
clever  person  "  he  delighted  to  picture 
himself  in  the  recesses  of  his  mental  cas- 
tle, nor  do  we  know  that  beautiful  young 
women,  in  the  flesh,  showed  themselves 
indiscreetly  fond  of  him.  One  "young 
woman  down  in  the  country  "did,  he  tells 
us,  in  the  early  days  of  his  clerkship,  lake 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 


It  into  her  head  she  should  like  to  marry 
him,  —  and  "a  very  foolish  youn^  wom- 
an," he  thinks,  "she  must  have  been." 
But  *'  to  be  kind  of  heart  and  -noble  in 
thought,  despising  mean  things,"  —  who 
shall  deny  that  in  this  the  man  fully  real- 
ized the  boy's  aspirations  ? 

He  began  his  work  on  a  salary  of  ninety 
pounds  a  year,  —  on  which  he  did  not  con- 
trive to  live  without  getting  into  debt. 
The  first  seven  years  of  his  official  life 
were,  he  honestly  confesses,  "neither 
creditable  to  himself  nor  useful  to  the 
public."  He  very  soon  gained  a  charac- 
ter,—  "for  irregularity."  Sir  Francis 
Freeling  was  very  kind  to  him ;  but  under 
Colonel  Maberly,  who  succeeded,  he  was 
always  at  war  with  the  authorities.  On 
one  occasion  it  had  been  his  duty  to  lay 
an  open  letter,  containing  bank-notes,  on 
the  colonel's  table.  There  the  colonel 
had  seen  it,  and  left  it :  on  his  return 
after  a  short  absence,  it  was  gone.  It  so 
happened  that  young  Trollope,  and  only 
he,  had  occasion  to  return  to  the  room  in 
the  interval.  He  shall  tell  the  rest  of  the 
storv :  — 

When  the  letter  was  missed  I  was  sent  for, 
and  there  I  found  the  Colonel  much  moved 
about  his  letter,  and  a  certain  chief  clerk,  who, 
with  a  long  face,  was  making  suggestions  as 
to  the  probable  fate  of  the  money.  "The  let- 
ter has  been  taken,"  said  the  Colonel,  turning 
to  me  angrily,  "  and  by  G —  !  there  has  been 
nobody  in  the  room  but  you  and  I."  As  he 
spoke,  he  thundered  his  fist  down  upon  the 
table.  "Then,"  said  I,  "by  G — I  you  have 
taken  it ! "  and  I  also  thundered  my  nst  down, 
—  but,  accidentally,  not  upon  the  table.  There 
was  there  a  standing  movable  desk,  at  which, 
I  presume,  it  was  the  Colonel's  habit  to  write, 
and  on  this  movable  desk  was  a  large  bottle 
full  of  ink.  My  fist  unfortunately  came  on  the 
desk,  and  the  ink  at  once  flew  up,  covering 
the  Coloners  face  and  shirt-front.  Then  it 
was  a  sight  to  see  that  senior  clerk,  as  he 
seized  a  quire  of  blotting-paper,  and  rushed 
to  the  aid  of  his  superior  officer,  striving  to 
mop  up  the  ink ;  and  a  sight  also  to  see  the 
Colonel,  in  his  agony,  hit  right  out  through 
the  blotting-paf>er  at  that  senior  clerk*s  unof- 
fending stomach.  At  .that  moment  there 
came  in  the  Colonel's  private  secretary,  with 
the  letter  and  the  money,  and  I  was  desired  to 
go  back  to  my  own  room.  This  was  an  inci- 
dent not  much  in  my  favor,  though  I  do  not 
know  that  it  did  me  any  special  harm. 

Those  who  knew  the  man  will  readily 
understand  the  energy  with  which,  at  any 
period  of  his  life,  he  would  have  "thun- 
dered his  fist  down  "  —  or  possibly  into  his 
accuser's  face  —  upon  any  charge  of  dis- 
honesty. But  he  was  always  in  trouble. 
Callers  inquired  for  him  at  the  office  who 


did  not  give  the  authorities  there  a  favor- 
able impression  of  his  visiting-list.  Now 
it  was  an  obliging  tailor,  who  held  his 
often  renewed  acceptances  :  now  it  was 
the  mother  of  that  "young  woman  in  the 
country  "  who  had  fixed  her  foolish  affec- 
tions on  him,  forcing  her  way  into  the 
room  where  he  sat  at  work  amongst  six  or 
seven  other  clerks,  with  the  awful  appeal 

—  "  Anthony  Trollope,  when  are  you  go- 
ing to  marry  my  daughter  ?  " 

At  the  end  of  seven  3'ears'  service  bis 
salarv  had  only  risen  to  ;£i4o,  and  he  was 
hopelessly  in  debt.  He  "  hated  the  office, 
hated  his  work,  and  more  fhan  all  hated 
his  own  idleness."  He  had  always  told 
himself,  since  leaving  school,  that  his  only 
attainable  career  in  life  would  be  to  write 
novels ;  but,  rather  strange  to  say,  he  had 
as  yet  made  no  attempt.  He  had,  how- 
ever, improved  his  acquaintance  with  the 
best  English  poets,  had  taught  himself  to 
read  French  and  Latin,  and  acquired  that 
love  for  Horace  which  was  one  of  the  de- 
lights of  his  later  years.  He  also  made, 
or  attached  closer  to  himself,  some  few 
friends  whom  he  ranks  amongst  the  dear- 
est of  the  many  who  surrounded  him  in 
later  life,  and  whose  names  are  sufficient 
evidence  that  the  young  Post-Office  clerk 
had  some  sterling  good  points  as  well  as 
attractive  social  qualities.  If  the  "  Tramp 
Society  "  be  a  not  very  dignified  title  for 
a  club,  it  had  at  any  rate  the  excuse  of 
being  "  a  verv  little  one  "  (consisting  only 
of  three  members);  and  we  find  the  popu- 
lar member  of  the  Athenaeum,  the  Cosmo- 
politan, and  the  Garrick  looking  back  to 
the  fun  of  that  earlier  and  more  select 
comradeship  with  evident  regret. 

There  came  at  last  an  opening,  which 
did  not  seem  to  promise  much,  but  was,  in 
fact,  the  turning-point  of  his  life.  He  ap- 
plied for  and  obtained  the  appointment 
of  clerk  to  one  of  the  three  newly  created 
Post-Office  surveyors  in  Ireland.  The 
duty  of  these  clerks  was  to  travel  about 
the  country,  checking  the  accounts  of  the 
local  postmasters,  under  the  surveyors' 
orders.  The  clerks  in  the  London  office 
fought  shy  of  these  new  appointments. 
They  were  much  better  in  point  of  emolu- 
ment than  the  London  clerkships  ;  but  it 
was  fancied  that  there  was  something  de- 
rogatory in  the  position.  To  young  Trol. 
lope  it  promised  at  least  an  escape  from 
debt  outside  the  office  doors  and  discredit 
within.  He  asked  his  chief  for  the  ap- 
pointment, and  Colonel  Maberly  told  him 
that  he  was  only  too  glad  to  get  rid  of  him 

—  no  doubt  in  polite  language,  but  still  ia 
words  to  very  much  that  effect. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  ANTHONY   TROLLOPE. 


S8S 


He  went  to  Ireland ;  his  best  friends 
** shook  their  heads"  about  it;  but  he 
found  that,  including  allowances  and  lib- 
eral travelling  expenses,  his  new  appoint- 
ment was  worth  to  him  ;£400  a  year ;  and 
from  that  time  the  cloud  of  loneliness, 
of  debt,  and  consequent  despondency, 
cleared  off  from  his  life.  He  went  to  his 
new  situation  with  a  very  bad  character ; 
in  fact,  he  says  candidly,  the  home  author- 
ities **  could  hardly  have  given  him  a  very 
good  one :  "  but  his  new  master  had  the 
sense  to  tell  him  at  starting  chat  he  meant 
to  judge  him  by  his  performances.  With- 
in a  year  he  had  acquired  the  character 
of  a  thoroughly  good  public  servant, 
which  he  thenceforth  maintained,  though 
he  believes  he  was  never  thoroughly  liked 
at  headquarters.  It  is  easv  enough  to 
understand  that  the  heads  oi  a  public  de- 
partment found  it  difficult  to  appreciate  a 
subordinate  who  "generally  had  an  opin- 
ion of  his  own."  Speaking  of  his  position 
in  the  office  at  a  much  later  date,  he 
says : — 

I  have  no  doubt  that  I  often  made  myself 
very  disagreeable.  I  know  that  I  sometimes 
tried  to  do  so.  But  I  could  hold  my  own,  be- 
cause I  knew  my  business  and  was  useful. . . . 
It  was  my  principle  always  to  obey  authority 
in  everything  instantly,  but  never  to  allow  my 
mouth  to  be  closed.  .  .  .  When  carr^'ing  out 
instructions  which  I  knew  should  not  have 
been  given,  I  never  scrupled  to  point  out  the 
fatuity  of  the  improper  order  in  the  strongest 
language  that  I  could  decently  employ.  I 
have  revelled  in  these  official  correspondences, 
and  look  back  to  some  of  them  as  the  greatest 
delights  of  my  life.  But  I  am  not  sure  that 
they  were  so  delightful  to  others. 

Under  Sir  Rowland  Hill,  in  still  later 
days,  this  state  of  things  continued.  He 
was  always,  he  confesses,  "  an  anti-Hill- 
ite." 

How  I  loved,  when  I  was  contradicted  —  as 
I  was  very  often,  and  no  doubt  very  properly 

—  to  do  instantly  as  I  was  bid,  and  then  to 
prove  that  what  I  was  doing  was  fatuous,  dis- 
fionest,  expensive,  and  impracticable !  and 
then  there  were  such  feuds  —  such  delicious 
feuds  I 

He  led,  he  admits, "  a  very  jolly  life  "  in 
Ireland.  The  surveyor  kept  a  pack  of 
hounds,  though  —  with  a  want  of  logical 
sequence  which  sounds  thoroughly  Irish 

—  he  never  rode  to  them.  But  the  clerk 
at  once  bought  a  hunter  —  thinking  it  his 
duty,  perhaps,  to  represent  his  principal. 

I  have  ever  since  been  constant  to  the  sport, 
having  learned  to  love  it  with  an  affection 
which  I  cannot  myself  fathom  or  understand. 


I  am  very  heavy,  very  blind,  have  been  —  in 
reference  to  hunting  —  a  poor  man,  and  am 
now  an  old  man.  I  have  often  had  to  travel 
all  night  outside  a  mail-coach,  in  order  that  I 
might  hunt  the  next  day.  Nor  have  I  ever 
been,  in  truth,  a  good  horseman.  .  .  .  But  it 
has  been  for  more  than  thirty  years  a  duty  to 
me  to  ride  to  hounds,  and  I  have  performed 
that  duty  with  a  persistent  energy.  .  .  .  Few 
have  investigated  more  closelv  than  I  have 
done  the  depth  and  breadth  ana  water-holding 
capacities  of  an  Essex  ditch.  It  will,  I  think, 
be  accorded  to  me  by  Essex  men  generally  that 
I  have  ridden  hard.  ...  I  am  too  blind  to  see 
hounds  turning,  and  cannot,  therefore,  tell 
whether  the  fox  has  gone  this  way  or  that. 
Indeed,  all  the  notice  I  take  of  hounds  is  not 
to  ride  over  them. 

Mr.  Trollope  tells,  in  these  pages,  some 
two  or  three  of  those  characteristic  sto- 
ries  of  Irish  life  which  flowed  so  charm- 
ingly from  his  lips  in  congenial  company. 
"The  O'Connors  of  Castle  Connor  "and 
"  Father  Giles  of  Ballymoy  "are  personal 
adventures  which  took  literary  shape  in 
magazine  pages,  and  will  be  found  in  the 
"Tales  of  All  Countries,"  published  in 
1 86 1  and  1870. 

It  was  in  Ireland,  too,  that  he  met  with 
his  wife  —  an  Englishwoman,  however, 
—  Miss  Heseltine,  whom  he  married  in 
1844:  a  date  which  be  says  he  "  perhaps 
ought  to  name  as  the  commencement  of 
his  better  life,  rather  than  the  day  on 
which  he  first  landed  in  Ireland."  Six 
months  before,  he  had  begun  his  first 
novel,  "  The  Macdermots  of  Ballycloran." 
The  longing  to  be  a  novelist,  which  had 
so  long  been  felt,  was  only  now  called 
into  activity,  in  the  course  of  a  rural  walk, 
by  the  sight  of  a  ruined  Irish  mansion. 
It  could  only  be  the  strong  paternal  feel- 
ing of  an  author  for  his  literary  firstborn 
which  persuaded  him,  even  in  this  calm 
retrospect,  to  pronounce  "The  Macder- 
mots "  "  a  good  novel."  Such  judgment 
the  public  will  but  partially  endorse, 
though  the  popularity  of  his  other  stories 
has  floated  it  into  a  sixth  edition.  It  was 
finished  a  year  after  his  marriage,  and  his 
mother  succeeded  in  getting  it  published 
for  him  on  the  "half-profit "  system  ;  but 
the  book  had  no  sale,  and  he  never  re- 
ceived a  penny  on  account  of  it.  He  was 
to  wait  yet  twelve  years  before  any  ap- 
preciable gain  was  to  come  to  him  from 
his  literary  efforts.  He  had  set  to  work 
at  once  to  write  a  second  novel  —  "The 
Kellys  and  the  .  O'Kellys,"  — again  an 
Irish  story,  published  on  the  same  terms 
and  with  even  a  worse  result  —  for 
Messrs.  Colburn  informed  him  that  they 
had  lost  some  £6^  by  the  venture,  and 


S86 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 


voluQteered  their  advice  that  he  should 
attempt  no  more  novels.  Mr.  Trollope 
quotes  the  Times  notice  of  the  book :  — 

Of  "The  Kellys  and  the  O'Kellys,"  we  may 
say  what  the  master  said  to  his  footman,  when 
the  man  complained  of  the  constant  supply  of 
legs  of  mutton  on  the  kitchen  table,  *•  Well, 
John,  legs  of  mutton  are  good  substantial 
food ; "  and  we  may  say  also  what  John  re- 
plied, •*  Substantial,  sir  ?  Yes — they  are  sub- 
stantial— but  a  little  coarse." 

Even  this  review,  he  adds,  did  not  sell 
the  book.  But  his  publishers  (rather 
illogically,  as  he  remarks),  in  the  very 
same  letter  which  warned  him  against 
novel-writing,  requested  that  he  would 
"favor  them  with  a  sight"  of  a  story 
which  they  understood  he  had  nearly  fin- 
ished —  "La  Vendue ; "  and  for  this  they 
gave  him  twenty  pounds  down  in  hard 
cash,  with  an  enc:agement  to  pay  more 
under  certain  conditions  of  success.  But 
the  success  never  came.  Indeed  he 
thinks  the  publishers  were  rather" talked 
out  of  "  the  ;£2o  by  his  brother  Thomas, 
who  conducted  the  negotiation ;  the  two 
brothers,  in  spite  of  old  Winchester  mem- 
ories, remaining  fast  friends  through  life. 
A  series  of  letters  contributed  to  the 
Examiner  brought  no  pay.  A  specimen 
portion  of  a  "  Handbook  for  Ireland,*' 
which  Murray  had  promised  to  read  on 
approval,  was  returned  unopened  at  the 
end  of  nine  months,  in  answer  to  "a  very 
angry  letter  "  from  the  author  (those  who 
knew  the  man  will  easily  conceive  it)  in- 
sisting upon  having  it  back.  To  write  for 
the  stage  had  also  been  one  of  his  ambi- 
tions; out  a  comedy,  with  the  not  very 
taking  title  of  "The  Noble  Jilt."  encoun- 
tered so  unfavorable  a  verdict  from  his 
friend  George  Bartley  the  actor,  that  it 
never  got  itself  either  acted  or  printed. 
Its  author  worked  up  the  plot  afterwards 
in  "  Can  You  Forgive  Her  ? "  and  ex- 
presses a  doubt,  in  spite  of  his  critic, 
whether  some  of  the  scenes  in  that  com- 
edy were  not  "amongst  the  brightest  and 
best  work  he  ever  did."  Some  years  after- 
wards he  made  another  attempt,  on  the 
reverse  principle,  by  dramatizing  his  pop- 
ular "  Last  Chronicle  of  Barset ; '*  but  this 
also  he  failed  to  get  accepted. 

An  appointment,  which  fully  occupied 
his  time  and  energies,  put  a  stop  to  all 
attempts  at  authorship  for  two  years, — 
though  they  were,  he  says,  two  of  the 
happiest  in  his  life.  He  was  instructed 
to  inquire  into  and  reorganize  the  rural 
Ietter<leliveries,  first  in  his  own  district 
in  Ireland,  and  then  through  ten  of  the 


English  counties,  the  Channel  islands, 
and  south  Wales.  He  did  his  work  en<* 
tirely  on  horseback,  keeping  two  and 
sometimes  three  good  horses,  and  so  con« 
triving  to  get  his  dearly  loved  hunting  out 
of  his  travelling  allowances.  In  this  offi- 
cial progress  he  was,  he  conceives,  "a 
beneficent  angel  to  the  public,  —  bringing 
everywhere  with  him  an  earlier,  cheaper, 
and  much  more  regular  delivery  of  let- 
ters." How  he  flashed  down  early  on 
hunting  mornings  (an  angel  in  a  red  coat 
and  top-boots)  upon  rural  postmasters 
and  lone  country  houses,  asking  questions 
which,  while  his  official  status  was  un- 
known, must  have  had  a  strong  savor  of 
impertinence,  is  very  amusingly  told. 
During  these  two  years  he  and  his  wife 
were  temporary  residents  in  various  En- 
glish towns ;  out  now  he  received  the 
appointment  of  surveyor  in  the  northern 
district  of  Ireland,  and  found  his  salary 
increased  to  about  ;£8oo  a  year.  In  Ire- 
land, therefore,  he  again  settled, —  finally 
in  the  classic  Dublin  suburb  of  Donny- 
brook. 

In  1855  was  published  the  first  of  that 
long  series  of  works  which  were  gradu- 
ally to  make  him  famous.     This  was  the 
short  story  called  "  The  Warden,"  —  first 
conceived  in  the  cathedral  close  of  Salis- 
bury.    For  this  he  received  in  two  years 
from  Messrs.  Longman  (on  the  half-profit 
system)  a  little  over  £20  —  the  first  money 
he  had  ever  bond  fide  earned  by  literary 
work.     It  was  a  story  written  with  a  pur- 
pose —  to  expose  the  perversion   of  the 
charitable  endowments  of  the  Church  into 
sinecures.      But  he  could   not  find   the 
heart,  as  he  confesses,  to  do  the  thing  ia 
the  slashing  style :  and  probably  the  im- 
pression left  upon  most  readers*  minds  is 
rather  that  of  sympathy  with   the  good 
warden  than  indignation  at  the  abuses  of 
Hiram's    Hospital.      The   story    will   be 
remembered,  not  for   its    bearing  upoa 
Church  abuses,  but  for  the  masterly  de- 
lineations of  character  which  make  their 
first  appearance  there.     Who  did  not  feel 
at  once  that  he  knew  Archdeacon  Grant- 
ley  as  intimately  as  such  a  dignitary  might 
be  known,  —  who  did    not  believe  that 
Tom  Towers  of  the  Jupiter  was  a  veri- 
table sketch  from  behind  the  scenes  of 
the  newspaper  daily  press  ?     How  the  au- 
thor must  have  chuckled  when  the  Times 
itself,  in  the  course  of  a  favorable  critique 
on   the  work,  gently  complained  of  the 
"  personality  "  of  the  portrait !     The  nov- 
elist had  at  that  time  never  even  known 
the  name  of  any  one  connected  with  the 
"  leading  journal,"  any  more  than  he  had 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 


ever  spoken  to  aa  archdeacon,  or  lived  in 
a  cathedral  city.  Both  the  archdeacon 
and  Tom  Towers  were  pure  creations,  — 
'*the  result  of  an  effort  of  moral  con- 
sciousness." 

Archdeacon  Grantley,  Tom  Towers, 
Dean  Arabin,  the  weak  Bishop  of  Bar- 
Chester,  and,  above  all,  the  immortal  Mrs. 
Proudie,  all  reappear,  as  we  all  so  well  re- 
member, in  "Barchester  Towers,"  •*  Doc- 
tor Thorne,"  "  Framley  Parsonagje,"  and 
in  "The  Last  Chronicle  of  Barset,"  — 
which  closes  a  series  of  novels  quite  suffi- 
cient in  themselves  to  make  a  great  reputa- 
tion for  any  writer,  and  on  which  the  repu- 
tation of  Anthony  Trollope  will  chiefly 
rest.  The  author  himself,  indeed,  delib- 
erately prefers  what  we  may  call  the  **  Pal- 
liser  "  series.  He  thinks  that  if  his  name 
"  is  to  be  known  at  all  in  the  next  century 
amonp;  the  writers  of  English  prose  fic- 
tion, that  permanence  of  success  will  rest 
on  the  characters  of  Plantagenet  Palliser, 
Lady  Glencora,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Craw- 
ley." 

I  look  upon  this  string  of  characters  as  the 
best  work  of  my  life.  Taking  him  altogether, 
I  think  that  Plantagenet  Palliser  stands  more 
firmly  on  the  ground  than  any  other  personage 
I  have  created. 

But  even  **  Barchester  Towers,"  which 
speedily  followed  the  publication  of  **  The 
Warden,"  met  at  first  with  only  mod- 
erate appreciation.  The  author  received 
—  "with  profound  delight"  —  ;^ioo  in 
advance  out  of  the  half  profits ;  and  the 
subsequent  payment  on  account  of  that 
and  '*  The  Warden  "  together,  amounted, 
in  the  whole,  to  £600  more :  but  those 
receipts  extended  over  twenty  years.  But 
be  had  now  worked  his  way  into  a  posi- 
tion to  make  terms  with  the  publishers. 
For  the  copyright  of  his  next  work  — 
"  The  Three  Clerks  "  —  he  got  £2S0  from 
Bentley.  He  considered  it  the  best  he 
had  yet  written ;  but  few  will  place  it  on 
the  same  level  with  "  Barchester  Towers  " 
or  its  successors.  The  characters  in  this 
story,  he  confesses,  were  not  drawn  wholly 
from  his  own  '*  moral  consciousness  : "  Sir 
Gregory  Hardlines  is  Sir  Charles  Trevel- 
yan,  with  whom,  in  spite  of  the  satire,  he 
afterwards  became  very  intimate :  and  Sir 
Warwick  Westend  is  a  literary  a/ias  for 
Sir  Stafford  Northcote,  For  "Doctor 
Thorne,"  the' most  popular  of  all  his  nov- 
els, as  he  believes,  which  came  next  in 
succession,  and  for  the  plot  of  which  he 
confesses  his  obligation  to  his  brother 
Thomas-Adolphus,  he  in  vain  "demand- 
ed" ;£4oo  from  Bentley.    He  was  then 


587 

under  immediate  orders  to  go  to  Egypt, 
to  make  a  treaty  for  the  conveyance  of  the 
English  mails  through  that  country  by 
railway,  and  had  no  time  to  spare  for 
making  bargains.  He  rushed  ofF  to  Chap- 
man &  Hall,  and  poured  "  a  quick  torrent 
of  words  "  on  Mr.  Edward  Chapman. 

Looking  at  me  as  he  might  have  done  at  a 
highway  robber  who  had  stopped  him  on 
Hounslow  Heath,  he  said  he  supposed  he 
might  as  well  do  as  I  desired.  I  considered 
that  to  be  a  sale,  and  it  was  a  sale.  I  remem- 
ber that  he  held  the  poker  in  his  hand  all  the 
time  that  I  was  with  him ;  but,  in  truth,  even 
though  he  had  declined  to  buy  the  book,  there 
would  have  been  no  danger. 

For  his  next  novel,  "The  Bertrams," 
—  which  he  "  never  heard  well  spoken  of, 
even  by  his  friends,"  —  he  got  the  same 
price  from  the  same  quarter  without  any 
difficulty.  But  it  was  his  book  on  the 
West  Indies  which  he  considers  to  have 
fixed  his  position  as  an  author.  He  had 
been  sent  out  to  "cleanse  the  Augean 
stable  "  of  the  post-office  in  those  regions, 
and  engaged  with  Chapman  8c  Hall  to 
write  the  volume  before  he  sailed.  He 
considered  it  the  "  best  book  that  had 
ever  come  from  his  pen."  The  Times 
reviewed  it  at  length,  in  terms  of  high 
praise;  and  for  his  next  novel,  "Castle 
Richmond,"  he  demanded  and  received 
from  his  publishers  the  sum  of  £fioo. 

From  that  time  he  could  make  his  own 
terms.  Messrs.  Smith  &  Elder's  new 
venture,  the  Cornhill  Ma^^azine^  was  com- 
ing out  under  the  editorship  of  Thack* 
eray,  and  was  in  want  of  a  leading  serial 
story  —  the  editor  himself  having,  as  Mr. 
Trollope  supposes,  intended  to  supply 
one,  and  finding  himself  unable  to  "  come 
up  to  time."  The  proprietors  at  once 
offered  Trollope  ;£  1,000  for  a  three-vol- 
ume novel,  to  come  out  in  monthly  por- 
tions; and,  for  the  first  and  last  time  in 
his  literary  career,  he  sold  a  novel  which 
had  yet  to  be  written.  As  a  rule,  he  had 
always  one,  and  latterly  two  or  three,  in 
manuscript  lying  in  his  desk  ready  for 
publication.  This  Cornhill  story  was 
"  Framley  Parsonage."  The  reading  pub- 
lic were  delighted  to  meet  there  again 
their  old  friends  Archdeacon  Grantley 
and  Mrs.  Proudie;  and  the  character  of 
Lucy  Robarts  is  one  of  the  sweetest,  as 
the  author  himself  felt,  that  he  ever  drew. 
The  series  of  what  we  may  call  the  "  Bar- 
chester Novels"  was  not  completed  until 
seven  years  later,  by  the  publication  of 
"The  Last  Chronicle  of  Barset."  For 
this  he  received  ;£3,ooo,  and  considers  it 
the  best  of  all  his  stories,  though  the  pub- 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF   ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 


588 

lie,  he  thinks,  preferred  "  Orley  Farm." 
He  had  grown  very  fond  of  his  imaginary 
county  and  its  society,  and  realized  to 
himself  the  personages  of  his  drama  just 
as  the  true  actor  throws  himself  for  the 
time  iiito  the  character  he  represents. 

As  I  wrote  "  Framley  Parsonage  "  I  became 
more  closely  than  ever  acquainted  with  the 
new  shire  I  had  added  to  the  English  counties. 
I  had  it  all  in  my  mind,  —  its  roads  and  rail- 
roads, its  towns  and  parishes,  its  members  of 
Parliament,  and  the  di£ferent  hunts  which  rode 
over  it.  I  knew  all  the  great  lords  and  their 
castles,  the  squires  and  their  parks,  the  rectors 
and  their  churches.  This  was  the  fourth  novel 
of  which  I  placed  the  scene  in  Barsetshire, 
and  as  I  wrote  it  I  made  a  map  of  the  dear 
county.  Throughout  these  stories  there  has 
been  no  name  given  to  a  fictitious  site  which 
does  not  represent  to  me  a  spot  of  which  I 
knew  all  the  accessories,  as  though  I  had  lived 
and  wandered  there. 

And  he  says  again :  — 

I  have  been  able  to  imbue  myself  thoroughly 
with  the  characters  I  have  had  in  hand.  I 
have  wandered  alone  among  the  rocks  and 
woods,  crying  at  their  grief,  laughing  at  their 
absurdities,  and  thoroughly  enjoying  their  joy. 
I  have  been  impregnated  with  my  own  crea- 
tions till  it  has  been  my  only  excitement  to  sit 
with  the  pen  in  my  hand,  and  drive  my  team 
before  me  at  as  quick  a  pace  as  I  could  make 
them  travel. 

It  is  so  that  I  have  lived  with  my  characters, 
and  thence  has  come  whatever  success  I  have 
obtained.  There  is  a  gallery  of  them,  and  of 
all  in  that  gallery  I  may  say  that  I  know  the 
tone  of  the  voice,  and  the  color  of  the  hair, 
every  flame  of  the  eve,  and  the  very  clothes 
they  wear.  Of  each  man  I  could  assert 
whether  he  would  have  said  these  or  the  other 
words ;  of  every  woman,  whether  she  would 
then  have  smiled  or  so  have  frowned. 

He  was  very  careful  also  to  mark  the 
•♦progression  in  character,"  the  changes 
in  his  men  and  women  which  would  nat- 
urally take  place  in  the  course  of  years. 

How  it  came  to  pass  that,  for  a  very 
different  reason  from  the  jealousy  which 
led  Addison  to  extinguish  the  life  of  Sir 
Rogerde  Coverley,  the  author  determined 
suddenly  to  "  kill  Mrs.  Proudie,"  is  a  story 
often  told  by  him  in  his  lifetime,  which 
has  been  already  told  in  the  pages  of 
*•  Maga,"  and  for  which  we  may  refer  the 
reader  to  the  work  itself.  But  his  parting 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  that  awful  lady 
is  a  good  illustration  of  how  thoroughly 
the  characters  of  his  creation  became  to 
his  mind  living  realities :  — 

I  have  sometimes  regretted  the  deed,  so 
great  was  mv  delight  in  writing  about  Mrs. 
Proudie,  so  thorough  was  my  knowledge  of  all 


the  tittle  shades  in  her  character.  It  was  not 
only  that  she  was  a  tyrant,  a  bully,  a  would-be 
priestess,  a  very  vulgar  woman,  and  one  who 
would  send  headlong  to  the  nethermost  pit  all 
who  disagreed  with  her ;  but  that  at  the  same 
time  she  was  conscientious,  by  no  means  a 
hypocrite,  really  believing  in  the  brimstone 
which  she  threatened,  and  anxious  to  save  the 
souls  around  her  from  its  horrors.  And  as 
her  tyrinny  increased,  so  did  the  bitterness  of 
the  moments  of  her  repentance  increase,  in 
that  she  knew  herself  to  be  a  tyrant,  —  till 
that  bitterness  killed  hen 

We  have  traced  this  literary  career  with 
some  minuteness  to  its  culnrination,  be- 
cause it  is  a  striking  record  not  only  of 
indomitable  perseverance,  arising  in  Trol- 
lope's  case  from  the  consciousness  of 
strength,  but  of  the  slow  and  hesitating 
steps  by  which  the  reading  public  forms 
its  tastes,  and  the  unquestioning  faith  with 
which  it  abandons  itself  to  the  favorite  it 
has  once  adopted.  He  had  always  "  felt 
this  to  be  an  injustice  in  literary  affairs," 
and  he  was  induced  to  test  this  bv  ascer- 
taining how  far  he  could  succeed  in  ob- 
taining a  second  reputation  for  himself  by 
publishing  anonymously.  He  wrote  for 
the  magazine  two  stories  —  •'Nina  Balat- 
ka  "  and  "  Linda  Tressel."  The  secret  of 
the  authorship  was  well  kept  for  some 
time;  but  the  stories,  though  good  in 
themselves,  and  fairly  well  received,  were 
not  appreciated  by  the  public  generally 
as  they  would  have  been  had  they  been 
signed  with  his  name. 

It  is  not  necessary  here  to  enter  into 
the  details  of  the  novelist's  later  suc- 
cesses. The  highest  rate  of  pay  he  ever 
received  was,  he  tells  us,  for  ••The  Claver- 
ings,"  which  came  out  in  the  Cornhill  in 
1S66,  1867  —  ;^2,8oo.  Larger  sums  were 
realized  by  other  stories :  *•  Can  You  For- 
give Herr"  brought  ;£3,525,  and  others 
as  much  as  ;£3,ooo  each,  but  these  were 
of  an  unusual  length.  As  a  rule,  from 
the  time  that  his  popularity  was  estab- 
lished, he  for  some  years  maintained  the 
price  of  £fioo  for  a  volume  of  the  ordinary 
novel  measure,  though  latterly  he  had  to 
submit  to  a  reduction  in  these  terms. 

It  is  time  to  say  something  of  his  pri- 
vate life.  His  residence  in  Ireland  had 
given  him  no  opportunities  of  mixing  in 
literary  society;  but  in  1859  he*  was  ap- 
pointed to  the  charge  of  the  eastern  dis- 
trict of  England,  and  took  a  lease  of  a 
pretty,  old-fashioned  brick  house  at  Wal- 
tham  Cross,  which  he  afterwards  bought 
and  considerably  improved.  It  was  the 
same  year  in  which  he  became  connected 
with  the  Cornhill  Ma^azine^  and  he  found 
it  very  convenient  for  his  frequent  jour- 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 


neys  to  Loadon.  And  now  he  began 
rapidlj  to  make  those  literary  and  other 
friends  who  added  so  much  to  his  keen 
enjoyment  of  life.  A  dinner  at  the  pub- 
lisheVs  was  his  first  introduction  to 
Thackeray,  whom  he  regarded  as  "the 
greatest  master  of  fiction  in  this  age,*' and 
*'  one  of  the  most  tender-hearted  of  human 
beings  he  ever  knew."  Millais,  G.  H. 
Lewes,  *' Jacob  Omnium"  (Higgins),  Rob- 
ert Bell,  Fitzjames  Stephen,  Dallas,  Sala, 
—  for  each  and  all  of  these  he  has  a  word 
of  hearty  appreciation.  Of  the  late  Sir 
Charles  Taylor,  the  '*king  of  the  Garrick 
Club  "  in  his  day,  he  speaks  thus :  — 

A  man  rough  of  tongue,  brusqae  in  his 
manners,  odious  to  those  who  dislike  him,^ 
he  is  the  prince  of  friends,  honest  as  the  sun, 
and  as  open-hearted  as  charity  itself. 

Had  he  any  sort  of  consciousness  how 
very  nearly  he  was  drawing  a  portrait  of 
himself? 

He  was  now  in  a  position  to  satisfy 
that  *' craving  for  love,"  which  he  almost 
apologizes  for  as  **a  weakness  in  his  char- 
acter." It  was  a  craving  never  gratified, 
as  he  pathetically  complains,  in  the  early 
years  of  his  life.  At  the  Garrick  Club  he 
at  once  became  very  popular.  He  was 
soon  afterwards  elected  to  the  Athenxum ; 
and,  when  in  town,  generally  made  one  at 
those  midnight  meetings  at  the  Cosmopol- 
itan, which  no  man  more  thoroughly  en- 
joyed, and  which  were  so  enjoyable.  At 
Waltham  House,  too,  where  he  was  very 
happy,  though  in  different  fashion  from 
his  London  life,  amongst  his  cows,  and 
roses,  and  strawberries,  he  delighted  to 
welcome  at  his  quiet  dinner-table  some 
half-dozen  of  intimate  friends.  Those 
who  were  occasional  guests  there  remem- 
ber how,  in  the  warm  summer  evenings, 
the  party  would  adjourn  after  dinner  to 
the  lawn,  where  wines  and  fruit  were  laid 
out  under  the  fine  old  cedar-tree,  and 
many  a  good  story  was  told  while  the 
tobacco-smoke  went  curling  up  into  the 
soft  twilight. 

In  1661  he  succeeded  in  getting  from 
his  official  chief  a  nine-months'  holiday,  in 
order  to  pay  a  visit  to  America,  for  the 
avowed  purpose  of  writing  a  book.  It 
was  during  the  Secession  War,  and  his 
sympathies  were  strongly  with  the  North ; 
but  the  book  when  written,  though  fairly 
well  received,  was,  as  he  here  candidly 
admits,  not  a  **good  book."  In  truth,  his 
vocation  was  to  tell  in  admirable  fashion 
a  tale  of  modern  English  life ;  and  when- 
ever he  was  tempted  by  literary  ambition 
to  step  off  this  famihar  ground,  he  lost  his 
secure  foothold. 


589 

Six  years  afterwards  he  resigned  his 
place  in  the  Post-Office,  without  waiting 
for  a  pension,  to  which  a  few  more  years' 
service  would  have  entitled  him.  More 
than  one  motive  seems  to  have  led  him  to 
this  determination.  He  found  the  double 
work  becoming  a  burden  to  him;  he  had 
lately  applied  unsuccessfully  for  the  va- 
cant office  of  under-secretary,  and  he  had 
undertaken  a  task  which  he  very  soon 
relinquished  —  the  editorship  of  the  new 
.SV.  PatiPs  Magazine, 

Very  early  in  the  days  of  his  clerkship, 
he  had  amused  a  cynical  old  uncle  who 
once  asked  him  what  profession  he  would 
like  best,  by  replying,  that  he  should  like 
to  be  a  member  of  Parliament.  In  his 
maturer  mind  he  had  always  retained  the 
idea  that  *'to  sit  in  the  British  Parliament 
should  be  the  highest  object  of  ambition 
to  every  educated  Englishman."  He  had, 
he  confesses,  "almost  an  insane  desire  to 
sit  there."  Accordingly,  he  was  hardly 
freed  from  official  trammels  when  he  be- 
gan to  look  out  for  a  seat.  At  first  his 
name  was  suggested  for  one  of  the  divi- 
sions of  the  county  of  Essex;  but  he  with* 
drew  at  once,  with  the  unselfish  chivalry 
of  his  nature,  in  favor  of  a  candidate  who 
seemed  to  have  higher  claims.  Finally, 
he  stood  for  Beverley.  He  did  not  get 
in.  How  should  he?  No  one  was  less 
calculated  to  win  the  "  most  sweet  voices  " 
of  borough  electors.  To  him  the  time 
spent  in  canvassing  was  "the  most 
wretched  fortnight  of  his  manhood."  His 
account  of  it  is  a  caution  to  candidates. 
He  was  a  "Liberal,"  as  the  term  is,  in 
politics;  a  "Conservative-Liberal"  he 
termed  himself.  On  some  theoretical 
points  his  Liberalism  was  of  the  most 
advanced  type.  So  far  as  Liberalism  ad- 
vocated "the  greatest  happiness  of  the 
greatest  number,"  free  trade,  purity  of 
election,  and  other  imposing  theories,  he 
was  a  very  good  Liberal  indeed.  But  the 
man  who  could  speak  of  the  Beverley 
Liberal  caucus  as  "a  bitter  tyranny  from 
grinding  vulgar  tyrants,"  who  could  say 
of  the  Ballot  and  the  Permissive  Bill,  "  I 
hated  and  do  hate  them  both,"  and  yet 
could  insist  that  there  should  be  "  no 
bribery,  no  treating,  not  even  a  pot  of 
beer,"  on  his  side  at  the  election,  was 
plainly  not  the  man  for  Beverley.  "  There 
was  something  grand,"  he  thought,  "in 
the  scorn  with  which  a  leading  Liberal 
there  turned  up  his  nose  at  him,"  when 
he  uttered  that  last  astounding  manifesto. 
And  certainly  Parliament  was  do  place 
for  him.  What  would  have  been  the  po- 
sition of  a  professing  Liberal  in  the  pres- 


S90 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 


ent  House  of  Commons  who  were  to  rise 
there  and  denounce  what  he  calls  **the 
damnable  system  of  merit,"  and  who 
thought  (as  he  declares  he  did  think, 
though  he  dare  not  print  it  while  living) 
that  the  House  ought  to  be  an  assembly 
of  "gentlemen"?  The  truth  was  this, 
that  all  his  instincts  and  feelings  were 
Conservative  —  of  that  better  type  of 
Conservatism  which  is  daily  growing  in 
strength  —  however  "liberal"  he  might 
have  been  in  theory. 

In  1871  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trollope  deter- 
mined to  pay  a  visit  to  their  eldest  son, 
who  had  settled  on  a  sheep-farm  in  Aus- 
tralia. As  they  meant  to  be  absent  not 
less  than  a  year  and  a  half,  and  as  the 
connection  with  the  Post-Office  —  one  of 
the  motives  for  his  residence  in  the  east- 
ern district — had  now  ceased,  and  he 
was  preparing  to  give  up  hunting  alto- 
gether, it  was  determined  to  sell  the 
house  at  VValtham,  and  migrate  to  Lon- 
don. This  wrench  from  many  pheasant 
old  associations  was  not  effected  without 
"  many  tears."  When  he  returned  to  En- 
gland, after  visiting  New  Zealand  and  the 
Australian  colonies  (having,  of  course, 
written  a  book  upon  Australia  and  a  novel 
on  board  ship  on  his  way  home),  he  took 
up  his  residence  for  some  years  in  Mon- 
tagu Square,  where  he  entered  again  with 
zest  into  London  society,  and  amused 
many  of  his  leisure  hours  in  arranging 
and  cataloguing  with  some  care  his  not 
inconsiderable  library  of  books,  in  which 
he  took  increasing  delight.  It  might  have 
been  thought  that  the  unhappy  associa- 
tions of  his  school  days  would  have  left 
little  taste  for  Greek  or  Latin  literature ; 
but  it  was  not  so.  The  study  of  Greek 
he  never  seriously  resumed ;  but  he  read 
through,  with  an  amount  of  industry  really 
wonderful,  when  we  remember  how  very 
limited  were  his  leisure  hours,  almost  the 
whole  of  the  Latin  authors.  One  result 
of  this  was  his  volunteering  to  take  in 
hand  "Caesar's  Commentaries"  for  the 
series  of  "Ancient  Classics  for  English 
Readers,"  issued  under  the  editorship  of 
the  Rev.  W.  Lucas  Collins  —  one  of  those 
chance  literary  acquaintanceships  which 
ripened,  as  he  says,  into  a  warm  friend- 
ship, though  made  late  in  life.  A  proof 
of  the  many-sided  geniatitv  of  the  man 
was  that  he  had  friends  in  all  professions, 
and  moving  in  various  spheres  of  life: 
and  few  who  were  drawn  into  immediate 
contact  with  him  failed  to  prize  his  affec- 
tion. The  little  volume  on  Cxsar  was 
a  labor  of  love  in  a  double  sense:  the 
MS.  was  given  as  a  birthday  present  to 


the  late  editor  of  this  magazine  —  adother 
of  those  many  friends  first  made  in  the 
way  of  business,  but  who  soon  became 
personally  endeared  to  him  in  a  degree 
which  was  fully  reciprocated.  The  cor- 
rected proof  was  accompanied  by  a  brief 
note,  from  which  we  are  allowed  here  to 
quote.  "  I  think  the  ist  of  June  is  your 
birthday;  at  any  rate,  we  will  make  it  so 
for  this  year,  and  you  will  accept  this  as  a 
little  present."  He  was  continually  doing 
such  kindly  acts,  often  in  a  manner  that 
had  all  the  eentleness  of  a  woman  ;  and 
only  those  who  knew  him  well  were  aware 
how  much  of  this  there  was  in  his  nature 
underlying  a  somewhat  rough  outside. 
One  friend  who,  in  temporary  ill-health, 
was  thrown  upon  the  doubtful  cookery  of 
London  lodgings,  well  remembers  how  he 
would  look  in  continually,  on  his  way  to 
his  club,  for  a  few  minutes'  pleasant  chat, 
carrying  in  his  hand  a  pheasant,  or  some 
such  little  delicacy  as  might  tempt  an  in- 
valid's appetite.  But  such  instances  of 
thoughtful  kindness  live  in  the  memories 
of  many,  and  this  is  not  the  place  to  dwell 
upon  them.  The  same  love  of  Latin  liter- 
ature which  produced  the  "Cassar"  led 
him  to  publish,  in  1880,  a  "  Life  of  Cic- 
ero," for  whom  he  had  an  enthusiastic 
admiration.  The  book  is  pleasantly  writ- 
ten ;  but  it  must  be  again  said  that  when 
he  was  tempted  to  desert  fiction  for  his- 
tory, he  did  not  show  himself  at  his  best. 
This  autobiographical  record  was  fin- 
ished (we  are  told  in  the  preface)  in  April, 
1876:  but  the  list  of  his  published  works 
given  by  himself  in  the  last  chapter  in- 
cludes "John  Caldigate,"  published  in 
1879.*  The  following  year  he  gave  up 
his  London  residence,  and  retired  to  a 
pretty  house,  built  in  somewhat  rambling 
fashion  by  a  French  emigrant  in  1760, 
just  outside  the  village  of  Harting  in  Sus- 
sex. He  no  longer  enjoyed  his  old  robust 
health,  and  the  demands  of  London  soci- 
ety had  become  somewhat  too  severe  for 
him.  It  had  been  his  habit  for  many 
years  to  vary  his  London  life  by  a  few 
weeks'  ramble  in  the  Black  Forest,  or  in 
Switzerland ;  but  in  the  spring  of  188 1  he 
made  a  short  tour  in    Italy  with   Mrs. 


*  A  list  of  the  novels  written  by  him  since  that  date 

They  are   "Cousin    Henrv." 

Dr. 

the 


may  be  here  given.  They  are  "  Cousin  Henr 
«»The  Duke's  Children,"  "Ayala»s  Angel,"  »• 
Wonle' 8 School,"  "The  Fixed  Period,"  "Kept  in  »«« 
Dark,"  "Marion  Fay,"  "Mr.  Scarborougli's  Familv  • 
— besides  his  volume  on  Thackeray  in  "Men  of  Llet- 
ters,"  and  a  "  Life  of  Lord  Palmerston."  There  is 
also  an  Irish  story,  called  "The  Landleaguers,"  con- 
tributed to  Li/lff — which,  contrary  to  his  habit,  was 
left  incomplete,  —  and  a  novel,  called  "An  Old  Man's 
Love,"  now  in  the  hands  of  Messrs.  Blackwood  ior 
publication. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  ANTHONY  TROLLOPS. 


59* 


Trollope  and  some  friends,  paying  a  visit 
to  his  brother  at  Rome.  Though  at 
times  his  old  buoyant  spirits  made  a  stout 
fight  against  bodily  infirmity,  he  was  then 
far  from  well,  and  knew  and  confessed  it. 
He  had  also  entered  into  business  rela- 
tions —  not  necessary  here  to  particularize 
« —  which  worried  and  disgusted  him  :  for 
such  matters  he  had,  as  he  confesses, 
neither  taste  nor  aptitude.  Indeed  it  was 
remarkable  that  one  who  knew  the  world 
so  thoroughly  —  who  could  write  such  a 
book  as  **  The  Way  we  Live  Now,"  which 
lie  admits  to  be  over-colored,  and  which  is 
to  us  the  least  agreeable  of  all  his  novels  — 
should  have  been  himself  the  most  trust- 
ful and  unsuspicious  of  men.  The  fact 
was  this, — taking  the  world  as  a  whole, 
he  knew  that  meanness,  and  baseness, 
and  greed  of  all  kinds  were  rampant  in  it ; 
but  in  the  case  of  a  private  friend,  —  one 
might  almost  say  in  any  individual  case 
with  which  he  had  to  deal,  —  he  could  not 
believe  that  the  man  would  be  guilty  of 
such  things.  His  loyalty  to  his  friends 
was  so  perfect  that  it  tended  sometimes, 
5n  his  energetic  nature,  to  make  him 
prejudiced  and  unjust.  A  slight  to  him- 
self he  could  readily  forgive ;  but  a  slight 
to  a  relative  or  near  friend  was  in  his  eyes 
the  unpardonable  sin. 

The  next  year  he  paid  two  visits  to  Ire- 
land, and  on  his  return  from  the  first 
of  these  he  seemed  the  better  for  the 
change.  He  always  retained  a  strong  in- 
terest in  the  country,  and  the  news  of  the 
Phoenix  Park  massacre  affected  him  very 
strongly.  It  had  been  his  constant  prayer 
that  he  might  not  survive  his  powers  of 
work,  without  which,  he  says  in  the  clos- 
ing chapter,  **  there  can  be  no  joy  in  this 
world.'*  And  yet  it  was  at  this  time  that 
he  conceived  the  idea  embodied  in  that 
curious  story  "  The  Fixed  Period,"  which 
first  saw  light  in  the  pages  of  "  Maga." 
The  law  of  his  imaginary  republic  of  Brit- 
rannula  was  to  provide  that  **  men  should 
arrange  for  their  own  departure,  so  as  to 
fall  into  no  senile  weakness,  no  slippered 
selfishness,  no  ugly  whiningsof  undefined 
want,  before  they  shall  go  hence  and  be 
no  more  thought  of."  In  their  sixty- 
seventh  year  they  were  to  be  "  deposited  " 
in  a  kinci  of  college,  and  after  the  interval 
of  a  twelvemonth  be  put  to  a  painless 
death.  When  an  intimate  friend  once 
ventured  to  refer  to  this  Utopian  euthana- 
sia as  a  somewhat  grim  jest,  he  stopped 
suddenly  in  his  walk,  and  grasping  the 
speakers  arm  in  his  energetic  fashion, 
exclaimed:  "  It's  all  true —  I  mean  every 
word  of  it."    He  was  fond  of  quoting,  in 


the  way  of  preference  of  a  speedy  to  a 
lingering  death.  Lady  Macbeth's  words  — 

.Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going, 
But  go  at  once. 

The  end  came  to  him  very  much  in  the 
manner  he  had  wished  and  prayed  for, 
and  at  an  age  in  singular  accordance  with 
his  theory.  Dining  in  London  with  his 
brother-in-law,  Sir  John  Tilley,  he  sudden- 
ly after  dinner  showed  slight  symptoms 
of  affection  of  the  brain.  He  recovered 
sufficientlv  to  be  driven  home  to  his  tem- 
porary lodgings,  but  was  found  there,  later 
in  the  evening,  in  a  state  of  partial  par- 
alysis and  almost  speechless.  He  lin- 
gered five  weeks,  without  much  suffering, 
but  never  recovering  intelligible-speech  or 
sustained  consciousness,  though  generally 
able  to  recognize  the  members  of  his  fam- 
ily.  He  died  on  the  6th  of  December, 
1882,  in  his  sixty-eighth  year. 

His  mode  of  working  was  very  methodi- 
cal, and  such  as  probably  would  not  have 
been  adopted  by  any  other  writer  of  fic- 
tion. For  many  years  of  his  life  an  old 
servant  had  strict  charge  to  call  him  every 
morning  early  enough  for  him  to  get 
seated  at  his  writing-table  by  half  past 
five.'  With  the  help  of  a  cup  of  co£[ee, 
he  would  write  on,  with  his  watch  before 
him,  for  some  four  hours  or  so  (though  he 
considers  three  hours  as  much  as  a  man 
ought  to  write),  until  he  went  to  dress  for 
a  late  breakfast.  Then  his  work  was  over 
for  the  day.  He  required  from  himself 
two  hundred  and  fifty  words  every  quarter 
of  an  hour ;  and,  in  his  days  of  full  activity, 
he  **  found  that  the  two  hundred  and  fifty 
words  were  forthcoming  as  regularly  as 
his  watch  went."  This  made  ten  printed 
pages  of  an  ordinary  novel  the  produce  of 
the  day.  The  daily  tale  of  pages  was  en- 
tered in  a  diary,  ruled  for  the  purpose  for 
as  many  days  as  he  allowed  for  the  com- 
pletion of  each  new  novel,  and  any  casual 
idleness  of  one  day  was  made  up  by  a 
little  additional  work  on  the  others.  Thus 
he  was  always  free  from  those  anxieties 
which  beset  most  popular  writers  as  to  the 
due  supply  of  "  copy."  He  had  even  con- 
trived a  portable  tablet  on  which  during 
long  railway  journeys  he  could  write  in 
pencil  what  could  be  afterwards  copied 
out  by  another  hand.  Latterly,  most  of 
his  novels  were  dictated  throughout  to  an 
amanuensis,  as  he  found  that  the  con- 
tinual use  of  his  pea  threatened  him  with 
palsy  of  the  hand. 

One  of  his  shorter  stories  —  "  Dr.  Wor- 
tle's  School"  —  was  written  in  a  country 
rectory-bouse,  which  bad  been  lent  him  by 


S9« 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 


a  friead  for  three  weeks  of  the  summer 
holidays.  He  is  understood  to  have  ex- 
pressed a  wish,  which  his  son  has  duly 
respected,  that  his  correspondence  should 
not  be  published.  But  a  few  characteris- 
tic lines,  written  by  him  on  this  occasion, 
may  be  quoted  without  violating  the  spirit 
of  his  injunction. 

That  I,  who  have  belittled  so  many  clergy- 
men, ^hould  ever  come  to  live  in  a  parsonage  I 
There  will  be  a  heaping  of  hot  coals  I  You 
may  be  sure  that  I  will  endeavor  to  behave 
myself  accordingly,  so  that  no  scandal  shall 
fall  upon  the  parish.  If  the  bishop  should 
come  that  way,  I  will  treat  him  as  well  as  e^er 
a  parson  in  the  diocese.  Shall  I  be  required 
to  preach,  as  belonging  to  the  rectory?  I 
shall  be  quite  disposed  to  give  every  one  my 
blessing.  .  .  .  Ought  I  to  affect  dark  gar- 
ments ?  Say  the  word,  and  I  will  supply  my- 
self with  a  high  waistcoat.  Will  it  be  rignt 
to  be  quite  genial  with  the  curate,  or  ought  I 
to  patronize  a  little?  If  there  be  dissenters, 
shall  I  frown  on  them,  or  smile  blandly  ?  If 
a  tithe  pig  be  brought,  shall  I  eat  him  ?  If 
they  take  to  address  me  as  *'  the  Rural  An- 
thony," will  it  be  all  right  ? 

He  loved  his  profession.  "There  is 
perhaps  no  career  in  life,"  he  says,  "so 
charming  as  that  of  a  man  of  letters."  He 
had  little  patience  with  the  eccentricities 
of  genius,  or  with  any  pretension  on  the 
part  of  an  author  to  be  free  from  the  prac- 
tical obligations  which  bind  ordinary  men. 
"  I  make  no  claim,"  he  says,  "  to  any  lit- 
erary excellence;  but  I  do  lay  claim  to 
whatever  merit  should  be  accorded  to  me 
for  persevering  diligence  in  my  profes- 
sion.** As  a  profession  he  regarded  it ; 
and  he  contends  that,  like  any  other  pro- 
fession, those  who  enter  upon  it  and  fol- 
low it  heartilv,  have  a  right  to  expect  that 
success  shall  find  its  pecuniary  reward. 
For  himself  he  confesses  that  his  "first 
object  in  taking  to  literature  as  a  profes- 
sion was  to  make  an  income  on  which  he 
and  those  belonging  to  him  might  live  in 
comfort."  He  knows  well  this  will  be 
counted  heresy  in  the  eyes  of  those  who 
think  that  neither  the  author,  nor  the 
painter,  nor  the  sculptor  should  entertain 
the  money  notion  at  all  —  that  in  so  do- 
ing they  "forget  the  high  glories  of  their 
calling ; "  but  he  holds  it  to  be  no  more 
disgraceful  to  them  than  to  the  barrister, 
the  physician,  or  the  clergyman,  —  to  the 
actor  or  to  the  architect. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  a  man  is  a 
better  man  because  he  despises  money.  Few 
do  so,  and  those  few  in  doing  so  suner  a  de- 
feat. Who  does  not  desire  to  be  hospitable 
to  his  friends,  generous  to  the  poor,  liberal  to 


all,  munificent  to  his  children,  and  to  be  him* 
self  free  from  the  carking  fear  which  poverty 
creates  ?  And  vet  authors  are  told  that  they 
should  disregard  payment  -for  their  work,  and 
be  content  to  devote  their  unbou^ht  brains  to 
the  welfare  of  the  public.  Brains  that  are 
unbought  will  never  serve  the  public  much. 
Take  away  from  English  authors  their  copy* 
right,  and  you  would  very  soon  take  away 
from  England  her  authors. 

But  of  his  calling  as  a  writer  of  fiction 
he  entertained,  from  another  point,  a  far 
higher  view  than  is  commonly  taken  of  it. 
He  held  that  a  large  proportion  of  the 
teaching  of  these  days  comes,  to  the 
young  especially,  from  the  pages  of  the 
novelist ;  that  the  novelist  is  therefore,  of 
necessity,  a  preacher  of  ethics,  and  that  it 
behoves  him  to  look  well  to  it  that  his 
preaching  be  for  good  and  not  for  evil. 

Such  was  the  operation  of  the  novels  of 
Miss  Edgeworth,  Miss  Austen,  and  Walter 
Scott.  Coming  down  to  my  own  times,  I  find 
such  to  have  been  the  teaching  of  Thackeray, 
of  Dickens,  and  of  George  Eliot.  Speaking, 
as  I  shall  speak  to  any  who  may  read  these 
words,  with  that  absence  of  self -personality 
which  the  dead  may  claim,  I  will  boast  that 
such  has  been  the  result  of  my  own  writing. 
Can  any  one,  by  search  through  the  works  of 
the  six  great  English  novelists  I  have  named* 
find  a  scene,  a  passage,  or  a  word  that  would 
teach  a  girl  to  be  immodest,  or  a  man  to  be 
dishonest  ?  .  .  .  Let  a  woman  be  drawn  clever, 
beautiful,  attractive — so  as  to  make  men  love 
her,  and  women  almost  envy  her  —  and  let  her 
be  made  also  heartless,  unfeminine,  and  ambi- 
tious of  evil  grandeur,  as  was  Beatrix, —  what  a 
danger  is  there  not  in  such  a  character  !  To 
the  novelist  who  shall  handle  it,  what  peril  of 
doing  harm !  But  if  at  last  it  have  been  so 
handled  that  every  girl  who  reads  of  Beatrix 
shall  say,  "Oh,  not  like  that!  let  me  not  be 
like  that  1 "  and  that  every  youth  shall  say, 
*'  Let  me  not  have  such  a  one  as  that  to  press 
my  bosom ;  anything  rather  than  that ! "  then 
will  not  the  novelist  have  preached  his  sermon 
as  perhaps  no  clergyman  can  preach  it  ? 

But  the  whole  chapter  "  On  Novels  *'  is 
excellent,  and  will  be  read  with  interest 
even  by  those  who  may  not  fully  accept 
his  views. 

It  has  been  charged  against  his  own 
novels  that  they  are  commonplace,  —  that 
they  never  rise  above  the  prosaic  level  of 
ordinary  English  life.  Let  us  hear  his 
own  defence  on  this  point,  —  or,  rather, 
his  justification.  His  deliberate  aim  was 
that  in  his  pages  his  readers  "  might  rec- 
ognize human  beings  like  unto  them- 
selves, and  not  feel  themselves  carried 
away  among  gods  or  demons." 

If  I  could  do  this,  then  I  thought  I  might 


-v 


THE   WIZARD  S  SONi 


S93 


succeed  in  impregnating  the  mind  of  the  nov- 
el-reader with  a  feeling  that  honesty  is  the 
best  policy;  that  truth  prevails  while  false- 
hood fails  ;  that  a  girl  will  be  loved  as  she  is 
pure,  and  sweet,  and  unselfish ;  that  a  man 
will  be  honored  as  he  is  true,  and  honest,  and 
brave  of  heart ;  that  things  meanly  done  are 
ugly  and  odious,  and  things  nobly  done  beau- 
tiful and  gracious.  .  .  .  Such  are  the  lessons 
I  have  striven  to  teach  ;  and  I  have  thought  it 
might  be  best  done  by  representing  to  my 
readers  characters  like  themselves — or  to 
which  they  might  liken  themselves. 

No  one  can  lay  down  these  volumes 
without  having  been  struck  by  their  trans* 
parent  honesty.  If  the  writer  tells  us  too 
little  about  himself,  it  is  not  because  he 
had  anything  to  conceal,  but  because  he 
was  so  entirely  free  from  that  conceit  of 
authorship  which  believes  that  the  details 
of  an  author\s  private  life  are  matters  of 
deep  interest  to  the  public.  And  whether 
3*oung  writers  may  be  inclined  or  not  to 
follow  all  his  precepts,  —  to  seat  them- 
selves at  their  work  before  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  lay  down  rules  for  so 
many  pages  per  dietn,  —  they  will  do  well 
to  take  him  for  a  model  of  sina[leness  of 
heart  and  manliness  of  purpose,  and  to 
remember  how  he  was  in  all  things,  in 
thought  and  deed,  the  high-minded  En- 
glish gentleman  he  delighted  to  portray. 


Fram  Nfacmillan's  Ma^aiine. 
THE  WIZARD'S  SON. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

On  the  next  morning  after  his  mother's 
arrival.  Lord  Erradeen  set  out  early  for 
Birkenbraes.  Everything  pushed  him 
towards  a  decision  ;  even  her  prompt  ar- 
rival, which  he  had  not  anticipated,  and 
the  clearing  away  from  his  path  of  the 
simpler  anamore  easy  difficulties  that  be- 
set him,  by  her  means.  But  what  was 
far  more  than  this  was  the  tug  at  his 
heart,  the  necessity  that  lay  before  him  to 
satisfy,  one  way  or  other,  the  demands  of 
his  tyrant.  He  could  not  send  away  that 
spiritual  enemy,  who  held  him  in  his  grip, 
as  he  did  the  vulgar  influence  of  Under- 
wood. That  had  disgusted  him  almost 
from  the  first;  he  had  never  tolerated  it, 
even  when  he  yielded  to  it,  and  the  effort 
be  had  made  in  throwing  it  over  had  been 
exhilarating  to  him,  and  gave  a  certain 
satisfaction  to  his  mind.  But  now  that  was 
over,  and  he  had  returned  again  to  the 
original  question,  and  found  himself  once 
more  confronted   by  that  opponent  who 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  22/4 


could  not  be  shaken  off  —  who,  one  wav 
or  other,  must  be  satisfied  or  vanquishecf, 
iflifewereto  be  possible.  Vanquished? 
How  was  he  to  be  vanquished  ?  —  by  a 
pure  man  and  a  strong  —  by  a  pure  wom- 
an and  her  love  —  by  the  help  of  God 
against  a  spiritual  tyranny.  He  smiled 
to  himself  as  he  hurried  along  the  road, 
thinking  of  the  hopelessness  of  all  this  — 
himself  neither  pure  nor  strong;  and 
Oona,  who,  if  she  knew — and  God, 
whom,  as  his  tempter  had  said,  he  had 
never  sought  nor  thought  of  till  now.  He 
hurried  along  to  try  if  the  second  best  was 
within  his  reach ;  perhaps  even  that  might 
fail  him,  for  anything  he  knew.  The 
thought  of  meeting:  the  usual  party  in  the 
house  of  the  Williamsons  was  so  abhor- 
rent to  him,  and  such  a  disgust  had  risen 
in  his  mind  of  all  the  cheerful  circum* 
stances  of  the  big,  shining  house,  that  he 
set  out  early  with  the  intention  of  formally 
seeking  an  interview  with  Katie,  and  thus 
committing  himself  from  the  beginning. 
The  morning  was  bright  and  fair,  with  a 
little  shrill  wind  about,  which  brought  the 
yellow  leaves  fluttering  to  his  feet,  and 
carried  them  across  him  as  he  walked  — 
now  detached  and  solitary,  now  in  little 
drifts  and  heaps.  He  hurried  along,  ab- 
sorbed in  his  own  thoughts,  shutting  his 
eyes  to  the  vision  of  the  isle,  as  it  lay  all 
golden,  russet,  and  brown  upon  the  sur* 
face  of  the  water  which  gave  its  colors 
back ;  Walter  would  not  look  nor  see  the 
boat  pushing  round  the  corner,  with  the 
back  of  Hamish's  red  shirt  alone  showing, 
as  the  prow  came  beyond  the  shade  of  the 
trees.  He  did  not  see  the  boat,  and  yet 
he  knew  it  was  there,  and  hurried,  hurried 
on  to  escape  all  reminders.  The  great 
door  at  Birkenbraes  stood  open,  as  was 
its  wont  —  the  great  stone  steps  lying 
vacant  in  the  sunshine,  and  everything 
still  about.  It  was  the  only  hour  at  which 
the  place  was  quiet.  The  men  were  out 
on  the  hill,  the  ladies  following  such  ra- 
tional occupations  as  they  might  have, 
and  the  house  had  an  air  of  relief  and 
repose.  Walter  felt  that  he  pronounced 
his  own  fate  when  he  asked  to  see  Miss 
Williamson. 

**  Mr.  Williamson  is  out,  my  lord,"  the 
solemn  functionary  said,  who  was  far 
more  important  and  dignified  than  the 
master  of  the  house.  **  I  asked  to  see 
Miss  Williamson,'*  Lord  Erradeen  re- 
peated, with  a  little  impatience;  and  he 
saw  the  man*s  eyebrows  raised. 

So  far  as  the  servants  were  concerned, 
and  through  them  the  whole  district,  Wal* 
ter*s  ** intentions'*  stood  revealed. 


S94 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


Katie  Williamson  was  alone.  She  was 
in  her  favorite  room  —  the  room  specially 
given  over  to  her  amusements  and  occu- 
pations. It  was  not  a  small  room,  for 
such  a  thing  scarcely  existed  in  Birken- 
braes.  It  was  full  of  windows,  great  ex- 
panses of  plate  glass,  through  which  the 
mountains  and  the  loch  appeared  uninter- 
rupted, save  by  a  line  of  framework  here 
and  there,  with  a  curious  open-air  effect. 
It  was  in  one  of  the  corners  of  the  house, 
and  the  windows  formed  two  sides  of  the 
brilliant  place;  on  the  others  were  mirrors 
reflecting  the  mountains  back  again.  She 
sat  between  them,  her  little  fair  head  the 
only  solid  thing  which  the  light  encoun- 
tered. When  she  rose,  with  a  somewhat 
astonished  aif,  to  receive  her  visitor,  her 
trim  figure,  neat  and  alert,  stood  out 
against  the  background  of  the  trees  and 
rocks  on  the  lower  slopes  of  the  hills.  A 
curious  transparency,  distinctness,  and 
absence  of  privacy  and  mystery  were  in 
the  scene.  The  two  might  have  come  to- 
gether there  in  the  sight  of  all  the  world. 

"  Lord  Erradeen  ! "  Katie  said,  with 
surprise,  almost  consternation.  *'But  if 
I  had  been  told  you  were  here,  I  should 
have  come  down  stairs  to  you.  Nobody 
but  my  great  friends,  nobody  but  women, 
ever  come," 

**  I  should  have  thought  that  any  one 
might  come.  There  are  no  concealments 
here,"  he  said,  expressing  the  sentiment 
of  the  place  unconsciously.  Then,  seeing 
that  Katie's  color  rose  :  **  Your  boudoir  is 
not  all  curtained  and  shadowy,  but  open 
and  candid  —  as  you  are." 

**  That  last  has  saved  you,"  said  Katie, 
with  a  laugh.  "  I  know  what  you  mean  — 
and  that  is  that  my  room  (for  it  is  not  a 
boudoir —  I  never  boude)  is  far  too  light, 
too  clear  for  the  fashion.  But  this  is  my 
fashion,  and  people  who  come  to  me  must 
put  up  with  it."  She  added,  after  a  mo- 
ment :  **  What  did  you  say  to  Sanderson, 
Lord  Erradeen,  to  induce  him  to  bring 
you  here?" 

"  I  said  I  wanted  to  see  Miss  William- 


»« 


son. 

*'That  was  understood,"  said  Katie, 
once  more  with  an  increase  of  color,  and 
looking  at  him  with  a  suppressed  question 
in  her  eyes.  Her  heart  gave  a  distinct 
knock  against  her  breast,  but  did  not 
jump  up  and  flutter,  as  hearts  less  well 
regulated  will  do  in  such  circumstances ; 
for  she  too  perceived  what  Sanderson  had 
perceived,  that  the  interview  was  not  one 
to  take  place  amid  all  the  interruptions  of 
the  drawing-room.  Sanderson  was  a  very 
clever  person,  and  his   young   mistress 


agreed  with  him;  but,  nevertheless,  made 
a  private  memorandum  that  he  should 
have  notice,  and  that  she  would  speak  to 
papa. 

**  Yes,  I  think  it  must  be  easily  under- 
stood. I  have  come  to  you  with  a  great 
deal  that  is  very  serious  to  say." 

"You  look  very  serious,"  said  Katie; 
and  then  she  acfded  hurriedly,  **And  I 
want  very  much  to  speak  to  you.  Lord 
Erradeen.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  —  who 
was  that  gentleman  at  Kinloch-houran  ? 
I  have  never  been  able  to  get  him  out  of 
my  mind.  Is  he  paying  you  a  visit? 
What  is  his  name  ?  Has  he  been  in  this 
country  before  ?  But  oh,  to  be  sure,  be 
must  have  been,  for  he  knew  everything 
about  the  castle.  I  want  to  know,  Lord 
Erradeen " 

"  After  you  have  heard  what  I  have  got 
to  say  —  " 

•*  No,  not  after  —  before.  I  tremble 
when  I  think  of  him.  It  is  ridiculous,  I 
know ;  but  I  never  had  any  such  sensa- 
tion before.  I  should  think  he  must  be  a 
mesmerist,  or  something  of  that  sort," 
Katie  said,  with  a  pale  and  nervous  smile ; 
"  though  I  don't  believe  in  mesmerism," 
she  added  quickly. 

*•  Vou  believe  in  nothing  of  the  kind  — 
is  it  not  so?  You  put  no  faith  in  the 
stories  about  my  family,  in  the  influence 
of  the  past  on  the  present,  in  the  des- 
potism — -  But  why  sav  anything  on 
that  subject  ?    You  laugh." 

"  I  believe  in  superstition,"  said  Katie 
somewhat  tremulously,  "and  that  it  im- 
presses the  imagination,  and  puts  you  in 
a  condition  to  believe  —  things.  And 
then  there  is  a  pride  in  having  anything 
of  the  sort  connected  with  one's  own  fam- 
ily," she  said  recovering  herself.  "  If  it 
was  our  ghost  I  should  believe  in  it  too." 

"Ghost  —  is  not  a  word  that  means 
much,"  Walter  said.  And  then  there  was 
a  pause.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  lips 
were  sealed,  and  that  he  had  no  longer 
command  of  the  ordinary  words.  He  had 
known  what  he  meant  to  say  when  he 
came,  but  the  power  seemed  to  have  gone 
from  him.  He  stood  and  looked  out  upon 
the  wide  atmosphere,  and  the  freedom  of 
the  hills,  with  a  blank  in  his  mind,  and 
that  sense  that  nothing  is  any  longer  of 
importance  or  meaning  which  comes  to 
those  who  are  baffled  in  their  purpose  at 
the  outset.  It  was  Katie  who  with  a  cer- 
tain sarcasm  in  her  tone  recalled  him  to 
himself.  "  You  came  —  because  you  had 
something  serious  to  say  to  me.  Lord 
Erradeen."  She  was  aware  of  what  he 
intended  to  say :  but  his  sudden  arresta- 


THE  WIZARDS  SON. 


595 


tion  at  the  very  beginning  had  raised  the 
mocking  spirit  in  Katie.  She  was  readv 
to  defy  and  provoke,  and  silence  with  rid- 
icule the  man  whom  she  had  no  objection 
to  accept  as  her  husband  —  provided  he 
found  his  voice. 

*♦  It  is  true  —  I  had  something  very  se- 
rious to  say.  I  came  to  ask  you  whether 
you  could  -^^  *'  All  this  time  he  was  not 
so  much  as  looking  at  her ;  his  eyes  were 
fixed  dreamily  and  rather  sadly  upon  the 
landscape,  which  somehow  seemed  so 
much  more  important  than  the  speck  of 
small  humanity  which  he  ought  to  have 
been  addressing.  But  at  this  point  Wal- 
ter recollected  himself,  and  came  in  as  it 
were  from  the  big,  silent,  observing  world, 
to  Katie,  sitting  expectant,  divided  be- 
tween mockery  and  excitement,  with  a 
flush  on  her  cheeks,  but  a  contraction  of 
her  brows,  and  an  angry  yet  smiling  mis* 
chief  in  her  eyes. 

"  To  ask  you,"  he  said,  **  whether  you 
would  —  pass  your  life  with  me.  I  am 
Dot  much  wocth  the  taking.  There  is  a 
poor  title,  there  is  a  family  which  we 
might  restore  and  —  emancipate  perhaps. 
You  are  rich,  it  would. be  of  no  advantage 
to  you.  Hut  at  all  events  it  would  not  be 
like  asking  you  to  banish  yourself,  to 
leave  all  you  cared  for.  I  have  little  to 
say  for  myself,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause 
with  a  little  more  energy,  **you  know  me 
well  enough.  Whether  I  should  ever  be 
good  for  anything  would  —  most  likely  — 
rest  with  you.  I  am  at  present  under 
great  depression  —  in  trouble  and  fear  —  " 

Here  he  came  to  another  pause,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  silent  mountains  and 
great  breadths  of  vacant  air  in  which 
there  was  nothing  to  help;  then  with  a 
sigh  turned  again  and  held  out  his  hand. 
•*  Will  you  have  me  —  Katie  ?  "  he  said. 

Katie  sat  gazing  at  him  with  a  wonder 
ivhich  had  by  degrees  extinguished  the 
sarcasm,  the  excitement,  the  expectation, 
that  were  in  her  face.  She  was  almost 
awestricken  by  this  strangest  of  all  suits 
that  could  be  addressed  to  a  girl -^  a  de- 
mand for  herself  which  made  no  account 
of  herself,  and  missed  out  love  and  every 
usual  preliminary.  It  was  serious  indeed 
—  as  serious  as  death :  more  like  that 
than  the  beginning  of  the  most  living  of 
all  links.  She  could  not  iuiswer  him  with 
the  indignation  which  in  other  circum- 
stances she  might  have  felt.  It  was  too 
solemn  for  any  ebullition  of  feeling.  She 
felt  overawed,  little  as  this  mood  was  con- 
genial to  her. 

**  Lord  Erradeen,"  she  said,  **  you  seem 
to  be  in  great  trouble." 


He  made  an  affirmative  movement  of 
his  head,  but  said  no  more. 

'*  Or  you  would  not  put  such  a  strange 
question  to  me,"  she  went  on.  **  Why 
should  I  have  vou  ?  When  a  man  offers 
himself  to  a  girl  he  savs  it  is  because  he 
loves  her.    You  don't  love  me " 

She  madv  a  momentary  breathless 
pause  with  a  half  hope  of  being  interrupt- 
ed ;  but  save  by  a  motion  of  his  hand, 
Walter  made  no  sign.  "  You  don*t  love 
me,"  she  went  on  with  some  vehemence, 
"  nor  do  you  ask  me  to  love  you.  Such  a 
proposal  might  be  an  insult.  But  I  don*t 
think  you  mean  it  as  an  insult." 

**  Not  that.  You  know  better.  Any- 
thing but  that  !" 

"No  — I  don't  think  it  is  that.  But 
what  is  it  then,  Lord  Erradeen  ?" 

Her  tone  had  a  certain  peremptory 
sound  which  touched  the  capricious  spring 
by  which  the  young  man's  movements 
were  regulated.  He  came  to  himself. 
"  Miss  Williamson,"  he  said,  "  when  you 
ran  away  from  me  in  London  it  was  immi- 
nent that  I  should  ask  you  this  question. 
It  was  expected  on  all  sides.  You  went 
away,  I  have  always  believed,  to  avoid 
it." 

"Why  should  it  have  been  imminent? 
I  went  away,"  cried  Katie,  forgetting  the 
contradiction,  "  because  some  one  came 
in  who  seemed  to  have  a  prior  right.  She 
is  here  now  with  the  same  meaning." 

"  She  has  no  prior  right.  She  has  no 
right  at  all,  nor  does  she  claim  any,"  he 
said  hurriedly.  "  It  is  accident.  Katie! 
had  you  stayed,  all  would  have  been  de- 
termined then,  and  one  leaf  of  bitter  folly 
left  out  of  my  life." 

"Supposing  it  to  be  so,"  she  said 
calmly,  "  I  am  not  responsible  for  your 
life,  Lord  Erradeen.  Why  should  I  be 
asked  to  step  in  and  save  you  from  — 
bitter  folly  or  anything  else  f  And  this 
life  that  you  offer  me,  are  you  sure  it  is  tit 
for  an  honest  girl  to  take  ?  The  old  idea 
that  a  woman  should  be  sacrificed  to  re- 
form a  man  .has  gone  out  of  fashion.  Is 
that  the  rS/e  you  want  me  to  take  up  ? " 
Katie  cried,  rising  to  her  feet  in  the  ex- 
citement. "  Captain  Underwood  (whose 
word  I  would  never  take)  said  you  were 
bad,  unworthy  a  good  woman.  Is  that 
true  ?  " 

" Yes,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  "it  is 
true." 

Katie  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment,  and 
then  in  her  excitement  sat  down  and 
cried,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 
She  it  was,  though  she  was  not  emotional, 
who  was  overcome  with  feeling.    Walter 


THE   WIZARD  S   SON. 


S96 

stood  gazing  at  her  with  a  sort  of  stupe- 
faction, seeing  the  scene  pass  with  a  sense 
that  he  was  a  spectator  rather  than  an  ac- 
tor in  it,  his  dark  figure  swaying  slightly 
against  the  clearness  of  the  landscape 
which  took  so  strange  a  part  in  all  that 
was  happening.  It  had  passed  now  alto- 
gether out  of  his  hands. 

As  for  Katie,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
tell  what  sudden  softening,  what  pity,  min- 
gled with  keen  vexation  and  annoyance, 
forced  these  tears  from  her  eyes.  Her 
heart  revolted  against  him  and  melted 
towards  him  all  at  once.  Her  pride  would 
not  let  her  accept  such  a  proposal ;  and 
yet  she  would  have  liked  to  accept  him, 
to  take  him  in  hand,  to  be  his  providence, 
and  the  moulder  of  his  fate.  A  host  of 
hurrying  thoughts  and  sentiments  rushed 
heacflong  through  her  mind.  She  had  it 
in  her  to  do  it,  better  than  any  silly  woman 
of  the  world,  better  than  a  creature  of 
visionary  soul  like  Oona.  She  was  prac- 
tical, she  was  strong,  she  could  do  it. 
But  then  all  her  pride  rose  up  in  arms. 
She  wept  a  few  hot,  impatient  tears  which 
were  irrestrainable  :  then  raised  her  head 
again. 

**  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,"  she  said.  "If 
you  were  my  brother.  Lord  Erradeen,  I 
would  help  you  with  all  my  might,  or  if  I 
—  cared  for  you  more  than  you  care  for 
roe.  But  I  don't,**  she  added  after  a 
pause. 

He  made  an  appealing,  deprecating 
movement  with  his  hands,  but  did  not 
speak. 

**  I  almost  wish  I  did,"  said  Katie  re- 
gretfully; **if  I  had  been  fond  of  you  I 
should  have  said  yes  :  for  you  are  right  in 
thinking  I  could  ao  it.     I  should  not  have 
minded  what  went  before.     I  should  have 
taken  you  up  and  helped  you  on.     I  know 
that  I  could  have  done  it ;  but  then  I  am 
not  —  fond  of  you,"  she  said  slowly.    She 
did  not  look  at  him  as  she  spoke;  but  had 
he  renewed  his  claim  upon  her,  even  with 
his  eyes,  Katie  would  have  seen  it,  and 
might    have   allowed  herself  to  be  per- 
suaded still.     But   Walter  said    nothing. 
He  stood  vaguely  in  the  light,  without  a 
movement,  accepting  whatever  she  might 
choose  to  say.     She  remained  silent  for 
a  time,  waiting.     And  then  Katie  sprang 
to  her  feet  again,  all  the  more  indignant 
and  impatient  that  she  had  been  so  near 
yielding,  had    he   but  known.     "  Well !  " 
she  said,  "  is  it  I  that  am  to  maintain  the 
conversation  ?     Have  you  anything  more 
to  say,  Lord  Erradeen  ?  " 

*'  r  suppose  not,"  he  answered  slowly. 
"  I  came  to  you  hoping  perhaps  for  deliv* 


erance,  at  least  partial  —  for  deliverance. 
Now  that  you  will  not,  there  is  noth« 
ing  for  it  but  a  struggle  to  the  death." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  vertigo 
of  amazement.  Not  a  word  about  her,  no 
regret  for  losing  her,  not  a  touch  of  senti* 
ment,of  gratitude,  not  even  any  notice  of 
what  she  had  said !  The  sensation  of  awe 
came  back  to  her  as  she  stood  before  this 
insensibility  which  was  half  sublime.  Was 
he  mad  ?  or  a  wretch,  an  egotist,  wanting 
a  woman  to  do  something  for  him,  but 
without  a  thought  for  the  woman? 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  said,  with  irrepressi- 
ble displeasure,  "that  it  affects  you  so 
little.  And  now  I  suppose  the  incident  is 
over  and  we  may  return  to  our  occupa- 
tions. I  was  busy  —  with  my  housekeep- 
ing," she  said  with  a  laugh.  "One  might 
sometimes  call  a  struggle  with  one's  bills 
a  struggle  to  the  death." 

He  gave  her  a  look  which  was  half  an« 
ger,  half  remonstrance ;  and  then  to  Ka- 
tie's amazement  resumed  in  a  moment  the 
tone  of  easy  intercourse  which  had  always 
existed  between  them. 

"  You  will  find  your  bills  refreshing 
after  this  high-flown  talk,"  he  said.  "  For- 
give me.  You  know  I  am  not  given  to 
romantic  sentiment  anv  more  than  your- 
self." 

"  I  don*t  know,"  said  Katie,  offended, 
"that  I  am  less  open  to  the  romantic 
than  other  people,  when  the  right  touch  is 
given." 

"  But  it  is  not  my  hand  that  can  give 
the  right  touch  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  accept  my 
answer,  as  there  is  nothing  else  for  me  to 
do.  But  I  cannot  abandon  the  country," 
he  added  after  a  moment,  '-and  I  hope  we 
may  still  meet  as  good  friends." 

"  Nothing  has  happened,"  said  Katie 
with  dignity,  "to  lessen  my  friendship 
for  you,  Lord  Erradeen."  She  could  not 
help  putting  a  faint  emphasis  on  the  pro- 
nouns. The  man  rejected  may  dislike  to 
meet  the  woman  who  has  rejected  him, 
but  the  woman  can  have  no  feeling  in  the 
matter.  She  held  out  her  hand  with  a 
certain  stateliness  of  dismissal.  "Papa 
need  not  know,"  she  said,  "  and  so  there 
will  be  nothing  more  about  it.  Good- 
bye." 

Walter  took  her  hand  in  his,  with  a 
momentary  perception  that  perhaps  there 
had  been  more  than  lay  on  the  surface  in 
this  interview,  on  her  side  as  well  as  his. 
He  stooped  down  and  kissed  it  respect- 
fully, and  even  with  something  like  ten- 
derness. "You  do  not  refuse  it  to  me, 
in  friendship,  even  after  all  \*ou  have 
heard?" 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


S97 


"It  shall  always  be  yours  in  friendship," 
Katie  said,  the  color  rising  high  in  her 
face. 

She  was  ^hid  he  went  away  without 
looking  at  her  again.  She  sat  down  and 
listened  to  his  footsteps  along  the  long 
corridor  and  down  the  stairs  with  a  curi- 
ous sensation  as  if  he  carried  something 
with  him  that  would  not  return  to  her 
again.  And  for  long  after  she  sat  in  the 
broad  daylight  without  moving,  leaving 
the  books  upon  the  table  —  which  were 
not  housekeeping  books  —  untouched  — 
going  over  this  strange  interview,  turning 
over  all  the  past  that  bad  any  connection 
with  Lord  Erradeen.  it  seemed  all  to 
roll  out  before  her  like  a  story  that  had 
been  full  of  interest :  and  now  here  was 
the  end  of  it.  Such  a  fit  of  wistful  sad- 
ness had  seldom  come  over  the  active  and 
practical  intelligence  of  Katie.  It  gave 
her  for  the  moment  a  new  opening  in  na- 
ture. But  by  degrees  her  proper  moods 
came  back.  She  closed  this  poetical  chap- 
ter with  a  sigh,  and  her  sound  mind  took 
np  with  a  more  natural  regret  the  oppor- 
tunity for  congenial  effort  which  she  had 
been  compelled  to  give  up.  She  said  to 
herself  that  she  would  not  have  minded 
that  vague  badness  which  he  had  owned, 
and  Underwood  had  accused  him  of.  She 
could  have  brought  him  back.  She  had  it 
in  her  to  take  the  charge  even  of  a  man's 
life.  So  she  thought  in  inexperience,  yet 
with  the  powerful  confidence  which  so 
often  is  the  best  means  of  fulfilling  trium- 
phantly what  it  aims  at.  She  would  not 
have  shrunk  from  the  endeavor.  She 
would  have  put  her  vigorous  young  will 
into  his  feeble  one,  she  thought,  and  made 
him,  with  her  force  poured  into  him,  a 
man,  indeed,  contemptuous  of  all  misera- 
ble temptations,  able  to  sail  over  and  de- 
spise them.  As  she  mused  her  eyes  took 
an  eager  look,  her  very  fingers  twitched 
with  the  wish  to  be  doing.  Had  he  come 
back  then  it  is  very  possible  that  Katie 
would  have  announced  to  him  her  change 
.of  mind,  her  determination  "to  pull  him 
through."  For  she  could  have  done  it ! 
she  repeated  to  herself.  Whatever  his 
burdens  had  been,  when  she  had  once  set 
her  shoulder  to  the  wheel  she  would  have 
done  it.  Gambling,  wine,  even  the  spells 
of  such  women  as  Katie  blushed  to  think 
of —  she  would  have  shrunk  before  none 
of  these.  His  deliverance  would  not 
have  been  partial  as  he  had  said,  but  com- 
plete. She  would  have  fought  the  very 
devils  for  him  and  brought  him  off.  What 
a  work  it  was  that  she  had  missed !  not  a 
mere  commonplace  marriage  with  nothing 


to  do.  But  with  a  sigh  Katie  had  to  ac- 
knowledge that  it  was  over.  She  could 
not  have  accepted  him,  she  said,  excusing 
herself  to  herself.  It  would  have  been 
impossible.  A  man  who  asks  you  like 
thaty  not  even  pretending  to  care  for  you 
—  you  could  not  do  it!  But,  alas,  what 
an  opportunity  lost !  Saying  this  she  gave 
herself  a  shake,  and  smoothed  her  hair 
for  luncheon,  and  put  the  thought  away 
from  her  resolutely.  Katie  thought  of 
Dante*s  nameless  sinner  who  made  "  the 
great  refusal."  She  had  lost  perhaps  the 
one  great  opportunity  of  her  life. 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Lord  Erradeen  retired  very  quietly, 
as  became  a  man  defeated.  Though  Katie 
heard  his  retiring  steps,  he  hardly  did  so 
himself,  as  he  came  down  the  broad,  softly 
carpeted  staircase.  There  was  a  sound 
of  voices  and  of  movement  in  the  great 
dining-room  where  a  liveried  army  were 
preparing  the  table  for  one  of  the  great 
luncheons,  under  the  orders  of  the  too 
discreet  and  understanding  Sanderson, 
but  nobody  about  to  see  the  exit  of  the 
rejected  suitor,  who  came  out  into  the 
sunshine  with  a  sort  of  dim  recognition  of 
the  scenery  of  fCs^tie's  boudoir;  but  the 
hills  did  not  seem  so  near  as  they  were  in 
that  large-windowed  and  shining  place. 
Failure  has  always  a  subduing  effect  upon 
the  mind  even  when  success  was  scarcely 
desired;  and  Walter  came  out  of  the 
great  house  with  the  sense  of  being  cut 
o£E  from  possibilities  that  seemed  very 
near,  almost  certain,  that  morning.  This 
subduing  influence  was  the  first  that  occu- 
pied his  mind  as  he  came  out,  feeling  as 
if  he  were  stealing  away  from  the  scene 
of  what  had  been  far  from  a  triumph. 
Perhaps  he  was  a  little  ashamed  of  his 
own  certainty;  but  at  all  events  he  was 
subdued  and  silent,  refraining  almost  from 
thought.  He  had  got  securely  out  of  the 
immediate  neighborhood,  and  was  safe 
from  the  risk  of  meeting  any  one  belong- 
ing to  it,  and  being  questioned  where  he 
had  been,  before  he  began  to  feel  the 
softening  of  relief,  and  a  grateful  sense  of 
freedom.  Then  his  heart  recurred  with  a 
bound  to  the  former  situation.  Expedi- 
ents  or  compromises  of  any  kind  were  no 
more  to  be  thought  of ;  the  battle  must  be 
fought  out  on  its  natural  ground.  He 
must  yield  to  the  ignominious  yoke,  or  he 
must  conquer.  Last  year  he  had  fied,  and 
forced  himself  to  forget,  and  lived  in  a 
fever  of  impulses  which  he  could  not  un- 
derstand, and  influences  which  dreyr  him 
like  —  he  could  not  tell  what — mesroer- 


S98 

ism,  Katie  had  said,  and  perhaps  she  was 
right.  It  might  be  mesmerism;  or  it 
might  be  only  the  action  of  that  uncon- 
trolled and  capricious  mind  which  made 
him  do  that  to-day  which  he  loathed  to- 
morrow. But  however  it  was,  the  ques- 
tion had  again  become  a  primary  one, 
without  any  compromise  possible.  He 
must  yield,  or  he  must  win  the  battle. 
He  put  the  losing  first,  it  seemed  so  much  ! 
the  most  likely,  with  a  dreary  sense  of  all 
the  impossibilities  that  surrounded  him. 
He  had  no  standing-ground  upon  which 
to  meet  his  spiritual  foe.  Refusal,  what 
was  that?  It  filled  his  life  with  distrac- 
tion and  confusion,  but  made  no  founda- 
tion for  anything  better,  and  afforded  no 
hope  of  peace.  Peace  !  The  very  word 
seemed  a  mockery  to  Walter.  He  must 
never  know  what  it  was.  His  soul  (if  he 
had  one)  would  not  be  his  own;  his  im- 
pulses, hitherto  followed  so  foolishly, 
would  be  impotent  for  everything  but  to 
follow  the  will  of  another.  To  abdicate 
his  own  judgment  altogether,  to  give  up 
that  power  of  deciding  for  himself  which 
is  the  inheritance  of  the  poorest,  never  to 
be  able  to  help  a  poor  neighbor,  to  aid  a 
friend :  to  be  a  mere  puppet  in  the  hands 
of  another — was  it  possible  that  he,  a 
man,  was  to  give  himself  up,  thus  bound 
band  and  foot,  to  a  slavery  harder  than 
that  of  any  negro  ever  born  1  It  was  this 
that  was  impossible,  he  cried  within  him- 
self. 

And  then  there  suddenly  came  before 
Walter,  like  a  vision  set  before  him  by 
the  angels,  a  gleam  of  the  one  way  of  es- 
cape. When  a  poor  wretch  has  fallen 
into  a  pit,  a  disused  quarry,  perhaps,  or 
an  old  coal-pit,  or  a  still  more  eerie  dun- 
geon, there  shines  over  him,  far  off,  yet 
so  authentic,  a  pure,  clear  intensitv  of 
light  above,  a  concentrated  glory  of  the 
day,  a  sort  of  opening  of  heaven  in  his 
sight.  This  is  the  spot  of  light,  more 
beautiful  than  any  star,  which  is  all  that 
the  walls  of  his  prison  permit  him  to  see 
of  the  common  day,  which  above  ground 
is  lavished  around  us  in  such  a  prodigal 
way  that  we  make  no  account  of  it.  There 
are  times  when  the  common  virtues  of 
life,  the  common  calm  and  peacefulness, 
take  an  aspect  like  this  to  the  fallen  soul : 
—  the  simple  goodness  which,  perhaps,  he 
has  scoffed  at  and  found  tame  and  un- 
profitable, appearing  to  the  spirit  in  prison 
like  heaven  itself,  so  serene  and  so  secure. 
To  think  he  himself  has  fallen  from  that, 
might  have  possessed  and  dwelt  in  it,  safe 
from  ^11  censure  and  dishonor,  if  he  had 
not  been  a  fool  1    To  think  that  all  the 


THE   WIZARDS   SON. 


penalties  to  which  he  has  exposed  himself 
might  never  have  existed  at  all  —  if  he 
had  not  been  a  fool !  To  think  that  now 
if  some  miracle  would  but  raise  him  up  to 
it  —  and  then  there  are  moments  in  which 
even  the  most  vicious,  the  most  utterly 
fallen,  can  feel  as  if  no  great  miracle 
would  be  required,  as  if  a  little  help,  only 
a  little,  would  do  it,  when  strength  is 
subdued  and  low,  when  the  sense  of  dis- 
satisfaction is  strong,  and  all  the  impulses 
of  the  fiesh  in  abeyance,  as  happens  at 
times.  Walter's  mind  came  suddenly  to 
this  conviction  as  he  walked  and  mused. 
A  good  life,  a  pure  heart,  these  were  the 
things  which  would  overcome  —  better, 
far  better  than  any  gain,  than  any  sop 
given  to  fate ;  and  he  felt  that  all  his  de- 
sires went  up  towards  these,  and  that 
there  was  nothing  in  him  but  protested 
against  the  degradation  of  the  past.  He 
had,  he  said  to  himself,  never  been  satis- 
fied, never  been  but  disgusted  with  the 
riot  and  so-called  pleasure.  While  he  in- 
dulged in  them  he  had  loathed  them,  sin- 
ning contemptuously  with  a  bitter  scora 
of  himself  and  of  the  indulgences  which 
he  professed  to  find  sweet.  Strange  par- 
adox of  the  soul!  which  perceived  the 
foulness  of  the  ruin  into  which  it  had 
sunk,  and  hated  it,  yet  sank  deeper  and 
deeper  all  the  while.  And  now  how  will- 
ing he  was  to  turn  his  back  upon  it  all, 
and  how  easy  it  seemed  to  rise  with  a 
leap  to  the  higher  level  and  be  done  with 
everything  that  was  past  I  The  common 
goodness  of  the  simple  people  about 
seemed  suddenly  to  him  like  a  paradise  in 
which  was  all  that  was  lovely.  To  live 
among  your  own,  to  do  them  good,  to  be 
loved  and  honored,  to  have  a  history  pure 
and  of  good  report,  nothing  in  it  to  give 
you  a  blush ;  to  love  a  pure  and  good 
woman  and  have  her  for  your  companion 
all  your  life  —  how  easy,  how  simple,  how 
safe  it  was !  And  what  tyrant  out  of 
the  unseen  could  rule  a  man  like  this,  or 
disturb  his  quiet  mastery  of  himself  and 
all  that  belonged  to  him?  Once  upon 
that  standing-ground  and  who  could  assail 
you  ?  And  it  seemed  at  that  moment  so 
easy  and  so  near.  Everything  round  was 
wholesome,  invigorating,  clear  with  the 
keen  purity  of  nature,  fresh  winds  blowing 
in  his  face,  air  the  purest  and  clearest,  in- 
spiring body  and  soul,  not  a  lurking  shade 
of  temptation  anywhere,  everything  tend- 
ing to  goodness,  nothing  to  evil. 

'*  And  you  think  these  pettifogging  little 
virtues  will  deliver  your  soul,"  said  some 
one  quietly  by  his  side. 

There  were  two  figures  walking  along 


THE  WIZARDS   SON. 


599 


in  the  wintry  sunshine  instead  of  one  — 
that  ivas  all.  The  stonecutter  on  the 
road  who  had  seen  Lord  Erradeen  pass 
and  given  him  a  passing  greeting,  rubbed 
his  eyes  when  next  he  paused  to  rest  and 
looked  along  the  road.  He  saw  two  gen- 
tlemen where  but  one  had  been,  though  it 
was  still  so  early  and  **  no  a  drap  *'  had 
crossed  his  lips.  "And  a  pretty  man!" 
he  said  to  himself  with  mingled  amaze- 
ment and  admiration.  As  for  Walter,  it 
was  with  an  instinctive  recoil  that  he 
heard  the  voice  so  near  to  him,  but  that 
not  because  of  any  supernatural  sensation, 
though  with  an  annoyance  and  impatience 
inexpressible  that  any  one  should  be  able 
to  intrude  on  his  privacy  and  thus  fathom 
iiis  thoughts. 

**This  is  scarcely  an  honorable  advan- 
tage you  take  of  your  powers,"  he  said. 

The  other  took  no  notice  of  this  re- 

E roach.  "  A  good  man,"  he  said,  "  a  good 
usband,  a  good  member  of  society,  sur- 
rounded by  comfort  on  all  sides  and  the 
approbation  of  the  world.  I  admire  the 
character  as  much  as  you  do.  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  this  good  man  is?  He  is  the 
Best  rewarded  of  all  the  sons  of  men. 
Everything  smiles  upon  him:  he  has  the 
best  of  life.  Everything  he  does  counts 
in  his  favor.  And  you  think  that  such  a 
man  can  stand  against  a  purpose  like 
mine?  But  for  that  he  would  want  a 
stronger  purpose  than  mine.  Goodness," 
he  continued  reflectively,  "is  the  best 
policy  in  the  world.  It  never  fails.  Craft 
may  fail,  and  skill,  and  even  wisdom,  and 
the  finest  calculations :  but  the  good  al- 
ways get  their  reward.  A  prize  falls  oc- 
casionally to  the  other  qualities,  but  theirs 
is  the  harvest  of  life.  To  be  successful 
you  have  only  to  be  good.  It  is  far  the 
safest  form  of  self-seeking  and  the  best." 
He  had  fallen  into  a  reflective  tone,  and 
walked  along  with  a  slight  smile  upon  his 
lips,  delivering  with  a  sort  of  abstract  au- 
thority his  monologue,  while  Waker,  with 
an  indescribable  rage  and  mortification 
and  confusion  of  all  his  thoughts,  accom- 
panied him  like  a  schoolboy  overpowered 
Dy  an  authority  against  which  his  very 
soul  was  rebel.  Then  the  speaker  turned 
upon  his  companion  with  a  sort  of  benev- 
olent cordiality.  **  Be  good  ! "  he  said. 
"  I  advise  it  —  it  is  the  easiest  course  you 
can  pursue :  you  will  free  yourself  from 
by  far  the  worst  part  of  the  evils  common 
to  humanity.  Nothing  is  so  bad  as  the 
self-contempt  under  which  I  have  seen 
you  laboring,  the  shame  of  vice  for  which 
you  have  ho  true  instinct,  only  a  sham 
appetite  invented  by  the  contradictoriness 


of  your  own  mind.  Be  good  1  it  pays  bet- 
ter than  anything  else  in  life." 

Here  Walter  interrupted  him  with  an 
exclamation  of  anger  i  irrestrainable. 
"Stop!"  he  cried,  "you  have  tortured 
me  by  my  sins,  and  because  I  had  nothing 
better  to  fall  back  upon.  Will  you  make 
that  odious  too  ?  " 

"  By  no  means,"  said  the  other  calmly. 
"You  think  I  want  you  to  be  miserable? 
You  are  mistaken  —  I  don't.  Seeking  the 
advantage  of  my  race  as  I  do,  there  is 
nothing  I  more  desire  than  that  you 
should  have  the  credit  of  a  spotless  life. 
I  love  reputation..  Be  good  I  it  is  the 
most  profitable  of  all  courses.  I  repeat 
that  whatever  may  fail  that  never  does. 
Your  error  is  to  think  that  it  will  free  you 
from  me.  So  far  as  concerns  me  it  would 
probably  do  you  more  injury  than  good ; 
for  it  may  well  be  that  I  shall  have  to  en- 
force measures  which  will  revolt  you  and 
make  you  unhappy.  But  then  you  will 
have  compensations.  The  world  will  bt- 
lieve  that  only  bad  advisers  or  mistaken 
views  could  move  so  good  a  man  to 
appear  on  occasions  a  hard  landlord,  a 
tyrannical  roaster.  And  then  your  virtue 
will  come  in  with  expedients  to  modify 
the  secondary  effects  of  my  plans  and 
soften  suffering.  I  do  not  oesire  sufiEer- 
ing.  It  will  be  in  every  way  to  our  ad- 
vantage that  you  should  smooth  down 
and  mollify  and  pour  balm  into  the  wounds 
which  in  the  pursuit  of  a  higher  purpose 
it  is  necessary  to  make.  Do  not  inter- 
rupt: it  is  the  r^/f  I  should  have  recom- 
mended to  you,  if,  instead  of  flying  out 
like  a  fool,  you  had  left  yourself  from  the 
first  in  my  hands." 

"  I  think  you  must  be  the  devil,"  Wal* 
ter  said. 

"  No ;  nor  even  of  his  kind  ;  that  is  an- 
other mistake.  I  have  no  pleasure  in  evil 
any  more  than  in  suffering,  unless  my 
object  makes  it  necessary.  I  should  like 
you  to  do  work.  It  was  I,  was  it  not,  that 
set  before  you  the  miserableness  of  the 
life  you  have  been  leading?  which  you 
had  never  faced  before.  Can  you  suppose 
that  I  should  wish  greatness  to  the  race 
and  misfortune  to  its  individual  members  ? 
Certainly  not.  I  wish  you  to  do  well. 
You  could  have  done  so,  and  lived  very 
creditably  with  the  girl  whom  you  have 
just  left,  whom  you  have  driven  into  re- 
fusing you.  Taice  my  advice  —  return  to 
her,  and  all  will  be  well." 

"  You  have  a  right  to  despise  me,"  said 
Waiter,  quivering  with  passion  and  self- 
restraint.  "  1  did  take  your  advice,  and 
outraged  her  and  myself.    But  that  is 


I 


600 


THE  WIZARD  S   SON. 


over,  and  I  shall  take  your  advice  no 
more." 

"You  are  a  fool  for  your  pains,*'  he 
said.  **  Go  back  now  and  you  will  find 
her  mind  changed.  She  has  thought  it 
over.  What!  you  will  not?  I  said  it  in 
your  interest,  it  was  your  best  chance. 
You  could  have  taken  up  that  good  life 
which  I  recommend  to  you  with  all  the 
more  success  had  there  been  a  boundless 
purse  to  begin  upon.  Poor  it  is  not  so 
easy :  but  still  you  can  try.  Your  prede- 
cessor was  of  that  kind.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  him  that  was  bad,  poor  fellow.  He 
was  an  agglomeration  of  small  virtues. 
Underwood  was  his  one  vice,  a  fellow  who 
played  cards  with  him  and  amused  him. 
No  one,  you  will  find,  has  anything  to  say 
against  him :  he  was  thought  weak,  and  so 
he  was  —  against  me.  But  that  did  not 
hinder  him  from  being  good?* 

*•  In  the  name  of  Heaven  what  do  you 
call  yourself,  that  can  speak  of  good  and 
evil  as  if  they  were  red  and  blue! "the 
young  man  cried.  Passion  cannot  keep 
always  at  a  climax.  Walter's  mind  ranged 
from  high  indignation,  rage,  dismay,  to  a 
wonder  that  was  almost  impersonal,  which 
sometimes  reached  the  intolerable  point, 
and  burst  out  into  impatient  words.  It 
seemed  impossible  to  endure  the  calm  of 
him,  the  reason  of  him,  as  he  walked  along 
the  hilly  road  like  any  other  man. 

"  It  is  not  amiss  for  a  comparison,**  he 
answered  with  a  smile.  His  composure 
was  not  to  be  disturbed.  He  made  no 
further  explanations.  While  he  played 
upon  the  young  man  beside  him  as  an  in- 
strument, he  himself  remained  absolutely 
calm.  "  But  these  are  abstractions,*'  he 
resumed,  "  very  important  to  you  in  your 
individual  life,  not  so  important  to  me 
who  have  larger  affairs  in  hand.  There 
is  something  however  which  will  have  to 
be  decided  almost  immediately  about  the 
island  property.  I  told  you  that  small 
business  about  the  cotters  in  the  glen  was 
a  bagatelle.  On  the  whole,  though  I 
thought  it  folly  at  the  time,  your  action  in 
that  matter  was  serviceable.  A  burst  of 
generosity  has  a  fine  effect.  It  is  an  ex- 
ample of  what  I  have  been  saying.  It 
throws  dust  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
Now  we  can  proceed  with  vigor  on  a 
larger  scale.** 

"  If  you  mean  to  injure  the  poor  ten- 
ants, never  !  and  whatever  you  mean,  no,** 
cried  Walter,  **  I  will  not  obey  you. 
Claim  your  rights,  if  you  have  any  rights, 
publicly.** 

**  I  will  not  take  that  trouble.  I  will  en- 
force them  through  my  descendant.** 


"  No  I  you  can  torture  me,  I  am  aware, 
but  something  I  have  learned  since  last 
year.** 

**  You  have  learned,**  said  his  compan* 
ion  calmly,  *•  that  your  theatrical  benevo- 
lence was  not  an  unmixed  good,  that  your 
proUf^is  whom  you  kept  to  that  barren  glen 
would  have  been  better  off  had  they  been 
dislodged  cruelly  from  their  holes.  The 
question  in  its  larger  forms  is  not  to  be 
settled  from  that  primitive  point  of  view. 
I  allow,'*  be  said  with  a  smile,  **  that  on 
the  whole  that  was  well  done.  It  leaves 
us  much  more  free  for  operations  now. 
It  gives  a  good  impression  —  a  man  who 
in  spite  of  his  kind  heart  feels  compelled 
to  carry  out  —  " 

"  You  are  a  demon,**  cried  the  young 
man,  stung  beyond  endurance.  "You 
make  even  justice  a  matter  of  calculation, 
even  the  honor  of  one's  mind.  A  kind 
heart !  is  that  like  a  spade,  an  instrument 
in  your  hands?*' 

**  The  comparison  is  good  again,'*  said 
his  companion  with  a  laugh ;  "your faculty 
that  way  is  improving.  But  we  must  have 
no  trifling  about  the  matter  in  hand.  The 
factor  from  the  isles  is  not  a  fool  like  this 
fellow  here,  whom  I  tolerate  because  he 
has  .his  uses  too.  The  other  will  come  to 
you  presently,  he  will  lay  before  you ** 

"I  will  not  hear  him  —  once  for  all  I 
refuse ** 

"  What,  to  receive  your  own  servant?" 
said  the  other.  "  Come,  this  is  carrying 
things  too  far.  You  must  hear,  and  see, 
and  consent.  There  is  no  alternative,  ex- 
cept   '* 

"  Except  —  if  it  comes  to  that,  what 
can  you  do  to  me  ?  "  asked  Walter,  ghastly 
with  that  rending  of  the  spirit  whicn 
had  once  more  begun  within  him,  and 
with  the  host  of  fierce  suggestions  that 
surged  into  his  mind.  He  felt  as  men 
feel  when  they  are  going  mad,  when  the 
wild  intolerance  of  all  conditions  which  is 
the  root  of  insanity  mounts  higher  and 
higher  in  the  brain  —  when  there  is  noth- 
ing that  can  be  endured,  nothing  support- 
able, and  the  impulse  to  destroy  and 
ravage,  to  uproot  trees,  and  beat  down 
mountains,  to  lay  violent  hands  upon 
something,  sweeps  like  a  fiery  blast  across 
the  soul.  Even  in  madness  there  is  al- 
ways a  certain  self-restraint.  He  knew 
that  it  would  be  vain  to  seize  the  strong 
and  tranquil  man  who  stood  before  him, 
distorting  everything  in  heaven  and  earth 
with  his  calm  consistency:  therefore  in 
all  the  maddening  rush  of  impulse  that 
did  not  suggest  itself.  "  What  can  yon 
do  to  me  ?  **    How  unnecessary  was  the 


J 


THE   WIZARDS  SON, 


6ot 


question  I  What  he  could  do  was  sensi- 
ble in  every  point,  in  the  torrent  of  excite- 
ment that  almost  blinded,  almost  deaf- 
ened the  miserable  young  man.  He  saw 
his  enemy's  countenance  as  through  a 
mist,  a  serene  and  almost  beautiful  Tace 
—  looking  at  him  with  a  sort  of  benevo* 
lent  philosophical  pity  which  quickened 
the  flood  of  passion.  His  own  voice  was 
stifled  in  his  throat,  he  could  say  no  more. 
Nor  could  he  hear,  for  the  ringing  in  his 
ears,  what  more  his  adversary  was  saying. 
to  him  —  something  wildly  incoherent,  he 
thought,  about  Prospcro,  Prospero  !  **  Do 
you  think  I  am  Prospero,  to  send  you 
aches  and  stitches  ?  "  The  words  seemed 
to  circle  about  him  in  the  air,  half  mock- 
ing, half  folly.  What  had  that  to  do  with 
It?  He  walked  along  mechanically,  rapt 
in  an  atmosphere  of  his  own,  beating  the 
air  like  a  drowning  man. 

How  long  this  horror  lasted  he  could 
never  tell.  While  still  those  incompre- 
hensible syllables  were  waving  about  him, 
another  voice  suddenly  made  itself  heard, 
a  touch  came  upon  his  arm.  He  gave  a 
violent  start,  recoiling  from  the  touch,  not 
knowing  what  it  was.  By  degrees,  how- 
ever, as  the  giddiness  went  o£E,  he  began 
to  see  again,  to  perceive  slowly  coming 
into  sight  those  mountains  that  had 
formed  the  background  in  Katie's  room, 
and  to  hear  the  soft  wash  of  the  waters 
upon  the  beach.  He  found  himself  stand- 
ing close  to  the  loch,  far  below  the  road 
upon  which  he  had  been  walking.  Had 
he  rushed  down  to  throw  himself  into  the 
water,  and  thus  end  the  horrible  conflict.^ 
He  could  never  tell.  Or  whether  it  was 
some  angel  that  had  arrested  the  terrible 
impulse.  When  the  mist  dispersed  from 
his  eyes  he  saw  this  angel  in  a  red  shirt 
standing  close  to  him,  looking  at  him 
with  eyes  that  peered  out  beneath  the 
contraction  of  a  pair  of  shaggy,  sandy  eye- 
brows, from  an  honest,  freckled  face. 
••  My  lord  I  youMl  maybe  no  have  seen 
Miss  Oona  ?  *'  Hamish  said.  And  Walter 
heard  himself  burst  into  a  wild  laugh  that 
seemed  to  fill  the  whole  silent  world  with 
echoes.  He  caught  hold  of  the  boatman's 
arm  with  a  grasp  that  made  even  Hamish 
shrink.  "  Who  sent  you  here  ? "  he 
cried  ;  *'  who  sent  you  here  ?  Do  you  come 
from  God  ? "  He  did  not  know  what  he 
said. 

*'  My  lord  !  you  mustna  take  that  name 
in  vain.  I'm  thinking  the  Almighty  has 
a  hand  in  maist  things,  and  maybe  it  was 

i'ust  straight  from  him  I've  come,  though 
bad  no  suspicion  o'  that,"  Hamish  said. 
He  thought  for  the  first  moment  it  was  a 


madman  with  whom  he  had  to  do.  Wal* 
ter  had  appeared  with  a  rush  down  the 
steep  bank,  falling  like  some  one  out  of 
the  skies,  scattering  the  pebbles  on  the 
bank,  and  Hamish  had  employed  Oona's 
name  in  the  stress  of  the  moment  as 
something  to  conjure  with.  He  was 
deeply  alarmed  still  as  he  felt  the  quiver 
in  the  young  man's  frame,  which  commu* 
nicated  itself  to  Hamish's  sturdy  arm. 
Madness  frightens  the  most  stout-hearted. 
Hamish  was  brave  enough,  as  brave  as  a 
Highlander  need  be,  but  he  was  half 
alarmed  for  himself,  and  much  more  for 
Oona,  who  might  appear  at  any  moment. 
'M'll  just  be  waiting  about  and  nothing 
particular  to  do,"  he  said  in  a  soothing 
tone ;  **  if  ye'll  get  into  the  boat,  my  lord, 
I'll  just  put  your  lordship  hame.  Na,  it's 
nae  trouble,  nae  trouble."  Hamish  did 
not  like  the  situation ;  but  he  would  rather 
have  rowed  twenty  maniacs  than  put 
Oona  within  reach  of  any  risk.  He  took 
Lord  Erradeen  by  the  elbow  and  directed 
him  towards  the  boat,  repeated  the  kindly 
invitation  of  his  country,  **  Come  away, 
just  come  away;  I've  naething  particular 
to  do,  and  it  will  just  be  a  pleasure." 

*' Hamish,"  said  Walter,  •'you  think  I 
am  out  of  my  mind :  but  you  are  mistak* 
en,  my  good  fellow.  /  think  you  have* 
saved  my  life,  and  I  will  not  forget  it. 
What  was  that  you  said  about  Miss 
Oona?" 

Hamish  looked  earnestly  into  the  young 
man's  face. 

"  My  lord,"  he  began  with  hesitation, 
*'you  see  —  if  a  young  gentleman  is  a 
thocht  out  of  the  way,  and  just  maybe 
excited  about  something  and  no  altogether 
his  ain  man  —  what's  that  to  the  like  of 
me?  Never  a  hair  o'  hairm  would  that 
do  to  Hamish.  But  when  it's  a  leddy, 
and  young  and  real  tender-hearted !  We 
maun  aye  think  of  them,  my  lord,  and 
spare  them  —  the  weemen.  No,  it's  what 
we  dinna  do — they  have  the  warst  in  a 
general  way  to  bear.  But  at  ween  you  and 
me,  my  lord,  that  though  you're  far  my 
shuperior,  are  just  man  and  man  -^^  " 

'•It  is  you  that  are  my  superior,  Ha- 
mish," said  Lord  Erradeen  ;  **  but  look  at 
me  now  and  say  if  you  think  I  am  mad. 
You  have  saved  me.  I  am  fit  to  speak  to 
her  now.  Do  you  think  I  would  harm 
her?    Not  for  anything  in  the  world." 

"  No  if  you  were  —  yoursel',  Lord  Er- 
radeen.'* 

"But  I  am  —  myself.  And  the  mo- 
ment has  come  when  I  must  know.  Take 
my  hand,  Hamish ;  look  at  me.  Do  you 
think  I  am  not  to  be  trusted  with  Oooa?  " 


6o2 


LETTERS  FROM  GAULEE. 


"  My  lord,  to  make  Hamish  vour  judge, 
what's  that  but  daft  too  ?  And  what  right 
have  ye  to  call  my  voung  leddy  by  her 
name  ?  You're  no  a  orap's  blood  to  them, 
nor  even  a  great  friend.*' 

Oona's  faithful  guardian  stood  lowering 
his  brows  upon  the  young  lord  with  a 
mingled  sense  of  the  superiority  of  his 
office,  and  of  disapproval,  almost  con- 
temptuous, of  the  madman  who  had  given 
it  to  him.  That  he  should  make  Hamish 
the  judge  was  mad  indeed.  And  yet  Ha- 
mish was  the  judge,  standing  bravely  on 
his  right  to  defend  his  mistress.  They 
stood  look iug  at  each  other,  the  boatman 
holding  his  shaggy  head  high,  reading  the 
other's  face  with  the  keenest  scrutiny. 
But  just  then  there  came  a  soft  sound 
into  the  air,  a  call  from  the  bank,  clear, 
with  that  tone,  not  loud  but  penetrating, 
which  mountaineers  use  evervwhere. 

**  Are  you  there,  Hamish  ?  '^Oona  cried. 


From  Blackwood's  Magazine. 
LETTERS  FROM  GALILEE. 

III. 

About  five  miles  from  Safed,  perched 
upon  one  of  the  flanks  of  Jebel  Zebud,  a 
mountain  of  the  Jebel  Jermuk  range,  is 
the  celebrated  shrine  of  Jewish  pilgrim- 
age called  Meir6n,  —  whither  I  proceeded 
one  afternoon,  accompanied  by  a  pictur- 
esque cavalcade  of  a  dozen  horsemen. 
There  was  a  Sephardim  rabbi,  in  yellow, 
flowing  Oriental  robes ;  an  Arab  sheikh, 
in  the  wide-sleeved  abaye ;  a  couple  of 
Britons,  in  the  conventional  pith  helmet, 
shooting-coat,  and  gaiters ;  sundry  Euro- 
pean Jews,  in  gabardines  and  ear-curls; 
and  a  fellah  or  two  on  donkevs  to  wind  up 
the  procession.  Our  way  fed  us  down 
into  one  of  the  most  fertile  plains  of  north- 
ern Galilee,  past  the  head  of  the  gorge 
down  which  flows  the  brawling  Leimuny 
into  the  Lake  of  Tiberias,  and  so  through 
corn  and  olive  groves,  until  we  began  to 
climb  the  hill  on  the  slope  of  which  is 
situated  the  large,  dome-crowned  building 
that  was  to  be  our  resting-place  for  the 
night.  This  consisted  of  an  oblong  en- 
closure entered  by  a  gateway  through  the 
massive  wall  —  on  one  side  of  which  a 
flight  of  stone  steps  led  to  a  terrace  above, 
upon  which  opened  a  series  of  chambers 
surmounted  by  cupolas  that  marked  the 
traditional  resting  place  of  the  various 
rabbis  celebrated  in  Jewish  history  who 
have  been  interred  at  Meir6n.  It  was 
probably  this  fact  which  contributed  to 


invest  the  neighboring  town  of  Safed  with 
its  peculiar  sanctity;  and  indeed  this 
whole  region  is  interesting  to  the  student 
of  Jewish  history  posterior  to  the  time  of 
Christ,  as  having  been  the  birthplace,  so 
to  speak,  of  Talmud  ism,  and  as  having 
been  the  home  of  the  men  who  have 
stamped  with  their  impress  the  Judaism 
of  the  present  day.  Hence  it  is  that  each 
year  Jews  flock  in  thousands  to  their  place 
of  sepulture.  As  Monsieur  R^nan  says : 
"The  Judaism  which  one  touches  at  this 
spot  is  the  Talmudic  Judaism  which  made 
the  name  of  Tiberias  so  famous;  and  it 
was  from  the  first  to  the  third  century 
after  Christ  that  this  part  of  Galilee  was 
the  centre  of  Judaic  learning  and  aspira- 
tion." It  is  perhaps  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  the  interest  of  Christians  in  Jewish 
history  should  cease  with  the  death  of 
that  most  remarkable  of  all  Jews  who  gave 
his  name  to  their  religion;  but  the  for- 
tunes of  the  race  after  the  destruction  of 
Jerusalem  have  a  significance  which  lasts 
to  the  present  day,  when  the  localities  to 
which  they  are  specially  attracted  seem 
likely  once  more  to  be  the  centres  of  what 
may  ultimately  prove  to  be  a  national 
restoration.  How  little  we  know  of  the 
details  of  the  revolution  of  Barcochba, 
and  his  bold  and  partially  successful  at- 
tempt to  re-establish  Jewish  indepen* 
dence ;  or  of  the  history  of  those  two  Jew^ 
ish  communities  which  were  organized 
before  the  close  of  the  second  century 
after  Christ,  one  of  which,  under  the 
patriarch  of  Tiberias,  comprehended  all 
of  Israelitish  descent  who  inhabited  the 
Roman  Empire;  and  the  other  under  the 
Prince  of  the  Captivity,  to  whom  all  the 
Eastern  Jews  paid  their  allegiance!  It 
was  in  those  days,  so  shortly  following 
the  destruction  of  Jerusalem,  that  Meirda 
occupied  a  prominent  place  in  Jewish  his- 
tory. It  is  noticed  in  the  Talmud  as  a 
city  of  priests.  The  tomb  of  Rabbi  Elea- 
zar  bar  Khasma,  for  whose  body  the  in* 
habitants  of  Meirdn  and  Giscala — the 
modern  £1  Jish — are  reported  to  have 
fought,  is  said  to  have  existed  at  Meir6n, 
as  well  as  a  school  of  Rabbi  Simeon  bar 
Jochai,  in  which,  as  he  is  the  reputed  au- 
thor of  that  most  mystical  and  remarkable 
of  all  the  cabalistic  books,  the  Sohar,  we 
may  conclude  that  the  secrets  of  the  cabala 
were  taught.  Both  he  and  the  rabbi 
Eleazar  are  buried  here ;  and  when  we 
remember  that  they  were  among  those 
named  by  Judah,  son  of  Bavah,  secretly, 
before  he  was  slain  by  the  Romans,  to  re' 
establish  the  Sanhedrim  under  Simon,  son 
of  Gamaliel,  we  cannot  wonder  that  in  the 


LETTERS   FROM   GALILEE. 


6oj 


eyes  of  the  Jews  their  burial-places  pos* 
sess  an  especial  interest.  Besides  these, 
there  lie  here  the  remains  of  the  famous 
rabbis  Jochanan,  Sandelar,  and  Sham- 
mai ;  but,  more  interesting  than  all,  of  the 
rabbi  Hillel  and  his  thirty-six  pupils.  Of 
all  Jewish  reformers  and  moral  teachers, 
none  has  left  a  more  enduring  mark  than 
the  rabbi  Hillel.  Indeed  it  is  maintained 
by  Jews  that  the  Christian  morality,  so  far 
as  the  purely  ethical  side  of  it  is  con- 
cerned, is  all  to  be  found  in  the  teachings 
of  the  rabbi  Hillel,  which  at  the  time  of 
Christ  had  enlisted  the  sympathies  of  all 
the  most  devout  and  aspiring  souls  of  the 
nation,  and  was  therefore  well  calculated 
to  impress  itself  upon  his  ardent  and  in- 
tense nature. 

There  is  no  object  of  greater  interest 
at  Meirdn  than  the  cave  which  contains 
the  tomb  of  this  celebrated  teacher  and 
bis  thirty-six  pupils.  It  is  situated  on 
the  steep  slope  of  a  hill,  at  the  bottom  of 
which,  fifty  yards  below,  tumbles  a  moun- 
tain torrent  —  an  uncommon  sight  in  Pal- 
estine —  with  water  enough  to  turn  a 
flour-mill.  It  rises  in  the  Ain  el  Jin,  or 
fountain  of  spirits,  who  are  supposed  to 
control  the  irregularities  of  its  flow,  and 
is  the  principal  source  of  the  Leimuny. 
Here  the  gorge  expands  sufficiently  to 
allow  some  orchards  of  figs,  apricots,  and 
pomegranates  to  be  wedged  between  the 
steep,  rocky  sides ;  and  a  large  spreading 
weeping -willow  close  to  the  foaming 
stream,  as  it  falls  over  the  mill-wheel, 
gives  a  character  to  the  scene  at  once 
novel  and  refreshing.  All  these  gardens 
and  the  mill  are  the  property  of  Jews,  the 
greater  portion  belonging  to  the  rabbi 
who  accompanied  me.  As  we  enter  the 
first  chamber  of  the  cave,  we  find  a  recess 
on  the  right  and  on  the  left,  each  contain- 
ing four  sarcophagi  in  niches,  with  stone 
lids  with  raised  corners.  Passing  through 
a  doorway  cut  in  the  solid  rock,  we  enter 
a  cave  about  twenty-five  feet  by  eighteen, 
with  two  recesses,  each  containing  four 
sarcophagi  on  the  right,  and  the  same  on 
the  left ;  while  facing  us  opposite  the  door 
is  a  recess  about  twenty  feet  long  and 
eight  wide  at  the  entrance.  Becoming 
wider  at  the  extremity,  and  curved  after 
the  fashion  of  an  apse,  it  contains  four 
loculi ;  and  on  each  side  are  other  recesses 
with  sarcophagi.  All  these  sarcophagi 
are  not  provided  with  lids,  and  there  is 
room  for  five  more,  there  being  only  thirty- 
two;  so  that  it  would  seem  as  if,  though 
the  loculi  had  been  prepared  for  the  whole 
oi  the  thirty-six  disciples,  five  had  not 
been  buried  there.    There  were  several 


other  tombs  in  the  neighborhood,  one  of 
them  about  twenty  feet  square,  containing 
ten  sarcophagi,  which  I  believe  to  have 
been  the  tomb  of  •*  Hillel  the  younger." 
Indeed  there  are  many  more  rabbis  and 
celebrated  persons  than  those  whom  I 
have  enumerated  buried  here  ;  and  all  the 
rocks  in  the  neighborhood  are  much  cut 
in  places  into  steps  and  olive-presses, 
tombs  and  cisterns.  Besides  which,  to 
the  north  are  three  dolmens  bearing  no 
inscriptions,  and  probably  of  a  much  an- 
terior date  to  the  other  remains. 

Returning  up  the  hill  for  fifty  yards  or 
so,  we  reach  the  domed  shrine  in  which 
are  situated  the  tombs,  and  which  con- 
tains besides,  numerous  guest-chambers 
for  pilgrims  opening  on  to  the  upper  ter- 
race, while  below,  where  donkeys  and 
camels  were  tethered,  was  the  tomb  of 
Simeon  el  bar  Jochai.  Leading  from  it  is 
a  prayer-chamber,  in  which,  when  I  en- 
tered, I  found  an  old  man  and  his  son,  a 
boy  of  fifteen,  engaged  in  their  devotions. 
For  seven  years  had  this  couple  inhabited 
the  sacred  chamber  without  leaving  it, 
sleeping  on  a  mat  on  the  hard  stone  floor, 
subsisting  on  nothing  but  one  meal  •  of 
bread  and  water  a  day,  and  engaged  nearly 
all  the  rest  of  the  time  in  sacred  recita- 
tions, or  rather  •*  vain  repetitions,"  sway- 
ing their  bodies  to  and  fro  as  they  monot- 
onously chanted  their  strains  of  prayer 
and  praise,  thereby  acquiring  for  them- 
selves a  reputation  of  sanctity  among  the 
Jews,  who  regarded  them  with  an  awe 
and  reverence  that  surprised  me,  as  I  had 
no  idea  that  this  ascetic  tendency  w<is  a 
feature  of  their  religion,  or  that  the  same 
spirit  which  animates  Christian  ancho-  t 
rites,  or  Moslem  dervishes,  or  Indian  fa- 
kirs, was  characteristic  of  the  Hebrew 
faith.  The  old  man  was  too  far  gone  to 
be  so  much  the  object  of  sympathy  as  the 
boy,  who  was  still  bright  and  intelligent- 
looking,  and  had  hard  work  when  we 
entered  not  to  allow  himself  to  be  dis- 
tracted from  his  devotions ;  but  it  is  sad 
to  think  of  the  condition  to  which  his 
brain  will  be  reduced  by  a  life  of  impris- 
onment in  this  gloomy  chamber,  and  the 
incessant  mumbling  of  prayers.  At  the 
corners  of  this  courtyard  are  stone  basins 
on  pedestals,  like  fonts,  and  channels  cut 
for  the  reception  of  the  oil,  which  is 
poured  into  them  on  the  occasion  of  the 
celebrated  feast  of  the  burning,  which  was 
to  take  place  shortly  aftei;  my  visit,  and 
which  I  regretted  I  was  unable  to  remain 
and  witness.  From  the  account  I  re- 
ceived from  spectators,  this  large  gather- 
ing of  two  or  three  thousand  pilgrims 


6o4 

from  all  parts,  especially  of  the  East, 
must  be  a  spectacle  of  singular  and  unique 
interest.  The  devotees  work  themselves 
up  into  states  of  religious  excitement, 
which  they  stimulate  by  wine  as  well  as 
by  their  prayers,  and  then  sacrifices  are 
made  by  the  most  devout  of  some  of  the 
most  precious  objects  in  their  possession, 
which  they  have  brought  with  them  for 
the  purpose.  Costly  shawls  from  Cash- 
mere, rare  books,  scarfs,  and  embroider- 
ies of  gold  are  steeped  in  oil,  and  burnt 
amid  the  plaudits  of  the  multitude,  which 
are  enthusiastic  just » in  the  degree  in 
which  the  objects  sacrificed  are  valuable. 
I  hope  on  some  future  occasion  to  be 
present  at  these  ceremonies.  As  it  was, 
I  benefited  from  the  fact  that  the  place 
was  a  shrine  of  so  much  resort,  for  a  com- 
fortable chamber  opening  on  the  terrace 
was  placed  at  my  disposal,  and  the  kind 
friends  who  had  accompanied  me  from 
Safed  provided  me  with  an  excellent  cui- 
sine and  a  good  bed.  Higher  up  than 
this  building  in  which  I  lodged  was  the 
native  village,  and  near  it  a  remarkably 
picturesque  overhanging  rock,  under  the 
projecting  crag  of  which  still  stands  the 
facade  o!  a  ruined  synagogue,  dating,  no 
doubt,  from  the  time  when  the  patriar- 
chate of  Tiberias  was  under  the  most 
celebrated  of  the  rabbinical  sovereigns  — 
jehuda  the  Holy.  At  this  time  the  au- 
thority of  the  patriarchate  was  acknowl- 
edged by  the  Jews  at  Rome,  and  by  those 
scattered  throughout  Asia  Minor,  who 
either  came  to  live  in  the  district,  or  sent 
arms  to  their  spiritual  head.  Jewish  tra- 
dition has  it  that  Simeon  bar  Jochal  was 
the  builder  of  this  synagogue,  indeed 
he  is  credited  with  having  been  a  man 
whose  wealth  was  onlv  excelled  by  his 
learning,  so  that  he  built  twenty-four  syn- 
agogues in  this  district.  However  this 
may  be,  Lieutenant —  now  Major —  Kitch- 
ener, who  explored  this  locality  on  behalf 
of  the  Palestine  Exploration  Fund,  gives 
It  as  his  opinion  that  the  few  remains 
which  exist  of  synagogues  in  Palestine 
-—only  nine  or  ten,  and  which  are  nearly 
all  in  this  district  —  date  from  between 
the  year  150  and  300  a.d. 

At  this  time  [he  remarks]  the  Romans  rec- 
ognized the  Patriarch  of  Tiberias,  and  by  their 
moderation  granted  him  many  indulgences. 
He  was  empowered  to  appoint  his  subordinate 
ministers  and  apostles,  who  visited  all  the  -col- 
onies of  the  Jews  in  distant  parts,  and  also  to 
receive  from  his  despised  brethren  an  annual 
contribution.  By  this  kind  treatment,  and  by 
the  influence  of'  the  foreign  Jews  who  had 
been  completely  naturalized  to  the  language 


LETTERS   FROM   GALILEE. 


and  customs,  and  partly  to  the  religion  of  the 
people  with  whom  they  dwelt,  the  Jews  of  Pal- 
estine became  tractable  to  Roman  rule  and 
Roman  customs,  and  developed  their  great 
characteristic  love  for  commercial  pursuits 
which  has  since  been  typical  of  them.  Thus 
the  colony  round  Tiberias  became  very  power- 
ful;  and  under  Antoninus  Pius — 138-161 
A  D.  — some  additional  privileges  were  accord- 
ed to  them,  such  as  the  right  to  perform  cir- 
cumcision. 

Synagogues,  of  which  that  at  Meir6n 
was  one,  were  erected  in  the  villages  be- 
longing to  the  colony,  probably  in  imita- 
tion of  the  great  works  of  the  emperor 
Antoninus  in  Syria.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  third  century  they  were  in  high  favor 
with  the  emperor  Alexander  Severus. 
This  emperor  was  even  called  the  Father 
of  the  Synagogue,  perhaps  from  his  influ* 
ence  over  the  erection  and  architecture  of 
these  buildings.  After  the  death  of  Je- 
huda, the  glory  of  the  patriarchate  de- 
parted. 

Milman,  in  his  history  of  the  Jews, 
thus  describes  its  fall :  "  The  small  spir- 
itual court  fell  like  more  splendid  and 
worldly  thrones,  through  the  struggles  of 
the  sovereign  for  unlimited  sway,  and  the 
unwillingness  of  the  people  to  submit 
even  to  constitutional  authority.  The  ex- 
actions of  the  pontiff  and  of  the  spiritual 
aristocracv  —  the  rabbins  —  became  more 
and  more  burdensome  to  the  people.  The 
people  were  impatient  even  of  the  cus- 
tomary taxation."  In  view  of  any  attempt 
now  to  establish  Jewish  colonies  again  io 
this  country,  this  paragraph  is  one  of  the 
highest  significance.  The  same  spirit 
which  broke  the  heart  of  Moses  destroyed 
the  prospects  of  the  race,  when  a  tran- 
sient gleam  burst  through  the  cloud  that 
had  overshadowed  the  nation  since  the 
destruction  of  Jerusalem,  and  gave  them 
once  more  a  chance  of  establishing  in  the 
northern  part  of  the  country  an  autono- 
mous if  not  an  independent  province. 
The  question  to  be  solved  now  is, — 
whether  the  fifteen  hundred  years  of  suf- 
fering through  which  the  people  have 
passed  since  then  have  sufficed  to  break 
the  insubordinate  spirit,  to  weaken  the 
stiff-neckedness  that  has  ever  been  the 
marked  characteristic  of  the  race  ;  wheth- 
er those  internal  dissensions,  those  rival- 
ries and  jealousies  which  afforded  their 
enemies  the  opportunity  they  wanted  to 
overcome  the  valiant  and  stubborn  quali- 
ties of  the  nation,  will  again  burst  forth 
when  the  pressure  of  persecution  is  re- 
moved, and  they  arc  once  more  called 
upon  to  act  in  harmony  to  ensure  success, 


LETTERS   FROM  GALILEE, 


to  submit  to  discipline  for  the  comrooo 
weal,  and  to  subordinate  individual  ambi- 
tions to  the  important  interests  which  are 
at  stake.  Of  their  perseverance,  physical 
capacity,  and  agricultural  faculty,  there  is 
no  fear.  The  experience  of  existing  col- 
onies shows  that  the  trial  will  come  when 
rules  and  reg^ulations  have  to  be  obeyed, 
and  when  discipline  is  imposed. 

The  synagogue  at  Meirdn  is  the  largest 
of  which  any  remains  exist  in  Palestine. 
Those  at  Kefr  Hirim  —  about  two  hours 
and  a  half  distant  from  it,  which  upon  this 
occasion  I  had  not  an  opportunity  of 
visiting  —  are  more  perfect;  but  those  at 
Meirdn  convey  a  very  fair  idea  of  what 
the  original  structure  must  have  been, 
and  the  architecture  is  of  more  massive 
proportions,  the  stones  are  larger,  and  the 
sculpture  richer  than  can  be  found  else- 
where. 

The  edifice  fronted  towards  the  south, 
and  a  large  portion  of  the  front  wall,  with 
the  fine  portal,  and  a  side  door  of  smaller 
dimensions,  are  standing;  and  excepting 
where  the  earthquake  of  1837  partly  dis- 
placed a  portion  of  the  huge  stone  which 
torms  the  lintel,  these  are  perfect.  The 
portal  is  ten  feet  high  by  five  and  a  half 
feet  wide.  The  jambs  are  monoliths, 
elaborately  sculptured.  The  sculptured 
lintel  projects  somewhat  above  the  side 
posts,  and  is  without  any  inscription  that 
1  could  see,  though  one  is  mentioned  by 
the  old  Jewish  writers  as  having  existect 
in  Hebrew.  The  corner  is  wholly  gone, 
except  a  portico  pedestal  fitted  inside  for 
a  couple  of  colums.  Passing  through  this 
portal,  we  come  upon  an  area  ninety  feet 
long  by  forty  wide,  which  has  been  lev- 
elled out  of  the  living  rock.  This  same 
rock  formed  the  western  wall  of  the  build- 
ing. The  stones  forming  the  front  wall 
are  some  of  them  four  feet  and  a  half  long 
by  two  feet  and  a  half  thick.  On  the 
rocky  floor  of  the  synagogue  are  the  traces 
of  where  the  pedestal  stood ;  but  most  of 
the  fragments  of  columns,  with  the  pedes- 
tals and  capitals,  have  rolled  down  the 
eastern  slope,  as  the  eastern  side  of  the 
floor,  being  on  made-up  ground,  has  given 
way  with  all  the  masonry  that  formed  the 
eastern  wall.  Purely  Jewish  ruins  are  so 
rare,  that  an  exceptional  interest  attaches 
to  the  few  specimens  of  their  existing 
architecture,  which,  however,  was  doubt- 
less largely  inspired  by  the  Roman  taste 
of  the  period. 

Meiron  has  been  variously  identified. 
It  may  be  the  Meroth  mentioned  by  Jo- 
sephus  as  having  been  fortified  by  him  in 
upper  Galilee.    Dr.  Thomson,  however, 


605 

identifies  it  with  the  Meroz  so  bltterlv 
cursed  by  Deborah,  because  when  Baralc 
marched  from  Kadesh  to  Tabor  he  must 
have  passed  this  place,  and  would  nat« 
urally  have  summoned  the  inhabitants  to 
join  the  expedition.  They  refused,  and 
hence  the  imprecation  in  Deborah^s  tri- 
umphal ode:  "Curse  ye  Meroz,  said  the 
angel  of  the  Lord,  curse  ye  bitterly  the  in- 
habitants thereof ;  because  they  came  not 
to  the  help  of  the  Lord,  to  the  help  of  the 
Lord  against  the  mighty."  It  seems  the 
Jews  have  a  tradition  that  Deborah  passed 
Meir6n  with  Barak  on  this  march,  and 
bathed  in  a  fountain  here,  which  is  called 
to  this  day  Deborah^s  fountain.  I  asked 
the  Jewish  rabbi  who  was  with  me  whether 
he  thus  identified  Meir6n  ;  but  he  asserted 
that  it  was  universally  held  to  be  the 
Shimron-Meron  mentioned  in  the  twelfth 
chapter  of  Joshua,  as  the  territory  belong- 
ing to  one  of  the  kings  that  Joshua  smote 
when  he  took  possession  of  the  country ; 
and  I  think  this  identification  as  probable 
as  that  of  Captain  Conder,  who  identifies 
Shimron-Meron  with  Semunich,  a  village 
on  the  road  from  Haifa  to  Nazareth* 

A  little  above  the  rock  out  of  which 
this  interesting  synagogue  had  been  ex- 
cavated, stands  the  few  houses  which 
compose  the  modern  village  of  Meirdn, 
which  contains  twelve  Moslem  and  six 
Jewish  families,  all  engaged  in  agriculture. 
The  Jewish  families  were  farmers  from 
Morocco  and  the  Barbary  coast,  and  were 
working  the  land  on  shares  with  the  rabbi 
and  two  other  non-resident  Jewish  fami- 
lies. They  seemed  to  be  on  excellent 
terms  with  their  Moslem  neighbors,  but 
had  unfortunately  lost  all  their  cattle  re- 
cently by  an  epidemic.  When  I  proposed 
to  apply  some  funds,  with  which  I  had 
been  provided  by  some  friends  interested 
in  Jewish  agriculture  in  Palestine,  to  the 
purchase  of  some  oxen  for  them,  the 
sheikh  came  to  me  and  expressed  his 
great  gratification  at  this  gift,  as  he  said 
that  the  recipients  were  most  industrious 
and  hard-working  people,  his  son  remark- 
ing at  the  same  time  that  whoever  was  a 
friend  of  the  Jews  was  a  friend  of  his.  I 
went  into  the  houses  of  some  of  these 
Jewish  farmers,  and  found  that  they  dif- 
fered in  no  respect  from  the  better  class 
of  house  of  the  native  peasantry.  The 
proprietors  were  still  in  debt  for  the  orig- 
inal purchase  money.  Besides  the  Mo- 
grabee  Jewish  families  on  the  land,  they 
employ  fellahin  labor,  owning  altogether 
a  half  share  in  about  two  thousand  olive- 
trees,  besides  the  gardens  on  the  milU 
stream  and  some  corn-land.    Before  leav« 


6o6 


LETTERS   FROM   GALILEE, 


log  this  Deighborhood  on  my  way  further 
jnto  the  mountains,  I  may  mention  that 
the  rabbi  told  me  of  another  Jewish  colony 
in  the  Huleh  valley,  which  was  too  far  on 
for  me  to  visit,  called  Meimerom,  where  a 
property  of  about  six  hundred  and  fifty 
acres  had  been  purchased  eleven  years 
ago  by  seven  families  of  Sephardim  Jews 
of  Sated  desirous  of  taking  to  agriculture 
as  a  means  of  livelihood,  where  they  were 
doing  well. 

Meirdn  stands  at  an  elevation  of  about 
twenty-five  hundred  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  sea,  and  the  climate  is  therefore 
cool ;  but  there  are  yet  higher  elevations 
which  I  wished  to  visit,  in  order  to  exam- 
ine their  agricultural  capacity,  as  it  is 
important  for  European  laborers  that  they 
should  settle  in  lofty  and  healthy  localities 
where  such  can  be  found,  with  suitable 
conditions  so  far  as  the  land  is  concerned. 
We  therefore  ascended  from  Meir6n  up 
the  steep  hillside  which  forms  the  shoul- 
der between  the  Jebel  Zebud  and  the 
tebel  Jermuk,  and  in  little  more  than  an 
our  had  reached  an  elevation  of  nearly 
four  thousand  feet.  Here,  only  a  few 
hundred  feet  below  the  summit  of  the 
loftiest  mountain  in  Palestine  (west  of  the 
Jordan),  we  came  upon  the  massive  stone 
ruins  of  what  had  recently  been  a  sub- 
stantial village.  A  well  of  the  coldest 
and  sweetest  water,  overshadowed  by 
trees,  was  surrounded  by  roofless  walls 
ten  or  twelve  feet  high,  and  a  fine  tract  of 
arable  land,  now  covered  with  scrub  and 
weeds,  stretched  away  along  the  moun- 
tain-side, which  was  here  not  too  steep 
for  cultivation.  This  had,  twenty  years 
ago,  been  the  highest  inhabited  spot  in 
Palestine.  It  was  then  the  property  of 
fourteen  Jewish  families,  who  had  settled 
here  as  agriculturists  five -and -twenty 
years  before,  and  had  done  well  as  farm- 
ers when  the  cholera  of  1865  swept  over 
the  country  and  carried  off  nearly  all  the 
able-bodied  males.  The  calamity  was  so 
great  that  it  led  to  the  desertion  of  the 
village,  which  has  since  been  purchased 
by  the  neighboring  Druse  village  of  Beit 
Jenn,  who  use  it  only  for  grazing  purposes, 
and  from  whom  it  could  doubtless  be  pur- 
chased for  a  very  small  amount. 

The  view,  which  extended  as  far  as  'the 
blue  outline  of  Mount  Carmel  projecting 
into  the  sea,  was  magnificent  —  wild,  rare- 
ly traversed  mountain-sides  and  rocky 
glens  surrounded  us.  Here,  though  na- 
ture looks  so  savage,  one  is  safer  than  in 
many  more  accessible  and  thickly  inhab- 
ited spots,  for  the  wandering  Bedouin 
rarely  visits  these  remote  fastnesses,  and 


the  few  inhabitants  dwell  in  peace  and 
security.  What  extent  of  land  fit  for  cul* 
tivation  may  exist  in  this  little  known 
highland  region  has  yet  to  be  discovered; 
but  there  can  be  no  question  as  to  the 
salubrity  of  the  district,  and  but  little 
doubt  that  it  contains  agricultural  re- 
sources which  are  still  undeveloped.  De- 
scending by  a  somewhat  precipitous  path 
into  the  valley,  we  climbed  the  opposite 
range  to  the  Druse  village  of  Beit  Jenn, 
where  we  were  hospitably  entertained  by 
the  sheikh,  who  expressed,  as  Druses  in- 
variably do,  his  devotion  to  England,  and 
his  fear  lest  another  ambitious  European 
power,  whose  love  for  the  traditional  ene- 
mies of  the  Druses  is  a  matter  of  noto- 
riety, should  acquire  a  protectorate  over 
the  country.  A  wild  mountain  path  along 
the  southern  slopes  of  the  lofty  northern 
Galilee  range,  brought  us  in  a  couple  of 
hours  to  the  village  of  Bukeia,  on  which 
we  dropped  from  a  considerable  elevation, 
and  looked  down  upon  the  houses  nest- 
ling in  luxuriant  gardens  of  figs,  oranges, 
almonds,  and  pomegranates.  I  had  made 
an  express  pilgrimage  to  this  remote  and 
isolated  village,  in  order  to  see  an  inter- 
esting community  of  Jews  who  maintain 
that  they  are  the  descendants  of  families 
vvho  were  not  dispersed,  and  that  they  are 
the  only  Jews  in  the  whole  of  Palestine 
whose  direct  ancestors  inhabited  the  same 
spot  and  cultivated  the  same  land  prior  to 
the  destruction  of  Jerusalem.  Hence  they 
have  never  intermarried  with  any  other 
Jews,  all  of  whom,  no  matter  how  long 
their  ancestors  may  have  been  in  the 
country,  they  regard  as  foreigners.  Nev- 
ertheless, they  are  ministered  to  by  a 
Sephardim  rabbi  sent  to  them  for  the  pur- 
pose from  Safed.  I  went  into  their  syna- 
gogue, a  modest  and  simple  little  building, 
but  large  enough  to  contain  the  small 
congregation,  which  does  not  number 
above  a  hundred.  Besides  the  twenty 
Jewish  families,  there  were  forty  orthodox 
Greek  Christians  and  eighty  Druse  fam- 
ilies composing  the  population  of  the 
village,  and  there  was  quite  a  rivalry  of 
hospitality  between  the  three  sheikhs  rep- 
resenting these  different  communities,  to 
entertain  us.  We  decided  in  favor  of  the 
Hebrew  sheikh,  and  he  soon  had  nearly 
all  his  co-religionists  —  men,  women,  and 
children  —  summoned  for  my  inspection. 
In  fact  I  held  a  sort  of  levie^  the  whole 
community  filing  past  and  making  efforts 
to  put  my  hand  to  their  lips  as  they  did 
so.  They  differed  in  no  respect,  either 
in  clothing,  cast  of  countenance,  or  man- 
ner, from  the  ordinary  fellahin  of  the  coao* 


LETTERS   FROM   GALILEE. 


try,  many  of  whom  were  present,  so  that 
I  had  a  c:ood  opportunity  of  comparing 
them.  They  all  rejoiced  in  the  name  of 
Cohen,  and  were  of  course  all  more  or 
less  nearly  related ;  so  that  it  was  matter 
of  astonishment,  after  so  many  centuries 
of  intermarriage,  that  they  should  have 
presented  so  healthy  an  appearance.  In- 
deed I  observed  one  remarkably  pretty 
girl,  \feantime  the  orthodox  Greek 
priest,  the  Jewish  rabbi,  and  the  religious 
head  of  the  Druses  joined  the  party,  and 
I  was  much  struck  with  the  good-fellow- 
ship and  cordiaKty  which  seemed  to  exist 
between  the  representative  heads  of  such 
widely  opposite  forms  of  faith.  Each 
spoke  in  the  highest  terms  of  the  two 
others  as  individuals  whom  they  liked  and 
respected ;  and  they  all  warmly  asserted 
that  the  whole  population  lived  on  terms 
of  the  g:reatest  harmony  and  good-fellow- 
ship, and  were  cultivating  side  by  side  the 
same  lands  which  they  had  cultivated 
from  time  immemorial.  After  the  Greek 
priest  and  Druse  sheikh  had  gone,  I  asked 
my  Hebrew  host  to  tell  me  confidentially 
which  he  really  preferred  as  neighbors, 
the  Druses  or  the  Christians.  His  an- 
swer was  that  he  had  no  complaint  to 
make  against  the  Christians,  but  that  he 
much  preferred  the  Druses. 

There  are  two  splendid  springs  in  the 
village:  one  gushing  forth  from  a  small 
cavern  under  a  rock  furnishes  a  copious 
supply,  and  accounts  for  the  luxuriant 
gardens  by  which  the  village  was  sur- 
rounded, and  which  make  it  a  spot  of  such 
beauty  that  some  of  the  wealthier  inhabi- 
tants of  Safed  sometimes  come  here  dur- 
ing the  summer  months  for  a  change, 
though  it  is  a  day's  journey  from  that 
town  —  and  I  should  not  think  furnished 
a  cooler,  though  it  can  scarcely  fail  to  be 
a  much  purer,  atmosphere.  There  is  a 
cave  near  the  village  where,  during  a  time 
of  Jewish  persecution,  a  certain  Rabbi 
Simon  lived  naked  for  twelve  years,  inter- 
ceding for  his  people.  Until  lately  the 
very  existence  of  this  singular  group  of 
Jews  was  unknown,  and  I  think  they  were 
first  visited  three  or  four  years  ago  by 
Lieutenant  Kitchener.  Owing  to  the  re- 
cent cattle  epidemic,  they  were  by  no 
means  in  such  prosperous  circumstances 
as  they  had  been. 

Striking  in  a  north-westerly  direction 
from  Dukeia,  I  reached  in  two  hours  the 
large  and  important  village  of  Teirshiha, 
where  I  went  and  put  up  with  the  cadi. 
This  official  lived  in  a  charmingly  situ- 
ated and  most  comfortable  mansion,  com- 
manding a  magnificent  view  of  the  sur- 


6of 

rounding  country  from  the  trellised  terrace 
upon  which  my  room  opened.  Teirshiha 
was  once  a  place  of  greater  importance 
than  it  is  now,  and  was  the  seat  of  a  Cai* 
makamlik,  but  the  population  still  numbers 
over  two  thousand  souls,  of  whom  about 
three-fourths  are  Moslem.  These  latter 
have  the  reputation  of  being  fanatical,  in 
consequence  of  the  enthusiasm  excited  by 
a  reformer  about  thirty  years  ago  named 
Sheikh  All  al  Mugraby,  who  had  his  resi- 
i  dence  here.  But  I  think  it  proceeds  from 
jealousy  rather  than  fact,  as  he  especially 
preached  toleration  towards  Christians ; 
and  his  followers  scattered  throughout  the 
various  towns  in  Palestine  have  been 
more  than  once  a  moderating  element 
when  an  anti-Christian  feeling  was  rife. 
They  at  one  time  numbered  over  twenty 
thousand  ;  but  the  government  set  its  face 
sternly  against  them,  and  since  the  death 
of  the  prophet  his  followers  have  dimin- 
ished. The  leading  feature  of  his  teach- 
ing seems  to  be  all  omission  of  the  name 
of  Mohammed,  suffering  only  the  name 
of  Allah  to  be  used  in  his  prayers  and 
hymns,  and  inculcating  charity  and  toler- 
ance. In  doing  this,  he  did  not  reject  the 
Koran,  but  sought  to  introduce  a  purer 
element  into  the  practice  of  its  morality. 
His  enemies  say  that  he  did  not  succeed, 
and  that  Teirshiha,  which  was  the  head- 
quarters of  the  sect,  was  a  notoriously  ill- 
conducted  place.  As  the  cadi  was  an 
orthodox  Moslem,  I  had  not  much  chance 
of  learning  the  exact  state  of  the  case 
from  him :  indeed  the  sict  has  dwindled 
to  a  condition  of  such  insignificance,  as 
to  be  no  longer  a  subject  of  much  inter- 
est. 

On  a  rocky  hill  which  commands  the 
village,  and  forms  a  most  picturesque  ob- 
ject from  it,  is  a  well  surrounded  by 
tombs  and  dedicated  to  the  sheikh  Ku- 
weis.  The  principal  mosque  was  built  by 
the  famous  Abdallah  Pasha  when  he  held 
his  semi-independent  and  autocratic  court 
at  Acre,  and  is  a  handsome  building,  far 
superior  to  the  ordinarv  constructions  of 
this  character.  The  Christians  occupy 
their  own  quarters;  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  families,  they  are  all  non- 
United  Greeks. 

I  called  upon  the  priest,  who  showed 
me  over  his  church,  and  seemed  a  man 
above  the  average  intelligence.  He,  too, 
spoke  in  the  highest  terms  of  mine  host 
the  cadi  —  who  was,  in  fact,  an  Oriental 
gentleman  in  the  fullest  acceptation  of  the 
term.  Teirshiha,  which  stands  about 
two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  would 
be  a  charming  summer  resort  were  it  not 


6o8 


LETTERS  FROM  GALILEE. 


for  the  scarcity  of  water,  which  is  all  sap- 
plied  by  cisterns.  The  principal  pool  or 
dirket  which  furnishes  the  cattle  with 
water  is  circular  in  forro,  and  depends  en<- 
tirely  on  the  clouds  for  its  supply.  Nev- 
ertheless, there  are  fine  gardens  and 
magnificent  olive-groves  round  the  town, 
which  is  altogether  one  of  the  pleasantest 
I  have  seen  in  this  part  of  the  country.  It 
seems  to  have  no  Biblical  significance, 
and  must  have  been  a  frontier  town  on  the 
north-western  border  of  Galilee. 

From  Teirshiha  we  followed  a  path  in 
a  south-westerly  direction  down  one  of  the 
most  beautifully  wooded  wadUs  I  have 
seen  in  Palestine,  passing  the  ruins  — 
which  are  in  a  tolerably  fair  state  of  pres- 
ervation —  of  Kulat  Jiddin,  built  by  Daher 
el  Amr  during  his  insurrection  against  the 
Turkish  power,  about  one  hundred  and 
forty  years  ago.  Prior  to  this,  there  can 
be  little  doubt  that  it  was  a  crusading  for- 
tress; and  the  monk  Bouchard  says  that 
it  formerly  belonged  to  the  Teutonic 
Order,  but  was  in  his  time  destroyed. 
Magazines  and  cisterns  were  hewn  out  of 
the  solid  rock,  and  vaults  similar  to  those 
at  Athens  suggest  the  same  style  of  archi- 
tecture. 

Altogether,  these  ruins  would  repay  a 
thorough  examination ;  but  I  had  not  time 
to  linger  on  my  way,  and  was  glad  to  take 
refuge  from  the  midday  heat  at  a  palace 
which  was  built  in  the  beautiful  £1  Bahjet 
gardens,  about  two  miles  from  Acre,  by 
Abdallah  Pasha,  and  which  has  since  be- 
come the  property  of  a  rich  Syrian.  The 
immense  lank  here  —  raised  above  the 
level  of  the  surrounding  garden,  about 
eighty  yards  long  by  fifty  wide,  filled  ivith 
the  crystal  water  from  the  aqueduct  which 
supplies  Acre  from  the  fountains  of  £1 
Kabry  —  is  the  most  striking  feature,  and 
illustrates  the  magnificent  scale  upon 
which  the  pasha's  ideas  were  propor- 
tioned. Streams  gushing  from  this  im- 
mense reservoir  irrigate  the  garden  in 
every  direction ;  and  a  grove  of  huge 
snoba  trees,  which  ;are  visible  for  miles 
from  all  the  country  round,  cast  an  impen- 
etrable shade,  which  even  in  the  hottest 
days  affords  a  cool  retreat  by  the  side  of 
the  little  purling  rill  which  runs  beneath 
them  for  the  enjoyment  of  kaif.  Orange, 
jasmine,  and  many  other  fragrant  plants, 
impregnate  the  air  with  their  delightful 
odors ;  and  the  enchantment  of  an  ideal 
orientalism  clings  to  a  spot  which  must 
have  been,  in  its  palmy  days,  a  grateful 
resort  from  the  confined  atmosphere  of 
Acre. 

It  now  wears  a  somewhat  mournful  as- 


pect of  decay,  as  the  present  proprietor^ 
who  picked  up  the  handsome  palace  and 
its  gardens  some  vears  ago  for  a  a  sum 
equal  to  about  ^700,  does  not  seem  to 
care  to  spend  the  large  amount  annually 
which  would  be  necessary  to  keep  it  in 
repair.  It  has,  moreover,  an  unenviable 
notoriety  on  the  score  of  health,  and  is 
said  to  be  feverish.  It  afforded  us,  nev- 
ertheless, a  most  agreeable  rest  before  we 
pushed  on  for  another  half-hour  across 
the  sultry  plain,  at  a  small  village  on 
which,  called  Menshiya,  I  found  a  solitary 
Jewish  familyjengaged  in  agriculture.  The 
liandsome  aqueduct  which  we  now  follow 
is  one  of  the  few  public  works  constructed 
under  Moslem  rule  which  really  reflects 
credit  upon  it;  and  if  the  inhabitants  of 
Acre  are  unfortunate  in  many  other  re- 
spects, they  can  at  least  boast  an  unlim- 
ited supply  of  this  luxury,  —  for  I  know 
no  other  town  in  Palestine  so  highly  char- 
acteristic and  picturesque  to  look  at,  and 
so  unpleasant  to  live  in,  as  this  celebrated 
fortress.  One  is  jostled  in  its  bazaars  by 
a  motley  crowd  of  Bedouins  fresh  from 
the  deserts  and  plains  of  the  Hauran :  of 
Druses,  from  the  villages  of  the  neighbor- 
ing northern  mountains;  of  Metawaks, 
from  the  Belad  Beschara;  of  Persians, 
attracted  hither  by  their  prophet,  the  pres- 
ent head  of  the  Hab  sect,  who  has  made 
Acre  his  residence;  of  ordinary  fellahin. 
Christian  and  Mosjem ;  of  Turkish  sol- 
diers, who  form  its.  garrison ;  and  of  the 
better  class  of  Syrians  and  Levantines  of 
mixed  European  blood,  who  come  here  to 
trade.  Although  it  is  built  on  a  promon- 
tory which  projects  out  into  the  sea,  the 
high  walls  of  the  fortifications  impede  the 
free  circulation  of  air ;  and  the  absence  of 
all  drainage,  the  overcrowding  of  the  pop- 
ulation, and  the  marshy  plains  behind,  all 
contribute  to  render  Acre  unhealthy.  As 
it  is  the  residence  of  a  tnutessarif^  or 
governor  of  the  province,  it  is,  however, 
favored  by  the  governmental  the  expense 
of  Haifa,  its  rival,  which  possesses  all  the 
advantages  of  coolness,  good  harbor  ac« 
commodation,  and  general  salubrity,  which 
it  lacks. 

•From  a  historical  point  of  view.  Acre 
is  excelled  in  interest  by  no  other  city  in 
the  world.  At  the  lowest  computation,  it 
has  stood  fifteen  sieges  since  it  fell  to  the 
lot  of  Asher,  when  the  Israelites  took  pos- 
session of  the  country  under  Joshua;  and, 
as  we  read  in  the  Bible,  he  failed  "  to  drive 
them  out."  After  the  dismemberment  of 
the  Macedonian  empire,  its  proximity  to 
the  frontier  of  Syria  made  it  an  object  of 
frequent  contention.    Then  it  fell  to  the 


LETTERS   FROM  GALILEE. 


tot  of  Egypt,  and  was  called  Ptolemais, 
after  Ptolemy  Soter.  After  that  it  was 
besieged,  either  successfully  or  unsuccess- 
fully, by  Antiochus  the  Great,  by  Simon 
Maccabeus,  by  Alexander  Jannaus,  by 
Cleopatra,  by  Tigranes,  king  of  Armenia, 
by  the  Arabs  in  638,  by  Baldwin  the  Cru- 
sader, by  Saladin  the  Saracen,  by  Guy  de 
Lusignan,  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  and 
Philip  of  France,  after  a  two  years'  siege, 
and  a  loss  of  sixty  thousand  Christians ; 
by  the  sultan  Bibars;  by  the  sultan  Me- 
lek  el  Ashraf;  by  Napoleon  Buonaparte; 
by  Ibrahim  Pasha  of  Egypt;  and  finally  it 
was  bombarded  and  taken  in  1840  by  the 
combined  fleets  of  England,  Turkey,  and 
Austria. 

Considering  the  present  state  of  its  for- 
tifications and  the  appliances  of  modern 
warfare,  it  is  not  likely  the  next  time, 
probably  not  very  remote,  when  the  gar- 
rison of  Acre  are  called  upon  to  defend 
themselves,  that  they  will  offer  any  very 
formidable  resistance ;  but  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  wander  over  its  ramparts,  such  as 
they  are,  and  not  to  feel  impressed  by  a 
retrospect  which  concentrates  a  series  of 
events  so  stirring  upon  this  single  spot. 
Besides  the  tragedies  incidental  to  the 
constant  vicissitudes  of  warfare  of  which 
Acre  has  been  the  victim,  it  has  upon 
more  than  one  occasion  been  the  scene  of 
acts  of  atrocity  almost  unparalleled  in  the 
history  of  the  race.  A  little  more  than  a 
hundred  years  ago  it  was  governed  by  a 
fiend  in  human  shape  called  Jezzar  Pasha, 
who  committed  many  acts  of  atrocity  — 
such  as  putting  out  people*s  eyes,  cutting 
of!  their  ears,  and  occasionally  their 
heads,  with  his  own  hand ;  but  he  ex- 
celled himself  when,  upon  one  occasion, 
having  cause  to  suspect  the  fidelity  of  one 
of  the  ladies  of  his  harem,  he  had  them 
all  into  his  presence,  and  with  his  own 
hand  cut  oft  the  heads  of  his  favorite 
wives.  When  he  grew  tired,  he  called  in 
his  Mamelukes  to  complete  the  job  of  the 
slaughter  of  his  harem.  The  lowest  num- 
ber given  of  women  murdered  in  his 
presence  on  that  day  was  fifteen,  but  it 
probably  exceeded  this  estimate.  On  the 
occasion  of  the  relief  of  Acre  by  Sir  Sid- 
ney Smith,  when  Napoleon  had  attacked 
the  place,  this  man  was  perforce  our  ally. 
Like  many  other  ruffians,  he  has  suc- 
ceeded in  handing  his  name  down  to  pos- 
terity in  connection  with  a  pious  founda- 
tion ;  and  the  great'  mosque  of  Jezzar 
Pasha  is  one  of  the  handsomest  buildings 
of  the  kind  in  Palestine.  It  stands  in  a 
large  rectangular  area,  within  which  are 
vaulted   galleries   supported   by  ancient 

UVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV«  2275 


609 

columns,  ornamented  by  capitals,  and 
brought  from  the  ruins  of  Tyre  and  Cas- 
area.  Along  these  galleries  have  been 
built  cells  destined  for  the  people  em- 
ployed at  the  mosque,  or  the  pilgrims  who 
visit  it.  They  surround  a  magnificent 
court,  under  which  are  cisterns,  and  upon 
whicli  are  palms,  cypress,  and  other  trees. 
Among  them  are  white  marble  tombs, 
notably  those  of  Jezzar  and  Soli  man  Pa- 
sha. Besides  this  mosque,  there  is  a 
khan  near  the  port  also  called  after  Jez- 
zar Pasha,  with  galleries  surrounding  it, 
built  on  pillars  in  grey  or  red  granite, 
covered  by  capitals  of  different  orders, 
and  brought  away  from  the  more  ancient 
monuments.  Indeed  the  fortifications 
and  public  buildings  of  Acre  have  much 
to  answer  for.  In  order  to  repair  the 
damage  of  successive  sieges,  the  magnif- 
icent remains  of  C^esarea,  Athlit,  Tyre, 
and  Sidon  have  been  despoiled ;  and  ruins 
which,  had  they  been  left  intact,  would 
have  been  of  the  highest  picturesque  and 
antiquarian  interest,  have  even  in  our  day 
been  rifled  of  all  the  columns  and  carved 
work  which  formed  their  beauty.  Athlit, 
which  at  the  commencement  of  this  cen- 
tury was  one  of  the  finest  ruins  in  Pales- 
tine, has  notably  suffered  in  this  respect, 
—  that  fortress  having  been  a  perfect 
specimen  of  Crusading  architecture  up  to 
the  years  1836-1840,  when  it  was  almost 
completely  demolished  by  Ibrahim  Pasha, 
who  rebuilt  a  whole  line  of  fortification  at 
Acre  with  the  stone  thus  obtained.  It 
was  on  this  line  of  fortification  that  one 
of  the  shells  from  our  fleet  exploded  the 
magazine,  killing  (sixteen  hundred  men, 
thirty  camels,  fifty  asses,  twelve  cows  and 
horses,  and  destroying  a  vast  quantity  of 
arms  and  ammunition. 

The  Turkish  government  prohibits  the 
extension  of  the  town  outside  the  walls, 
for  fear  of  interfering  with  the  fortifica- 
tions, on  which  are  mounted  some  two 
hundred  and  fifty  old-fashioned  guns. . 
But,  in  spite  of  the  labor  which  its  suc- 
cessive rulers  have  expended  upon  its 
defence,  in  the  event  of  a  siege  the  for- 
tress would  be  a  mere  trap  for  the  unfor- 
tunate garrison.  With  a  curious  and 
characteristic  inconsistency,  the  prosper- 
ity of  Acre,  which  must  inevitably  decline 
before  the  superior  advantages  of  Haifa, 
is  sought  to  be  secured  by  making  it  the 
terminus  of  the  new  railway,  for  which 
the  firman  has  been  granted  to  Damascus, 
and  which  contains  a  privilege  to  the  cori' 
cessionnaires  for  the  reconstruction  of  the 
port,  —  a  privilege  which,  in  the  face  of 
the  restrictions  placed  on  the  extension 


] 


6io 


LETTERS   FROM   GALILEE. 


of  the  town,  and  the  small  available  area 
for  a  port,  will  never  be  taken  advantage 
of.  The  size  of  the  old  port,  which  is 
incapable  of  extension,  is  three  hundred 
and  fifty  yards  by  about  two  hundred  and 
fifty,  with  an  average  depth  of  three  feet; 
so  that,  after  expensive  dredging,  it  would 
be  too  small  to  be  of  much  use :  while 
the  extreme  area  of  the  town  within  the 
boundary  of  the  outer  wall,  upon  which 
nine  thousand  people  are  crowded,  is  only 
fifty  acres. 

Under  these  circumstances,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  the  natural  outlet  for  the 
trade  of  all  this  part  of  the  country  must 
ultimately  be  Haifa,  to  which  port  I  now 
returned  after  a  tour  through  the  mutessa- 
riflik,  of  which  Acre  is  the  capital.  I 
had  arrived  at  the  following  results  re- 
garding the  present  condition  of  Jewish 
agriculture  in  this  one  province  of  Pales- 
tine alone,  which  may  do  something  to 
dispel  the  popular  impression  that  no 
Jews  are  engaged  at  present  in  that  coun- 
try in  agricultural  pursuits  —  that  the  lo- 
cal conditions  are  unfavorable  to  agricul- 
tural enterprise  on  account  of  its  insecurity 
—  and  that,  even  if  they  were  not,  the 
Jews  as  a  race  would  never  be  induced  to 
apply  themselves  to  it.  Of  native  Jews, 
not  recent  emigrants,  there  are  at  least 
forty  families  —  there  may  be  more  — 
who  live  by  agriculture.  Besides  these, 
there  are  about  a  hundred  able-bodied 
men  among  the  population  of  Safed  who 
work  as  farm-laborers  for  hire.  And 
there  are  over  ninety  families  of  Russian 
and  Roumanian  refugees  who  have  estab- 
lished themselves  in  colonies  within  the 
last  year,  and  are  actively  engaged  in  till- 
ing the  soil,  —  making  a  total  of  about  a 
thousand  souls  who  are  supporting  them- 
selves by  their  labors  on  the  soil,  and  this 
in  spite  of  the  most  strenuous  opposition 
on  the  part  of  the  Turkish  government 
and  its  officials.  This  is  exclusive  of  all 
the  rest  of  Palestine. 

The  danger  is  not  so  much  from  Be- 
douin Arabs  —  who,  so  far  as  I  know, 
have  never  yet  disturbed  any  of  these 
Jewish  agriculturists  —  as  from  the  native 
authorities,  and  a  want,  not  of  persever- 
ance or  agricultural  aptitude,  but  of  dis- 
cipline and  harmony  among  the  Jews 
themselves.  The  colony  of  Summarin 
especially  is  a  notable  instance  of  an  un- 
necessary waste  of  funds,  all  of  which 
have  been  subscribed  by  Jews  themselves, 
owing  to  mismanagement  on  the  part  of 
the  central  organising  committee,  and  a 
want  of  harmony  on  the  part  of  the  colo- 
nists.   Upwards  of  two  hundred  thousand 


francs  have  already  been  spent  on  this 
colony,  which  has  in  it  every  element  of 
success,  and  upon  which  the  colonists 
have  been  working  indefatigably ;  but  a 
far  greater  number  of  families  have  been 
sent  out  than  the  amount  of  land  pur- 
chased could  support,  and  the  money  has 
been  spent  so  injudiciously,  that  the  col- 
onists must  undergo  privations  before 
they  have  sold  their  first  crop,  which 
might  have  been  avoided ;  and  indeed, 
unless  some  charitable  persons  will  come 
forward  to  purchase  more  land  for  the 
surplus  families  — and  a  good  tract  may 
be  bought  in  the  neighborhood  —  it  is  dit- 
ficult  to  see  how  the  means  of  subsistence 
are  to  be  provided.  But  this  fact  does 
not  prove  either  the  insecurity  of  the 
country  or  the  agricultural  incapacity  of 
the  colonists.  It  only  proves  that  igno- 
rance and  organizing  incapacity  on  the 
part  of  the  committee  in  Europe,  the  op- 
position of  the  government  and  officials, 
and  the  absence  of  any  sympathizing  pro- 
tection and  support  on  the  part  of  co- 
religionists in  the  West,  who  might  have 
afiForded  it,  hav»  formed  a  combination  of 
adverse  circumstances  against  which  the 
colonists,  in  the  absence  of  any  leading, 
directing  spirit,  were  unable  successfully 
to  struggle*  The  experience  of  the  colony 
near  Sated  tells  a  very  different  tale,  and 
bids  fair  to  afford  an  illustration  of  the 
fact,  that  in  spite  of  all  the  difficulties 
with  which  they  had  to  contend,  the  prob- 
lem of  Jewish  colonization  in  Palestine  is 
by  no  means  insoluble ;  and  that  it  needs 
only  a  wise  and  skilful  direction,  a  firm 
hand,  and  the  necessary  protection  against 
injustice  and  the  infraction  of  treaty 
rights  by  the  Turkish  government,  to  en- 
sure success. 

Meantime  the  experiments  which  have 
been  made  in  this  direction  have  already 
done  much  to  dispel  the  class  of  objec- 
tions based  on  the  insecurity  of  the  coun- 
try owing  to  Arab  raids,  its  insalubrity, 
the  impossibility  of  competing  with  the 
natives,  and  the  inherent  incapacity  of  the 
Jew  for  field  labor.  It  may  now  be  taken 
as  satisfactorily  demonstrated  that  fertile 
tracts  are  to  be  found  in  high  and  health v 
localities,  absolutely  secure  from  Arao 
incursion ;  and  that  the  fellahin  are  no- 
where hostile  to  the  colonists,  but  are,  on 
the  contrary,  anxious  and  willing  to  co- 
operate with  them  where  they  see  a  profit 
in  so  doing,  and  that  native  competition 
is  not  therefore  to  be  feared.  Difficulties 
and  obstacles,  as  I  have  shown,  do  exist, 
but  they  are  not  those  urged  by  the  oppo- 
nents of  the  scheme ;  and  they  are  oooe 


THE   DOUBLE   GHOST  WE   SAW  IN  GALICIA. 


6ix 


of  them  of  a  nature  which  might  not 
easily  be  overcome,  were  an  influential 
portion  of  the  British  public,  whether  Jew 
or  Christian,  interested  in  promoting  an 
emigration  which  should  meet  not  merely 
an  existing  social  difficulty  in  Russia, 
Roumania,  and  the  anti-Semitic  countries 
of  Europe,  but  be  the  first  step  towards 
the  solution  of  a  political  problem  of  the 
highest  importance,  which  is  certain  to 
arise  as  soon  as  the  Eastern  question  is 
again  reopened,  and  the  destiny  of  Pales- 
tine in  relation  to  that  question  comes  up 
for  consideration  by  the  nations  of  Eu- 
rope whose  interests  it  most  closely  af- 
fects. 


From  B1ackwoo<Ps  Majcazine. 
THE  DOUBLE  GHOST  WE  SAW  IN  GALICIA. 

It  was  in  the  depth  of  winter  when  I, 
then  residing  in  the  north-east  of  Hungarv, 
received  a  letter  of  invitation  from  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  asking  me  to  pay  him  a 
visit  in  Galicia,  with  the  view  of  helping 
him  in  some  matters  of  business. 

We  were  Englishmen,  both  of  us  —  had 
been  schoolfellows  together  at  Westmins- 
ter ;  but  in  direct  opposition  to  the  classi- 
cal teaching  of  our  school,  Walters  and  I 
had  developed  a  strong  taste  for  physical 
science.  Finally,  after  wasting  much  val- 
uable time,  Greek  and  Latin  gave  us  up, 
and  we  were  allowed  to  devote  ourselves 
seriously  to  chemistry.  In  furtherance  of 
these  studies,  my  friend  and  I  were  to- 
gether again  at  the  German  University  of 
Marburg;  so  the  boyish  friendship  of 
early  years  was  yet  more  closely  cemented 
by  later  intimacy. 

Unfortunately,  our  studies  at  Marburg 
were  interrupted  —  in  fact,  as  far  as  we 
were  concerned,  put  an  end  to  —  by  the 
breaking  out  of  the  Franco-German  war. 
In  the  separation  which  ensued,  Walters 
and  I  had  kept  up  a  very  intermittent  and 
fitful  correspondence ;  still  we  never  lost 
sight  of  each  other  entirely,  and  had  often 
made  plans  for  meeting  — all  of  which, 
hitherto,  had  fallen  to  the  ground. 

Walters,  I  am  afraid,  had  been  casting 
about  rather  aimlessly  —  sometimes  in 
Bohemia,  sometimes  in  Russia  or  else- 
where. He  had  abandoned  the  pursuit  of 
analytical  chemistry,  and  adopted  the  pro- 
fession of  a  mining  engineer.  By  the 
death  of  his  father  a  year  ago,  he  had 
come  into  a  few  thousand  pounds  (this  he 
had  told  me  by  letter);  and  I,  in  return, 
had  cautioned   him   against  speculating 


with  the  backbone  of  his  capital.  To  this 
sage  advice  he  made  rejoinder  that  he 
was  about  to  make  a  colossal  fortune.  He 
was  engaged  in  sinking  petroleum-wells 
in  Galicia,  where  extensive  deposits  of 
this  mineral  oil  had  recently  been  discov- 
ered. But  this  was  not  all;  his  last  idea 
was  to  erect  a  refinery,  with  all  the  newest 
improvements,  for  reducing  the  crude 
petroleum.  There  were  some  points  on 
which  he  thought  my  technical  knowledge 
on  certain  matters  would  assist  him  — 
*^  Would  I  not  act  the  part  of  a  friend  and 
go  to  him,  as  the  distance  was  not  more 
than  a  day's  journey  ?  " 

It  happened  that,  owing  to  the  severe 
weather,  my  own  work  was  at  a  stand- 
still ;  so  I  wrote  at  once  to  say  he  might 

expect  me  at  C ,  his  nearest  station, 

on  the  Wednesday  following.  I  had  a 
drive  of  ten  miles  in  my  sledge  to  the  rail- 
way on  as  cold  an  evening  as  I  ever  re- 
member. My  journey  was  by  night,  for 
the  corresponding  trains  served  better, 
and  I  had  to  change  en  route, 

I  was  not  sorrv  when  at  last  the  night 
wore  away,  and  daylight  appeared  through 
the  frosty  window-panes.  At  length  our 
station  was  reached ;  and  letting  down 
the  glass,  I  thrust  my  head  out,  looking 
about  eagerly  for  Walters.  He  was  there 
all  told,  but  so  encased  in  furs  that  I 
should  not  have  been  able  to  pick  him  out 
if  he  had  not  recognized  me  (I  believe  I 
was  the  only  first-class  traveller),  and 
rushed  up  at  once  to  welcome  me  in  his 
old  hearty  manner. 

After  a  cup  of  hot  coffee,  we  set  off  in 
his  sledge,  drawn  by  a  couple  of  small 
Hungarian  horses  —  perfect  little  beauties 
—  which  took  us  like  the  wind  across  the 
plain,  over  frozen  ditches,  snow-wreathed 
hedges,  and  gullies  levelled  up  with  snow- 
drifts. 

"  This  is  our  finest  time  for  travelling," 
said  Walters,  recovering  himself,  after 
the  nearest  shave  of  an  upset.  '^  Driving 
is  delightful  under  these  circumstances," 
he  continued.  *^  You  should  see  what  our 
roads  are  when  they  are  three  feet  deep 
in  mud  or  dust ;  but  I  forget  you  know 
something  about  that  sort  of  thing  in 
Hungary." 

In  somewhat  less  than  an  hour  we  ar- 
rived at  our  destination  —  a  long,  low 
building  with  overhanging  roof,  and  a  few 
wooden  shanties  in  the  rear.  Neighbors 
there  seemed  to  be  none,  nor  had  we  seen 
a  human  being  in  all  our  drive.  The  dogs 
fi^ave  notice  of  our  approach  ;  and  at  the 
instant  we  drew  up,  a  rough-looking  ser- 
vant opened  the  door,  seized  on  my  port- 


6l2 


THE   DOUBLE  GHOST  WE  SAW  IN  GALICIA. 


manteau,  flung  it  into  the  hall,  stripped  us 
of  our  rugs,  jumped  into  Walters's  vacated 
seat,  and  before  I  had  time  to  look  round 
he  was  driving  off  to  the  stables. 

The  front  door  opened  into  a  hall,  the 
size  of  an  ordinary  room,  but  so  encum- 
bered with  miscellaneous  articles  that  one 
had  to  navigate  through  the  lumber.  The 
kitchen  was  to  the  right.  I  had  a  glimpse 
of  its  smoky  interior,  and  a  consummately 
ugly  old  hag  presiding  over  the  fire  and 
slewpans. 

**  Follow  me  this  way,"  said  Walters, 
pushing  'open  a  door  on  the  other  side, 
which  gave  us  admittance  to  a  living-room 
6i  cosmopolitan  character ;  odds  and  ends 
from  everywhere,  with  "heaven's  first 
law"  conspicuous  from  its  absence. 
"There's  your  bedroom  beyond,"  he 
added,  pointing  to  a  farther  apartment.  I 
found  out  later  that  this  was  my  friend's 
own  room,  which  he  made  over  to  me  for 
the  time  being  —  sleeping  himself  in  an 
odd  corner  under  the  roof. 

A  table  spread  for  breakfast  in  the  sit- 
ting-room was  a  welcome  sight,  for  I  was 
as  ravenous  as  a  wolf ;  and  we  shortly  sat 
down  to  a  very  decently  cooked  meal. 

"You  see  I  am  roughing  it  here  at 
present ;  but  the  next  time  you  come  and 
see  me,  I  expect  to  be  able  to  offer  you 
very  different  accommodation.  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  Henderson,  I  have  hit  on  a 
good  thing  at  last  —  sure  to  make  a  for- 
tune; indeed  I  do  not  see  why  it  should 
not  be  a  gigantic  fortune." 

"  Glad  to  hear  that  you  think  so  well  of 
the  affair ;  but  explain  your  project  more 
fully,  will  you,  old  fellow  ?  " 

He  then  proceeded  to  tell  me  that  vast 
deposits  of  earth-wax  existed  in  Galicia, 
equal  in  quality  to  similar  deposits  in 
Pennsylvania.  The  fact  had  been  known 
some  time  —  indeed  the  peasants  had 
long  used  the  ozokerite  for  greasing  their 
cart-wheels;  but  its  commercial  impor- 
tance had  only  lately  been  realized. 
Crowds  were  flocking  to  the  district  from 
all  parts,  mostly  poor,  ignorant  people, 
who  were  utterly  without  adequate  knowl- 
edge. But  even  in  this  haphazard  sort  of 
way,  the  wells  that  had  been  sunk  gave 
enormous  yields  of  petroleum.  Walters 
proposed  setting  up  a  refinery  for  treating 
the  crude  petroleum  in  a  practically  sci- 
entific manner,  and  it  was  about  this  busi- 
ness generally  that  he  wanted  my  advice. 
The  notion  was  a  good  one,  I  would  not 
deny  it;  but  with  my  less  sanguine  tem- 
perament 1  saw  certain  difficulties  in  the 
way  —  or,  as  Walters  put  it,  I  made  lions 
in  the  path. 


We  spent  the  best  part  of  the  morning 
looking  over  plans  and  discussing  the  gen- 
eral bearings  of  the  question.  Walters 
promised  he  would  drive  me  over  some 
day  to  see  the  district  where  the  great- 
est number  of  pits  had  been  sunk.  "  The 
place  is  called  Na  Przedzie,  or  the  *  New 
World ; '  and,"  said  he,  "  I  do  not  think  in 
the  habitable  globe  there  is  a  place  that 
can  compete  with  it  for  dirt  and  disorder. 
The  very  scum  of  creation  are  gathered 
here,  all  trying  to  make  money  as  fast  as 
they  can.  An  ethnologist  would  have  a 
good  opportunity  of  taking  notes.  There 
are  Semitic  and  Slavonic  types  by  the 
score,  to  say  nothing  of  Magyars,  Arme- 
nians, Turks,  Greeks*  and  gipsies,  —  all 
cursing,  swearing,  bargaining,  and  scream- 
ing, every  one  in  their  own  lingo.  The 
smell  of  petroleum  and  garlic  will  fix  that 
place  in  your  memory,  I  guess." 

At  this  moment  a  letter  was  brought  to 
Walters.  I  thought  when  he  saw  the 
handwriting  he  looked  surprised  ;  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  read  the  few  words  it  con- 
tained, he  said,  "  1  And  I  have  to  drive 
about  six  miles  to  meet  some  one  on  busi- 
ness —  now,  directly.  Are  you  too  tired 
to  go  with  me  ?    Do  what  you  like." 

"Oh,  I'm  up  for  going;  give  me  five 
minutes,  and  I'm  your  man,"  —  and  so 
saying,  I  went  off  to  my  bedroom. 

I  CIO  not  think  the  five  minutes  could 
have  elapsed  before  Walters  was  knock- 
ing at  the  door  to  ask  if  I  was  not  ready. 
He  always  was  the  most  impatient  animal 
in  creation. 

In  our  drive  we  passed  several  groups 
of  modern  shanties,  erected  near  petro- 
leum-pits, where  there  was  also  evidence 
of  working  machinery  of  a  rough-and- 
ready  sort.  Finally,  we  came  to  a  hamlet, 
or  straggling  village,  evidently  of  pre- 
ozokerite  times ;  the  last  house  was  an 
inn  —  a  building  of  considerable  size,  with 
several  workshops  under  the  same  roof, 
as  I  discovered  later.  We  drove  through 
an  arched  entrance  into  an  interior  court, 
round  three  sides  of  which  ran  a  rather 
picturesque  raised  gallery  with  open  bal- 
ustrades. 

There  were  several  nondescript  vehicles 
about,  but  amongst  them  I  observed  a 
well-appointed  sledge  and  nice  little  pair 
of  grey  horses. 

"  Henderson,  do  you  mind  waiting  a 
few  minutes  while  I  speak  to  some  one  in 
here.?"  He  threw  me  the  reins,  jumped 
out,  and  running  up  the  few  steps  to  the 
raised  gallery,  disappeared  in  a  doorway, 
over  which  was  the  sign  of  a  bear.  These 
sort  of  signboards  indicate  a  druggist's 


THE    DOUBLE   GHOST   WE   SAW    IN   GALICIA. 


shop  generally  in  eastern  Europe ;  a  lion 
or  a  bear  is  usually  the  animal  selected  as 
the  presiding  genius. 

I  got  tired  of  sitting  in  the  sledge ;  so, 
beckoning  some  one  to  hold  the  horses,  I 
amused  myself  with  peering  about  the 
quaint  old  place.  Nobody  took  any  notice 
of  me,  though  there  were  lots  of  people 
about.  A  woman  carried  a  screaming 
turkey,  head  downwards,  across  the  yard, 
in  the  brutal  fashion  of  these  parts;  and 
a  man  took  the  reeking  carcass  of  a  newly 
killed  calf  also  into  the  kitchen.  A  cou- 
ple of  fellows  were  sawing  up  wood,  and 
then  chopping  it  into  small  billets ;  they 
stopped  their  work  to  drive  away  the  dogs 
from  a  gipsy  woman  who  had  just  entered 
the  court.  The  dogs  always  bark  furi- 
ously at  gipsies,  no  matter  how  often  they 
see  the  same  individual  frequent  the  place. 
The  gipsies  are  realJy  the  parcel-carriers 
of  the  country,  but  the  canine  guardians 
of  the  house  can  never  tolerate  them. 
Under  the  archway  a  group  of  wild-look- 
ing Russniacks  had  squatted  on  the 
ground :  they  wore  sheep-skin  cloaks, 
leather  thongs  on  their  feet  in  the  place 
of  shoes,  and  each  man  had  his  formid- 
able axe-headed  staff.  One  of  their  num- 
ber, doffing  his  large  slouch  hat,  had 
entered  the  kitchen  to  buy  some  bread 
and  a  bottle  of  slivovitz.  These  people 
are  on  the  lowest  rung  of  the  social 
scale,  and  would  not  think  of  seating 
themselves  in  the  common  room  of  the 
inn.  While  I  was  drinking  my  glass  of 
coffee  and  cognac,  a  couple  of  red-haired, 
florid-complexioned  Jews  entered  asking 
for  dinner,  which  was  served  them  at  a 
small  table  apart.  These  red  Jews  are 
a  very  peculiar  type,  and  are  not  unfre- 
quent  both  in  Galicia  and  Hungary:  they 
are  unmistakably  Semitic,  not  for  a  mo- 
ment to  be  confounded  with  the  fair- 
haired  Slavonic  people. 

It  was  all  very  well  studying  varieties 
of  the  human  race  in  a  stifling  atmosphere 
of  smoke  and  garlic,  amidst  abominations 
of  dirt  and  disorder;  but  I  began  to  won- 
der what  had  become  of  Walters.  His 
few  minutes  meant  more  than  half  an 
hour.  I  paid  my  reckoning,  and  went  off 
to  look  for  him  at  the  sign  of  the  bear. 
The  outer  door  of  the  shop  stood  half 
open,  and  entering,  I  found  an  old  man 
behind  the  counter,  spectacles  on  nose, 
red  cap  on  head,  weighing  out  drugs  for  a 
small,  fairy -looking  child,  whose  wonder- 
ing eyes  were  fixed  on  the  operations  of 
the  old  alchemist.  It  was  not  till  my 
sight  became  accustomed  to  the  ill-light- 
ed place    that  I  saw  two  people  at  the 


613 

farther  end  of  the  long,  low  room,  seated 
at  the  table,  on  which  were  some  papers 
and  writing  materials. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are.  I  was  just  coming 
to  fetch  you,"  cried  Walters,  jumping  up 
from  his  seat  and  advancing  towards  me. 
At  the  same  time,  the  female  figure  oppo- 
site to  him  rose  from  her  chair  and  turned 
my  way.  Owing  to  the  darkness,  I  could 
only  make  out  the  fact  that  Walter's  com- 
panion was  certainly  not  one  of  the  sterner 
sex. 

'*  A  nice  little  game  you  have  been  play- 
ing me,"  I  returned,  speaking  in  English, 
which  I  concluded  would  be  unintelligible 
to  the  young  woman  —  "a  nice  little  game 
truly,  keeping  your  friend  waiting  in  the 
colcf,  while  vou  were  amusing  yourself 
with  one  of  the  damsels  of  the  country.*' 

"  Henderson,  you  don*t  understand," 
said  Walters,  speaking  very  quickly  and 
in  some  confusion.  **The  Countess  Ku- 
binsky  desires  me  to  present  you  to  her. 
Madam,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  lady 
and  bowing  ceremoniously,  **  allow  me  to 
introduce  the  English  friend  of  whom  I 
was  just  speaking  —  Mr.  Henderson." 

He  spoke  in  English ;  and  the  lady, 
who  also  greeted  me  in  my  own  tongue, 
came  forward,  looking  not  a  little  amused 
at  my  discomfiture.  She  was  quite  young, 
and  exceedingly  handsome  —  it  was  light 
enough  for  me  now ;  and  she  spoke  in  a 
sweet  musical  voice  that  would  have 
knocked  one  over  in  the  dark. 

"  You  must  not  judge  our  poor  country 
in  this  severe  time  of  winter,  but  you 
must  see  how  well  the  landscape  can 
smile  in  summer,"  she  said,  in  reference 
to  my  being  a  stranger  to  this  part  of  the 
world. 

We  talked  a  little  about  ordinary  sub- 
jects ;  and  then  the  countess  collected  to- 
gether the  papers  which  lay  scattered  on 
the  table,  and  turning  to  Walters,  she 
said,  "  I  f  it  can  be  possible,  the  count  shall 
be  made  to  see  the  good  chances  of  this 
affair;  I  will  write  to  you  of  my  efforts. 
Now,  gentlemen,  I  must  go,  be  so  kind  as 
to  order  my  sledge." 

Walters  departed  to  obey  her  request ; 
and  I  was  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes 
with  this  very  charming  lady.  I  wished 
heartily  that  the  business  could  have  de- 
tained her  half  an  hour.  I  would  have 
discussed  anything  under  the  sun  to  elicit 
replies  from  that  soft  musical  voice,  with 
its  lisping  words  of  broken  English. 

Waiters  was  back  again  to  announce 
that  the  coachman  was  ready,  before  I  had 
had  any  time  at  all  with  the  pretty  coun- 
tess. 


6i4 


THE   DOUBLE   GHOST  WE   SAW   IN   GALICIA. 


\ 


"  Mr.  HendersoD,  I  hope  you  shall  pay 
us  a  visit  at  our  castle  before  you  leave 
this  country,"  she  said,  looking  up  in  my 
face,  while  Walters  was  placing  her  fur 
cloak  round  her  shoulders. 

Of  course  I  made  all  proper  and  civil 
speeches  in  answer  to  her  hospitable 
wish.  The  next  moment  she  was  seated 
in  the  open  sledge,  —  and  waving  her  hand 
in  adieu,  as  the  impatient  horses  dashed 
through  the  archway,  we  saw  no  more. 

"Now  we  must  be  ofiF,  Henderson;  I 
have  some  people  to  see  before  nightfall,*' 
said  Walters,  speaking  as  if  I  had  been 
keeping  him,  forsooth  ! 

When  we  emerged  through  the  arch- 
way, we  could  only  see  the  countess's 
sledge  appearing  like  a  dark  speck  on  the 
white  snow-track.  We  turned  the  other 
way,  and  were  soon  going  across  country 
at  our  usual  dashing  speed. 

**  Now  tell  me  all  about  your  lovely  and 
mysterious  countess."  I  had  hardly  ad- 
dressed these  words  to  my  friend,  when 
over  went  the  sledge,  tumbling  us  down 
into  a  ditch  eight  or  ten  feet  deep.  The 
horses  had  only  stumbled  in  a  soft  snow- 
drift, and  were  all  right,  and  stood  per- 
fectly still,  while  we  picked  ourselves  up 
and  righted  the  sledge. 

"  These  sort  of  mishaps  are  all  in  the 
day's  work,"  said  Walters,  as  soon  as  we 
were  comfortably  seated  again. 

"  But  you  were  just  going  to  tell  me 
something  about  the  mysterious  coun- 
tess, when  we  had  the  upset,  —  tell  me 


i> 


now. 

"  There  is  no  mystery,"  replied  Wal- 
ters, rather  drily.  **  Her  husband  is  a 
landowner  in  the  neighborhood.  He  is  in 
money  difficulties,  like  most  of  the  nobles 
of  this  country.  He  might  improve  mat- 
ters if  he  put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel; 
but  he  is  proud,  profligate,  and  obstinate. 
The  countess,  poor  woman,  would  gladly 
see  their  affairs  improved.  The  petroleum 
find  gives  him  a  chance  —  if  he  has  still 
any  control  over  his  property.  But,  from 
what  I  have  learned  to-day,  I  strongly 
suspect  he  is  completely  in  the  hands  of 
his  mortgagee ;  and  his  obstinacy  is  per- 
haps only  a  cloak  to  disguise  the  real  state 
of  his  affairs.  Like  many  Polish  ladies, 
the  countess  is  the  better  man  of  business ; 
it  is  a  pity  she  has  not  more  under  her 
control.  Chance  circumstances  made  us 
acquainted,  and  I  have  it  in  my  power  to 
offer  her  useful  advice  and  some  assis- 
tance." 

**  Very  kind  of  you,  Walters,  seeing 
what  sort  of  man  the  count  is  ;  but  virtue 
is  its  own  reward." 


"  I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  the 
countess,"  he  replied  curtly. 

"  I  wish  I  had  the  opportunity  of  greatly 
respecting  such  a  lovely  countess,"  said 
I,  laughing. 

"  Do  you  see  that  ridge  yonder,  crowned 
with  fir-trees?"  said  Walters,  pointing 
with  his  whip.  "Well,  I  am  going  over 
there  to  look  up  an  exploring  party,  who 
have  chanced  upon  some  old  pits,  per- 
haps the  earliest  that  were  struck  in  this 
part  of  the  world.  I  may  perhaps  join 
them  in  buying  up  the  patch  of  ground, 
which  I  hear  is  going  cheap.  I  have  had 
my  eye  on  the  place  for  some  time.  I 
like  the  neighborhood  of  the  pine-trees. 
It  has  come  to  be  remarked  that  where 
the  hills  are  covered  with  pine  forests, 
the  subsoil  is  impregnated  with  earth-oil." 

"  That  is  an  interesting  fact,  if  true. 
Has  your  experience  led  you  to  endorse 
it?" 

"Yes,  certainly;  and  I  fancy  the  Jews, 
than  whom  no  people  are  more  keen- 
sighted,  regard  the  fir  forests  as  indicative 
of  petroleum.  There  is  a  Jewish  com- 
pany who  have  bought  up  a  whole  tract  of 
land,  of  little  value,  except  what  it  may 
produce  in  ozokerite.  You  remember  that 
Maria  Theresa  is  said  to  have  wept  when 
she  signed  the  secret  treaty  that  gave  her 
the  Polish  province  of  Galicia,  saying 
*she  had  prostituted  her  honor  and  her 
reputation  for  a  miserable  morsel  of  earth.' 
Not  so  miserable,  after  all." 

"  Yes,  I  remember ;  and  I  think  the  cir- 
cumstance gave  occasion  to  the  mol  of 
Frederick,  when  he  said,  *  £lle  prenait 
toujours  en  pleurant  toujours.'  " 

By  this  time  we  were  approaching  some 
wooden  shanties  that  marked  the  close 
neighborhood  of  the  pits.  As  we  came 
nearer  we  saw  an  unusual  number  of  peo- 
ple about,  all  seemingly  in  great  excite- 
ment. We  stopped  the  sledge,  when  up 
rushed  half-a-dozen  fellows^  screaming  out 
that  the  devil  had  been  seen  down  in  one 
of  the  old  pits,  and  that  he  was  coming 
up  feet  foremost.  On  inquiry,  it  appeared 
that  two  workmen  had  given  the  alarm. 
It  seems  that  they  had  been  lowered  into 
one  of  these  disused  pits,  with  the  view 
of  repairing  the  timber-work;  but  no 
sooner  had  jhey  reached  the  bottom  than 
they  signalled  to  be  pulled  up  again.  On 
reaching  the  surface  they  were  pale  as 
death,  shaking  all  over,  and  declared  they 
had  never  been  so  frightened  in  their 
lives,  for  they  had  seen  the  devil  coming 
out  of  the  ground  with  his  feet  foremost." 

"I'll  go  and  have  a  look  at  the  devil," 
said  Walters.    "  One  of  you  lend  me  your 


THE   DOUBLE   GHOST  WE   SAW   IN   GALICIA. 


canvas  suit.  And  who  will  volunteer  to 
go  with  me  ?  Here's  a  florin  for  the  first 
man  who  o£Eers  himself." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  ;  no  one  came 
forward.  Meanwhile  Walters  threw  off 
his  coat  and  put  himself  into  the  canvas 
bags,  looking  as  queer  an  object  as  one 
could  possibly  see.  I  had  at  first  pro- 
posed going  down  with  him  ;  but  he  abso- 
lutely declined  my  services,  observing 
that  I  should  probably  be  of  no  use  at  all, 
for  strangers  are  often  affected  in  a  most 
peculiar  manner  by  the  fumes  of  the  pe- 
troleum, and  became  excited  and  pugna- 
cious, losing  all  rational  control  over 
themselves.  It  would  be  all  very  well,  as 
Walters  said,  laughing,  if  the  devil  was 
really  there  for  me  to  pitch  into ;  but  sup- 
posing he  was  not,  my  superfluous  energy 
might  be  exercised  against  Walters  him- 
self. 

I  scouted  the  notion  as  simply  absurd; 
but  Walters,  for  this  or  some  other  reason 
not  avowed,  would  not  have  me,  and  go- 
ing up  to  a  young  gipsv  lad  who  was  stand- 
ing at  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  he  held 
up  the  florin  to  him,  and  asked  if  he  would 
accompany  him. 

The  gipsy  said  at  once  that  he  was  very 
ready  to  go.  He  dispensed  with  the  usual 
canvas  suit ;  merely  casting  aside  a  tora 
jacket,  he  stood  almost  nude  —  and  what 
a  model  he  would  have  been,  with  his 
shapely  limbs ! 

**The  gipsies  are  dreadful  people  — 
they  do  not  believe  in  the  devil,*'  said  a 
bystander  to  me.  "Of  course  he's  not 
afraid; "  and  the  speaker  crossed  himself, 
with  a  look  of  great  disgust  at  the  un- 
believer. 

The  kibble  was  by  this  time  duly  fixed; 
Walters  and  the  gipsy  took  their  places, 
and  were  slowly  lowered  into  the  dark, 
oozy  depths,  amid  the  breathless  excite- 
ment of  the  crowd,  which  by  this  time 
had  considerably  augmented. 

The  men  at  the  pit's  mouth  were  ready 
to  haul  up  at  the  flrst  signal ;  but  no  signal 
came.  Five,  ten,  flfteen  minutes  elapsed 
—  no  sign  from  below.  I  confess  1  got 
anxious,  fearing  the  e£Eect  of  noxious 
gases. 

**  You  see  the  devil  has  got  them  — 
they'll  never  come  to  the  surface *again," 
observed  a  woman  near  me. 

"  I  hear  sounds  from  below  quite  dis- 
tinctly," said  a  man,  who  had  thrown  him- 
self down,  and  was  applying  his  ear  to  the 
ground ;  then  he  added,  **  There's  the 
signal  to  pull  up  —  haul  away ! " 

The  signal  was  an  immense  relief  to 
me,  for  during  the  last  five  minutes  I  was 


6iS 

tortured  with  self-reproach  at  having  let 
my  friend  encounter  danger  without  my 
help. 

The  men  at  the  ropes  declared  that  the 
kibble  was  unusually  heavy,  and  they 
swore  the  devil  was  pulling  against  them. 

At  length  the  heads  of  the  explorers 
appeared  at  the  surface  —  another  turn  of 
the  windlass  brought  the  basket  to  land. 
There  were  Walters  and  the  gipsy  —  all 
right,  apparently,  though  dirty  and  be- 
smeared—  between  them  they  held — a 
ghastly  freight  —  the  dead  body  of  a  man. 

The  corpse  had  been  so  well  preserved 
in  the  oleaginous  earth,  that  death  might 
have  been  quite  recent ;  but  the  finding  of 
the  body  proved  the  contrary. 

Walters  now  explained  that  when  they 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  pit,  and  groped 
about  with  their  safety-lanterns,  they 
found,  sure  enough,  two  legs  sticking  out 
of  the  earth  in  a  lateral  gallery.  Of  course, 
they  saw  at  once  that  it  was  the  body  of  a 
human  being;  and  they  set  to  work  to  dis- 
inter it,  for  a  lot  of  dibris  had  fallen  or 
had  been  thrown  over  the  body.  This 
work  had  caused  the  delay  which  sur- 
prised and  alarmed  us. 

When  the  corpse  came  to  be  examined, 
it  was  made  evident  that  the  unfortunate 
man  had  been  the  victim  of  foul  play. 
The  excitement  at  the  pit's  mouth  was 
most  intense ;  each  one  had  something  to 
say,  some  conjecture  to  make. 

**  There  has  clearly  been  a  murder," 
said  Walters,  "and  the  affair  must  be 
made  known  to  the  authorities."  Then 
turning  to  me,  he  said,  "Get  into  the 
sledge,  and  go  off  immediately  to  fetch 
the  mayor  of  the  village.  The  overseer 
will  go  with  you ;  he  speaks  both  Polish 
and  German.  Some  arrangements  must 
be  made  at  once  with  the  mayor  about 
disposing  of  the  body,  and  a  description 
will  have  to  be  taken  by  the  authorities 
before  a  change  ensues,  which  may  soon 
result  from  exposure  to  the  air.  I  must 
get  rid  of  all  this  filth  before  I  can  stir," 
added  Walters,  dripping  oil  like  a  sardine 
out  of  a  box. 

We  had  to  drive  only  about  three-quar- 
ters of  a  mile  to  the  village,  and  were 
soon  there.  The  overseer  directed  me  to 
draw  up  at  the  third  house  in  the  street, 
on  the  left-hand  side,  which  he  said  was 
the  inn,  though  it  bore  no  sign.  The 
landlord  was  the  mayor  of  the  village,  it 
seemed.  There  was  no  one  about,  and 
my  companion  called  out  lustily  that  the 
master  was  wanted. 

A  boy,  a  miserable  cripple,  came  out 
from  the  interior  to  answer  us,  and  reply- 


6i6 


THE   DOUBLE   GHOST   WE   SAW   IN   GALICIA. 


!ng  in  Polish,  hobbled  off  painfully,  to  call 
the  master. 

After  a  delay  of  two  or  three  minutes, 
the  landlord  made  his  appearance.  He 
bad  been  down  in  the  wine-cellar,  and 
came  up,  just  as  he  was,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, without  a  coat;  he  held  in  one 
hand  a  siphon  for  drawing  off  wine,  in  the 
other  a  large  wooden  mallet.  He  stood 
at  the  threshold  of  the  door,  open-mouthed 
and  evidently  surprised  to  see  us.  The 
aspect  of  the  roan  is  stamped  on  my  rec- 
ollection. The  overseer  spoke  to  him; 
I  did  not,  for  I  thought  he  would  only 
understand  Polish.  However,  the  over- 
seer addressed  him  in  German;  and  of 
course  I  knew  what  he  said,  which  was 
briefly  that  a  horrible  murder  had  been 
discovered  —  the  body  of  the  victim  hav- 
ing been  raised  from  the  bottom  of  an  old 
petroleum-pit  —  and  that  he,  the  mayor  of 
the  village,  must  come  directly  to  take 
down  the  evidence  of  the  crime. 

While  the  overseer  was  thus  speaking, 
the  man  he  addressed  grew  white  as  a 
sheet;  his  eves  were  fixed,  staring  into 
vacuity ;  his  lower  jaw  dropped ;  he  turned 
positively  livid  ;  the  things  he  held  in  his 
hands  fell  to  the  ground  with  a  clatter.  I 
saw  him  stagger.  I  was  in  the  act  of 
jumping  out  of  the  sledge  to  run  to  his 
aid,  when  he  threw  his  arms  up,  and  reel- 
ing backwards,  fell,  shrieking  out  the 
words  —  "  Found !  found ! "  We  both 
rushed  forward,  and  quickly  raised  him, 
thinking  he  had  swooned.  It  was  not  so 
— -  he  was  dead  I 

It  was  not  till  the  following  day  that 
we  learnt  the  full  particulars  of  this  vil- 
lage tragedy.  There  remained  no  sort  of 
doubt  in  the  mind  of  any  one  that  the 
mayor  himself  had  committed  the  murder. 
The  clue  once  obtained,  a  mass  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  went  to  prove  it. 

For  some  days  nothing  else  was  talked 
about  in  the  whole  neighborhood.  Wal- 
lers was  being  perpetually  interviewed  by 
persons,  with  and  without  business,  anx- 
ious to  learn  his  account  of  the  affair. 
At  length  we  got  quite  impatient  of  the 
interruptions  to  our  work,  caused  by  this 
love  of  exciting  gossip.  My  time  was  not 
unlimited ;  and  as  Walters  was  extremely 
anxious  to  get  forward  with  certain  por- 
tions of  the  business  while  we  were  to- 
gether, we  gave  ourselves  up  to  plans, 
surveyings,  and  estimates,  for  three  days 
persistently. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  the 
post  brought  a  letter  from  Countess  Ku- 
binsky,  inviting  us,  in  the  count's  name 
aod  her  own,  to  go  over  and  dine  at  the 


castle  —  staying  the  night  as  a  matter  of 
course.  The  invitation  was  for  the  day 
on  which  the  letter  was  received. 

**  Well,  I  think  we  may  give  ourselves  a 
holiday,"  said  Walters;  **what  do  yoo 
say  ? " 

"By  all  means  let  us  go,"  I  replied. 
'*  I  should  like  to  see  something  more  of 
the  lovely  countess.  You  have  been  to 
their  castle,  I  suppose  ?  '* 

'*  Yes,  once.  You  must  not  expect 
much,  —  it  is  a  tumbledown  place,  with 
none  of  the  comforts  of  an  English  coun- 
try house.  But  all  the  same,  the  Kubio- 
skys  are  a  family  of  great  antiquity,  and 
the  count  is  proud  as  Lucifer." 

The  afternoon  found  us  on  our  way. 
We  were  to  dine  at  live  o'clock,  so  we 
had  set  ofif  in  good  time.  As  we  ap- 
proached our  destination,  the  red  gleams 
of  sunset  shone  through  the  dark  branches 
of  a  fir  wood  extending,  along  the  crest  of 
rising  ground  immediately  in  front  of  us. 
Skirting  this  wood,  the  rpad,  indicated  by 
**  snow-trees,"  led  us  round  in  sight  of  the 
castle  —  a  grim-looking  fortalice  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  The  building  at  first 
seemed  of  no  great  extent  —  only,  in  fact, 
a  square  tower,  with  no  architectural 
beauty.  We  passed  through  the  open 
gates;  but  we  might  have  passed  through 
a  wide  gap  in  the  wall,  the  masonry  of 
which  was  broken  down  in  more  places 
than  one.  The  bare  branches  of  some 
fine  oak-trees  met  over  our  heads,  —  a 
pretty  bit  of  avenue  in  summer;  but  now 
all  was  leatiess,  and  the  details  of  the 
landscape  far  and  near  alike  obliterated 
by  the  snow.  An  arched  opening  at  the 
base  of  the  tower  admitted  carriages  into 
an  inner  court.  As  we  drove  through,  I 
noticed  a  door  with  open  gratings,  and  an 
unglazed  window:  this  was  the  castle 
prison,  I  learnt,  —  useful  enough  in  the 
old  days  of  serfdom.  In  the  courtyard 
an  arched  opening  led  to  a  tlight  of  wide 
stone  steps.  Giving  the  reins  to  the  ser- 
vants who  stood  waiting  for  us,  we  as- 
cended into  the  interior  of  the  edifice.  I 
now  found  that  the  castle  was  larger  than 
it  at  first  appeared  —  its  gableend  merely 
was  visible  in  the  front ;  the  building  ex- 
tended considerably  in  the  rear.  Half- 
way up  the  steps  a  strong  iron  gate  of 
ancient  workmanship  gave  the  building 
almost  the  air  of  a  prison.  It  stood  wide 
open,  and  we  passed  on,  after  ascending 
again  a  few  steps  to  a  corridor,  lighted  by 
extremely  narrow  windows.  The  floor 
was- of  oak,  but  the  walls  and  ceiling  were 
whitewashed.  The  servant  who  preceded 
us  opened  a  ponderous  door,  which  ad- 


THE   DOUBLE   GHOST   WE   SAW   IN   GALICIA. 


mitted  us  to  a  lon^,  low  apartment,  with  a 
large  mullioned  window  at  either  end. 

The  short  winter  day  was  already  wan- 
ing; and  but  for  the  h'ght  of  a  single 
lamp  placed  on  a  work-table  near  an  enor- 
mous porcelain  stove,  we  should  hardly 
have  discovered  the  presence  of  our  host- 
ess. The  countess  immediately  rose  and 
welcomed  us  with  the  utmost  cordiality. 
If  I  had  thought  the  lady  charming  before 
in  her  fur  wraps,  she  looked  still  prettier 
in  her  soft,  flowing  grey  costume,  with  its 
most  artistic  dash  of  red.  The  room, 
though  sparsely  furnished,  was  pictur- 
esque in  the  extreme.  Our  modern  fash- 
ions are  ruled  by  the  upholsterer,  not  the 
architect,  and  luxury  often  crowds  good 
taste  out  of  the  field.  While  the  countess 
and  Walters  were  talking  together  of 
some  mutual  friends,  I  looked  about  me. 
A  few  high-backed  chairs  stood  against 
the  walls,  which  to  the  height  of  six  or 
seven  feet  were  covered  with  a  dado  of 
stamped  leather.  The  ceiling  was  vault- 
ed, and  simply  whitewashed.  The  crude- 
ness  was  toned  down  by  time,  a  nicer 
word  than  dirt  or  dust.  At  the  upper 
edge  of  the  dado  a  wooden  shelf,  slightly 
ornamented  with  carving,  ran  the  whole 
length  of  the  room.  It  was  some  six  or 
seven  inches  wide,  and  conveniently  held 
all  manner  of  things  for  use  and  orna- 
ment, —  books,  swords,  vases,  and  curios- 
ities. The  glass  of  the  windows  was  like 
the  small  panes  of  our  own  medixval 
houses,  with  heraldic  devices  in  stained 
^lass  in  the  upper  part.  The  window-seat 
looked  inviting  when  I  saw  the  room  again 
by  daylight.  A  handsomely  carved  sar- 
cophagus-chest, and  two  or  three  ponder- 
ous oak  tables,  with  a  Turkey  rug  and  a 
few  bearskins  on  the  floor,  comprised  the 
furniture.  It  was  all  simple,  and  of  old- 
world  aspect,  yet  harmonious  and  digni- 
fied. The  only  evidences  of  modern  life 
were  the  books  and  newspapers  on  the 
table,  and  always,  of  course,  the  fair  c/id- 
teiaine  herself  in  Parisian  toilet. 

The  count  came  in  just  as  we  had  risen 
to  seek  our  rooms  and  prepare  for  dinner. 
He  was  extremely  polite,  and  led  the  way 
to  our  apartments. 

At  dinner  we  were  joined  by  another 
guest  who  was  also  staying  in  the  house 
—  Major  Dalcovich,  a  cavalry  officer  from 
the  neighboring  garrison  town.  The  cui- 
sine was  good,  and  the  viands  abundant ; 
the  game  especially  was  excellent.  But 
there  were  several  marked  incongruities 
ID  the  manage  which  struck  me :  the  livery 
worn  by  the  servants  was  shabby,  not  to 
say  dirty ;  and  I  observed  there  was  hardly 


617 

any  plate  on  the  table ;  and  the  china  was 
ill-matching,  and  some  of  it  broken. 

Our  hostess,  near  whom  I  was  seated, 
appeared  to  know  intuitively  what  was 
passing  through  my  mind,  for  she  said  to 
me,  '*  We  nobles  of  Galicia  are  all  poor 
people :  you,  who  come  from  wealthy 
England,  must  be  surprised  at  much  you 
see." 

I  made  some  polite  rejoinder  to  this 
remark,  adding  something  about  Galicia 
having  passed  throus:h  a  period  of  politi- 
cal and  commercial  depression,  but  that  I 
hoped  better  times  were  in  store  for  the 
province,  and  that  the  material  resources 
of  the  soil  would  now  be  properly  devel- 
oped. "  Monsieur  le  Comte  has  land  in 
the  petroleum  district,  I  think;  perhaps 
when  I  come  again  you  will  all  be  million- 
aires.*' 

"  Ah  me !  there  are  men  who  throw  to 
the  four  winds  all  the  good  that  comes 
home  to  them,"  replied  the  countess,  with 
undisguised  bitterness.  "  You  practical 
English  gentlemen  do  not  know  our  no- 
bles ;  they  do  their  best  to  go  to  the  devil 
with  two  horses.  Make  them  rich,  and 
they  will  just  go  faster  to  the  same  devil 
with  four  horses." 

To  this  very  awkward  speech  I  was 
fortunately  not  obliged  to  make  any  re- 
joinder, for  dinner  was  ended;  and  ac- 
cording to  the  etiquette  of  the  country,  I 
bowed,  shook  hands  with  my  hostess,  and 
then  offered  her  my  arm  to  escort  her 
back  to  the  drawing-room,  where  we  all 
assembled,  and  the  gentlemen  lit  their 
cigars. 

Following  the  count  and  Major  Dal- 
covich to  the  other  end  of  the  room  to 
look  at  some  old  Turkish  firearms,  we 
left  the  countess  and  Walters  tete-d-iiie. 
They  seemed  to  have  a  good  deal  to  say 
to  each  other,  and  I  thought  the  count 
took  note  of  the  fact;  but  what  his  feel- 
ings were,  I  failed  to  find  out,  —  his  cold 
blue  eyes  were  not  expressive.  He  was 
a  handsome  man  of  about  five  or  six  and 
thirty,  with  a  manner  of  constrained  cour- 
tesy. I  could  not  imagine  his  ever  warm- 
ing up  with  real  sympathy  for  man,  woman, 
or  child.  Apropos  of  the  latter,  they  had 
no  family. 

After  a  while  the  conversation  became 
general  —  at  least  the  major  held  forth  in 
his  loud  Austrian  voice  on  military  mat- 
ters, and  we  listened.  The  count  looked 
inexpressibly  bored;  he  threw  himself 
back  in  a  low  wicker  chair,  of  which  there 
were  some  half-dozen  in  the  room,  and  lit 
a  fresh  cigar. 

"  What  say  you,  gentlemen  ?  shall  we 


6i8 


THE   DOUBLE   GHOST  WE   SAW  IN   GALICIA. 


have  a  game  of  whist  ? "  said  the  count, 
breaking  in  at  last  upon  the  major's  in- 
terminable flow  of  talk.  The  count,  I 
may  observe,  spoke  in  French  with  us; 
he  did  not  understand  English,  and  I 
fancy  was  annoyed  when  his  wife  ad- 
dressed either  of  us  in  our  own  language. 
The  major,  who  was  not  fluent  in  French, 
laid  down  the  law  in  the  broadest  south 
German. 

**  Will  madame  play  ?  *'  I  asked,  turning 
to  the  countess. 

**0h  no,  I  am  not  wanted,"  she  re- 
plied, shrugging  her  shoulders.  She  rose, 
gathered  her  work  together,  and  bowing 
to  us,  said,  *' Good-night,  gentlemen.  T 
leave  you  to  your  game,  hoping  fortune 
may  divide  her  favors  equally  between 
you." 

The  count  became  quite  animated  at 
the  prospect  of  play,  and  busied  himself 
giving  directions  to  the  servants,  who 
brought  in  the  card-table,  and  a  tray  with 
bottles  and  glasses  placed  near  at  hand. 
The  fire  in  the  stove  was  made  up,  and  a 
fresh  basketful  of  wood  brought  in,  all  in- 
dicating  that  our  host  intended  we  should 
make  a  night  of  it. 

We  played  rubber  after  rubber,  chang- 
ing partners  several  times.  The  stakes 
were  not  high,  but  1  got  up  a  loser  to  the 
amount  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  florins. 
Walters  had  lost  rather  more.  1  noticed 
that  he  was  singularly  taciturn  all  the 
evening,  and  played  with  a  keenness  that 
surprised  me,  in  a  man  so  little  addicted 
to  cards. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  we  went  to 
our  rooms.  The  household  were  evidently 
all  gone  to  bed;  for  our  host  made  no 
sign  of  calling  up  the  servants,  and  con- 
ducted us  himselt  to  our  respective  rooms 
at  the  end  of  a  long  corridor. 

**  Gentlemen,  you  must  take  your  re- 
venge to-morrow  evening.  Good-night  — 
sleep  well,"  said  the  count,  bowing  to  us 
both. 

Walters  disappeared  into  his  own  room, 
and  I  closed  my  door,  while  the  retreating 
steps  of  our  host  were  still  audible.  My 
room  was  rather  large,  of  the  same  char- 
acter as  the  rest  of  the  castle,  —  dark  oak 
floor,  and  wainscot  reaching  about  four 
feet  high,  the  walls  and  vaulted  ceiling  of 
bare  whitewash.  I  opened  the  door  of 
the  stove,  and  a  warm,  ruddy  light  cast  its 
beam  across  the  room.  The  window  — 
there  was  only  one  —  showed  by  its  depth 
the  extreme  thickness  of  the  walls ;  a 
piece  of  green  cloth,  much  weather- 
stained,  was  hooked  up  over  the  window- 
panes.    I  unhitched  this  curtain,  throwing 


it  down,  and  looked  out  on  the  pale  moon- 
lit world.  Directly  in  front  and  beneath 
me  was  a  wall,  which  threw  its  battle* 
mented  shadow  on  the  snow-fields  ;  to  the 
right  the  ground  rose  abruptly,  and  the 
hanging  fir  wood  stood  clearly  defined  in 
the  soft,  luminous  atmosphere.  Stars 
shone  out  between  the  dark  branches, 
which  were  swaying  gently  to  and  fro.  I 
could  hear  the  sighing  of  the  wind  in 
the  forest;  all  other  sounds  were  mute. 
Away  down  in  the  vale,  on  my  left,  the 
distance  was  lost  in  hazy  vapor,  indistinct 
and  shadowy.  The  stillness  and  beauty 
of  the  scene  had  a  wonderfully  soothing 
effect  on  my  heated  brain  ;  our  host's  im- 
perial Tokay  was  more  potent  than  I  had 
judged  it.  1  was  altogether  more  excited 
than  sleepy,  and  it  was  some  time  before 
I  put  out  the  candle  and  laid  myself  dowa 
in  bed.  My  impression  was,  at  the  time, 
that  I  had  not  slept ;  but  the  truth  is,  I 
must  have  slept  nearly  an  hour.  My  eyes 
were  open ;  and  with  the  firm  convictioa 
that  I  had  never  lost  consciousness,  I 
turned  slightly  on  my  left  side  —  that  is, 
towards  the  window.  In  doing  so  I 
caught  sight  of  an  object  on  the  floor;  it 
startled  me,  and  1  raised  myself  up  on  my 
elbow  to  see  more  distinctly.  I  then 
made  out,  by  the  light  of  the  window,  that 
the  object  was  in  fact  a  human  figure, 
lying  on  the  floor,  with  the  face  upwards. 
1  had  instantly  the  impression  that  it  was 
a  dead  man ;  and,  very  illogically,  I  said 
to  myself  in  my  half-sleeping  state,  **  It  is 
the  body  of  the  innkeeper,  the  man  I  saw 
fall  dead  when  he  heard  that  his  victim 
was  found  in  the  petroleum-pit."  Why  I 
should  have  been  satisfied  with  this  con- 
clusion I  do  not  know.  Then  it  seemed 
to  dawn  upon  me  that  I  must  do  some- 
thing, that  I  could  not  leave  the  man's 
body  there ;  and  pulling  myself  together, 
I  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  bed,  and  then  I 
saw  the  object  more  clearly.  "  By  Jove ! 
it  is  not  the  innkeeper  —  it  is  Count  Ko- 
binsky  ;  he  lies  there  dead  or  dying  from 
a  wound  in  his  breast."  I  saw  that  his 
white  shirt  was  deluged  in  blood.  I  sprang 
out  of  bed,  to  go  to  his  aid.  I  had  my 
handkerchief  in  my  hand,  and  was  in  the 
act  of  kneeling  down  to  staunch  his  wound, 
when  a  grating  noise  behind  made  me 
turn.  I  saw  the  door  open,  and  I  instantly 
rose  to  my  feet  to  confront  the  intruder. 
"Walters,  is  that  you?  What  the  devil 
do  you  want?"  said  I,  excessively  irri- 
tated at  the  funk  his  sudden  appearance 
had  caused  me. 

"  Have  you  got  anv  brandy  in  vour  flask, 
Henderson?    I  feel    awfully   bad."    He 


THE   DOUBLE   GHOST  WE   SAW  IN   G ALICIA. 


staggered  towards  a  chair,  and  sinking 
into  it,  almost  fainted. 

I  dived  into  my  bag  for  the  brandy- 
flask,  quickly  administered  some  of  its 
contents,  and  happily  my  friend  showed 
signs  of  reviving.  Stanaing  by  his  side, 
and  supporting  his  head,  I  looked  round 
for  the  prostrate  form  of  the  count,  which 
I  had  surely  seen  lying  there  a  moment 
before.  The  light  of  Walters*s  candle 
fell  full  on  that  part  of  the  room,  and  I 
saw  nothing  but  the  bare  boards.  The 
appearance  of  the  dying  man  had  been  a 
hallucination  of  my  brain  ! 

Walters,  wrapt  in  his  fur  bunda^  his 
neck  open,  and  his  face  ghastly  pale,  was 
a  startling  object,  but  a  very  substantial 
one.  There  was  no  doubt  of  his  visible 
presence.  He  began  to  look  a  good  bit 
better;  he  drew  himself  up,  and  passing 
his  hand  across  his  brow,  he  said,  **  I*ve 

been  a  d d  stupid  fool  —  never  felt  so 

queer  before  in  my  life.  Of  course  you 
will  laugh  at  me ;  but  do  you  know  I  have 
seen  a  ghost." 

"  A  ghost ! "  said  I,  with  rather  a  forced 
laugh. 

**  Yes ;  and  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it. 
I  got  into  bed  quickly,  and  fell  asleep,  for 
I  was  very  tired.  1  see  by  the  clock  that  I 
bad  not  slept  much  more  than  an  hour, 
when  1  woke  in  some  agitation,  and  my 
gaze  was  suddenly  attracted  by  a  luminous 
appearance  on  the  floor.  I  looked  fixedly, 
and  then  saw,  to  my  horror,  that  it  was 
the  dead  body  of  our  host  himself :  he 
was  without  his  coat,  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
and  the  white  linen  was  deluged  in  blood. 
The  sight  of  this  spectre  filled  me  with 
indescribable  horror;  a  sickening  sense 
that  I  was  in  some  way  responsible  for 
the  life  of  this  man  quite  overpowered  me. 
I  lay  there  without  nerve  or  power  of  mo- 
tion ;  it  seemed  an  eternity  of  time  before 
I  could  rouse  myself  to  shake  off  this 
horrid  nightmare.  Feelino;  faint,  I  got 
out  of  bed  to  take  some  brandy,  but  1 
then  remembered  that  you  had  the  flask.** 

"  What  a  strange  coincidence !  "  I  said, 
intending  to  give  my  experience  of  the 
ghostly  visitation ;  but  seeing  how  thor- 
oughly ill  and  upset  Walters  looked,  I 
thought  it  better  to  reserve,  my  part  of 
the  story  for  another  time. 

'*  What  were  you  doing  on  the  floor 
when  I  came  in  just  now  ? "  asked  Wal- 
ters sharply. 

**  The  fact  is,  I  felt  unwell ;  and  want- 
ing a  light,  1  had  dropped  the  match, 
which  I  was  looking  for." 

**How  very  odd  that  you  should  have 
f'slt  ill  at  the  same  time  !  " 


619 

''  The  effects  are  due  to  the  same  cause, 
I  fancy.  I  think  you  and  I,  Walters,  both 
drank  more  of  our  host's  Tokay  than  was 
good  for  us." 

"  Vm  all  right  now,"  he  replied.  "  Til 
turn  in  to  bed,  and  I  advise  you  to  do  the 
same.  Sorry  to  have  disturbed  you,  old 
fellow." 

The  next  morning,  when  dressed,  I 
went  to  look  up  Walters,  curious  to  know 
his  impression  of  the  spectre,  and  to  com- 
pare notes  thereon;  but,  rather  to  my 
surprise,  he  had  already  left  his  room, 
without  making  any  sign  at  my  door. 

The  light  of  common  day,  and  the  ordi- 
nary surroundings  of  life,  made  me  feel 
somehow  that  the  experiences  of  the  night 
were  very  vapory,  after  all ;  and  I  shrewdly 
suspected  that  my  friend,  who  had  cer- 
tainly not  posed  in  a  heroic  attitude  in 
presence  of  the  ghost,  would  perhaps 
rather  not  hear  any  more  about  it.  After 
Walters  had  left  me,  I  had  slept  pro- 
foundly, waking  up  free  of  headache,  with 
a  brain  quite  cleared  of  cobwebs  ;  in  short, ' 
my  losses  at  cards  were  a  deuced  deal 
more  tangible  than  the  ghost,  and  I  mar- 
velled over  and  over  again  at  my  persis* 
tent  bad  luck. 

After  finally  concluding  the  arrange- 
ment of  my  toilet,  I  left  my  room  to  seek 
the  rest  of  the  party,  thinking  that  by  this 
time  they  must  be  assembling  for  break- 
fast. 

I  looked  in  at  the  dining-room ;  there 
was  no  one  there  except  a  servant  filling 
the  stove  with  billets  of  wood.  He  was 
without  shoes  or  stockings,  but  I  knew 
by  his  peculiar  features  that  he  was  the 
same  man  who  wore  livery  and  waited  at 
dinner  the  day  before.  The  absence  of 
foot-gear  is  no  uncommon  occurrence  with 
domestics  in  this  part  of  the  world,  in- 
cluding Hungary. 

I  now  made  my  way  towards  the  draw- 
ing-room; and  pushing  open  the  door, 
which  was  not  shut,  entered,  to  find  the 
countess  and  Walters  the  only  occupants 
of  the  room.  They  evidently  did  not  hear 
me  come  in,  for  they  continued  speaking 
together  earnestly.  I  saw  the  countess 
put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes;  she 
appeared  deeply  moved.  Walters  was 
standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  at 
which  she  sat,  and  1  thought  I  heard  him 
say,  "  Whatever  may  come  out,  depend  on 
me  as  your  friend." 

**  Good-morning,  Madame  la  Contesse,*' 
said  1,  in  a  voice  as  loud  as  the  major's, 
for  I  was  dreadfully  embarrassed  at  my 
position.  Walters,  on  seeing  me,  colored 
slightly,  and  the  lady  rose  from  her  chair 


620 


THE   DOUBLE   GHOST  WE  SAW   IN  GALICIA. 


quickly,  but  perceiving  me,  seemed  reas- 
sured ;  she  came  forward  with  infinite 
grace,  but  with  the  tears  still  in  her  eyes, 
saying,  **  Excuse  me,  monsieur,  that  I  am 
so  poor  a  hostess,  and  give  you  so  sad  a 
greeting,  but  I  have  many  troubles.'' 

The  ingenuous  appeal  for  sympathy  in 
the  sweet  glance  she  gave  me  would  have 
melted  the  veriest  iron-plated  heart;  I  do 
not  know  what  folly  I  might  not  have 
been  capable  of  committing  had  she  given 
me  her  confidence. 

Fortunately,  an  end  was  put  to  the  sen- 
timental awkwardness  of  the  situation  by 
the  audible  clink  of  the  major's  spurs, 
and  directly  that  warlike  individual  en- 
tered. He  had  just  had  an  '^official  de- 
spatch "  from  headquarters,  and  was  bris- 
tling with  self-importance. 

Breakfast  was  announced,  and  we  went 
to  the  dining-room,  to  find  a  substantial 
repast,  something  in  the  style  of  an  early 
dinner  or  luncheon.  There  was  a  samar- 
var  on  the  table  for  tea-making ;  but  with 
the  exception  of  the  countess  and  myself, 
the  rest  drank  light  wine.  The  count  did 
not  make  his  appearance  directly.  When 
he  came  he  apologized  for  being  late,  say- 
ing that  he  had  been  detained  by  his  chief 
ydger,  who  had  come  to  report  a  herd  of 
wild  boar  in  the  neighborhood  ;  they  had 
come  down  from  the  higher  Carpathians. 
It  was  proposed  to  organize  a  hunt,  and 
our  host  said  he  hoped  we  would  all  stay 
and  join  in  the  sport. 

The  major's  "  despatch  from  headquar- 
ters "  of  course  obliged  him  to  return 
instantly  to  his  garrison  duties ;  and  Wal- 
ters declined  on  the  score  of  pressing 
business. 

I  was  half  sorry  he  spoke  so  decidedly, 
for  the  prospect  of  some  good  sport  was 
a  sore  temptation  to  me ;  but  breakfast 
was  barely  over,  when  our  sledge  was  an- 
nounced to  be  ready  and  waiting.  Our 
adieux  were  soon  made,  and  we  departed 
under  a  grey  sky  and  thick  atmosphere, 
that  looked  like  the  promise  of  more 
snow. 

It  was  not  till  late  in  the  evening,  after 
the  conclusion  of  dinner,  or  rather  sup- 
per, that  my  friend  and  I  had  time  or  op- 
portunity for  anv  confidential  talk. 

Directly  on  uis  return,  Walters  had 
found  a  host  of  matters  waiting  his  atten- 
tion. His  **  house-Jew  "  was  there  already, 
with  a  pocketful  of  papers  and  proposals 
for  the  sale  and  purchase  of  divers  things. 

A  "house-Jew"  is  a  person  of  Hebrew 
race,  who  establishes  himself,  with  or 
without  your  leave,  as  your  agent  in  the 
general  business  of  life.    With  some  taint 


perhaps  of  yudenkass  in  your  blood,  you 
may  at  first  have  looked  askance  at  your 
Semitic  friend;  but  in  the  end  he  is  too 
many  for  you  —  you  cannot,  in  short,  get 
on  without  him.  If  you  want  to  hear  of 
a  cask  of  "really  good  wine,"  or  you 
would  gladly  sell  a  pair  of  excellent  horses 
that  "don't  quite  suit  you,"  or  you  would 
make  a  contract  for  building  a  house,  or 
raise  a  mortgage  on  your  land,  the  Jew  is 
ready  to  find  all  you  want.  You  may  de- 
sire to  throw  oft  the  incubus,  resolve  on 
doing  your  own  work  first-hand,  and  you 
scout  your  helper,  forbidding  him  your 
presence ;  but,  sure  as  fate,  necessity  and 
the  hour  bring  back  your  "house-Jew." 

This  central  region  of  Europe  is  par 
excellence  iYit  country  of  the  Jews.  "  Cest 
le  milieu  de  la  toile  dont  I'araign^e  a  tenda 
le  fin  r^seau  sur  tout  le  continent,"  says 
M.  Reclus.  In  many  of  the  towns  of  Ga- 
licia,  the  Jews  form  a  third  of  the  popu- 
lation. 

The  supper  had  been  some  time  on  the 
table  before  Walters's  long  confabulation 
with  his  Jew  came  to  an  end,  and  even 
after  we  were  seated  at  table  he  came  in 
again  (or  his  employer's  last  instructions. 
A  strange  figure  he  cut,  with  his  greasy 
brown  overcoat  down  to  his  heels,  and  a 
large  flap-hat  covering  an  abundant  growth 
of  grizzly  black  hair,  hanging  in  ringlets 
on  either  side  of  an  elderly  face  of  the 
most  pronounced  Jewish  type. 

When  at  length  we  were  left  at  peace, 
and  when  our  meal  was  over,.we  drew  our 
chairs  close  to  the  open  hearth,  where  a 
bright  wood  fire  was  burning,  ^  a  capital 
addenda  to  the  stove,  which,  placed  be- 
tween the  two  rooms,  warmed  the  sitting- 
room  and  my  bedroom  in  a  half-and-half 
way.  The  wind  whistled  round  the  house 
in  dismal  gusts ;  but  Walters  had  hitched 
up  a  thick  Austrian  blanket  over  the  en- 
tire window,  and  he  had  stuck  a  gimlet 
into  the  door  leading  to  the  passage  to 
stop  the  rattling.  Our  pipes,  and  a  good 
supply  of  whiskey  from  old  Scotland,  had 
been  placed  on  the  table;  a  kettle,  sus- 
pended from  a  gipsy  tripod,  hung  mur- 
muring over  the  blazing  logs.  Our  sense 
of  comfort  was  "  utterly  consummate,"  as 
one  would  say  in  these  days;  but  we  be- 
longed to  the  "awfully  jolly"  period,  and 
expressed  ourselves  after  the  manner  of 
our  ignorance  of  better  things. 

There  is  always  a  crumpled  rose-leaf, 
however;  and  in  mv  case  it  was  the  build- 
er's estimate,  whicn  Walters  would  keep 
looking  at.  He  is  the  best  fellow  in  the 
world, — generous-hearted,  a  stanch  friend, 
true  as  tried  steel;  but  he  cannot  have 


THE   DOUBLE   GHOST  WE   SAW   IN   GAUCIA. 


621 


done  with  business  when  he  has  got  it  on 
the  brain.  He  would  go  over  the  figures 
of  one  estimate,  comparing  them  with 
another,  balancing  the  advantages  of  each, 
with  a  steady  persistence  that  was  aggra- 
vating, because  I  knew  that  his  mind  was 
made  up  as  to  which  plan  he  meant  to 
select. 

We  had  talked  petroleum  matters  for  a 
good  half-hour,  when  I  said,  **By  the 
way,  is  Count  Kubinsky  likelv  to  join  you 
in  any  of  your  undertakings  r  I  suppose 
he  would  be  glad  to  mend  his  fortunes." 

**  I  should  avoid  having  anything  to  do 
with  him  in  matters  of  business;  the 
count's  ideas  and  mine  are  east  and  west,'* 
replied  Walters  drily. 

**  I  thought  you  hoped  to  benefit  them 
in  regard  to  their  afiFairs." 

'*  I  have  relinquished  that  hope,  which 
I  never  entertained  but  for  the  sake  of 
the  countess.  I  know  now  that  they  are 
at  the  brink  of  ruin.  I  pity  that  poor 
woman  from  my  heart.  The  count  is  a 
selfish  brute,  not  to  say  worse  things  of 
him.  Nothing  would  induce  me  to  cross 
his  threshold  again." 

*'  What  persistently  bad  luck  you  and  I 
had  last  night  at  cards!"  I  remarked,  in 
a  tone  meant  to  elicit  some  rejoinder. 

**  My  advice  would  be  not  to  play  cards 
again  with  the  count.  He  understands 
his  frame  better  than  either  you  or  I." 

"You  mean " 

'*  Don't  ask  me  what  I  mean,"  my  friend 
interrupted,  in  a  decided  tone. 

"Ah,  well,  I  see*,  the  same  idea  oc- 
curred to  us  both.  But  now,  Walters,  I 
have  a  curious  thing  to  tell  you.  When 
you  came  to  my  room  last  night  asking 
tor  some  brandy  from  my  fiask,  you  said 
you  had  seen  a  ghost." 

"  Well,  I  had  nightmare,  or  something 
of  the  kind ;  the  fact  is,  I  felt  confound- 
edly ill.  It  is  a  large  order  to  say  one 
has  seen  a  ghost." 

"  Now  comes  the  curious  part  of  the 
story.  I  ///V/see  a  ghost,  and  it  was  iden- 
tically the  same  appearance  that  had  dis- 
turbed you.  I  had  even  jumped  out  of 
bed  to  help  a  wounded  man  who  I  be- 
lieved was  there  bodily,  lying  on  the  floor 
of  my  room,  when  you  came  in,  and  then 
the  apparition  utterly  vanished." 

"This  is  .really  very  singular.  Were 
the  features  of  the  wounded  man  —  or, 
I  should  say,  his  spectre — known  to 
you  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  was  Count  Kubinsky  whom  I 
saw  in  extremist 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  this 
strange  coincideocc  last  night  ?  " 


"  Because  —  pardon  me  —  you  were 
very  much  agitated,  ^  unnerved,  in  fact 
—  to  a  degree  I  could  not  have  supposed 
possible." 

"  I  was  ill  at  the  moment,"  replied  Wal- 
ters, putting  down  his  pipe;  and  with 
folded  arms  and  compressed  lips  he  gazed 
abstractedly  into  the  fire. 

"H  you  come  to  reflect,  the  whole  af- 
fair," said  I,  "curious  as  it  is  as  a  mental 
phenomenon,  is  capable  of  explanation  as 
the  coincident  result  of  previous  impres- 
sions on  the  brain.  The  circumstance  of 
finding  the  murdered  man  in  the  petro- 
leum-pit, and  the  subsequent  death  of 
the  conscience-stricken  innkeeper  —  these 
events  supplied  a  spectral  presentment; 
then  the  episode  of  the  card-playing,  and 
our  mutual  suspicions  excited  against  the 
count,  transferred  his  personality,  or 
brought  it,  so  to  speak,  within  the  focus 
of  the  mind's  imagery." 

"You  have  said  all  this  before,"  said 
Walters,  looking  straight  at  me. 

"  No,  I  have  not." 

"Well,  then,  the  same  notion  had 
passed  through  my  mind :  that  again  is 
odd.  Of  course  these  things  are  capable 
of  explanation.  The  brain  and  the  stom- 
ach can  concoct  a  ghost  between  them  ^ 
that  goes  without  saying;  but  the  coinci- 
dence is  curious  that  both  of  us  should 
have  been  subject  to  the  same  impression, 
at  the  self-same  time." 

We  talked  on  for  some  while,  always 
beating  about  the  bush,  starting  fresh 
theories  of  ghosts  generally,  and  telling 
old  stories  of  them  long  relegated  to  the 
lumber-room  of  memory,  till  the  witching 
hour  of  midnght.  Then,  laughing  at  the 
fancies  we  had  conjured  up,  we  went  to 
bed. 

During  the  next  few  days  the  weather 
proved  tK>isterous  in  the  extreme.  Snow 
fell  at  intervals,  and  a  keen  north  wind 
made  things  generally  unpleasant.  The 
renewed  snowfall  was  a  hindrance  to  our 
work,  for  the  ground  could  not  be  cleared 
and  measured  for  the  foundations  of  the 
building  that  Walters  propose :d  to  erect. 
Under  these  circumstances  we  utilized 
the  time  bv  going  over  to  Breslau  for 
a  couple  01  days,  about  some  parts  of 
the  machinery  required  for  the  refiner^'. 
But  there  was  a  great  worry  over  this 
matter,  and  in  the  end  we  had  to  order 
some  of  the  iron-work  from  Germany. 

The  morning  after  our  return,  my  friend 
received  amongst  his  other  letters  one 
which  he  tossed  over  to  me.  It  proved 
to  be  an  invitation  to  be  present  at  a  con- 
cert given  at  a  village  a  few  miles  o£E, 


622 


THE   DOUBLE  GHOST  WE   SAW   IN   GALICIA. 


when  it  was  expected  there  would  be  a 
gathering  of  the  local  society. 

"  They  get  up  things  in  this  rough-and- 
ready  sort  of  way,"  said  Wallers.  "A 
gipsy  band  and  a  full  moon  are  excuse 
enough  for  bringing  people  together  in 
these  wilds.  The  place  where  the  con- 
cert is  to  be  held  is  only  fifteen  miles  off. 
If  the  night  is  as  fine  as  it  promises  to  be, 
shall  we  go  ?  " 

"Nothing  I  should  like  better,'*  I  re- 
plied. "  I  am  glad  it  comes  off  this  even- 
ing, for  at  the  end  of  the  week  I  must  be 
leaving  you." 

"It  has  been  awfully  good  of  you  to 
stay  so  long  —  you  have  helped  me  im- 
mensely ;  and  I  shall  feel  it  my  duty  to 
send  you  my  finest  petroleum,  carriage 
paid,  for  the  rest  of  your  natural  life." 

"  Do  you  wish  me,  then,  to  make  light 
of  your  promise  ?  " 

"Your  advice  is  better  than  your  jokes, 
my  dear  Henderson.  Now  to  business,  if 
we  are  to  give  up  the  evening  to  pleas- 
ure ; "  and  so  saying,  Walters  kept  me  at 
work,  dinner-time  excepted,  till  it  was 
pretty  well  time  for  us  to  depart  for  our 
entertainment. 

The  weather  was  perfect  —  not  a  breath 
of  wind  stirring,  and  though  the  ther- 
mometer was  below  zero,  it  did  not 
seem  so  very  cold.  As  the  gipsies  say, 
there  is  no  cold,  but  wind.  We  started 
soon  after  six  o'clock.  The  moon  had 
not  risen  yet,  but  "the  stars'  multitudi- 
nous splendor"  and  the  refraction  of 
light  from  the  snow  were  enough  to  guide 
us  on  our  way.  After  passing  for  a 
couple  of  miles  along  the  highroad,  marked 
out  by  the  "  snow-trees,"  we  turned  into 
the  open  country.  The  snow  was  in  splen- 
did state  for  sledging,  and  our  horses, 
like  ourselves,  seemed  to  enjoy  the  run. 
We  were  skirting  the  confines  of  an  exten- 
sive forest,  when  all  at  once  a  black  ob- 
ject darted  across  the  road  about  five 
yards  in  front  of  us.  It  was  unmistakably 
a  wolf,  and  the  horses  knew  it  was,  for 
they  shied  tremendously,  and  all  but  upset 
us.  They  would  have  turned,  but  Walters 
managed  to  keep  their  heads  forward ; 
and,  by  Jove,  they  went  off  like  the  wind  ! 
The  wolf-scare  gave  us  an  exhilarating 
run  of  three  miles;  indeed  it  was  tiot  till 
we  came  within  sight  of  the  village  that 
the  frightened  horses  really  slackened 
speed. 

Here  again  we  were  on  the  highroad, 
and  soon  overtook  other  sledges,  and  the 
"  tintinnabulation  of  the  bells,  bells, 
bells,"  made  merry  music.  Meanwhile 
the  moon  had  risen,  lighting  up  the  whole 


scene  with  cold,  blue  lustre,  and  casting 
most  delicate  tracery  of  shadow  from  the 
naked  branches  of  the  sentinel  trees. 

Houses  by  the  roadside  became  more 
frequent,  and  at  length  we  saw  a  building 
larger  than  the  rest,  from  whose  wide-open 
door  a  stream  of  red  light  issued.  With- 
in this  triangle  of  rays  a  crowd  of  sledges 
and  people  were  visible.  Every  moment, 
it  seemed,  a  sledge  drew  up,  and  muffled 
figures  alighted,  passing  quickly  beneath 
the  welcome  porch.  Cheery  voices  of 
friendly  greeting,  rough  words  of  rival 
coachmen,  the  champing  of  horses  and  the 
jingling  of  their  bells,  made  hubbub 
enough ;  but  the  fiddles  were  screaming 
Strauss's  waltzes  above  the  general  din. 

"This  is  a  lively  beginning,"  said  I, 
following  Walters  into  the  house,  "and 
promises  some  fun." 

We  passed  into  a  large  room,  at  the  end 
of  which  were  piled  a  number  of  empty 
casks  and  other  lumber ;  but  an  attempt 
had  been  made  to  make  the  place  look  a 
little  furnished  by  setting  up  some  tables 
and  a  few  chairs.  A  double  lamp  sus- 
pended from  the  centre  lit  up  the  place 
fairly  well,  showing  that  here  the  gentle- 
men were  to  put  off  their  heavy  furs  and 
wraps :  already  several  men  were  un- 
cloaking, and  each  moment  fresh  people 
entered. 

"Ah,  Herr  von  Steinberg,  is  that  you? 
Let  me  introduce  my  friend ;  "  and  so  say- 
ing, Walters  presented  me  to  t^e  gentle- 
man, who  was,  in  fact,  the  promoter  of  the 
party. 

"  Our  soi'disant  concert  is  really  a 
dance,"  said  the  German.  "  Our  friends 
like  the  excuse  of  meeting  together,  and 
a  concert  sounds  less  formal.  You  will 
know  many  of  the  people  here,  I  am  sure. 
I  believe  we  are  going  to  have  a  very  suc- 
cessful evening,  so  many  of  our  neighbors 
have  already  put  in  an  appearance,  and  we 
have  a  capital  Hungarian  band.     I  must 

go,  for  I  see  Count .    It  is  a  great 

compliment  his  coming,  poor  gentleman." 

I  noticed  the  name  directly,  and  asked 
Walters  if  it  was  the  Polish  nobleman  of 
that  name  who  had  taken  part  in  the  last 
revolution.  He  nodded  assent,  adding,  in 
a  whisper,  "  A  noble  old  patriot,  worthy  of 
something  better  than  a  lost  cause.  You 
see  how  terribly  he  had  been  cut  to  pieces 
in  the  war." 

We  now  followed  the  stream  of  people 
who  were  making  for  a  room  in  the  rear  of 
the  house.  The  sound  of  music  guided 
us  through  a  long  passage  dimly  lighted ; 
but  at  the  end  we  found  ourselves  in  a 
bright,  spacious  apartment,  which  turned 


THE   DOUBLE   GHOST   WE   SAW   IN   GALICIA. 


out  to  be  nothing  less  than  a  glorified 
barn.  The  rafters  were  hung  with  flags  ; 
branches  of  firtrees  were  nailed  up  round 
the  walls,  forming  an  effective  dado  of 
greenery ;  and  numerous  lamps,  with  re- 
flectors, made  a  respectable  illumination. 
At  the  farther  end  of  the  room  were  the 
gipsy  band,  already  pouring  forth  their 
irresistible  music. 

The  toilet  of  the  ladies  was  simply 
morning  dress,  with  a  tasteful  addition  of 
festive  garniture  :  I  do  not  know  how  to 
express  the  subtle  difference  in  other 
words.  There  were  several  very  hand- 
some and  extremely  highbred  •  looking 
women  amongst  the  crowd,  and  two  or 
three  of  the  younger  ladies  were  charm- 
ingly pretty. 

Herr  von  Steinberg  kindly  introduced 
me  to  some  partners,  and  I  was  soon  try 
ing  vainly  to  catch  the  foreign  step  in  the 
waltz.  I  was  so  engrossed  with  this  little 
difficulty  and  the  lively  conversation  of 
my  very  pretty  partner,  that  I  did  not 
notice  the  entrance  of  anv  new  arrivals  ; 
but  the  lady  said,  ''Look  at  Countess 
Kubinsky ;  she  is  bowing  to  you.  How 
lovely  she  is  to-night ! " 

1  was  quite  surprised  at  seeing  the  Ku- 
binskys,  for  I  had  asked  Walters  if  they 
were  likely  to  be  at  the  concert ;  and  he 
had  said  certainly  not,  for  the  village  of 

D was  so  far  from  their  castle, Tying 

quite  in  another  direction. 

I  continued  to  amuse  myself  so  ex- 
tremely well  through  the  evening,  that  I 
did  not  take  much  notice  of  my  friend's 
proceedings.  Once  I  saw  him  waltzing 
with  the  Countess  Kubinsky,  but  she 
danced  several  times  with  other  men.  In 
the  latter  part  of  the  evening  the  count 
was  not  present  with  the  dancers.  I 
heard  that  a  card-table  had  been  set  up  in 
another  room,  for  I  was  asked  if  1  would 
play,  but  I  declined :  the  probabilities  are 
he  was  there. 

The  final  dance  of  the  evening  was  to 
be  the  Hungarian  Czardas.  I  was  almost 
surprised  to  find  that  it  was  in  fashion  in 
Galicia;  but  it  seems  it  had  been  very 
much  danced  in  Vienna  the  previous 
winter,  and  the  provinces  followed  suit. 
When  the  gipsy  band  struck  up  the  first 
strains  of  the  Czardas,  fresh  animation 
pervaded  the  whole  room.  The  music 
and  the  dance  are  alike  peculiar,  and  could 
only  find  favor  with  the  passionate  people 
of  the  south;  it  must  also  be  danced  to 
the  wild,  intoxicating  gipsy  music  —  any- 
thing else  would  be  tame  and  impossible. 
At  first  the  measure  is  slow  and  decorous, 
not  unlike  the  step  of  the  minuet.    To 


623 

this  follows  the  intimacy  of  a  waltz.  Then 
comes  a  misunderstanding  between  the 
partners :  the  lady  goes  off  in  anger,  and 
dances  coquettishly  alone ;  the  gentleman 
pursues  her,  and  manifests  his  despair  by 
the  most  characteristic  figure  of  the  whole 
dance  ^  he  raises  both  hands  to  his  head, 
which  is  swayed  from  side  to  side ;  at  the 
same  time  he  stamps  his  heel  on  the 
ground,  striking  his  spurs  sharply  to- 
gether. After  this  comes  the  pantomime 
of  reconciliation ;  the  music  breaks  forth 
afresh  in  its  wildest  strains  of  passionate 
delight,  and  the  dancers  whirl  off  in  the 
mad  excitement  of  the  moment,  every 
pulse  beating  to  the  wild  measure  of  that 
strange,  almost  demoniac,  music. 

My  partner  was  the  belle  of  the  even- 
ing,—  one  of  the  loveliest  girls  I  have 
ever  seen:  when  my  arm  passed  round 
her  slight  waist  for  the  final  waltz,  I  be- 
lieve I  could  have  danced  with  her  to  the 
water's  depths,  like  the  victim  of  another 
Lurlei.  Just  as  the  quick  measure  com- 
menced, we  passed  ray  friend  and  the 
countess ;  they  were  partners,  —  I  had 
noticed  that  before,  for  her  graceful  danc- 
ing was  remarkable  in  the  minuet  figure. 
As  we  approached,  they  were  near  the 
door.  I  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  fact 
at  the  moment,  but  I  remembered  after- 
wards seeing  Herr  von  Steinberg  enter 
the  door,  and  laying  his  hand  on  Walters's 
shoulder,  he  said,  in  an  audible  and  agi- 
tated whisper,  "Come  out  with  me  di- 
rectly." 

I  was  so  entirely  carried  away  by  the 
excitement  of  the  dance,  that  the  words 
fell  unheeded  on  my  ear.  The  waltzers 
sped  madly  on  —  the  music  was  at  its 
loudest  —  when  again  I  was  conscious  of 
Herr  von  Steinberg's  presence.  He 
dashed  past  me  in  a  state  of  great  excite- 
ment. I  then  saw  him  jump  up  on  a  table 
at  the  side  of  the  room.  Turning  towards 
the  orchestra,  and  raising  his  hands,  he 
shouted  out,  **  Silence,  musicians  !  —  stop 
the  dance!"  and  then  the  hoarse  whisper 
went  round,  "There  is  death  in  the 
house ! " 

All  was  confusion  and  dismay.  The 
shuffling  of  feet,  the  cries  of  mingled 
voices,  and  the  faces  of  the  anxious  crowd 
who  gathered  round  Von  Steinberg,  made 
the  strangest  impression  on  my  still  reel- 
ing brain.  A  sudden  thought  possessed 
me  that  something  had  gone  wrong  with 
my  friend ;  a  confused  recollection  of  the 
mysterious  summons  came  over  me.  I 
was  not  long  in  pushing  my  way  through 
the  door,  and  ran  along  the  passage,  where 
many  others  were  also  hurrying. 


634 


THE  DOUBLE  GHOST  WE  SAW   IN   GALICIA. 


<*  He  lies  in  that  room,"  said  a  mao  near 
roe  to  his  neighbor,  adding,  **  Would  to 
heaven  they  could  find  a  doctor !  they  say 
he  is  not  dead." 

I  pushed  my  wav  to  the  threshold  of 
the  room;  it  was  already  full  of  people. 
At  that  moment  the  doctor  arrived,  the 
crowd  separated  to  let  him  pass,  and  I 
followed  close,  getting  thereby  within  the 
ring  formed  round  the  sick  man. 

The  prostrate  figure  was  in  shadow, 
and  at  the  first  glance  I  did  not  make  out 
who  it  was,  till  a  bystander,  reaching  a 
lamp  from  a  bracket  on  the  wall,  held  it 
close  down  for  the  aid  of  the  doctor,  who 
was  kneeling  on  the  floor  beside  the  ex- 
tended form.  The  light  at  once  revealed 
to  me  the  features  of  Count  Kubinsky ;  it 
was  he  who  lay  there,  dead  or  dving ;  his 
white  shirt  was  red  from  blood  pouring 
from  a  wound  in  the  left  breast.  As  I 
gazed,  horror-stricken,  the  grey  hues  of 
death  crept  over  the  upturned  face,  and 
then  I  knew  that  I  had  seen  it  all  be- 
fore! 

My  first  impulse  was  to  rush  away  from 
the  ghastly  scene ;  a  feeling  of  intolerable 
distress  overpowered  me,  and  I  longed 
for  a  breath  of  fresh  air  —  the  room  was 
stifling.  While  struggling  through  the 
crowd,  I  heard  many  comments  on  the 
event,  whispered  from  one  to  another.  I 
had  heard  them  tell  the  doctor  that  the 
wound  was  self-inflicted.  '*The  count 
shot  himself,  I  hear,  in  consequence  of 
something  that  took  place  at  the  card- 
table,"  said  one. 

**  My  belief  is,  he  did  it  from  jealousy 
of  his  wife,"  added  a  second  speaker  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  I  doubt  that,"  said  the  other.  "  His 
affairs  were  known  to  be  in  a  desperate 
condition,  and  I  suspect  he  could  not  face 
the  ruin  that  threatened  him.  He  was 
said  to  be  mortgaged  up  to  the  hilt,  and  I 
fancy  the  Jews  were  about  to  be  down 
upon  him." 

"Those  cursed  Jews  a^ain;  they  will 
soon  absorb  all  the  land  in  the  country," 
rejoined  the  friend.  "  I  wish  we  were 
back  in  the  days  before  '48:  the  laws 
were  all  for  the  nobles  then;  whereas 
now,  this  pestilent  race  fattens  on  our 
ruin." 

Nearly  three  years  after  my  visit  to 
Galicia,  I  went  to  Ostend  for  my  health. 
During  the  Russo-Turkish  war,  I  had 
been  knocking  about  in  the  East ;  and  in 
the  end  I  suSered  so  severely  from  Da- 
nubian  fever,  that  I  was  obliged  to  give 
up  all  work  for  a  time.    My  last  doctor  in 


his  wisdom  had  sent  me  to  Ostend,  where 
I  was  ineffably  bored  bv  everything  and 
everybody  —  myself  included.  The  mo- 
notonous stare  of  the  ocean  from  that 
wearisome  Digue,  the  vaunt  and  glory  of 
Ostend,  was  becoming  every  day  more 
and  more  intolerable  to  me.  Enforced 
idleness  is  crucifixion  of  the  spirit ;  and 
what  with  having  nothing  to  do,  and  know- 
ing nobody  in  the  place,  I  began  to  think 
I  would  prefer  all  risks  elsewhere,  to  the 
slow  process  of  getting  well  at  Ostend. 

Unable  to  walk  much,  I  was  sitting  one 
afternoon  in  a  seat  on  the  Digue,  look- 
ing seaward.  I  donH  know  why,  but  all 
at  once  I  began  thinking  of  my  friend 
Walters,  and  wondering  how  he  was  get- 
ting on  with  his  petroleum  refinery  io 
Galicia.  I  had  not  heard  from  him  tor  a 
long  time  —  indeed  I  had  not  written, 
owing  to  my  own  unsettled  life;  but  I 
made  a  resolution  that  I  would  write  to 
him  that  very  evening. 

The  events  of  that  strange  visit  to  Ga- 
licia  came  so  vividly  and  persistently  into 
my  mind,  that  somehow  I  could  think  of 
nothing  else.  I  closed  the  yellow-backed 
novel,  and  allowed  my  thoughts  to  wan- 
der over  all  the  circumstances  of  that 
mysterious  night  at  the  Kubinskys' castle, 
when  Walters  and  I  had  seen  the  double 
ghost,  —  the  portent,  as  it  proved,  of  the 
count's  suicide  —  for  such,  indeed,  it 
seemed. 

While  speculating  on  the  singular  coin- 
cidence of  our  impressions  on  that  partic- 
ular night,  and  the  subsequent  fulfilment 
of  the  mental  illusion,  I  had  in  a  half-con- 
scious sort  of  way  remarked  the  face  of  a 
lady  who  was  being  drawn  backwards  and 
forwards  in  a  wheel-chair.  I  had  a  sensa- 
tion that  the  face  was  known  to  me.  She 
was  still  young,  and  there  were  traces  of 
great  beauty,  somewhat,  though  not  alto- 
gether, marred  by  an  appearance  of  much 
suffering. 

She  appeared  to  be  waiting  for  some 
one,  for  she  never  went  far  from  the  spot; 
and  at  length  the  chair  came  to  a  stand- 
still a  few  yards  from  where  I  was  seated. 

I  was  moodily  lost  in  thought,  with  my 
hand  over  my  brow,  when  the  slight  grat- 
ing of  the  chair-wheels  on  the  gravel  made 
me  look  up.  A  gentleman  was  now  walk- 
ing by  the  lady's  side ;  our  eyes  met ;  it 
was  Walters  —  my  friend  Walters  I 

'*My  dear  old  fellow,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  though  you 
do  look  seedy,  by  Jove !  I  found  out  just 
an  hour  ago,  through  the  visitors'  book, 
that  you  were  here ;  and  ever  since  I  have 
been  running  about  to  the  different  hotels 


FLORIDA   ".CRACKERS." 


625 


trying  to  find  you.  It  seems  you  left  the 
one  where  you  first  put  up." 

"By  the  strangest  coincidence,  Walters, 
I  was  thinking  of  you  at  the  very  time 
you  were  looking  for  me." 

"  My  wMfe  is  no  stranger  to  you,"  said 
Walters,  leading  me  up  to  the  invalid's 
chair. 

Now  I  knew  the  face,  pale  and  worn 
thoui;li  it  was ;  it  was  the  face  of  the  lovely 
Countess  Kubinsky  of  former  days. 


From  Chambers'  Journal. 
FLORIDA  •'CRACKERS.'* 

A  Cracker  is  a  poor  white  native  of 
Florida.  How  this  strange  appellative 
came  into  existence  does  not  seem  clear. 
The  Floridians  say  it  originated  in  the 
habit  the  poor  white  wanderers  had  of 
cracking  tl)eir  cattle-whips,  as  a  sort  of 
recall  for  the  strayed  members  of  their 
herds.  But  the  usage  has  disappeared,  if 
it  ever  existed;  today,  the  native  stock- 
master  goes  through  the  forest  and  ham- 
macks  in  search  of  wandered  calves,  with 
a  curious  lowing  whoop,  that  rings  like  a 
weird  bell  in  the  immense  solitudes. 
"Cracker"  has  fallen  to  a  term  of  irri- 
tating contempt,  and  is  applied  to  the 
mean  whites,  as  "  nigger "  is  to  the 
blacks.  And  strange  is  the  effect  of  this 
opprobrious  word  upon  the  negroes. 

One  day  passing  along  the  quay  at 
Jacksonville  —  which  has  become  the  vir- 
tual capital  of  Florida  —  I  observed  two 
black  men  quarrelling.  Amid  the  shower 
of  epithets,  the  word  **  Cracker  "  struck 
my  ear.  The  man  thus  called  became 
furious,  and  fell  upon  his  antagonist  liter- 
ally with  tooth  and  nail.  He  evidently 
had  been  supremely  insulted,  and  no  ver- 
bal retaliation  could  satisfy  him.   . 

The  first  of  the  Cracker  race  that  I  saw 
was  during  a  voyage  up  the  St.  John's 
River.  It  was  near  sundown ;  and  the  last 
flare  of  yellow  rays  was  blazing  upon  a 
bare  and  lonely  savanna,  making  its  ster- 
ile desolation  the  more  melancholy,  from 
the  glare.  Almost  suddenly,  the  light 
waned  and  faded  out,  giving  place  to  a 
sombre  blear-gray,  as  the  steamer  swept 
round  a  promontory.  Standing  rigid  as 
effigies  upon  this  promontory  were  four 
human  figures  —  a  man,  two  women,  and 
a  girl.  Their  eyes  seemed  to  be  fixed 
upon  the  westering  sun;  yet  the  lack-lus- 
tre vacancy  of  the  stare  had  no  "specula- 
tion "  in  it.  A  far-oflf,  half-distraught 
gaze  it  was,  such  as  I  had  never  observed 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2276 


before.  A  party  among  our  passengers 
were  making  the  air  ring  with  loud  talk 
and  louder  laughter  ;  but  the  four  figures 
remained  motionless,  peering  westward, 
as  if  utterly  unconscious  of  the  rushing 
steamer  and  its  noisy  merry-makers.  The 
swirl  of  the  water  rose  into  great,  curved 
billows  at  their  feet ;  the  dense  smoke  of 
the  pine  wood  from  the  funnel  swept  by 
them  ;  yet  the  four  remained  passive,  giv- 
ing no  more  sign  of  consciousness  than 
the  sheaf  of  palmetto-trees  behind  them. 
From  the  place  where  I  stood,  on  the 
upper  deck,  to  these  people  was  not  more 
than  twenty-five  or  thirty  feet ;  so  that  I 
had  the  fullest  opportunity  of  noting  their 
queer  imperturbability,  as  the  speed  of 
the  steamer  was  lessened  in  working 
round  the  point.  Their  clothing  seemed 
much  worn  ;  and  a  haggard,  weary  expres- 
sion seemed  to  rest  upon  their  thin  faces. 
This  living  apparition  lasted  but  a  minute ; 
for  after  rounding  the  cape,  the  steamer 
quickly  shot  into  a  canal-like  reach  of  the 
river;  and  the  four  silent,  unmoved  be- 
ings were  left  in  the  dim,  swift-falling, 
tropical  night. 

"Who  are  those  singular  people?"  I 
asked  the  captain,  who  happened  to  be 
standing  by.  "  Crackers,"  said  he,  as  in- 
differently as  if  they  had  been  turtles. 

I  saw  much  of  these  people  subse- 
quently ;  but  the  remembrance  of  the 
lonely  family  standing  on  the  brink  of  the 
shadowy  river,  surrounded  by  deadly 
swamps,  swarming  with  reptiles  fierce 
and  subtle,  has  continued  among  the  most 
vivid  of  my  Cracker  souvenirs.  Some- 
where in  the  forest  behind  them  doubtless 
was  the  den  they  called  home.  How  rude 
and  elementary  a  Cracker  habitation  can 
be,  I  found  the  next  day,  in  my  journey 
across  the  peninsula. 

I  had  lost  my  way  in  going  from  one 
recent  settlement  to  another  a  few  miles 
distant.  On  every  side  dark  pine-trees 
extended,  varied  now  and  then  by  little 
coverts  of  oaks,  where  fires  or  the  axe 
had  made  a  small  clearing.  Through  the 
thin  crowns  of  the  pines,  the  fervid  heat 
of  midday  seemed  to  descend  more  op- 
pressively than  in  an  exposed  plain.  Now 
and  then  a  blast  of  balsamic  and  burning 
air  coming  from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico 
swept  through  the  woods,  making  them 
hum  in  a  strange,  thrilling  diapason.  Huge 
butterflies  wavered  about  the  cactus 
plants ;  great  yellow  humble-bees  boomed 
lazily  among  the  scrub;  dragon-flies  of 
many  sizes  shot  across  the  path  like  pris- 
matic meteors.  A  sort  of  starling,  inky 
black,  screamed  harshly  and  fitfully  from 


[ 


634 


THE  DOUBLE  GHOST  WE   SAW   IN  GALICIA. 


<*  He  lies  in  that  room,'*  said  a  maD  near 
roe  to  his  neighbor,  adding*  **  Would  to 
heaven  they  could  find  a  doctor !  they  say 
he  is  not  dead.'* 

I  pushed  my  wav  to  the  threshold  of 
the  room;  it  was  already  full  of  people. 
At  that  moment  the  doctor  arrived,  the 
crowd  separated  to  let  him  pass,  and  I 
followed  close,  getting  thereby  within  the 
ring  formed  round  the  sick  man. 

The  prostrate  figure  was  in  shadow, 
and  at  the  first  glance  I  did  not  make  out 
who  it  was,  till  a  bystander,  reaching  a 
lamp  from  a  bracket  on  the  wall,  held  it 
close  down  for  the  aid  of  the  doctor,  who 
was  kneeling  on  the  floor  beside  the  ex- 
tended form.  The  light  at  once  revealed 
to  me  the  features  of  Count  Kubinsky ;  it 
was  he  who  lay  there,  dead  or  dving ;  his 
white  shirt  was  red  from  blood  pouring 
from  a  wound  in  the  left  breast.  As  I 
gazed,  horror-stricken,  the  grey  hues  of 
death  crept  over  the  upturned  face,  and 
then  I  knew  that  I  had  seen  it  all  be- 
fore! 

My  first  impulse  was  to  rush  away  from 
the  ghastly  scene ;  a  feeling  of  intolerable 
distress  overpowered  me,  and  I  longed 
for  a  breath  of  fresh  air  —  the  room  was 
stifling.  While  struggling  through  the 
crowd,  I  heard  many  comments  on  the 
event,  whispered  from  one  to  another.  I 
had  heard  them  tell  the  doctor  that  the 
wound  was  self-inflicted.  **The  count 
shot  himself,  I  hear,  in  consequence  of 
something  that  took  place  at  the  card- 
table,**  said  one. 

**  My  belief  is,  he  did  it  from  jealousy 
of  his  wife,**  added  a  second  speaker  in  a 
low  voice 

"  I  doubt  that,**  said  the  other.  "  His 
affairs  were  known  to  be  in  a  desperate 
condition,  and  I  suspect  he  could  not  face 
the  ruin  that  threatened  him.  He  was 
said  to  be  mortgaged  up  to  the  hilt,  and  I 
fancy  the  Jews  were  about  to  be  down 
upon  him.** 

*'  Those  cursed  Jews  a^ain ;  they  will 
soon  absorb  all  the  land  in  the  country,** 
rejoined  the  friend.  "  I  wish  we  were 
back  in  the  days  before  '48 :  the  laws 
were  all  for  the  nobles  then;  whereas 
now,  this  pestilent  race  fattens  on  our 
ruin.** 

Nearly  three  years  after  my  visit  to 
Galicia,  I  went  to  Ostend  for  my  health. 
During  the  Russo-Turkish  war,  I  had 
been  knocking  about  in  the  East ;  and  in 
the  end  I  suffered  so  severely  from  Da- 
nubian  fever,  that  I  was  obliged  to  give 
up  all  work  for  a  time.    My  last  doctor  in 


his  wisdom  had  sent  me  to  Ostend,  where 
I  was  ineffably  bored  bv  everything  and 
everybody  —  myself  included.  The  mo- 
notonous stare  of  the  ocean  from  that 
wearisome  Digue,  the  vaunt  and  glory  of 
Ostend,  was  becoming  every  day  more 
and  more  intolerable  to  me.  Enforced 
idleness  is  crucifixion  of  the  spirit ;  and 
what  with  having  nothing  to  do,  and  know- 
ing nobody  in  the  place,  I  began  to  think 
I  would  prefer  all  risks  elsewhere,  to  the 
slow  process  of  getting  well  at  Ostend. 

Unable  to  walk  much,  I  was  sitting  one 
afternoon  in  a  seat  on  the  Digue,  look- 
ing seaward.  I  don't  know  why,  but  all 
at  once  I  began  thinking  of  my  friend 
Walters,  and  wondering  how  he  was  get- 
ting on  with  his  petroleum  refinery  ia 
Galicia.  I  had  not  beard  from  him  for  a 
long  time  —  indeed  I  had  not  written, 
owing  to  my  own  unsettled  life;  but  I 
made  a  resolution  that  I  would  write  to 
him  that  very  evening. 

The  events  of  that  strange  visit  to  Ga- 
licia came  so  vividly  and  persistently  into 
my  mind,  that  somehow  I  could  think  of 
nothing  else.  I  closed  the  yellow-backed 
novel,  and  allowed  my  thoughts  to  wan- 
der over  all  the  circumstances  of  that 
mysterious  night  at  the  Kubinskys*  castle, 
when  Walters  and  I  had  seen  the  double 
ghost,  —  the  portent,  as  it  proved,  of  the 
count's  suicide  —  for  such,  indeed,  it 
seemed. 

While  speculating  on  the  singular  coin- 
cidence of  our  impressions  on  that  partic- 
ular night,  and  the  subsequent  fulfilment 
of  the  mental  illusion,  I  had  in  a  half-con- 
scious sort  of  way  remarked  the  face  of  a 
lady  who  was  being  drawn  backwards  and 
forwards  in  a  wheel-chair.  I  had  a  sensa- 
tion that  the  face  was  known  to  me.  She 
was  still  young,  and  there  were  traces  of 
great  beauty,  somewhat,  though  not  alto- 
gether, marred  by  an  appearance  of  much 
suffering. 

She  appeared  to  be  waiting  for  some 
one,  for  she  never  went  far  from  the  spot ; 
and  at  length  the  chair  came  to  a  stand- 
still a  few  yards  from  where  I  was  seated. 

I  was  moodily  lost  in  thought,  with  my 
hand  over  my  brow,  when  the  slight  grat- 
ing of  the  chair-wheels  on  the  gravel  made 
me  look  up.  A  gentleman  was  now  walk- 
ing by  the  lady's  side ;  our  eyes  met ;  it 
was  Walters  —  my  friend  Wallers  I 

**My  dear  old  fellow,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  though  you 
do  look  seedy,  by  Jove !  I  found  out  just 
an  hour  ago,  through  the  visitors*  book, 
that  you  were  here;  and  ever  since  I  have 
been  running  about  to  the  different  hotels 


FLORIDA   ".CRACKERS." 


625 


trying  to  find  you.  It  seems  you  left  the 
one  where  you  first  put  up.'' 

•*  By  the  strangest  coincidence,  Walters, 
I  was  thinking  of  you  at  the  very  time 
you  were  looking  for  me." 

"  My  wife  is  no  stranger  to  you,"  said 
Walters,  leading  me  up  to  the  invalid's 
chair. 

Now  I  knew  the  face,  pale  and  worn 
thoujfh  it  was ;  it  was  the  face  of  the  lovely 
Countess  Kubinsky  of  former  days. 


From  ChambeiV  Joarnal. 
FLORIDA  •'CRACKERS." 

A  Cracker  is  a  poor  white  native  of 
Florida.  How  this  strange  appellative 
came  into  existence  does  not  seem  clear. 
The  Floridians  say  it  originated  in  the 
habit  the  poor  white  wanderers  had  of 
cracking  their  cattle-whips,  as  a  sort  of 
recall  for  the  strayed  members  of  their 
herds.  But  the  usage  has  disappeared,  if 
it  ever  existed;  today,  the  native  stock- 
master  goes  through  the  forest  and  ham- 
macks  in  search  of  wandered  calves,  with 
a  curious  lowing  whoop,  that  rings  like  a 
weird  bell  in  the  immense  solitudes. 
"Cracker"  has  fallen  to  a  term  of  irri- 
tating contempt,  and  is  applied  to  the 
mean  whites,  as  **  nigger"  is  to  the 
blacks.  And  strange  is  the  effect  of  this 
opprobrious  word  upon  the  negroes. 

One  day  passing  along  the  quay  at 
Jacksonville —  which  has  become  the  vir- 
tual capital  of  Florida  —  I  observed  two 
black  n^en  quarrelling.  Amid  the  shower 
of  epithets,  the  word  "  Cracker  "  struck 
my  ear.  The  man  thus  called  became 
furious,  and  fell  upon  his  antagonist  liter- 
ally with  tooth  and  nail.  He  evidently 
had  been  supremely  insulted,  and  no  ver- 
bal retaliation  could  satisfy  him.   . 

The  first  of  the  Cracker  race  that  I  saw 
was  during  a  voyage  up  the  St.  John's 
River.  It  was  near  sundown ;  and  the  last 
flare  of  yellow  rays  was  blazing  upon  a 
bare  and  lonely  savanna,  making  its  ster- 
ile desolation  the  more  melancholy,  from 
the  glare.  Almost  suddenly,  the  light 
waned  and  faded  out,  giving  place  to  a 
sombre  blear-gray,  as  the  steamer  swept 
round  a  promontory.  Standing  rigid  as 
effigies  upon  this  promontory  were  four 
human  figures  —  a  man,  two  women,  and 
a  girl.  Their  eyes  seemed  to  be  fixed 
upon  the  westering  sun ;  yet  the  lack-lus- 
tre vacancy  of  the  stare  had  no  *' specula- 
tion "  in  it.  A  far-off,  half-distraught 
gaze  it  was,  such  as  I  had  never  observed  1 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2276 


before.  A  party  among  our  passengers 
were  making  the  air  ring  with  loud  talk 
and  louder  laughter  ;  but  the  four  figures 
remained  motionless,  peering  westward, 
as  if  utterlv  unconscious  of  the  rushing 
steamer  ancf  its  noisy  merry-makers.  The 
swirl  of  the  water  rose  into  great,  curved 
billows  at  their  feet ;  the  dense  smoke  of 
the  pine  wood  from  the  funnel  swept  by 
them;  yet  the  four  remained  passive,  giv- 
ing no  more  sign  of  consciousness  than 
the  sheaf  of  palmetto-trees  behind  them. 
From  the  place  where  1  stood,  on  the 
upper  deck,  to  these  people  was  not  more 
than  twenty-five  or  thirty  feet ;  so  that  I 
had  the  fullest  opportunity  of  noting  their 
queer  imperturbability,  as  the  speed  of 
the  steamer  was  lessened  in  working 
round  the  point.  Their  clothing  seemed 
much  worn ;  and  a  haggard,  weary  expres- 
sion seemed  to  rest  upon  their  thin  faces. 
This  living  apparition  lasted  but  a  minute ; 
for  after  rounding  the  cape,  the  steamer 
quickly  shot  into  a  canal-like  reach  of  the 
river;  and  the  four  silent,  unmoved  be- 
ings were  left  in  the  dim,  swift-falling, 
tropical  night. 

"Who  are  those  singular  people.?"  I 
asked  the  captain,  who  happened  to  be 
standing  by.  "  Crackers,"  said  he,  as  in- 
differently as  if  they  had  been  turtles. 

I  saw  much  of  these  people  subse- 
quently; but  the  remembrance  of  the 
lonely  family  standing  on  the  brink  of  the 
shadowy  river,  surrounded  by  deadly 
swamps,  swarming  with  reptiles  fierce 
and  subtle,  has  continued  among  the  most 
vivid  of  my  Cracker  souvenirs.  Some- 
where in  the  forest  behind  them  doubtless 
was  the  den  they  called  home.  How  rude 
and  elementary  a  Cracker  habitation  can- 
be,  1  found  the  next  day,  in  my  journey 
across  the  peninsula. 

1  had  lost  my  way  in  going  from  one 
recent  settlement  to  another  a  few  miles 
distant.  On  every  side  dark  pine-trees 
extended,  varied  now  and  then  by  little 
coverts  of  oaks,  where  fires  or  the  axe 
had  made  a  small  clearing.  Through  th& 
thin  crowns  of  the  pines,  the  fervid  heat 
of  midday  seemed  to  descend  more  op- 
pressively than  in  an  exposed  plain.  Now 
and  then  a  blast  of  balsamic  and  burning 
air  coming  from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico 
swept  through  the  woods,  making  them 
hum  in  a  strange,  thrilling  diapason.  Huge 
butterflies  wavered  about  the  cactus 
plants;  great  yellow  humble-bees  boomed 
lazily  among  the  scrub;  dragon-fiies  of 
many  sizes  shot  across  the  path  like  pris- 
matic meteors.  A  sort  of  starling,  inky 
black,  screamed  harshly  and  fitfully  from 


626 


FLORIDA   "CRACKERS." 


the  topmost  branches  of  the  pines;  and 
floating  high  in  the  palpitating  ether  was 
a  pair  of  buzzards  sweeping  in  vast  curves, 
without  any  apparent  motion  of  their  rigid 
wings. 

The  prostrating  heat,  the  dismal  uni- 
formity of  the  pine-trees,  the  fierce  energy 
of  nature,  and  the  indifference  of  the  liv- 
ing things  about  me,  were  oppressive  to 
the  last  degree.  For  the  insects  that  were 
settled  upon  the  flowers  remained  ouies- 
cent  under  my  observation.  Chameleons 
and  lizards  gamboled  round  the  trunks  of 
the  trees,  and  distended  their  green  throats 
until  they  became  scarlet,  as  if  in  elfish 
mockery  of  man.  The  loneliness  grew 
more  than  depressing  —  it  became  stupe- 
fying. Had  I  not  been  anxious  to  get 
out  of  the  labyrinth,  into  which  a  lumber 
track  had  misled  me,  I  should  have  sat 
down  magnetized,  as  it  were,  by  the  heat 
and  the  overpowering  solitude. 

After  a  long  detour,  I  came  to  a  small 
lake,  and  on  the  other  side  of  it,  I  saw  a 
thread  of  blue  smoke  ascending  behind  a 
knoll  of  young  oaks.  As  I  drew  near,  I 
perceived  a  small,  weather-worn  log  hut, 
and  beside  it  a  man  putting  some  sticks 
upon  a  smouldering  fire.  A  sort  of  fish- 
kettle  was  raised  upon  some  stones  over 
the  fire.  Although  I  came  upon  him  un- 
awares, the  man  did  not  manifest  the  least 
surprise.  Nevertheless,  he  seemed  shy, 
suspicious,  and  ill-conditioned,  being  any- 
thing but  pleased  at  my  appearance.  His 
age  might  have  been  forty,  more  or  less ; 
for  I  found  afterwards  that  a  Cracker's 
iace  is  no  exact  index  of  age.  He  was 
unwholesomely  pallid,  having  that  curi- 
ous, waxy  tissue  peculiar  to  his  species. 
His  gaunt  frame  was  merely  integumented 
-with  yellow  flesh,  and  was  very  scantily 
provided  with  raiment,  a  much  and  clum- 
sily bepatched  shirt,  and  a  most  effectu- 
ally worn  pair  of  pants,  being  his  sole 
attire.  His  furzy  hair  was  matted,  and 
his  wiry  beard  was  tangled  and  neglected. 
His  eyes  had  the  same  vacant,  lustreless 
expression  that  had  struck  me  in  those  of 
the  group  standing  upon  the  river's  bank. 
Even  in  the  words  my  importunity  ex- 
torted from  him,  there  was  an  accent  of 
vague  dreariness,  and  he  looked  medita- 
tively away  from  me,  as  an  animal  does 
when  one  attempts  to  examine  its  eyes. 
But  he  was  not  indifferent  to  my  remarks  ; 
on  the  contrary,  he  was  keenly  curious  to 
know  who  and  what  I  was,  though  he  hid 
his  feelings  under  the  habitual  mask  of 
stolid  distancy  and  inhospitable  boorish- 
ness.  He  listened  to  my  story  of  bewil- 
derment in  the  forest  as  impassively  as  a 


cow  might  have  done,  and  when  I  finished 
and  asked  him  in  what  direction  my  des- 
tination lay,  be  pointed  nonchalantly  to- 
wards the  south. 

I  was  thirsty,  hungry,  and  tired.  Hav- 
ing found  a  harbor  ot  refuge,  I  desired  to 
get  repose  and  refreshment  before  resum- 
ing my  journey.  I  therefore  endeavored 
to  negotiate  with  the  roan  for  something 
to  eat  and  for  his  help  as  a  guide.  But 
the  requests  were  churlishly  received ;  to 
my  demand  for  food  he  vouchsafed  me  a 
vague  shake  of  the  head  ;  to  my  entreaty 
for  a  drink  of  water  he  pointed  to  the 
lake.  I  was  confounded  by  the  brutish 
selfishness  of  the  fellow,  and  would  have 
left  him  in  disgust;  but  I  really  needed 
his  assistance  to  reach  the  little  settle- 
ment hidden  in  this  endless  wilderness. 
After  a  time,  he  agreed  to  take  me  to  the 
place  I  was  seeking,  for  fifty  cents.  His 
misanthropy  now  yielded  a  little ;  and  he 
condescended  to  inform  me  that  he  was 
engaged  in  boiling  potatoes.  During  our 
previous  conversation,  or  rather  my  mon- 
ologue —  for  the  Cracker  recluse  had  only 
bestowed  upon  me  the  curtest  of  answers 
to  my  inquiries  —  the  fire  had  died  out. 
Seeing  this,  he  grew  almost  active  in  his 
efiEorts  to  rouse  up  the  embers ;  and  suc- 
ceeded, by  prolonged  and  skilful  blowing 
from  his  thin  blue  lips,  to  restore  the  fire ; 
soon  the  pine  twigs  were  blazing,  and  the 
larger  pieces  began  to  ignite. 

As  this  took  place,  I  heard  the  light 
crackling  of  leaves  near  at  hand,  and  turn- 
ing round,  saw  two  female  forms  ap- 
proaching. The  Cracker  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  them,  and  that  suggeste4  they 
must  be  members  of  his  family.  For  an 
instant  the  woman  stared  at  me ;  then,  with 
forward  glances  and  in  Indian  file,  they 
went  towards  the  shanty.  1  was  so  glad 
of  these  new  elements  of  society,  that  I 
hastened  towards  them,  and  by  making 
for  the  door,  1  intercepted  them  upon  the 
threshold.  This  brought  them  to  a  stand- 
still. To  my  courteous  good-morning 
they  made  no  answer,  nor  would  they  look 
me  in  the  face.  I  asked  permission  to 
share  the  family  dinner,  for  which  I  would 
pay.  I  hurriedly  explained  how  I  had  lost 
my  way,  and  that  the  gentleman  standing 
by  the  fire  was  going  to  accompany  me  to 
my  destination  at  his  convenience. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  eldest  of  the  wom- 
en, and  straightway  entered  the'  house. 
Her  companion  said  nothing,  but  silently 
followed.  Whether  this  pair  of  words 
was  a  general  agreement  to  my  request  for 
dinner,  and  a  temporary  enjoyment  of  in- 
tercourse with  her  household,  I  could  not 


FLORIDA   "CRACKERS." 


637 


gather.  However,  I  put  the  roost  gener- 
ous construction  upon  the  phrase,  and 
looked  into  the  hut  with  something  of  a 
frontierman's  freedom.  The  women  ap- 
peared to  be  mother  and  daughter ;  the 
first  perhaps  forty,  withered  and  yellow, 
as  though  vitalify  iiad  been  exhausted  by 
chronic  malaria  and  insufficiency  of  food. 
Her  dress  was  dingy  and  tattered,  her 
hair  rudely  bunched  into  an  uncomely 
heap.  The  daughter  might  be  twenty, 
though  the  age  of  young  women  is  not 
guessable  in  the  far  South  ;  some  girls  of 
fifteen  look  fully  matured.  This  young 
Crackeress  was  as  ilUdressed  and  as  un- 
tidy as  her  mother.  A  poor^  ill-washed, 
whitish^ray  gown  seemed  to  be  almost 
her  sole  clothing,  except  a  pair  of  wretched 
galoshes.  Her  feet  were  unstockinged, 
however,  for  through  the  rents  of  her  shoes 
appeared  many  evidences  of  the  fact. 
The  sun,  and  the  water  with  which  she 
dressed  her  hair,  had  rendered  it  the  color 
of  lustreless  hay.  It  was  scanty,  and  tied 
in  a  loose  knot.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  light 
gray,  dull  and  unemotional,  vet  showing 
the  quick  inquisitiveness  of  a  squirrel, 
when  she  was  excited  by  a  spasm  of  curi- 
osity. Like  her  parents,  she  seemed  de- 
bilitated by  privation  and  swampy  exhala- 
tions, and  stunned  by  the  savage  seclusion 
of  the  woods  and  the  absence  of  social 
communication.  She  was  wholly  bereft 
of  the  graces  of  maidenhood;  nor  had  she 
a  visible  trace  of  those  modest  charms 
which  sentimental  theorists  have  sup- 
posed to  be  the  gift  of  sequestered  girls. 
A  lonely,  idle,  purposeless  life  had  re- 
duced her  to  the  mental  condition  of  an 
Indian,  and  had  she  been  copper-com- 
plexioned  intead  of  the  unhealthy  yellow, 
I  would  have  believed  her  an  aboriginal 
inhabitant  of  Florida. 

The  retrogression  of  the  high-bred,  pro- 
gressive Caucasian  towards  the  inferior 
Red-man  is  very  striking  among  the  Crack- 
ers, who  have  sprung  from  two  or  three 
generations  of  degenerated  whites.  The 
omnipotent  influences  of  forest  solitude, 
of  climatic  exhaustions,  of  bad  water,  and 
of  an  existence  without  ambitions,  bear 
down  body,  mind,  and  morals  to  the  level 
of  the  native  savage.  Such  environments 
mentally  debase  all  who  are  subject  to 
them. 

I  could  not  resist  the  inference  that, 
after  the  lapse  of  a  century  or  two,  the 
finest  European  race,  if  left  to  itself  in 
Florida,  would  sink  to  perhaps  a  lower 
condition  than  the  Indians  themselves. 
For  the  developed  intellect  having  gone 
chiefly  towards  the  ideal,  declines,  amid  j 


the  vast  realities  of  nature,  to  a  level  be- 
neath that  of  the  savage,  who  has  pro- 
gressed in  his  special  way  under  silvan 
conditions.  All  the  mental  upbuilding 
which  civilization  has  effected  becomes 
impedimental,  when  white  people  revert 
to  a  state  from  which  their  ancestors 
emerged  ages  ago.  Hence,  unless  they 
keep  up  contact  with  external  civilization, 
and  indeed  apply  its  methods  in  their 
daily  lives,  they  must  become  victims  to  a 
degeneracy  of  which  we  in  England  have 
no  conception. 

While  I  continued  to  speak  to  the 
Cracker  women,  who  sat  listlessly  in  the 
hut,  they  did  not  manifest  any  desire  to 
make  acquaintance  with  me.  Had  I  ad- 
dressed two  of  Madame  Tussaud's  inani- 
mate figures,  they  would  have  displayed 
as  much  interest  as  those  before  me.  No 
doubt  much  that  I  said  was  utterly  indif- 
ferent to  them ;  perhaps  my  languas:e  was 
almost  foreign  to  them,  for  the  vocabulary 
of  the  Crackers  is  necessarily  limited. 
They  are  mostly  illiterate,  and  are  not 
concerned  with  subjects  that  lie  out  of 
their  contracted  range.  I  bore  the  taci- 
turnity of  the  ladies  without  effort,  since 
I  wished  to  study  Cracker  life  as  far  as 
circumstances  permitted ;  so,  while  talk- 
ing, I  examined  the  details  of  the  misera- 
ble hovel  in  which  their  lives  were  passed. 
It  was  about  sixteen  feet  square,  built  of 
small  pine  logs,  and  roofed  with  rough 
boards.  Through  the  intervals  between 
the  logs,  the  air  and  light  came  freely. 
It  had  no  floor;  being  on  the  crown  of 
the  knoll,  the  rain  flowed  away  from  it  as 
it  fell.  There  was  no  fireplace,  for  Cracker 
cooking  is  always  done  in  the  open.  A 
clumsy  shelf  stood  at  one  end  of  the  hut, 
and  upon  it  were  placed  a  few  plates  and 
cups.  In  the  middle  of  the  dwelling  was 
a  sort  of  bench,  though  used  as  a  table ; 
beside  it,  two  or  three  rickety  chairs. 
Such  were  all  the  visible  household  gods. 
Where  the  family  slept,  or  how  they  slept, 
was  not  apparent  to  my  uninstructed  eyes. 
It  was  evident  enough,  however,  that'do- 
mestic  convenances  were  as  little  consid- 
ered as  domestic  comforts.  1 1  was  also 
evident  that  there  was  no  accommodation 
for  a  belated  guest,  and  that  I  must  sleep 
on  the  ground,  if  I  got  lost  again  in  the 
forest ;  for  I  did  not  doubt  that  Crack- 
er habitations  were  pretty  much  alike. 
Whether  my  conversation  grew  oppres- 
sive, or  whether  the  need  of  narcotic 
refreshment  was  urgent,  I  could  not  deter- 
mine; but  after  a  while  the  lady  of  the 
house  arose  and  said  somethmg  which  I 
did  not  understand,  for  it  was  muttered 


628 


FLORIDA  "CRACKERS." 


rather  than  uttered.  Taking  it  as  the 
Cracker  mode  of  terminating  an  interview, 
I  retired,  while  the  lady  proceeded  to  the 
fire,  and  deliberately  filled  and  lighted  a 
short,  black  pipe. 

Her  husband  had  meantime  been  suc- 
cessful in  getting  the  kettle  to  boil,  and 
stood  contemplating  his  achievement  with 
his  back  against  a  tree.  He  did  not  pay 
the  slightest  attention  to  his  wife  as  she 
lit  her  pipe ;  but  after  a  few  clouds  of 
the  smoke  had  slowly  roused  him  with  its 
fragrance,  he  put  his  hand  into  the  pocket 
of  his  pantaloons  and  drew  forth  a  rope  of 
rudely  twisted  tobacco-leaves.  From  this 
he  bit  a  mouthful,  and  began  to  masticate 
it  with  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  a  ruminat- 
ing animal.  His  eyes  left  the  steaming 
kettle  and  dwelt  upon  his  bare  and  dusty 
feet,  as  if  they  were  a  beatific  vision. 
The  lady  of  the  house  went  to  the  shady 
side  of  the  hut  and  sat  down  upon  an  up- 
turned box;  there  she  inhaled  the  fumes 
of  her  pipe,  coughing  from  time  to  time 
and  expectorating  copiously.  Her  daugh- 
ter sat  near  her  and  gazed  dreamily  at  the 
ground. 

As  a  feebly  interested  observer  of  these 
varied  occupations,  1  began  to  find  them 
monotonous  after  a  time,  and  6nally  to  be 
intolerable,  before  dinner.  My  appetite 
had  that  peculiar  accentuation  well  known 
to  Floridians  at  midday ;  for  the  penin- 
sula, 1  may  remark,  is  notorious  for  the 
gastric  energy  of  its  inhabitants  and  vis- 
itors. I  had  breakfasted  at  half  past  six, 
had  walked  many  miles,  had  come  to 
terms  for  dinner,  which  was  clearly  ready, 
for  the  lid  was  removed  from  the  kettle. 
Yet  the  women  of  the  establishment 
seemed  as  unconscious  of  the  meal  and 
the  guest  as  though  this  were  a  foodless 
world.  Happily,  the  old  lady's  tobacco 
got  burnt  out  at  length ;  she  coughed  at 
her  ease  ;  put  the  pipe  in  her  pocket,  and 
then  calmly  bade  her  daughter  **  put  out 
the  potatoes." 

The  latter  rose  still  more  calmly,  and 
brought  a  much  oxidized  tin  vessel,  per- 
forated with  numerous  inartistic  holes, 
probably  made  with  a  building-nail.  Into 
this  vessel,  the  contents  of  the  kettle  were 
poured,  at  a  short  distance  from  the  fire. 
The  water  being  drained  off,  the  vessel 
was  carried  into  the  hut,  whence  issued 
some  minutes  afterwards  a  subdued 
whoop.  ]  t  roused  my  host  from  the  stead- 
fast contemplation  of  his  feet;  he  pulled 
the  tobacco  from  his  mouth,  placed  it  upon 
a  log,  and  went  towards  the  hut  without 
saying  a  word  to  me.  Takinj;  the  whoop 
as  a  comprehensive  invitation  to  dinner,  1 


followed  the  Cracker  into  his  home,  and 
found  the  family  seated  at  table.  With 
an  austere  gesture  from  her  dirty  index- 
finger,  my  hostess  assigned  roe  the  vacant 
seat  beside  herself.  I  took  it,  with  thanks, 
and  waited  for  further  courtesies.  But  in 
vain.  The  members  of  the  household 
assisted  themselves  to  the  potatoes,  which 
stood  in  the  same  vessel  upon  the  table, 
and  which  furnished  the  pihe  <U  resistance 
and  all  besides.  Neither  fish,  flesh,  fowl, 
bread,  nor  even  common  salt  was  upon 
this  frugal  board.  A  simpler  feast  could 
not  be  imagined  ;  a  less  inviting  and  sat- 
isfying one  I  have  never  heard  of,  out  of 
a  long-beleaguered  city.  The  potatoes 
were  not  what  the  Americans  call  **  Irish 
potatoes,''  from  excess  of  politeness  or 
from  botanical  ignorance.  Those  before 
me  were  **  sweet "  potatoes,  a  sort  of  yam. 
I  had  tasted  them  before,  and  had  been 
contented  with  a  limited  experience.  Now 
they  were  all  that  I  had  to  dine  upon.  As 
I  was  not  invited  to  join  my  friends  in 
disposing  of  the  feast,  I  fell  into  Cracker 
modes,  and  helped  myself  to  a  couple  of 
the  sodden  roots,  and  followed  their  ex- 
ample in  stripping  them  longitudinally 
and  throwing  the  skins  upon  the  table, 
which  I  need  scarcely  say  had  no  cloth 
upon  it. 

I  bit  the  yellow,  sickly,  sticky,  starchy 
mass,  and  endeavored  to  make  the  best  of 
things.  But  1  was  new  to  Cracker  cuisine. 
I  believe  I  could  have  swallowed  as  much 
soap  as  easily.  Whether  it  was  the  earth 
adhering  to  the  potatoes  that  caused  the 
vile  flavor,  for  1  do  not  suppose  that  they 
were  washed  before  cooking,  or  whether 
the  kettle  or  the  tin  vessel  were  filthy 
with  accumulated  impurities,  I  cannot 
say;  I  left  the  table  hurriedly,  evoking 
thereby  all  the  astonishment  that  my  en- 
tertainers were  capable  of.  When  I  re« 
turned  and  begged  for  a  drink  of  water, 
they  were  still  suffering  from  acute  amaze- 
ment, and  really  stared  at  me  without 
reserve.  But  they  did  not  hasten  to  give 
me  water.  Either  through  negligence,  or 
because  it  was  not  the  family  custom  to 
drink  at  dinner,  there  was  no  water  upon 
the  table.  The  mother  bade  the  girl  fetch 
some.  Now,  filial  piety  is  not  vehement 
in  advanced  American  society;  in  the 
most  retarded,  such  as  I  then  moved  in, 
it  is  inappreciable  to  a  stranger.  At  any 
rate,  the  young  lady  paid  not  the  slightest 
attention  to  her  mother's  request,  but 
went  on  peeling  and  eating  sweet  potatoes 
with  much  relish.  At  length  her  father 
rose,  and  without  other  rebuke  than  that 
of  example,  he  took  a  singularly  unclean- 


1^ 


ODET   DE   COLIGNY,   CARDINAL   CHATILLON. 


629 


looking  pail  from  under  the  dining-table 
and  gravely  quitted  the  house.  I  felt 
grateful  for  his  obiigeance;  but  further 
experience  of  Cracker  conduct  induces 
me  to  believe  that  I  was  bestowing  com- 
mendation upon  an  undeserving  object. 
My  host's  individual  thirst  was  most 
probably  the  cau^e  of  his  journey  to  the 
lake.  Soon  he  returned,  placed  the  pail 
upon  the  table,  and  forthwith  helped  him- 
self therefrom.  Then  his  wife  drank  from 
the  tin  can  which  supplied  the  place  of 
glasses  to  the  diners;  then  the  young 
lady  partook  of  a  copious  draught.  I 
waited  to  the  last.     It  was  well  that  I  did 

« 

so,  for  I  made  another  breach  of  good 
manners.  I  had  again  to  hurry  outside. 
The  water  was  positively  loathsome.  It 
was  warm,  brackish,  and  turbid,  as  though 
the  pail  had  contained  milk.  Swallow  it 
I  could  not. 

Such  was  the  dinner  to  which  white 
people  of  my  own  race  and  speech  had  sat 
down  and  eaten.  I  do  not  think  that  om- 
nivorous man  partakes  of  any  food  that  so 
degenerates  him  as  the  sweet  potato,  when 
it  becomes  the  staple,  as  it  is  said  to  be, 
of  Florida  Cracker  households  for  a  large 

Cart  of  the  year.  Its  nutritive  value  must 
e  small,  and  it  lacks  the  flavor  of  the 
tuber  that  is  found  upon  the  tables  of 
British  households.  But  it  is  easily  cul- 
tivated^ is  an  almost  sure  crop,  and  yields 
prolifically.  In  a  climate  like  that  of 
Florida,  moist  and  hot,  several  crops  can 
be  got  in  the  year.  No  doubt,  this 
wretched  diet  is  largely  the  cause  of  the 
physical  deterioration  of  the  Crackers. 
The  solitude  of  their  lives,  their  apathetic 
indifference  to  all  things  external  to  their 
narrow  sympathies,  their  suspicion  of 
strangers,  and  the  contact  with  negroes 
and  Indians,  are  sufficient  to  deflect  them 
into  avenues  of  being  far  apart  from  those 
pursued  by  white  people  in  the  more  set- 
tled parts  of  the  United  States ;  but  their 
repulsive  and  monotonous  food  intensifies 
their  degradation,  and  makes  ameliora- 
tion almost  impossible.  Events  now  tak- 
ing place,  however,  will  probably  arrest 
the  downward  career  of  these  people,  and 
compel  them  to  play  a  part  in  the  civiliz- 
ing of  their  native  state,  or  to  perish  in 
the  stern  onrush  of  an  invading  world. 

Florida  is  the  winter  sanatorium  of 
America,  and  it  is  becoming  dotted  with 
orange  and  lemon  groves,  wherever  these 
fruits  will  flourish.  Railways,  steamboats, 
stage-wagons,  are  penetrating  further  into 
the  peninsula  each  year,  and  vast  amounts 
of  capital  are  flowing  mto  the  state.  This 
brings  with  it  Northern  people,  who  are  the 


antitheses  of  the  torpid,  furtive,  unsocial 
Cracker,  and  with  whom  they  cannot  have 
any  but  hostile  relations.  Ere  this  cen- 
tury be  spent,  these  mean  whites  will 
either  be  absorbed  into  the  ranks  of  the 
new  Floridians,  or  they  will  be  confined 
.to  the  irreclaimable  swamps  of  their  native 
land.  The  downfall  of  negro  slavery  in- 
cluded the  abolition  of  the  poor  white 
semi-savage.  Slavery  created  the  Crack- 
er; freedom  will  destroy  him ;  or  rather, 
let  us  hope,  will  win  him  back  to  the  civil* 
ization  from  which  his  fathers  lapsed. 


From  The  Saturday  Review. 
ODET    DE    COLIGNY,    CARDINAL 
CHATILLON. 

At  the  extreme  east  end  of  the  Trinity 
Chapel  in  Canterbury  Cathedral  there 
stands,  awkwardly  athwart  one  of  the 
graceful  arches  of  William  the  English- 
man's apse,  a  coffer-like  tomb  of  the  most 
uncompromising  plainness,  without  name 
or  date  or  ornament,  covered  with  a  decay- 
ing plaster  coating  which  reveals  the  red 
brick  within.  There,  in  that  memorable 
spot,  **  once,''  as  Dean  Stanley  has  said, 
'*  believed  to  be  the  most  sacred  spot  in 
England,"  in  the  innermost  adytum  of 
England's  noblest  cathedral,  surrounded 
by  the  magnificent  memorials  of  king  and 
prince  and  archbishop,  who  have  left  im- 
perishable names  on  the  paG;es  of  history; 
there,  in  the  very  centre  of  architectural 
and  monumental  splendor,  how  are  we  to 
explain  the  presence  of  this  mean  and  un- 
seemly bulk?  If  its  tenant  was  thought 
worthy  of  a  place  among  England's  most 
illustrious  dead,  how  comes  it  that  he  did 
not  receive  more  honorable  sepulture? 
The  answer  to  this  question  opens  a  curi- 
ous and  interesting  page  of  history.  The 
tomb  is  that  of  Odet  de  Coligny,  Cardi- 
nal Ch&tillon,  the  eldest  of  the  three  noble 
brothers  who,  under  Cond^,  were  the  chief 
champions  of  the  Reformed  faith  in 
France.  Gaspard,  the  famous  Admiral 
de  Coligny,  the  most  illustrious  victim  of 
the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  as  in- 
deed he  was  its  chief  object,  was  the  sec- 
ond, and  P'rangois  d'Andelot,  the  com- 
mander of  the  Protestant  infantry  in  the 
religious  wars,  was  the  youngest.  A  fugi- 
tive from  his  country  after  the  battle  of 
St.  Denis  in  1567,  Cardinal  Chatillon 
found  a  refuge  in  England,  where  he  was 
trented  with  marked  honor  by  Elizabeth. 
Recalled  by  his  brother  the  admiral  dur- 
ing the  deceitful  peace  which  preceded  the 


630 


ODET   DE   COLIGNY,   CARDINAL  CHATILLON. 


foul  treachery  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Day, 
he  was  waiting  at  Canterbury  for  a  favor- 
able opportunity  of  crossin^^,  when  he  was 
surprised  by  death,  not  without  a  suspi- 
cion of  poison,  which,  though  then  dis- 
credited, was  afterwards  confirmed  by  the 
alleged  confession  of  the  poisoner,  one  of 
his  own  servants. 

The  circumstances  explain  the  rudeness 
of  the  entombment.  It  was  meant  merely 
to  be  the  temporary  resting-place  of  the 
cardinal's  body.  And  therefore  the 
corpse  was  not,  in  the  strict  sense,  in- 
terred. The  coffin  would  be  easier  of 
removal  if  left  above  ground,  simply  built 
round  with  a  brick  casing.  It  would  be 
idle  to  waste  decoration  on  what  was  so 
soon  to  be  displaced.  If  the  tomb  proved 
too  long  for  the  arch  in  which  it  was 
placed  and  had  to  stand  slantwise,  the 
awkwardness  wpuld  not  be  for  long.  The 
Protestant  cause  in  France  was  at  last 
triumphant.  Their  leaders  were  the  hon- 
ored guests  of  the  court.  Coligny  him- 
self was  all  powerful  with  the  young  king, 
who  was  lavishing  on  him  every  profes- 
sion of  regard  and  respect.  After  but  a 
few  months,  the  body  of  the  cardinal 
would  be  transported  to  his  native  land  as 
that  of  one  of  its  greatest  benefactors, 
who,  by  his  skilful  diplomacy,  had  ably 
seconded  the  military  achievements  of  his 
distinguished  brothers,  and  succeeded  in 
securing  for  his  countrymen  liberty  of 
conscience  and  freedom  of  worship,  and 
would  be  buried  with  due  honors  among 
his  Ch&tillon  ancestors.  We  too  well 
know  how  fatally  these  bright  anticipa- 
tions were  deceived.  Cardinal  Ch&tillon 
died  in  March,  1571.  His  brother  D'An- 
delot  had  already  preceded  him  to  the 
grave,  dying  at  Saintes  in  1569.  The  next 
year  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew 
swept  away  nearly  the  whole  of  the  lead- 
ing French  Protestants.  When  Hugue- 
not corpses  were  lying  by  hundreds  naked 
and  unburied  along  the  streets  and  quays 
of  Paris,  or  were  floating  down  the  rivers ; 
and  the  mutilated  body  of  the  noble  Co- 
ligny was  hanging  from  one  of  the  gibbets 
of  Montfaucon  —  the  lot  of  him  whose 
corpse  was  reposing  at  Canterbury,  safe 
from  shame  and  insult,  albeit  in  a  foreign 
land,  must  have  seemed  onty  too  envia- 
ble. There  was  no  reason,  then,  to  dis- 
turb his  bones. 

The  interest  attaching  to  this  Huguenot 
leader,  who  has  thus  unexpectedly  found 
a  permanent  burial*place  in  the  cathedral, 
the  crypts  of  which  have  for  more  than 
three  centuries  afforded  a  place  of  worship 
to  his  co-religionists,  as  well  as  the  igno- 


rance generally  prevailing  with  regard  to 
him,  are  our  warrant  for  furnishing  a  few 
particulars  about  him,  especially*  in  con- 
nection with  his  residence  in  England,  of 
which  the  State  Paper  Office  supplies 
some  curious  details. 

Odet  de  Coligny  was,  as  we  have  said, 
the  eldest  of  the  three  brothers  Coligny. 
They  were  of  noble  birth.    Their  father 
was  Gaspard  de  Coligny,  sieur  de  Ch&til- 
Ion,  marshal  of  France ;  and  their  mother 
was  Louise,  the  sister  of  the  celebrated 
constable    Anne    de     Montmorency,    by 
whom,  De  Thou  says,  his  nephews  were 
regarded   "  with   a  paternal   love,  which 
made  him  ready  to  defend  their  fortunes, 
wealth,  and  dignities  at  his  own  peril." 
Brantdme,  who  is  lavish'  in  his  praises  of 
the  cardinal,  says  that  his  was  the  leading 
mind  in  the  family,  and  that  his  brothers 
deferred  to  him  and  followed  his  advice, 
**as  indeed  he  well  deserved,  for  he  was 
always  conferring  benefits  upon  them." 
D'Andelot,  having  made  a  rich  marriage, 
did  not  stand  in  need  of  his  pecuniary 
help ;  but  the  admiral,  Brantdme  tells  us, 
before    bis    second    marriage    with    the 
wealthy  widow  of  Savoy  (who  falling  in 
love  with  the  report  of  the  nobility  of  his 
character  and  the  purity  of  his  faith,  dis- 
regarding the  prohibition  of  the  Duke  of 
Savoy,  came  to  Rochelle  on  purpose  to 
make  him   her  husband),  was  extremely 
poor,  and  stood  in  need  of  the  liberal  aid 
the    enormous    revenues    derived    from 
manv  ecclesiastical  preferments  enabled 
his  brother  to  bestow  on  him.     Born  in 
1 5 15,  the  year  of  the  accession  of  Francis 
I.,  Odet,  though  the  eldest  son,  was  de- 
voted by  his  parents  to  the  clerical  pro- 
fession.    His  noble  birth  and   powerful 
connections  secured  for  him  high  ecclesi- 
astical   dignities    at    a    very    early  age. 
When  only  eighteen  he  was  invested  with 
the   purple  by  Clement  VII.  (Giulio  de' 
Medici);  "the  pope,"  writes   Brantome, 
"  regarding  not  so  much  the  interests  of 
the  Church  as  the  opportunity  of  gratify- 
ing the  king."    The  next  year —  1534  — 
he   was    appointed   Archbishop  of   Tou- 
louse, and  honors  and  emoluments  falling 
thickly  on  the  head  of  the  youthful  eccle- 
siastic, within  the  twelvemonth,  while  still 
under  the  age  of  twenty-one,  he  received 
from  Francis  I.  the  additional  dignity  of 
Count-Bishop  of  Beauvais.    This  was  one 
of  the  highest  and  most  lucrative  posi- 
tions in  the  French  Church,  its  income 
being    then    reckoned    at   fifty  thousand 
livres,  and  its  holder  taking  precedence  of 
all    the    ecclesiastical   peers   of   France. 
Rich  abbeys  followed.    More  than  once, 


ODET  DE  COLIGNY,  CARDINAL  CHATILLON. 


63^ 


!a  1550  and  again  in  1562  (after  resuming 
it  on  the  death  of  Cardinal  de  Meudon), 
he  exchanged  the  Archbishopric  of  Tou- 
louse for  an  abbey,  the  increase  in  reve- 
nue compensating  for  the  loss  of  dignity. 
It  is  not  our  purpose  to  follow  Cardinal 
Ch&tillon*s  career  in  detail.  To  do  this 
would  be  to  rewrite  a  large  part  of  the  his- 
tory of  the  Huguenot  wars  of  France.  He 
was  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  person- 
ages at  the  brilliant  court  of  Henry  II., 
occupying  a  leading  place  in  its  grandest 
ceremonies.  With  bis  brother  cardinals, 
Guise  and  Bourbon,  he  was  present  at  the 
coronation  of  Catherine  de'  Medici  at  St. 
Denis,  and  when  three  years  later  the 
young  queen  was  seized  at  Joinville  with 
what  seems,  from  De  Thou's  description, 
to  have  been  our  modern  diphtheria,  and 
all  the  courtiers,  male  and  female,  were 
flying  from  the  dreaded  infection,  Ch&til- 
lon  —  ♦•virminime  aulico  ingenio"  — re- 
fused to  leave  her  bedside,  and  by  his 
ministrations  helped  towards  her  recov- 
ery. We  shall  afterwards  see  how  Cath- 
erine repaid  this  devotion.  In  1558  he 
took  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  splendid 
but  ill-starred  marriage  pageant  of  Francis 
II.  and  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  The  favor 
in  which  he  was  at  one  time  held  by  Paul 
IV.,  by  whom  the  future  Huguenot  leader 
had  been  in  1557  appointed  one  of  the 
three  Grand  Inquisitors,  with  powers  so 
searching  and  so  rigorous  that  the  Parlia- 
ment refused  to  sanction  their  exercise, 
was  speedily  lost  when,  with  his  distin- 
guished brothers,  he  embraced  the  teach- 
ing of  Calvin,  and  threw  in  his  fortunes 
with  the  Protestant  party.  The  Council 
of  Trent  was  at  that  time  holding  its  pro- 
tracted sessions,  which  the  weary  pope 
was  desirous  to  close,  or  at  least  suspend. 
The  French  prelates  were  proving  very 
troublesome  in  their  opposition  to  the 
papal  wishes,  and  Ch&tillon  was  in  the 
forefront  of  the  offenders.  Besides  he 
was  suspected,  not  unjustly,  of  favoring 
heretics.  So  on  October  22,  1563,  a  sen- 
tence of  deposition  was  passed  on  him; 
six  other  French  bishops  sharing  in  the 
sentence.  Ch&tillon  mocked  at  the  papal 
deprivation,  and  as  Father  Paul  writes, 
"understanding  that  the  Popes  Consis- 
torie  had  deprived  him  of  the  Cap,  he 
resumed  the  habite  of  a  Cardinell  and  was 
married  in  it;  and  in  a  great  solemnitie, 
the  thirteenth  of  August  when  the  king" 
(Charles  IX.,  then  in  his  fourteenth  year) 
was  "declared  in  Parliament  to  bee  of 
age,  he  appeared  in  the  solemnitie  in  the 
same  habite  in  presence  of  all  the  French 
Nobilitie;  which  was  generally  thought 


to  bee  a  great  contempt  of  the  Papal 
dignitie.  Wherewith  the  pope  being 
mooved,  hee  made  his  deprivation  to  bee 
printed  at  this  time,  and  many  copies  to 
bee  dispersed  in  Fraunce."  The  pope's 
attempt  to  rob  him  of  his  title  was  fruit- 
less. Brantdrae  says,  **  We  Catholics  al- 
ways called  him  M.  le  Cardinal,  for  we 
did  not  at  all  like  to  change  his  name, 
which  had  so  well  become  him,  and  under 
which  he  had  served  France  formerly,  and 
gratified  everybody." 

The  lady  Cardinal  Chdtlllon  married 
was  Isabella,  or  Elizabeth  de  Hauteville, 
a  lady  of  rank  of  Normandy,  who  assumed 
the  title  of  Countess  of  Beauvais,  and  ap- 
peared constantly  in  public  with  her  hus- 
band, to  the  scandal  of  all  good  Catholics. 

The  testimony  borne  by  Brantdme  to 
the  character  of  Cardinal  Ch&tillon  is  very 
high.  The  three  brothers  Coligny  were 
all  men  of  a  nobler  stamp  than  the 
Huguenots  generally,  who,  as  the  late 
Mr.  Henley  Jervis  remarks,  "had  been 
driven  by  force  of  circumstances  into  the 
position  of  a  seditious  faction  in  the 
State."  Protestants  by  strong  conviction, 
they  were  conscientiously  devoted  to  the 
cause  of  what  they  deemed  essential  truth, 
which  they  maintained  by  policy  and  by 
arms.  Of  the  three,  Gaspard  the  admiral, 
and  Francois  d'Andelot  were  the  military 
leaders  of  the  Protestant  party.  Odet, 
the  cardinal,  was  the  diplomatist  and  skil- 
ful negotiator,  using  the  enormous  wealth 
derived  from  his  ecclesiastical  prefer- 
ments —  some  may  think  not  very  loyally 

—  for  the  overthrow  of  the  Church  system 
and  the  substitution  of  the  Huguenot  faith. 
Brant6me,  in  one  of  the  lifelike  portraits 
of  his  "  M^moires,"  describes  him  as  the 
Maecenas  of  his  age,  "qui  faisoit  plaisir  k 
tout  le  monde,  et  jamais  ne  refusa  homme 
k  luy  en  faire,  et  jamais  ne  les  abusa,  ny 
vendist  de  fum^es  de  la  cour."  Brant6me, 
a  hero- worshipper  in  his  way,  while  he 
finds  nothing  to  shock  his  moral  sense  in 
the  gross  licentiousness,  both  male  and 
female,  of  his  age  —  which,  as  Mr.  Saints- 
bury  remarks,  he  "accepts  with  a  placid 
complacency  which  is  almost  innocent" 

—  was  utterly  unable  to  comprehend  the 
force  of  religious  conviction  which  com- 
pelled such  noble  spirits  to  sacrifice  all 
their  brightest  hopes  for  conscience  toward 
God ;  and,  with  a  pity  allied  to  contempt, 
expresses  his  regret  that  one  who  was  so 
much  esteemed  at  court  and  at  the  king's 
council,  "who  gave  good  advice  and 
loved  those  who  gave  it,"  should  have 
plunged  into  the  new  religion  and  lost  his 
"  bonne  fortune." 


632 


ODET   DE   COLIGNY,   CARDINAL   CHATILLON. 


Passing  over  the  successive  victories 
and  reverses  of  the  Protestant  cause,  we 
find   Ch^tillon   distinguishing  himself  in 
the.  indecisive  action  of  St.  Denis,  No 
vember    10,    1567,   wiiere,    to    quote    his 
admirer  Brantdme  once  more,  ''he  mani- 
fested great  valor  and  showed  to  the  world 
th(it  a  noble  and  generous  heart  cannot 
deceive,  nor  fail  wherever  it  may  find  it- 
self, and  whatever  dress  it   may  wear." 
He  afterwards  acted  as  plenipotentiary  on 
the  Huguenot  side  at  the  conference  with 
the  queen-mother  and  her  party,  first  at 
Ch&lons,  and  afterwards  at  Lon!;jumeau, 
net^otiating  the  short-lived  treaty  called 
after  the  latter  place,  by  which  the  treach- 
erous Catherine  professed  to  concede  the 
free  exercise  of  their  religion  and  liberty 
of   worship   to   her   Protestant  subjects. 
Catherine's  object  was,  of  course,  simply 
to  throw  the  Huguenot  leaders  off  their 
guard,  the   better  to  get  them  into  her 
power.     In  a  few  months  the  mask  was 
thrown  otf,  violent  edicts  were  issued  for 
the  suppression   of  Calvinistic   worship, 
and  she  endeavored  to  surprise  the  Prot- 
estant   leaders.     Cardinal   Ch&tillon   was 
one  of  the  first  aimed   at.     He  was  at 
Beauvais,  and  his  first  object  on  discover- 
ing the  treachery  was  to  join  Cond^  and 
his  brothers.     But  the  roads  were  inter- 
cepted, and  his  peril  became  so  imminent 
that  he  had  to  disguise  himself  as  a  sailor, 
and,  leaving  the  greater  part  of  his  bag- 
gage  behind,  set  sail   for  England.     At 
this   point  the  documents  in   the   State 
Paper  Office  begin  to  enable  us  to  trace 
the  cardinaPs  movements.    The  place  of 
his  landing  does  not  appear;  but  on  Sep- 
tember 10,  1568,  Lord  Cobham,  as  respon- 
sible for  the  good  order  of  Kent,  informed 
Sir  Willian   Cecil  that  the  cardinal  had 
landed,   with   a  retinue  of  twenty-seven 
persons,  of   whom   the   Bishop  of   Aries 
was  one,  and  was  intending  to  proceed  to 
London,  purposing  to  apply  for  an  inter- 
view with  the  queen.    A  gentleman  named 
Henry  Kingsmill  was  sent  off  without  an 
hour's  delay  to  attend  on  the  cardinal  and 
to  .keep  Cecil  apprised  of  all  his  move- 
ments.    He  found  the  cardinal  at  Canter- 
bury, intending  to  leave  the  next  day, 
Sunday,  September  12,  for  Gravesend,  and 
proceed  thence  on  Monday  to  London  by 
water.    The  question  where  and  by  whom 
so  important  a  visitor  should  be  lodged  on 
his  arrival   in   London   caused    no   little 
flutter.     Grindal,  then  Bishop  of  London, 
seems   to   have  been  the  first  host  sug- 
gested.   But  although,  as  he  assured  Cecil, 
*'  no  man  could  have  been  more  welcome 
to  him/'  he  pleaded  *Mack  of  provision  of 


lodging  for  him  or  any  other  guest  of  like 
honor'*  at  Fulhara.  **One  canon  of  the 
Council  of  Carthage,"  he  writes,  **  I  ob- 
serve, viz.,  *Oportet  episcopum  vilem 
habere  supellectilem.'  If  he  be  to  be 
further  assigned,  I  pray  you  spare  me ;  for 
surely  1  lack  convenient  furniture."  In 
his  dilemma  Grindal  threw  himself  on  the 
merchant  prince  Sir  Thomas  Gresham, 
whoAvas  nothing  loth  to  play  the  host  to  the 
illustrious  stranger.  Accompanied  by  a 
number  of  the  chief  magistrates  of  the  city, 
Gresham  received  the  cardinal,  together 
with  the  Bishop  of  Aries,  at  the  Tower 
wharf  on  September  13,  and  conducted 
him  to  his  mansion  in  Bishopsgate,  where 
he  was  magnificently  entertained.  After 
divine  service  at  the  Chapel  of  St.  Antony 
in  Threadneedle  Street,  which  had  beea 
assigned ;»by  Edward  VI.  to  the  French 
Protestants,  the  cardinal  was  taken  to 
see  Gresham's  new  exchange  —  not  yet 
christened  **  the  Royal  Exchange  "  —  then 
approaching  completion,  and  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral.  It  was  Elizabeth's  economical 
way  to  assign  her  distinguished  guests  to 
the  noblemen  of  her  court  to  entertain. 
The  cardinal  and  the  Bishop  of  .\rles 
were  billeted  on  Lord  Buckhurst  (after- 
wards Earl  of  Dorset,  and  lord  high 
treasurer)  at  Shene.  But  on  their  arrival 
the  house  was  found  far  too  much  out  of 
repair,  and  its  furniture  too  mean  and 
insufficient  for  such  distinguished  person- 
ages to  occupy  with  any  comfort;  and 
Kingsmill  wrote  a  letter  of  remonstrance 
to  Cecil  (September  29)  requesting  that 
fresh  order  might  be  taken  for  the  cardi- 
nal's suitable  lodging.  The  queen  was 
highly  displeased  when  she  learnt  that  a 
guest  she  desired  to  honor  had  been  re- 
ceived so  meanly.  In  a  piteous  letter  to  the 
Council  (extencfing  to  twenty-two  folios) 
Lord  Buckhurst  expresses  his  **grefe  and 
sorow  of  herte"  at  having  caused  her 
Majesty's  displeasure,  and  enters  into  full 
details  of  the  whole  business.  The  ac- 
count is  amusing.  The  deficiency  was 
one  of  means,  not  of  will.  He  had  given 
his  noble  guests  the  best  he  had.  Less 
than  a  quarter  of  the  house  was  his  to 
dispose  of.  The  greater  part  was  kept  by 
his  mother  in  her  own  hands.  The  only 
tester  bedstead  he  had  unoccupied  he 
assigned  to  the  cardinal,  and  his  wife's 
waiting-women's  bed  to  the  bishop,  laying 
them  on  the  ground.  Fine  sheets  he  had 
none,  and  had  to  borrow  of  Lord  Leicester. 
He  was  equally  bare  of  plate,  *'  suche 
glasse  vessell  as  I  had  I  ofiEred  them, 
which  they  thought  to  base."  He  had 
only  a  square  table  to  dine  at,  and  they 


h 


ODET   DE  COLIGNY,   CARDINAL  CHATILLON. 


«3^ 


(demanded  a  long  one,  and  "damask 
>vorke  "  to  cover  it,  while  he  had  but  plain 
linen.  **  Mine  owne  basen  and  ewer  I 
]ent  to  the  cardinal!  and  wanted  me  self. 
So  did  I  the  candlesticks  for  mine  owne 
table,  with  divers  drinking  glasses,  small 
cushions,  small  pottes  for  the  ketchin, 
and  sundrie  other  such  like  trifles,**  al- 
though he  had  no  more  than  he  needed 
for  his  own  use.  However,  rather  than 
cause  the  queen  offence.  Lady  Buckhurst 
would  leave  for  London  and  give  up  the 
house  to  the  cardinal,  and  send  their 
'*  poor  household  stuff  '*  thence  to  Shene, 
however  bare  they  might  go  themselves. 
A  subsequent  letter  from  Kingsmill  to 
Cecil  (October  15th)  shows  that  his  en- 
deavors had  been  successful,  and  that  the 
cardinal  and  his  household  were  more 
content  with  their  quarters. 

The  cardinaPs  object  was  to  avail  him- 
self of  his  stay  in  England  to  induce  the 
queen  to  renew  the  alliance  of  1562,  and 
enter  into  a  Protestant  league,  on  the 
plea  that  with  Mary  Stuart  and  the  Cath- 
olics plotting  against  her  the  safety  of  her 
throne  depended  on  her  support  of  the 
Protestants  in  France  and  the  Low  Coun- 
tries. On  October  2  "  two  gentlemen 
arrived  at  Shene  from  the  cardinaKs 
brother,"  with  news  which,  writes  Leices- 
ter to  Sir  Nicholas  Throckmorton,  *♦  I 
pray  God  may  be  true  **  —  "The  well-do- 
ing of  M.  d'Andelot  has  been  very  lately 
confirmed  out  of  France."  The  same  day 
we  hear  of  the  cardinal's  wife  having  ar- 
rived in  London.  Leicester  begs  to  be 
commended  to  her,  and  offers  his  services 
either  for  her  or  her  husband.  The  latter 
part  of  Leicester's  letter  is  important  as 
showing  the  difficulty  in  which  the  queen 
and  her  Council  were  placed  by  the  arrival 
of  the  cardinal  and  other  leading  French 
Protestants.  On  the  one  hand,  they  were 
desirous  to  show  all  sympathy  with  those 
who  were  fleeing  their  country  for  the 
Protestant  faith,  and  who  were  to  some 
extent  a  safeguard  against  the  machina- 
tions of  the  papal  party  against  Eliza- 
beth's throne  and  life  ;  while,  on  the  other, 
they  were  afraid  of  too  openly  countenanc- 
ing the  rebellious  subjects  of  a  kingdom 
with  which  they  were  still  nominally  at 
peace,  and  with  one  of  the  princes  of 
which  a  matrimonial  alliance  with  the 
queen  was  matter  of  discussion :  — 

I  know  assuredly  Her  Majesty  has  a  mar- 
vellous liking  of  hmi  (the  Cardinal),  and  one 
thing  mure  than  I  looked  for,  which  is  her 
liking  to  heare  of  his  wife,  and  is  very  desirous 


to  see  her,  and  has  sent  one  expressly  to  visit 
her.  But  what  her  general  opinion  is  as  to 
publickly  receiving  these  princes  you  know  as 
well  as  I,  which  causes  us  to  foresee  lest  too 
much  open  shew  may  cause  her  to  grow  weary 
of  the  Cardinal,  for  that  all  the  repair  will  now 
conne  to  him  ;  wherefore  we  wish  that  he  deal 
warily,  that  he  may  do  good  to  the  cause,  and 
when  he  will  treat  with  Her  Maiesty  that  he 
come  but  in  his  former  sort  to  her,  and  that 
the  open  company  appear  not,  that  the  Am- 
bassador take  not  just  cause  to  challenge  Her 
Majesty  for  matters  of  the  King's  adversaries, 
and  so  cause  a  stay  which  we  wish  by  little 
and  little  to  have  it  so  increase  as  it  may  break 
forth,  as  it  should  and  must  if  we  look  to  her 
own  safety  and  the  realm's  security. 

Now,  you  knowing  my  mind,  I  doubt  not  of 
vour  well  handling  thereof  ;  our  chief  respects 
being  to  have  the  Cardinal  keep  his  credit  and 
recourse  hither,  who  I  trust  shall  do  much 
good. 

Our  space  forbids  us  pursuing  Eliza- 
beth's tortuous  and  temporizing  policy,  of 
which  the  above  letter  affords  a  good 
illustration.  Encouraging  hopes  she  had 
no  intention  of  fulfilling;  dallying  with 
propositions  which  never  for  a  moment 
entered  into  her  scheme  of  practical  |)oli- 
tics ;  supporting  the  Protestant  cause 
abroad  so  long  as  she  could  do  so  without 
compromising  her  serious  relations  with 
foreign  courts,  the  queen's  insincerity 
must  have  rendered  the  two  years  the 
cardinal  remained  in  this  country,  vainly 
endeavoring  to  unravel  the  intricacies  of 
her  purpose,  a  time  of  wearing  suspense. 
He  appeared  openly  at  court.  He  received 
frequent  marks  of  her  Majesty's  favor; 
"the  rather,"  as  Cecil  italicizes  in  one  of 
his  private  notes,  "/<?  displease  all  Pa- 
pists^  She  allowed  him  unchecked  to 
urge  her  marriage  with  the  Duke  of  An- 
jou,  now  appearing  to  favor  it,  now  abso- 
lutely rejecting  it,  with  all  the  wayward- 
ness of  a  middle-aged  coquette,  flattered 
with  the  ridiculous  dream  that  a  lad  of 
twenty  was  deeply  in  love  with  a  woman 
nearly  double  his  age  whom  he  had  never 
seen,  but  never  really  giving  it  a  serious 
place  in  her  thoughts.  Elizabeth*s  seem- 
ing approval  of  the  suggestion  gave  Chft- 
tillon  warrant  to  write  to  the  young  duke 
himself  on  the  subject.  Anjou,  taken  by 
surprise,  referred  it  to  his  mother.  The 
mention  of  so  strange  an  alliance  at  first 
provoked  a  smile  of  incredulity.  "  Eliza- 
beth was  no  more  in  earnest  in  this  than 
in  her  former  matrimonial  overtures.  It 
was  only  a  trick  to  escape  from  pressing 
embarrassment."  Still  the  advantages  to 
France  of  such  an  alliance  were  evident, 


A   STATUE  TO   ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 


and  Catherine  desired  her  ambassador  to 
do  what  he  could  to  forward  it. 

But  Cardinal  Ch&tillon  was  not  destined 
to  witness  the  failure  of  this  or  the  other 
negotiations  in  which  his  skilled  diploma- 
cy found  its  exercise.    The  hollow  pacifi- 
cation of  1 570  caused  him  to  be  summoned 
back  to  France,  where  his  services  were 
much  needed  by  his  brother,  the  admiral, 
whom  the  death  of  Cond^  had  made  the 
acknowledged    head    of    the   Protestant 
party.    Early  in  1571  Ch&tillon  waited  on 
the  queen  at  Hampton  Court,  received  her 
license  to    quit  the  country  which  had 
been  his  honorable  asylum  for  more  than 
two  years,  and  took  his  leave  of  her  Maj- 
esty.    He  travelled  towards  the  coast  ac- 
companied by  his  lady  and  a  considerable 
retinue,  by  way  of  Rochester  and  Canter- 
bury.   At  the  latter  place  he  made  a  halt, 
as    Bishop    Horn    writes    to    Bullinger, 
**  waiting  for  a  wind  for  his  prosperous 
and  safe  return."    He  was  lodu|ed  in  the 
•*fair  and  sufficient  house  "of  Mr.  Bun- 
gey,  attached  to  the  fourth  stall,  formerly 
occupied  by  Thomas  Becon,  the  reformer. 
The  cardinal  was  not  in  good  health  on 
his  arrival  at  Canterbury.    At  Rochester, 
we  learn  from  the  detailed  report  of  his 
illness  in  the  State  Paper  Office,  he  had 
been  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  the  skill 
of  "his  potycary,''  but  to  little  purpose. 
His    sickness   increased.     On   returning 
from  a  long  ride  on  horseback,  he  went 
supperless  to  bed,  and  after  a  few  days' 
struggle  with  a  fever,  which  assumed  the 
character    of    a    tertian,    **  nature  as  yt 
seemythe  soe  farre  wekened  as  not  able  to 
make  anye  more  ffytte,"  he  breathed  bis 
last,  March  19.    No  suspicion  of  foul  play 
seems  to  have  arisen  during  his  illness. 
But  in  those  days  no  considerable  person 
could  die  without  the  rumor  getting  about 
that  he  had  been  poisoned.    The  idea  was 
readily  credited  by  the  cardinal's  lady,  who 
it  was  said  had  recently  had  many  sad  and 
unaccountable  presentiments  of  such   a 
fate  for  her  husband.    The  government 
was  appealed   to.     Commissioners  were 
sent  down  to  have  the  corpse  examined 
and  to  report  to  the  Council.    By  their 
instructions  six  of  the  cardinal's  body- 
servants  were  **  sequestered  "  and  sepa- 
rately examined  —  there  is  no  mention  of 
torture  —  and  their  "  malles,  caskets,  and 
chests  "  were  ransacked.     Nothing,  how- 
ever, was  discovered  to  corroborate  the 
suspicion,  and  although   Lady  Ch&tillon 
persisted  in  her  belief  that  her  husband 
had  come  to  his  end  by  the  administration 
of  slow  poison,  and  though  some  ominous 


indications  were  presented  by  the  viscera, 
the  commissioners  reported  that  there 
were  no  sufficient  grounds  for  such  a 
charge.  This  report  is  dated  March  30, 
1 571.  The  body  of  the  cardinal  was  has* 
tily  buried  in  the  temporary  brick  tomb  of 
which  we  have  already  spoken,  and  a  pass* 
port  having  been  granted,  **  the  Ladye 
Chastylyn  "  herself  "  being  in  syckness," 
with  her  "  trayne  of  men  and  horses,**  set 
sail  for  France. 

The  news  of  his  brother's  death  fell  as 
a  heavy  discouragement  upon  his  brother 
the  admiral,  overclouding  the  joy  of  his 
second  nuptials  with  his  rich  Savoyard 
bride.  Now  that  he  had  lost  D'Andelot 
and  Cond^,  the  responsibility  of  leader- 
ship rested  on  him  with  crushing  weight, 
which  he  had  hoped  the  cardinal  would 
have  helped  him  to  sustain.  The  suspi- 
cion of  Ch&tillon's  having  been  poisoned 
was  afterwards,  it  is  said,  confirmed  by 
the  confession  of  one  of  his  valets  —  if 
indeed  any  trust  is  to  be  placed  in  confes- 
sions made  under  torture  —  who,  having 
been  apprehended  at  Rochelle  as  a  spy  of 
the  Catholic  party,  declared  that  he  was 
the  author  of  the  cardinal's  death,  by 
means  of  poison  secretly  administered  to 
him  in  an  apple. 

The  era  in  which  Cardinal  Ch^tilloa 
lived  was  adarkone,  especially  in  France. 
It  was  an  era  of  unbridled  licentiousness, 
foul  treachery,  heartless  savagery,  and 
selfish  rapine.  Such  noble  characters  as 
the  brothers  Coligny  save  it  from  being 
utterly  detestable,  shining  all  the  brighter 
for  the  blackness  around  them.  Of  the 
three,  Odet,  though  not  the  best  known, 
was  perhaps  the  noblest.  We  have  al- 
ready quoted  the  estimate  of  the  cynical 
Brant6me.  We  will  conclude  the  article 
with  that  of  the  grave  and  impartial  De 
Thou  :  *' Vir  magnitudine  animi,  candore, 
sequitate  et  rara  hoc  aevo  fide,  ad  haec  acri 
in  rebus  aestimandis  judicio,  cum  paucis 
comparand  us." 


From  The  Times. 
A  STATUE  TO  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 

A  STATUE  of  Alexandre  Dumas  by 
Gustave  Dor^  has  been  erected  on  the 
Place  Malesherbes,  in  Paris,  partly  at  the 
expense  of  the  State  and  partly  at  that  of 
the  municipality.  The  author  of  '*  Monte 
Cristo"  figures  on  a  lofty  pedestal;  his 
expressive  face  with  its  crown  of  bushy 
hair  looks  towards  the  Boulevards ;  at  his 


A  STATUE   TO   ALEXANDRE   DUMAS. 


feet  a  group  of  a  girl,  a  boy,  and  a  work- 
man is  represented  reading  one  of  his 
novels,  and  behind  him  a  tall  mousque" 
taire  in  bronze  leans  on  his  sword,  and  will 
recall  to  passers-by  that  ever  popular  hero, 
the  Gascon,  D'Artagnan.  This  statue  of 
Dumas  is  the  first  that  has  been  raised 
on  a  public  place  to  a  man  of  letters  by 
the  government  and  municipal  council  of 
Paris.  That  of  Voltaire,  a  copy  of  Hou- 
don^s  famous  statue  in  the  vestibule  of 
the  Theatre  Frangais,  was  cast  during  the 
Second  Empire  by  a  public  subscription 
among  republicans  and  as  a  matter  of 
anticlerical  opposition.  That  of  Moli^re 
in  the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  facing  the  house 
where  the  author  of  **  Tartufe  "  died,  dates 
from  1844,  and  was  also  raised  with  money 
collected  chiefly  from  persons  who  wished 
to  honor  in  Moli^re  the  denouncer  of  reli- 
gious  cant  and  the  satirist  of  the  *'  Bour- 
geois Gentilhomme,"  a  creature  who  was 
rampant  during  Louis  Philippe*s  reign, 
rather  than  the  genius  who  wrote  the 
•*  Misanthrope."  Happily,  there  was  no 
political  or  religious  animosity  in  the  mo- 
tives which  prompted  the  French  govern- 
ment to  join  in  rearing  a  monument  to  the 
roan  who  has  often  been  called  the  Alex- 
ander of  fiction.  Alexandre  Dumas  was 
not  a  Parisian,  for  he  was  born  at  Villers- 
Cotteret;  consequently  his  image  could 
not  be  placed  among  the  forty  statues  of 
illustrious  Parisians  which  are  to  fill  the 
niches  of  the  new  H6tel  de  Ville.  But 
perhaps  a  single  niche  high  up  on  the 
facade  of  a  town-hall  would  not  have  been 
enough  to  s^*mbolize  the  place  which  Du- 
mas holds  in  the  estimation  of  all  men 
who  love  good  novels  and  plays ;  besides, 
there  was  a  very  special  reason  why  Du- 
mas*s  statue  should  be  set  up  at  the  pres- 
ent time,  and  with  as  little  delay  as  pos- 
sible. Walter  Scott's  works  have  fallen 
into  temporary  neglect  among  us,  and 
there  seemed  reason  to  apprehend  that 
the  same  fate  might  overtake  Dumas*s  in 
France,  where  the  people  crave  more 
eagerly  for  novelties  than  we  do.  On  this 
point  the  French  government  may  be  al- 
lowed to  have  been  competent  judges. 
Passengers  on  the  decks  of  steamers  leav- 
ing Marseilles  still  look  up  at  the  Chateau 
d'lf,  not  as  the  gloomy  fortress  which  was 
so  long  used  as  a  State  prison,  but  as  the 
place  where  Edmond  Dant^s  was  con- 
^ned  with  the  abb^  Faria,  and  this  might 
lead  one  to  infer  that  everybody  has  read 
about  Dant^s  and  his  marvellous  adven- 
tures as  a  seaman,  prisoner,  and  million- 
aire.   One  thino:  certain  is  that  the  statue 


63^ 

of  Alexandre  Dumas  will  by  consecrating 
that  author's  memory  now,  help,  at  least 
for  a  time,  to  revive  the  sale  of  his  books. 
Any  reader  of  healthy  mind  will  enjoy 
Dumas*s  romances,  because  the  dashing 
style  in  which  they  are  written,  the  anima- 
tion of  the  dialogues,  and  the  author's 
admirable  science  in  grouping  incidents 
and  constructing  a  plot  compel  interest. 
We  speak  here  only  of  the  novels  and 
dramas  which  Dumas  published  when  he 
was  ib  his  prime,  and  which  are  known  to 
have  been  composed  by  himself,  for  dur- 
ing the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  became 
indolent,  and  discredited  his  name  by  put- 
ting it  to  books  which  were  not  his.  His 
power  of  productiveness  during  his  hey- 
day were  amazing.  He  made  a  bet  that 
he  would  write  the  first,  volume  of  the 
*'  Chevalier  de  Maison-rou^e^^  in  seventy- 
two  hours,  allowing  himself  proper  time 
for  rest  and  refreshment,  and  he  accom- 
plished his  task  with  six  hours  to  spare. 
He  composed  "Monte  Cristo"  in  six 
weeks,  with  the  help  of  his  friend  the 
critic  Fiorentino,  and  by  dint  of  many 
other  such  feats  he  succeeded  in  earning 
a  fortune  which  was  rapidly  devoured  by 
parasites,  who  unfortunately  pampered 
their  patron's  vanity  while  eating  up  his 
substance..  Young  Dumas  came  to  con- 
quer Paris,  when  he  was  twenty  years  old, 
with  a  fortune  of  but  one  hundred  and 
fifty-three  francs,  his  mother's  money,  to 
start  with.  He  made  sure  from  the  first 
that  he  would  become  a  great  man,  and 
had  he  possessed  the  same  coolness  of 
judgment  with  which  Balzac  endows  Ras- 
tignac,  he  would  no  doubt  have  achieved 
a  wonderful  position,  for  he  would  have 
learned  how  to  use  his  greatness  when  it 
came  to  him.  As  it  was,  his  life  was 
chequered  with  many  disappointments. 
He  could  never  get  elected  to  the  French 
Academy.  The  Academicians  recoiled 
from  admitting  the  exuberant,  notoriety- 
seeking,  gasconading  author  to  their  de- 
corous Friday  assemblies  ;  and  one  of  the 
pleas  which  Dumas  himself  urged  in  favor 
of  his  election  shows  w*hat  trouble  the 
learned  body  would  have  had  if  it  had 
allowed  his  claims  to  prevail.  Dumas 
wanted  to  be  elected  as  a  historian,  for,  as 
he  said,  "  Most  Frenchmen  take  all  their 
lessons  in  history  out  of  my  books." 
There  is  some  truth  in  this  as  regards 
French  women  to  this  day.  Most  French 
ladies  know  that  D'Artagnan  several  times 
saved  the  life  of  Lcuis  XIV.,  that  the 
masked  headsman  who  decapitated  our 
Charles  L  was  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  that 


636 

Monk  brought  over  Charles  II.  to  Dover 
in  a  packing-case.  Dumas  wrote  these 
things,  and  as  he  never  studied  history, 
but  only  crammed  for  whatever  work  he 
had  in  hand,  he  ended  by  believing  them. 
He  believed  also  in  the  marvellous  adven- 
tures which  he  records  as  having  befallen 
him  in  his  ^*  Impressions  de  Voyage^'*  the 
most  amusing  and  imaginative  book  of 
travels  ever  written.  He  was  persuaded 
that  a  Tartar  chief  had  caused  ten  thou- 
sand horses  to  race  in  his  honor,  that  he 
had  sailed  round  Sicily  in  a  cockle-boat 
during  a  storm,  and  that  he  had  contrib- 
uted as  much  as  Garibaldi  to  the  rising  of 
the  Sicilians  ac;ainst  the  king  of  Naples. 
It  is  unquestionable,  however,  that  he 
divined  Garibaldi's  future  before  anybody 
else  had  done  S9,  and  it  is  amusing  to  re- 
member that  when  he  had  prevailed  upon 
a  French  consul  to  write  about  Garibaldi's 
designs  to  the  imperial  government,  M. 
Drouyn  de  Lhuys  sharply  reproved  that 
consul  for  believing  in  the  fables  of  a 
fictionist. 

Alexandre  Dumas's  decline  began  in 
1848,  when  the  sudden  rise  of  the  poet 
Lamartine  turned  his  head.  Victor  Hugo 
at  the  same  time  rushed  down  from  Par- 
nassus to  become  a  republican  agitator, 
and  he  has  never  been  the  same  man 
since.  In  the  matter  of  decorations  Alex- 
andre Dumas  had  nothing  to  complain  of, 
for  three  rows  of  them  figured  on  his  coat 
when  he  showed  himself  in  his  glory;  but 
he  never  spoke  with  much  reverence  of 
these  trinkets;  and  as  to  political  honors, 
it  must  be  repeated  that  he,  like  Victor 
Hugo  and  Lamartine,  lost  much  as  a  lit' 
Urateur  by  seeking  after  them.  If  we 
take  other  names,  we  find  that  Ponsard 
almost  ceased  to  write  when  he  became  an 
imperial  senator,  drawing  ;£i,2oo  a  year 
pay.  Sainte-Beuve,  promoted  to  the  same 
assembly,  continued  to  write,  but  more 
tamely  and  idly;  and  again,  the  industry 
and  independence  of  Octave  Feuillet  and 
Jules  Sandeau  notably  diminished  from 
the  day  when  these  two  novelists  were 

f)ut  into  snug  court  berths,  the  one  as 
ibrarian  at  Fontainebleau,  the  other  at 
Compifegne.  Prosper  M^rim^e  was  not 
made  a  senator  owing  to  his  political  ac- 
tivity, but  because  he  was  a  friend  of  the 
emperor's  family,  yet  he,  too,  lost  his 
power  of  writing  when  he  became  a  State 
official ;  and  may  we  not  add  M.  Edmond 
About,  who  spoke  so  eloquently  at  the 
unveih'ng,  to  the  list  of  those  whom 
French  politics  have  converted  from  first- 
rate  writers  of  fiction  into  unsuccessful 
and  disappointed  party  men  ? 


EVOLUTION   AND   MIND. 


From  The  Spectator. 
EVOLUTION  AND  MIND. 

Two  remarkable  criticisms  on  the  doc- 
trine of  the  natural  evolution  of  mind 
have  appeared  within  the  last  few  days, 
one  a  striking  sermon  preached  last  Sun- 
day week  before  the  University  of  Oxford, 
by  the  new  Regius  Professor  of  Hebrew, 
the  Reverend  Canon  Driver ;  *  the  other 
an  equally  striking  address,f  by  Professor 
Upton,  of  Manchester  New  College,  de- 
livered at  the  opening  of  the  new  session. 
Both  are  concerned  with  the  doctrine  of 
physical  evolution.  The  former  deals 
chiefly  with  the  supposed  incompatibility 
between  that  doctrine  and  revelation,  the 
latter  with  the  real  incompatibility  be- 
tween any  doctrine  which  professes  to 
evolve  mind  out  of  the  physical  organism, 
and  the  Christian  doctrine  of  human  re- 
sponsibility and  of  the  divine  relation  to 
the  human  spirit.  By  different  approach- 
es, both  writers  reach  the  same  end. 
Canon  Driver  insists  that  the  essence  of 
inspiration  is  to  convey  true  spiritual 
teaching  to  man  of  his  relation  and  duty 
to  God ;  that  this  is  often  conveyed  in  the 
Bible  by  parable  and  allegory,  as  well  as 
by  literal  history;  and  that  the  story  of 
creation  is  not  to  be  considered  as  a  re- 
port of  literal  facts,  but  as  such  a  selectioa 
from  the  ancient  traditions  of  mankind  as 
would  press  home  the  truth  that  God  was 
before  the  universe  and  created  it,  that 
the  physical  is  subordinate  to  the  moral 
creation,  that  the  nature  of  man  is  im- 
pressed with  the  living  image  of  God, 
which  image  his  own  disobedience  clouded 
and  distorted,  and  that  the  providence  of 
God  has  so  overruled  human  destiny  as 
to  give  us  the  opportunity  of  restoring 
that  image  again  in  all  its  beauty.  Such 
is  Canon  Driver's  view  of  the  early  chap- 
ters of  Genesis.  He  regards  them  as 
the  traditions  selected  by  some  Hebrew 
prophet,  under  the  guidance  of  the  Divine 
Spirit,  to  teach  men  the  subordination  of 
the  physical  to  the  spiritual  universe,  and 
the  direct  responsibility  of  man  to  God. 
So  long  as  this  lesson  is  learned,  he  thinks 
that  the  physical  cosmogony  which  a{>- 
pears  to  be  involved  in  these  chapters  is 
immaterial  —  may  very  likely  be  erroneous 
—  and  is  no  part  of  their  real  drift.  But 
he  insists  that  what  they  do  definitely 
teach,  namely,  that  the  supersensual  ele- 

*  And  reported  in  the  Oxford  and  Camhridgt  U^ 
dtrgraditatt^  Journal  for  October  asth. 

t  An  Examination  of  the  Doctrines  of  the  Natural 
Evolution  of  Mind,  or  the  Distinctive  Features  of  Sci- 
entiAc  and  Spiritual  Knowledge.  By  Charles  B.  Up. 
ton,  B.A.,  B.SC.    London:  Williams  &  Norgate. 


EVOLUTION   AND   MIND. 


ment  in  man,  the  existence  of  a  spirit  in 
man,  cannot  be  accounted  for  as  the  prod- 
uct of  the  natural  organism,  is  of  the 
very  essence  of  revelation,  and  is  not  a 
lesson  which  science  —  concerning  itself, 
as  it  must,  mainly  with  the  evolution  of 
the  physical  structure  of  the  body  —  has 
the  right  to  traverse.  Science,  he  holds, 
may  deal  with  the  question  how  the  body 
of  man  came  to  be  what  it  is,  and  may 
even  determine  it  in  its  own  fashion,  with- 
out threatening  in  any  way  the  theology 
of  the  Bible.  Even  it  it  should  be  even- 
tually proved  that  the  body  of  man  was 
prepared  for  him  by  direct  descent  from 
the  body  of  lower  species,  there  would  be 
nothing  in  that  to  threaten  the  doctrine 
of  Scripture,  —  which  all  true  philosophy 
confirms,  —  that  there  is  something  in  the 
soul  of  man  which  does  not  admit  of  ex- 
planation by  virtue  of  his  bodily  descent, 
something  which  entirely  justifies  the 
**  religious  contemplation  of  nature,*' and 
justifies  it  even  more  completely  after 
science  has  made  her  voice  heard  as  to 
the  physical  links  in  the  chain,  than  be- 
fore those  physical  links  had  been  traced 
out. 

And  what  Canon  Driver  asserts  as  the 
essence  of  the  doctrine  of  creation  taught 
in  the  Bible,  Professor  Upton  asserts  as 
the  essence  of  the  true  philosophy  of  man. 
"If  the  soul  of  man,"  he  says,  "and  its 
-moral  and  spiritual  activities,  can  be  ac- 
counted for  and  explained  on  the  same 
principles  on  which  recent  evolutionists 
endeavor  to  explain,  and  to  some  extent 
succeed  in  explaining,  the  history  of  our 
planet  and  the  origin  and  development  of 
the  forms  and  feelings  of  the  animal  king- 
dom, then  it  seems  to  me  evident  that  the 
raison  d^etre  of  Manchester  New  College 
virtually  ceases  to  exist,  seeing  that  in 
this  case  the  theological  knowledge  which 
it  is  its  special  mission  freely  to  impart, 
vanishes  into  the  shadowy  background  of 
outgrown  fancies  and  exploded  delusions. 
Let  it  once  be  granted  that  man  is  wholly 
a  part  of  nature,  and  therefore  wholly 
explicable  in  the  way  in  which  nature  is 
explicable,  and  it  wilf  not,  I  think,  be  dif- 
ficult to  show  that  our  present  ethical 
ideas  and  religious  sentiments  are  essen- 
tially irrational  and  unjustifiable."  Pro- 
fessor Upton  maintains,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  the  methods  of  science  are  in- 
applicable to  the  study  of  mind,  unless 
you  take  care  in  studying  mind  to  remem- 
ber that,  the  student  and  the  object  of 
study  being  identical,  you  must  not  forget 
to  include  ail  the  consciousness  of  free- 


dom,  personality,  and  activity  with  which 
the  student  approaches  his  study,  as  part 
of  the  object  of  study  itself.  It  is  the 
nature  of  scientific  study  to  regard  the 
object  studied  as  determined  by  inviolable 
laws  which  may  be  recorded ;  and  when 
the  object  studied  is  outside  the  student, 
this  assumption  may  be  true.  But  so 
soon  as  the  object  studied  becomes  the 
student  himself,  the  danger  is  great  that 
the  student  will  regard  himself  as  an 
observable  phenomenon  only,  and  forget 
that  every  voluntary  effort  to  apprehend 
himself  is  part  of  the  self  to  be  appre- 
hended ;  so  that  if,  for  instance,  he  is 
treating  himself  as  determinate  at  the 
very  moment  when  he  is  resolutely  deter- 
mining to  sound  the  depths  of  what  is  in 
him,  he  is  really  hoodwinking  himself  by 
omitting  from  the  object  gazed  at,  the 
volition  of  the  gazer  which  ought  to  be 
part  and  parcel  of  that  object,  and  which 
would  be  part  and  parcel  of  it,  were  it 
only  possible,  as  it  is  not,  to  catch  subject 
and  object  in  the  same  swift  glance.  Pro- 
fessor Upton  maintains,  therefore,  "that 
the  spirit  or  will  of  man  cannot  be  treated 
as  a  part  of  nature,  and  brought  within 
the  range  of  the  phenomenal  sciences, 
without  a  violation  of  the  fundamental 
fact  of  consciousness,  namely,  the  distinc- 
tion between  the  self-determining  subject 
which  knows  and  acts,  and  the  passive 
object  which  is  known  and  acted  upon." 
If  this  free,  self-determining  activity, 
which  is  of  the  very  essence  of  moral  re- 
sponsibility, of  our  sense  of  right  and 
wrong  and  duty  and  sin,  is  to  be  treated 
as  a  mere  proauct  of  material  evolution, 
—  with  which  it  is  absolutely  incommen- 
surable, —  instead  of  as  relating  the  soul 
to  God,  the  spiritual  life  will  necessarily 
be  explained  away,  and  resolved  into  an 
illusion  or  a  dream.  .  For  the  purpose  of 
scientific  evolution,  you  must  find  some- 
thing analogous  to  the  blossom  in  the 
germ.  But  Professor  Upton  very  justly 
denies  that  there  is  in  nature  anything  at 
all  analogous  to  the  sense  of  freedom 
and  responsibility  which  it  is  required  to 
evolve  out  of  nature ;  and  for  its  origin, 
therefore,  he  looks  to  the  supernatural, 
and  finds  the  witness  of  God  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  freedom. 

We  have  only  one  objection  to  make  to 
Professor  Upton's  admirable  lecture,  and 
that  is  that  in  our  opinion  he  concedes 
too  much,  when  he  admits  as  reasonable, 
or  at  least  conceivable,  Professor  Clif- 
ford's hypothesis  that  the  germs  of  sen- 
tience, which  may,  he  thinks,  inhere  in  all 


638 

matter,  —  as  the  inside  aspects  of  mate- 
rial substance,  —  are  developed  without 
assuming  any  creative  power  into  the 
sentience  of  the  higher  animals,  just  as 
the  atoms  of  inorganic  bodies  are  devel- 
oped, pari  pas su^  into  the  structure  of  the 
higher  animal  bodies.  Professor  Upton 
thinks  that  "it  may  be  true,  as  some 
recent  evolutionists  maintain,  that  sen- 
tient life,  in  some  exceedingly  faint  and 
diffused  form,  pervades  even  inorganic 
nature,  assumes  a  less  indeterminate 
shape  in  the  organism  of  vegetables,  and 
at  length,  in  connection  with  the  elaborate 
nervous  system  and  brain  of  the  animal, 
becomes  so  concentrated  as  to  reach  that 
stage  which  we  call  distinct  sensation  or 
feeling.  In  discussing  such  matters,  evo- 
lutionists are  on  their  own  proper  ground, 
and  their  conclusions  cannot  possibly,  so 
far  as  I  can  see,  unfavorably  affect  theol- 
ogy/* We  quite  allow  that  Professor 
Upton  defends  the  pass  against  the  evolu- 
tionists at  the  strongest  point,  when  he 
defends  it  at  the  consciousness  of  human 
freedom,  and  declares  that  there  is  no 
possibility  of  "evolving"  freedom  out  of 
what  is  not  free,  and  self-consciousness 
out  of  what  is  in  no  sense  a  self.  But 
while  we  cordially  approve  of  the  position 
he  has  chosen  as  the  strongest,  and,  in- 
deed, to  our  mind,  one  wholly  unassailable, 
we  cannot  concede  that  evolution  can  be 
reconciled  with  creation  at  all  as  a  real 
process  of  growth^  unless  you  concede 
implicitly  to  the  cause  all  that  you  find 
explicitly  in  the  effect.  If  sensations  of 
a  high,  complex,  and  intense  kind  can  be 
•*  developed  "  out  of  sensations  of  a  very 
low,  simple,  and  dull  kind,  that  means 
that  a  great  addition  is  made  to  the  total 
sentient  power  of  the  universe;  and  this 
addition  must  be  either  quite  uncaused, 
or  drawn  out  of  a  great  reservoir  of  life 
previously  invisible  to  us.  You  cannot 
explain  vivid,  subtle,  and  progressive  sen- 
sibility by  referring  merely  to  the  dull, 
simple,  and  stationary  sensibility  which 
preceded  it.  The  gain,  if  gain  it  be,  must 
either  be  regarded  as  purely  uncaused,  or 
as  due  to  a  power  which  was  not  ade- 
quately expressed  in  the  lower  stage  of 
sensation,  and  which  has  furnished  the 
resources  for  this  new  development.  We 
traverse,  therefore,  the  materialistic  hy- 
pothesis as  any  true  explanation  of  evolu- 
tion from  first  to  last.  It  is  quite  true 
that  it  is  most  manifestly  and  startlingly 
defective  at  the  point  at  which  it  professes 
to  bridge  the  gulf  from  determined  life  to 
free  life,  from  impersonal  life  to  personal 


SAYINGS   OF   CHILDREN. 


life,  a  gulf  that  can  never  be  bridged. 
But  the  blot  there,  though  more  striking 
than  at  any  other  point  of  the  process,  is 
really  to  be  detected  much  sooner.  Evo- 
lution means  either  gradual  creation  by  a 
Creator  on  a  definite  plan,  or  the  growth  of 
non-existence  into  existence,  —  which  is 
contrary  to  every  principle  of  materialistic 
thought  from  beginning  to  end.  It  is  true 
evolution,  if  the  form  "evolved  "  was  long 
before  "involved"  fn  the  creative  will. 
But  it  is  not  evolution  at  all,  it  is  mere 
magic,  if  at  every  step  in  the  upward 
growth  physical  forces  are  transforming 
themselves  into  something  perfectly  new 
which  they  did  not  before  even  suggest, 
and  becoming,  first,  chemical,  then  vital, 
then  sentient,  and  lastly  moral,  by  a  spon- 
taneous alchemy  of  their  own.  There* 
fore,  grateful  as  we  are  to  Professor  Upton 
for  his  striking  lecture,  we  cannot  but 
think  that  he  is  willing  to  concede  too 
much. 


From  Chambeiy  JotimaL 
SAYINGS  OF  CHILDREN. 

At  a  public  meeting  in  Edinburgh  some 
time  ago.  Professor  Blackie  told  his  audi- 
ence the  following  story :  "  A  little  boy 
at  a  presbytery  examination  was  asked, 
*What  is  the  meaning  of  regeneration?' 
*  Oh,  to  be  born  again,'  he  replied.  '  Quite 
right.  Tommy.  YouVe  a  very  good  boy. 
Would  you  not  like  to  be  born  again. ^' 
Tommy  hesitated,  but  on  being  pressed 
for  an  answer,  said  :  *  No.'  *  Why,  Tom- 
my ? '  '  For  fear  I  might  be  born  a  las- 
sie ! '  he  replied." 

This  appears  to  be  an  excellent  illustra* 
tion  of  the  folly  of  asking  children  difficult 
theological  questions  before  they  are  old 
enough  to  grasp  the  difference  between 
worldly  fact  and  divine  allegorv. 

Much  more  to  the  point,  and  a  splendid 
specimen  of  childlike  reproach,  was  the 
reply  of  a  little  urchin,  who,  with  his 
brothers  and  sisters,  were  always  scolded 
by  their  grandfather  whenever  they  dared 
to  invade  the  precincts  of  his  library. 
"  Would  you  like  to  go  to  heaven,  Bertie  ?  " 
his  mother  asked  of  him  one  evening, 
when  she  had  been  reading  to  him  Mrs. 
Hemans's  beautiful  verses  on  "  The  Better 
Land."  "No,  mamma,"  was  the  quick 
response.  "You  wouldn't  like  to  go  to 
heaven,  my  son  !  Why  }  "  "  Why,  grand- 
papa will  be  there,  won't  he  ?  "  "  Yes ;  I 
hope  he  will."    "  Well,  when  he  sees  us 


SAYINGS   OF   CHILDREN. 


children,  he'll  come  scolding  along  and 
say :  *  Whew  !  whew  !  what  are  you  all 
here  for  ? '  No,  mamma ;  I  don't  want  to 
go  to  heaven,  if  grandpapa  is  going  to  be 
there." 

We  cull  the  following  from  one  of  the 
French  papers.  A  little  boy  was  sitting 
by  the  bed  of  his  grandmother,  who  was 
very  ill.  '*Ah,  my  poor  child,"  she  said, 
"  I  am  very  bad ;  I  am  going  to  die."  He 
looked  very  much  mystified  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  suddenly  exclaimed: 
"  Why  will  you  die  ?  Does  God  want  an 
^/^/ angel,?" 

**  Grandpapa,"  said  another  intelligent 
little  fellow,  '*who  made  those  great 
ditches  in  your  forehead.?  " 

"  God,  my  dear." 

"  What  did  he  make  them  for  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Willie.  Don't  ask  silly 
questions." 

Willie  was  thoughtful  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  said :  '*  I  know  now  ! 
Father  can  tell  how  old  his  cows  are  by 
the  wrinkles  on  their  horns.  Is  that  what 
God  put  wrinkles  on  your  brow  for,  grand- 
papa ?  " 

Some  remarkable  answers  are  some- 
times given  by  children  in  response  to 
questions  put  to  them  in  school.  At  a 
school  at  Wallsend,  near  Newcastle,  the 
master  asked  a  class  of  boys  the  meaning 
of  the  word  *' appetite ;  "  and  after  a  brief 
pause,  one  little  boy  said:  "  I  know,  sir; 
when  I'm  eatin',  I'm'appy ;  and  when  I'm 
done,  I'm  tight." 

Another  teacher  asked  a  bright  little 
£irl  what  country  was  opposite  to  us  on 
tne  globe. 

"1  don't  know,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

**  Well,  now,"  pursued  the  teacher,  "  if 
I  were  to  bore  a  hole  through  the  earth, 
and  you  were  to  go  in  at  this  end,  where 
would  you  come  out  ?  " 

••  Out  of  the  hole,  sir,"  replied  the  pupil 
with  an  air  of  triumph. 

Children  frequently  put  puzzling  ques- 
tions at  home  to  their  parents  on  various 
subjects,  as  is  evinced  by  the  one  which  a 
smart  boy,  who  had  been  reading  the 
newspaper,  put  to  his  father.  "Pa,  has 
the  world  got  a  tail?"  "No,  my  boy; 
It  is  quite  round,"  replied  his  parent. 
••Well,"  persisted  young  hopeful,  ''why 
do  the  papers  say,  •  So  wags  the  world,'  if 
it  ain't  got  a  tail?" 

As  an  instance  of  juvenile  precocity, 
we  may  mention  the  stratagem  employed 
by  a  little  six-year-old  fellow  whose  mother 
had  told  him  that  it  was  impolite  to  ask 
for  cakes  or  other  things  which  they  might 


see  being  prepared,  while  visiting  at  other 
people's  houses.  Calling  at  a  house  in 
the. neighborhood  where  a  cake  was  being 
made,  he  eyed  the  precious  composition 
very  wistfully  for  some  time  without 
speaking,  but  at  last  he  ventured  to  say 
in  an  undertone,  "Mother  says  it's  not 
polite  to  ask  for  cake."  ••  No,"  was  the 
reply;  **it  does  not  look  well  for  little 
boys  to  do  so."  "But  she  didn't  say  I 
must  not  eat  a  piece,  in  case  you  gave  it 
to  me,"  was  the  unanswerable  rejoinder. 

Of  a  similar  kind  was  the  suggestion  of 
a  little  girl  who,  while  at  a  party,  had  left 
upon  the  table  half  an  orange.  On  pass- 
ing the  house  the  next  morning,  she 
thought  of  the  orange,  and  feeling  like 
finishing  it,  she  entered  and  said  to  the 

lady:    "Mrs.   M ,  I   left  part  of  an 

orange  here  last  night,  and  I  have  called 
to  see  about  it.  If  you  cannot  find  it,  you 
needn't  trouble  yourself  about  it,  as  a 
whole  small  orange  will  do  just  as  well." 

Children,  if  permitted,  will  sometimes 
try  to  argue  a  question  ;  but  it  is  seldom 
that  they  venture  on  closing  an  argument, 
when  it  is  particularly  addressed  to  them. 
A  certain  Aunt  Betsy  was,  however,  try- 
ing to  persuade  her  little  nephew  to  go  to 
bed,  and  by  way  of  argument  said  that 
all  the  little  chickens  went  to  roost  at 
sunset.  "Yes,"  replied  the  boy,  "but 
the  old  hen  always  goes  with  them." 

A  little  girl  who  had  heard  that  every 
one  was  made  of  dust,  was  one  day  stand- 
ing at  the  window,  and  appeared  to  be 
very  intently  watching  the  eddies  of  that 
staple  of  creation  as  they  were  whirled 
up  by  the  wind.  Her  mother,  observing 
her,  asked  her  what  she  was  thinking 
about ;  and  she  responded  in  a  very  seri- 
ous tone :  "  I  thought,  mamma,  that  there 
was  going  to  be  another  little  girl."  This, 
however,  was  not  so  precocious  an  answer 
as  that  wrung  from  another  little  girl  who 
was  reproved  for  playing  with  the  boys, 
and  was  told  that  being  seven  years  old, 
she  was  too  big  for  that  now.  "Why, 
grandma,'*  she  replied,  "the  bigger  we 
grow,  the  better  we  like  'em." 

Some  children  are  often  amusing  by 
reason  of  their  conceit,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  young  French  gentleman  of  the 
mature  age  of  five,  who,  on  being  told 
that  the  baby  wanted  to  kiss  him,  said: 
"  Yes ;  he  takes  me  for  his  papa." 

Amusing  answers  also  occur  when  at- 
tempts are  made  to  tax  a  child's  memory 
about  things  with  which  it  may  be  imper- 
fectly acquainted.  In  this  category  may 
be  reckoned  the  two  following  incidents. 


1 


6ao 


SAYINGS   OF   CHILDREN. 


•ft 


Well,  my  child/'  said  a  father  to  his 
little  daughter,  after  she  had  been  to 
church,  **what  do  you  remember  of  all 
the  preacher  said  ?  "  "  Nothing,"  was  the 
timid  reply.  "Nothing!'*  he  exclaimed 
in  a  severe  tone.  "Now,  remember,  the 
next  time  you  must  tell  me  something  of 
what  he  says,  or  you  will  have  to  be  pun- 
ished." Next  Sunday,  the  child  came 
home  with  her  eyes  all  wild  with  excite- 
ment. "I  remember  something  to-day, 
papa,"  she  cried  eagerly.  "  I  am  very 
glad  of  it,"  said  her  father.    "  What  did 


he  say  ?  "    '*  He  said :  '  A  collection  will 
now  be  made  1  *  " 

We  will  close  our  paper  by  an  amusing 
example  of  childish  scepticism.  A  little 
boy  about  four  years  of  age  was  saying 
his  pravers  at  his  mother's  knee,  and  when 
he  haa  finished  the  Lord's  Prayer,  she 
said,  "  Now,  Willie,  ask  God  to  make  you 
a  good  boy."  The  child  raised  his  eyes 
to  his  mother's  face  for  a  few  moments,  as 
if  in  deep  thought,  and  then  startled  her 
with  the  reply:  "It's  no  use,  mamma. 
He  won't  do  it.  I've  asked  him  a  heap  o' 
times." 


Amber.  —  Some  months  ago  a  builder  in 
Berlin,  in  excavating  for  the  foundations  of  a 
new  house,  came  upon  a  considerable  number 
of  pieces  of  native  amber,  and  as  this  material 
ranges  in  value  from  &/.  up  to  £4  sterling 
per  pound  avoidupois,  the  discovery  naturally 
stopped  building  operations  for  a  time.  The 
hoped-for  amber  mine,  however,  was  not  found, 
only  occasional  pieces  being  stumbled  upon, 
which  were  too  limited  in  quantity  to  make  it 
worth  while  to  prosecute  the  search.  The 
commonest  impure  kinds  of  amber  are  used  to 
make  varnish,  and  the  demand  for  the  more 
valuable  kinds,  which  are  employed  for  neck- 
laces, pipe  mouthpieces,  and  other  purposes,  is 
such  as  to  make  an  amber  mine  a  source  of 
great  wealth.  The  largest  European  amber 
deposits  are  found  on  the  Baltic  shores  of 
north-eastern  Prussia.  There  about  eighty 
tons  a  year  are  at  present  dug  up,  and  the  sup- 
ply appears  practically  inexhaustible.  Since 
the  beginning  of  the  century  it  is  calculated 
that  over  sixteen  hundred  tons  have  been  pro- 
duced there;; and  if  the  production,  as  some 
contend,  has  been  going  on  for  three  thousand 
years,  the  total  quantity  produced  in  that  period 
cannot,  it  is  calculated,  have  been  less  than 
sixty  thousand  tons.  The  amber  is  found  in 
isolated  pieces,  varying  from  the  smallest  beads 
up  to  blocks  of  many  pounds  in  weight  The 
largest  piece  ever  discovered  weighs  thirteen 
and  a  half  pounds,  and  is  now  in  the  Royal 
Mineral  Cabinet  in  Berlin.  The  material  lies 
in  a  layer  of  blue  earth,  which  extends  from 
the  surface  to  a  depth  of  from  eighty  to  a  hun- 
dred feet.  The  area  of  the  amber  fields  of 
Prussia  is  nearly  fifty  miles  long  by  nearly  ten 
in  breadth,  and  here  it  is  present  in  large  quan- 
tities. It  is  reckoned  that  every  twelve  square 
feet  of  surface  will  produce  a  pound.  In  this 
part  of  Prussia  alone  it  is  estimated  that  there 
lie  hidden  there  at  this  moment  not  less  than 


half  a  million  tons.  But  the  Baltic  shores  of 
Prussia  are  not  the  only  region  where  amber 
is  found.  No  doubt  it  lies  in  large  quantities 
beneath  the  Baltic  Sea,  between  the  Prussian 
coast  and  the  islands  of  Bornholm,  Oesel,  and 
Gothland,  in  which  islands  it  is  also  found. 
It  is  likewise  met  with  in  northern  Siberia* 
Kamschatka,  and  on  the  Behring  Straits:  fur- 
ther on  the  White  Sea  shores,  in  Greenland, 
and  in  the  south  of  Sicily.  Aml^er  was  men- 
tioned by  Homer,  who  speaks  of  it  as  being 
esteemed  of  equal  value  with  gold.  It  is  the 
fossil  resin  produced  by  upwards  of  six  kinds 
of  coniferous  trees  in  pre«historic  times.  Two 
of  these  trees,  of  which  immense  forests  cov- 
ered the  regions  now  producing  amber,  have 
been  proved  to  be  nearly  related  to  the  exist- 
ini5  Weymouth  pine  and  the  modern  fir-tree. 
While  the  wood  of  the  trees  rotted  away,  the 
resin  which  exuded  from  them  has  been  pre- 
served in  the  form  of  the  fossil  amber.  The 
resin  oozed  out  of  the  stem  of  the  tree  as  well 
as  out  of  the  roots,  and  was  deposited  eventu- 
ally in  immense  quantities  in  the  soil.  In  some 
of  the  pieces  of  the  amber  bits  of  the  wood  and 
bark  of  the  trees  are  found  imbedded,  and 
through  this  lucky  accidenfhave  been  preserved 
from  decay.  On  examining  this  wood  with  the 
microscope,  it  is  at  once  apparent  that  the 
trees  were,  as  intimated  above,  closely  related 
to  our  modern  coniferae,  but  were  not  absolutely 
identical  with  any  of  the  existi  ng  species.  Ages 
ago  the  whole  region  now  covered  by  the  east- 
ern part  of  the  Baltic  Sea  was  covered  with 
these  amber-producing  trees.  The  industry 
of  amber-digging  is  one  of  very  great  impor- 
tance for  Prussia,  and  it  is  calculated  that  the 
amber  district  of  that  country  still  contains  a 
quantity  which,  at  an  average  value  of  y.  per 
pound,  is  worth  no  less  than  jf" 2 50,000,000 
sterling.  Draper. 


LITTELL'S  LIVING  AGE. 


Flftli  Series,      } 
Volume  XLIV.     > 


No.  2060. -December  15,  1883.        {^Toifffi"*' 


CONTENTS. 


Proc- 


I.  The  New-Birth  of   Christian  Philos- 
ophy,     

II.  Lord  of  Himself, 

III.  Jersey, 

IV.  A  Curious  Experience, 

V.  The  Sun*s  Corona.    By  Richard 
tor, 

VI.  The  Rock  of  Cashel, 

VII.  An  Annamese  Decalogue,. 

VIII.  Beards, 

IX.  Jews  at  Jobar,     • 

X.  French  Convict  Marriages, 

XI.  Old  Postal  Days  in  San  Francisco, 


Contemporary  Review^ 
Sunday  Magasine^ 
Macmillan's  Magasine^ 
^rgosy^ 


Nineteenth  Century^ 
Months 


Saturday  Review^ 
Spectator^      •        • 
Saturday  Review^ 
Chamber^  youmal^ 
GenUematCs  Magaxine^ 


643 

655 

664 

672 

682 
688 
694 
697 
699 
701 
703 


Lyrics  of  Pericles, 


POETRY. 

642 1  Poets,  and  Poets, 


Miscellany. 


642 

704 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  CO.,   BOSTON 


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642 


LYRICS   OF   PERICLES,   ETC. 


LYRICS  OF  PERICLES. 

Ode  to  Neptune. 


God  of  the  steed  and  the  spear  and  the  Ocean, 
Speed  thou  our  barks  o'er  the  wandering  foam ; 
Steer  as  by  reef,  and  by  headland  and  island, 
Outward  and  onward,  and  inward  and  home ; 
Hail  to  thee,  Neptune!  great  Neptune,  all 
hail! 

Shaker  of  Earth  and  upheaver  of  Water, 
Father  of  Triton  and  brother  of  Jove, 
Thou  at  whose  bidding  Troy  rose  as  a  palm- 
tree. 
Under  whose  branches  her  warriors  strove. 
Hail  to  thee,  Neptune!  great  Neptune,  all 
haill 

Saturn  begat  thee,  and  Saturn  devoured  thee, 
But  to  restore  thee  to  mystical  birth ; 
Neptune    some   style  thee,  some    call    thee 

Poseidon, 
Many  thy  names  as  the  races  of  Earth ; 
Hail  to  thee,  Neptune!  great  Neptune,  all 

hail! 

Deep  in  the  sea  lies  thy  palace  at  ^gae, 
Whence  thou  arisest  to  ride  on  the  wave. 
Yoking    thy   golden  •  maned,    brazen  -  hoofed 

coursers, 
Mighty  to  ruin,  but  powerful  to  save ; 
Hail  to  thee,  Neptune  I  great  Neptune,  all 

hail! 

Clouds  as  thou  biddest  them  gather  and  scat- 
ter. 

Come  at  thy  whisper  and  fly  at  thy  nod ; 

Look  then  on  us  that  bow  down  at  thine  altars, 

King  of  the  Ocean,  the  mariners*  god ! 

Hail  to  thee,  Neptune !  great  Neptune,  all 
hail  1 


The  Dream  of  Pericles. 

I  am  called,  so  thou  would'st  know, 
Dian  of  the  silver  bow ; 
And,  while  slumber  seals  thine  eyne, 
Bid  thee  list  the  voice  divine : 
Seek  out  mine  Ephesian  shrine ; 
And,  before  mine  altar  set. 
When  my  maiden  priests  are  met, 
Tell  them  all  that  happed  to  thee,  — 
How  Thaisa  died  at  sea. 
Tell, — and  leave  the  rest  to  me. 
Dream-like  then  thy  woes  shall  seem ; 
So  arise,  and  heed  the  dream ! 


Thanksgiving  Ode. 

Enthroned  upon  a  silver  beam 

Of  perfect  light, 
Our  lady  reigns  as  doth  beseem 

The  queen  of  night ! 

WhateVr  thy  pastime  is, 

Dian  or  Artemis,  — 
Whether  as  huntress  fair  and  free. 
With  strong  limbs  bared  in  symmetry. 


On  sylvan  heights  the  chase  thou  followest,  — 

Or  veiled,  and  cold,  and  pure, 
Distillest  moonlight  fpr  the  thirsting  flowers, 

Receive  this  hymn  of  ours. 
Offered  to  thee,  our  sorrow's  royal  cure. 

In  that  thou  pitiest  I 

To  thee  the  grace,  white  friend  of  men. 

For  life  restored. 
And  wife  and  daughter  given  again 
To  sire  and  lord ; 
To  thee  the  glory  is, 
Dian  and  Artemis  I 
Reigning  a  goddess  chrysolite, 
Encentred  in  thy  palace-light. 
Through  thy  fair  moon  the  tides  thou  gotr* 
ernest ; 
And  from  thy  radiant  throne. 
All  woman,  bending  to  our  passionate  prayer. 

Hast  sent  some  spirit  rare, 
To  give  us  back  our  jewels  for  our  own. 
Plucked  from  the  spoiler*s  breast. 
October,  iSSji  Herman  Merivale. 

Spectator. 


POETS,  AND  POETS. 

I  KNEW  a  poet, — one  with  eyes  of  laughter, 
A  face  like  a  sun-smile,  eager  as  a  boy. 

Singing  as  the  birds  sing,  trusting  the  Here- 
after: 
I  knew  a  poet,  and  his  name  was  Joy  I 

I  knew  a  poet,  who  had  eyes  for  beauty. 
Piercing    the    cloud-mists,    reaching  over 
Death, 
Sounding  the  world's  song,  like  a  hymn  of 
duty: 
I  knew  a  poet,  and  his  name  was  Faith  I 

One  there  was  also,  gentle  as  a  woman. 
Walking  the  sunless  alleys  of  the  city, — 

One  all-compassionate,  eloquently  human : 
I  knew  a  poet,  and  his  name  was  Pity  I 

But  these  with  their  loveless  tissue  of  fair 
weaving. 

These  with  the  joyless  musical  refrain  ; 
These  letting  life  go,  blind  and  unbelieving ; 

These  looking  earthward  only,  and  in  vain ; 

These  that  have  lain  in  the  poppy  flowers 
waving. 
Grown  where  the  fields  turn  wilderness  and 
bare; 
These  with    the   look-back,  and    the   lotus- 
craving  ; 
These  with  the  thin,  self -echo  of  despair ; 

These  ever  straining  after  days  that  were  not. 
These  with  their  reckless  abandonment  of 
youth ; 
These  that  restrain  not,  wonder  not,  revere 
not, — 
These  are  no  poets,  or  there  is  no  truth. 
Specutor.  ReNNELL  RodO. 


THE   NEW-BIRTH    OF   CHRISTIAN    PHILOSOPHY. 


From  The  Contemporary  Review. 
THE    NEW-BIRTH    OF    CHRISTIAN 
PHILOSOPHY. 

Whatever  greatness  the  nineteenth 
century  may  claim  will  appear,  on  closely 
considering  the  state  of  the  case,  to  arise 
from  this,  that  it  is  a  new  beginning  of 
the  ages  of  faith.  A  thing  most  strange, 
3'et  undeniable !  To  the  average  specta- 
tor it  may,  indeed,  seem  otherwise;  an 
age  of  revolution  and  despair,  of  unbelief 
and  the  most  resolved  pyrrhonism,  would 
be  his  account  of  the  times  we  live  in ; 
and  I  can  hear  him  exclaim,  '*  What  has 
this  century  in  common  with  the  fourth, 
the  twelfth,  or  even  the  seventeenth,  in 
which  men  submitted  to  a  creed  as  though 
heaven-descended,  and  looked  upon  cer- 
tain of  their  fellow-mortals  as  messengers 
from  the  Infinite?  "  But  not  in  this  wise 
have  more  competent  judges  spoken. 
Take  that  sagacious  man,  Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer,  who  will  not,  in  a  matter  like  the 
present,  be  suspected  of  bias,  and  listen 
to  a  remark  of  his  in  a  popular  book  on 
the  study  of  sociology.  **It  is,"  he  de- 
clares, **one  of  our  satisfactory  social 
traits,  exhibited  in  a  degree  never  before 
paralleled,  that  along  with  a  mental  prog- 
ress which  brings  about  considerable 
changes,  there  is  a  devotion  of  thought 
and  energy  to  the  maintenance  of  exist- 
ing arrangements,  and  creeds,  and  senti- 
ments —  an  energy  sufficient  even  to  rein- 
vigorate  some  of  the  old  forms  and  beliefs 
that  were  decaying."*  It  hardly  needs 
the  slight  touch  of  irony,  or  a  glance  at 
the  context,  to  convince  ourselves  that 
among  "  the  old  forms  and  beliefs  '*  that 
to  Mr.  Spencer  seemed  verging  towards 
extinction,  we  may  reckon  dogmatic 
Christianity.  But  that  which  was  dying 
has  revived  again.  In  the  fine  imagery 
of  one  of  our  most  thoughtful  writers,  the 
nineteenth  century  has  been  "a  second 
spring/*  carrying  in  its  bosom  a  harvest 
of  fruitfulness  for  seeds  in  which  a  hun- 
dred years  ago  there  was  little  sign  of  life. 
Ours  may  be  an  era  of  revolutions ;  but, 
in  perhaps  equal  degree,  it  has  brought 
forth  the  counter-movements  disparaged 
by  unfriendly  critics  as  reaction,  or  a  mere 

*  The  Studjr  of  Sociology,  4th  edition,  chap,  zvi.,  p. 
395 1  ^°^  *^  *^'  duLpter /aistm, 


643 

backwater  of  the  advancing  stream, — 
whilst  they  are,  undoubtedly,  a  revival  of 
energies  long  dormant,  and  of  elements 
once  declared  to  be  spent.  Christianity 
has  lost  its  thousands  and  tens  of  thou- 
sands in  all  the  Churches;  but  in  the 
adherents  left  to  it  there  is  a  conscious 
loyalty,  a  courage  and  enthusiasm,  a  sin- 
cerity of  religious  fervor  unknown  to  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  more  than  rival- 
ling what  was  noblest  in  the  days  of  un- 
ceasing polemics  and  crusades  for  an 
article  of  faith.  It  may  well  be  that  there 
are  more  sincere  Christians  at  this  mo- 
ment than  ever  before;  and  that  not  in 
absolute  but  in  relatively  proportioned 
numbers  has  the  ancient  religion  lost 
ground.  But  here,  too,  a  characteristic 
of  our  time  reveals  itself. 

For  the  contest  is  no  longer,  as  in  the 
days  of  Voltaire,  Hume,  and  Diderot, 
between  belief  and  unbelief.  If  a  man 
was  not  a  Christian  then,  he  was  nothing: 
he  could  be  nothing,  since  Christianity 
was  the  only  religion  known  to  him.  But 
now  a  fresh  religion  has  come  to  light; 
over  against  the  old  faith  stands  the  new. 
So  soon  as  he  quits  the  tradition  of  his 
fathers,  a  modern  unbeliever  will  find 
himself  on  the  threshold  of  a  temple  into 
which  multitudes,  holding  the  same  creed 
and  worshipping  the  same  ideal,  are  ready 
to  welcome  him.  Atheism,  Agnosticism, 
pantheism,  as  now  interpreted,  have  the 
closest  affinities  ;  they  are  sects  in  a  new 
religion,  whose  fundamental  tenets  they 
severally  admit.  The  title  of  Mr.  Spen- 
cer's creed  may  vary  according  as  the 
temperament  of  Mr.  Tyndall  differs  from 
that  of  Mr.  Bain  or  of  the  late  Mr.  Stuart 
Mill.  But  in  all  these  writers  we  perceive 
an  agreement  that  far  transcends  their 
differences  ;  if  they  dispute,  it  is  because, 
in  arriving  at  an  identical  synthesis,  they 
have  come  by  slightly  diverging  paths, 
and  now  stand  at  opposite  points  of  the 
same  prospect.  Put  them  to  the  test  by 
asking,  €,g,  how  they  view  the  problems 
of  life,  consciousness,  morality,  or  the 
notion  of  a  personal  God,  and  their  an- 
swers will  differ  in  shape,  but  not  at  all 
in  substance.  Moreover,  to  the  tradi- 
tional theory  they  will  oppose  a  counter- 
theory,  as  sharply  defined,  as  uncompro- 


644 


THE   NEW-BIRTH   OF  CHRISTIAN   PHILOSOPHY. 


mising,  as  unmistakable.  On  these  things 
the  century  of  Voltaire  did  not  know  what 
to  believe ;  it  revolted  from  Christianity 
in  the  name  of  the  unknown.  But  Mr. 
Spencer  puts  aside  revelation  in  the  name 
nf  the  unknowable.  And,  though  a  sylla* 
ble  or  two  seem  all  the  difference,  it  is 
everything.  It  betokens  that  mere  unbe- 
lief has  had  its  day. 

But,  in  yet  more  striking  contrast  to 
the  age  of  our  grandfathers,  Christians 
have  aroused  themselves  from  sleep,  and, 
upon  all  sides,  are  endeavoring  to  prove 
that  the  revelation  they  believe  in  is  a 
truth  of  history ;  that  it  is  no  fiction,  as 
the  old  critics  of  Tubingen  imagined,  but 
the  one  certain  fact  of  all  time.  Its  con- 
tents, or  doctrinal  teaching,  are  now  stud- 
ied with  a  consideration  so  searching  and 
reverent,  that  we  may  fairly  attribute  to 
the  nineteenth  century  a  republication  of 
the  gospel  such  as  has  not  been  since  the 
birth  of  medixval  Christendom.  This 
will  appear  in  a  most  attractive  clearness 
if  we  consider  how  the  life  of  Christ, 
which  is  the  sum  and  substance  of  Chris- 
tian teaching,  has  absorbed  into  itself  the 
theology  of  our  time  ;  how  it  is  told  over 
again  in  the  pulpit  and  the  press,  with 
astonishing  freshness,  originality,  and 
critical  power.  To  me  there  is  something 
marvellous,  as  though  a  miracle  of  the 
Highest,  in  that  reverence  which  sur- 
rounds the  person  of  Christ,  even  on  the 
part  of  unbelievers ;  so  that  he,  unless 
by  openly  depraved  writers,  is  neither 
criticised  nor  rudely  handled,  but  is  held 
to  sit  enthroned  in  his  own  calmness 
above  the  disputes  of  men.  In  this,  too, 
there  is  a  change,  as  if  the  eyes  and 
speech  once  profanely  bold  were  feeling 
the  charm  of  Christianity,  learning,  as 
they  needs  must,  what  his  disciples  have 
to  tell  concerning  the  Master  of  masters. 

Thus,  in  the  one  camp  as  in  the  other, 
indifference  and  formalism  have  given 
way,  to  a  degree  beyond  calculation,  in 
the  presence  of  growing  earnestness. 
The  great  contending  views  are  become 
religious  is  so  far  as  they  appeal  to  the 
feelings  and  the  imagination;  so  far  as 
the  ideal  synthesis,  whether  of  old  or  new, 
calls  for  love,  reverence,  and  passionate 
adhesion.    But  they  are,  at  the  same  time. 


philosophies  that  appeal,  in  the  last  re- 
sort, not  to  feeling  but  to  intellect.  Ag- 
nosticism itself  holds  that  we  know 
enough  to  know  what  things  cannot  be 
true.  They  are  philosophies  to  be  built 
up,  line  upon  line  and  precept  upon  pre- 
cept, by  an  intellectual  method,  analytical 
and  demonstrative.  The  tendencies  that 
have  wrought  these  creeds  are  driving 
men  upon  finding  grounds  for  them,  upon 
establishing  a  metaphysics  of  life  and 
thought  in  accordance  with  what  they 
believe  and  as  a  justification  of  it.  Mr. 
Herbert  Spencer  (to  insist  on  a  name  in 
many  ways  typical),  inheriting  a  bias  to- 
wards one  religious  creed,  works  it  out, 
in  his  **  First  Principles,'*  as  a  metaphys- 
ics of  evolution  and  the  unknowable. 
And  Cardinal  Newman,  ardently  attached 
to  the  most  absolute  of  Mr.  Spencer*s 
"decaying  beliefs,"  cannot  rest  satisfied 
until  he  has  given  a  reason  for  believing, 
in  an  "Essay  on  Development"  and  a 
"Grammar  of  Assent.**  Neither  would 
imagine  that  his  perfect  confidence  in 
what  he  holds  has  absolved  him  from  the 
duty  of  exhibiting  it  in  the  daylight  of 
reason.  In  both  we  see  an  anxious  de- 
sire to  defend  the  faith  that  is  in  them,  by 
evolving  a  mental  scheme  of  things  to 
which  that  faith  shall  be  the  crown  and 
complement.  Faith  may,  in  a  certain 
sense,  anticipate  what  we  call  reason,  as 
in  the  enthusiastic  workings  of  the  imag- 
ination, and  in  the  direct  experience  of 
conscience.  But  philosophy  comes  in  its 
turn ;  and  in  proportion  as  the  faith  is 
sincere  the  philosophy  will  be  fearless. 

It  should  not,  therefore,  surprise  us  if 
faith  begets  philosophy.     Herein  is  no  in- 
congruous mixture  of  things  opposite,  nor 
the  disappearance  of  dogma  in   rational- 
ism, but  an  inevitable  consequence  of  all 
belief,  which,  addressing  itself  to  the  con- 
science, naturally  leads  to  a  corresponding 
activity  in  the  reason,  or  to  the  analysts 
by  deliberate  investigation  of  what  has 
been   presented  as  a  living  truth  to  the 
whole  man.     In  the  history  of  religion, 
philosophy  sooner  or  later  must  make  aQ 
entrance ;  and  the  faithful  are  found  rea- 
soning simply  because  they  believe.   They 
do  not  reason  to  overthrow  their  creed, 
but  more  fully  to  coroprebead  it    Doubt 


THE   NEW'BIRTH   OF   CHRISTIAN    PHILOSOPHY. 


64s 


has  become  impossible  to  them ;  and  what 
they  seek  is  to  learn  more  and  more  of 
the  doctrine  that,  by  lifting  it  into  ideal 
regions,  has  reconciled  them  with  life; 
they  seek  to  demonstrate  —  as  one  reli- 
gion, the  modern,  states  it  —  that  **  all 
things  are  according  to  necessary  law  ; '' 
or,  as  of  old  time  was  declared,  that  **all 
things  happen  according  to  God's  will, 
appointing  or  permitting  them."  To  hold 
such  doctrines  true  is  to  be  convinced  that 
reason,  had  it  sufficient  light,  could  show 
their  truth ;  that,  furnished  even  as  it  is, 
it  can  establish  the  foundations,  or  neces- 
sary postulates,  of  a  creed,  and  can  never 
be  in  opposition  to  them.  What  J  believe 
I  cannot  but  suppose  to  be  in  itself  de- 
monstrable ;  and  if  I  am  a  fervent  believer, 
I  shall  naturally  look  about  for  the  demon- 
stration. Such,  I  repeat,  is  the  instinct 
that  prompts  one  great  master  to  indite 
his  **  First  Principles,"  and  another  his 
"Grammar  of  Assent."  Nor  was  it  a 
different  instinct  that  led  to  a  vaster  en- 
terprise than  either, —  the  ^^  Sum  ma  The- 
olo^ca  "  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas. 

Returning,  then,  to  the  point  from 
which  I  set  out,  it  is  evident  tftat  if,  in 
the  nineteenth  century,  faith  be  a  mighty 
power  and  men  have  enthusiastic  feelings 
about  the  old  religion  as  well  as  the  new, 
we  may  expect  a  revived  interest  in  meta- 
physics, or  the  discussion  of  the  ultimate 
necessary  principles  of  life  and  being. 
Most  suggestive,  indeed,  it  is  that  meta- 
physics displayed  so  little  energy  in  the 
century  of  unbelief;  like  faith,  and  with 
faith,  it  was  dead  and  buried ;  for  Kant 
belonged  in  spirit  to  a  later  epoch,  and  in 
the  first  pages  of  his  philosophy  a  new 
beginning  of  religious  earnestness  dawns 
upon  us.  It  is  impossible  that  an  irreli- 
gious time  should  be  deep  in  metaphysics. 
"  What  is  truth?  said  jesting  Pilate,  and 
stayed  not  for  an  answer."  He  did  not 
care  to  stay,  because  he  neither  believed 
nor  disbelieved  passionately.  And  who, 
without  allegiance  to  something  that  seems 
worth  believing,  or  the  hope  of  attaining 
it,  can  weary  himself  with  the  algebra  of 
being,  or  trouble  about  formulae  to  which 
there  is  no  corresponding  reality  that  has 
taken  him  by  the  heart  ?  But  in  the  world 
of  to-day  enthusiasm,  though  tinged  with 


melancholy,  is  not  wanting ;  and  the  most 
fervent  among  the  initiated  are  to  be  found 
also  in  the  haunts  of  men,  analyzing  and 
demonstrating  with  the  weapons  of  calm 
reason,  with  experiment,  induction,  and 
deduction  on  the  largest  scale.  Chris- 
tians, for  example,  holding  as  they  do  a 
mysterious  creed,  might  seem  exempt 
from  the  duty  of  philosophizing,  or  unable 
to  employ  the  canons  of  a  mundane  and 
unbaptized  logic.  And  yet  it  is  otherwise. 
Carefully  distinguishing  between  such  ar- 
ticles of  their  faith  as  are  beyond  the 
reach  of  argument,  and  much  else  that  is 
bound  up  with  these  high  truths,  they 
hold  that  the  grounds  of  their  belief  are 
capable  of  strict  examination  and  should 
be  examined.  Not  more,  again,  but  still 
not  less,  do  those  philosophize  that  say 
they  hold  no  creed  and  are  free  from 
the  obligation  of  defending  any.  Hut, 
certainly,  their  mind  assents  to  an  ideal 
synthesis,  though  its  outlines  be  here  and 
there  broken  by  shadow ;  and,  captivated 
as  they  are  by  its  imagined  grandeur,  they 
must  be  intent  on  proving  that  it  is  not 
such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,  but  a 
vast,  unspeakable  reality.  So  that  the 
future  of  mankind  lies,  like  a  prize  in  the 
arena,  between  contending  philosophies, 
the  one  Christian,  the  other  anti-Chris- 
tian. This  I  take  to  be  a  clear  and  com- 
plete account  of  them.  As  when  I  say 
Christianity,  I  mean  the  dogmatic  beliefs 
expressed  in  the  creeds,  sacraments,  and 
liturgy  of  an  historical  Church ;  so,  when 
I  speak  of  the  modern  philosophy  par 
excellence^  I  am  thinking  of  that  all-em- 
bracing scheme  according  to  which  the 
Christian  faith  is  objectively  false,  and 
subjectively  an  outworn  superstition.  No 
one  will  question  that  here  is  an  opposi- 
tion as  flagrant  as  it  is  irreconcilable. 
For  the  Christian,  though  he  may  allow 
one  or  other  detai!  of  modern  philosophy, 
reduces  all  truth  to  a  system  of  which  the 
governing  principle  is  the  dogma  of  crea- 
tion, or,  as  we  may  term  it,  an  objective 
dualism ;  but  the  anti-Christian,  preserv- 
ing certain  moral  maxims  from  the  ruined 
gospel,  and  finding  in  this  or  that  word 
of  Scripture  a  dim  prophetic  glance  into 
realms  now  conquered  by  science,  must, 
when  his  principles  are  brought  down  to 


646 


THE   NEW-BIRTH   OF   CHRISTIAN   PHILOSOPHY. 


a  single  statement,  deny  creation  and 
every  real  distinction  between  tbe  uni- 
verse and  its  cause  in  favor  of  an  abso- 
lute monism,  call  it  by  what  name  you 
please.  Such  are  the  contrasted  philoso- 
phies I  have  in  view. 

Let  us  inquire,  then,  whether  a  Chris- 
tian philosophy  is  extant ;  a  system  of 
thought  not  addressing  the  emotional  part 
of  our  nature  —  of  which  alone  the  direct 
result  is  action  —  but  purely  speculative, 
intended  to  satisfy  the  reasoning  faculty, 
and  to  set  forth,  in  terms  distinct  and  ra- 
tional, such  a  view  of  existence  that 'Chris- 
tianity shall  seem  the  development  and 
not  the  contradiction  Of  it.  But  first,  a 
word  to  those  —  and  their  name  is -legion 
—  in  whose  eyes  Christianity,  concerning 
itself  essentially  with  practice  or  con- 
duct, is  held  to  be  independent  of  all 
metaphysics  whatsoever.  This,  to  a  large 
number,  seems  evident.  They  hold,  for 
example,  with  the  Broad  Church  or  Lib- 
eral Protestantism ;  or  they  are  Unitari- 
ans ;  or  they  belong  to  tbe  societies  which, 
in  a  more  or  less  nebulous  and  dissolving 
condition,  stretch  outwards  to  the  con- 
fines of  the  new  religion ;  and  so  they 
tend  more  and  more  to  coalesce  with 
those  for  whom  Christianity  is  a  senti- 
ment embodied  in  mythological  forms  as 
beautiful  as  the  Greek,  and  typifying  the 
truths  of  life,  as  the  great  house  of  Jove 
and  the  Olympians  typified  nature.  Many 
affirm,  with  Carlyle,  that  Christianity  can 
never  die,  and  with  Goethe,  that  it.  is  a 
height  which  mankind  was  destined  to 
reach,  and  which,  once  attained,  can  never 
be  lost  again ;  but  in  so  expressing  them- 
selves, they  mean  that  it  is  neither  theis- 
tic,  nor  Agnostic,  nor  pantheistic;  that  it 
will  consist  with  disbelief  in  a  personal 
God ;  or,  again,  with  nescience  almost  un- 
qualified of  the  end  and  nature  of  things  ; 
or,  finally,  with  the  conviction  that,  phe- 
nomena being  the  manifestation  of  a  Su- 
preme Power  not  really  distinct  from 
them,  the  received  conception  of  a  Creator 
and  creation  must  be  resolved  into  the 
merely  apparent  difference  of  the  one  and 
the  many.  But,  if  this  be  so,  what  is  left 
of  Christianity  now  that  it  cannot  direct 
our  relations  with  the  Infinite?  The  an- 
swer will  be  that  it  must  direct  the  rela- 
tions of  man  with  man,  and  that  these  are 
the  subject  matter  of  conduct.  Especially, 
it  may  be  said,  is  Christianity  adapted  to 
soften  the  pain  of  existence ;  it  has  even 
been  defined  by  Goethe  as  the  religion  of 
sorrow.  But,  profoundly  true  as  it  is,  that 
Christianity  has  the  secret  of  healing,  of 
binding  up  the  wounds  of  man  and  raising 


him  from  his  fallen  estate,  I  roust  denv 
that  healing  is  possible  without  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  properties  of  things,  or  that 
happiness  can  be  given  without  light. 
Every  morality  is  founded  upon  metaphys- 
ics, or  is  consistent  with  one  definite  view 
of  the  universe,  and  not  with  any  other; 
the  relations  of  man  to  man  are  deter- 
mined by  the  relations  of  all  to  thehr 
Maker.  We  cannot  halve  morality  or  di- 
vorce it  from  religion.  For  religion  as- 
signs its  duty  to  each  member  of  the 
whole,  by  declaring  how  each  is  related  to 
the  whole ;  and  if  this  be  not  morality, 
what  is  it  ?  Neither  can  we  sublimate  the 
immense  life  of  Christianity  .into  one  ab- 
stract principle  of  conduct,  such  as  resig- 
nation. Since  the  question  always  re- 
mains —  nor  has  Carlyle  replied  to  it  sat- 
isfactorily, with  his  everlasting  yea  and 
nay  —  on  what  grounds  we  are  to  be  re- 
signed ?  and  to  declare  this  implies  the 
whole  theory  of  being.  How,  moreover, 
apart  from  metaphysics,  shall  we  deal  with 
the  religion  of  redemption,  which  is  the 
counterpart  of  the  religion  of  sorrow,  and 
must  correspond  in  all  its  mysteries  with 
objective  truth  ?  By  carefully  adding  and 
subtracting,  we  may,  indeed,  arrive  at  a 
"sublimate  of  Christianity*'  (often,  in 
this  shape,  corrosive  enough)  that  shall  be 
reconcilable  with  any  system  of  thought, 
and  with  the  blankest  atheism.  An  easy, 
unprofitable  chemistry !  But  in  such  a 
transformation,  what  can  the  Christian  re- 
ligion be  except  one  element,  and  not  the 
controlling  element  either,  in  a  synthesis 
quite  different  from  that  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament ?  And  yet  we  shall  not  have  es- 
caped metaphysics;  for  whether  an  ele- 
ment or  a  creative  principle,  and  though 
dissolved  into  the  haziest  sentiment, 
Christianity  will  imply,  on  the  one  side,  a 
definite  constitution  of  things  objective ; 
on  the  other  a  mood  corresponding  to 
it.  Truly,  as  Emerson  proclaims,  man, 
though  blinded  by  false  systems,  has 
ever 

Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity, 

Himself  from  Truth  he  could  not  free. 

There  is  no  truth  apart  from  thought; 
no  thought  that  will  not  give  rise,  on  being 
scrutinized  deeply,  to  an  entire  metaphys- 
ics. If  in  the  Churches  of  the  Reforma- 
tion traditional  belief  is  losing  its  clear- 
ness, the  reason  is  that  a  fresh  belief  is 
silently  taking  possession  of  them,  and 
the  fusion  of  the  old  elements  with  the 
new,  though  going  forward  rapidly,  is  not 
altogether  accomplished.  Their  tradition 
has  lost  its  metaphysical  basis,  but  they 


THE   NEW-BIRTH   OF  CHRISTIAN    PHILOSOPHY, 


are  not  yet  distinctly  committed  to  modern 
thought.  That  is  why  so  many  dislfke  in- 
quiry, which  might  show  them  in  too  clear 
a  light,  both  whence  they  have  wandered, 
and  at  what  goal  they  must  arrive.  It  has 
been  well  said,  that  the  last  stage  of  a 
decaying  belief  is  when  it  becomes  a  sen- 
timent, when  it  shudders  at  the  name  of 
metaphysics,  and  will  be  anything  that  is 
graceful  and  tender  so  long  as  it  is  not 
called  upon  by  rude,  unfeeling  intellect  to 
justify  its  existence.  But  in  vain  ;  if  we 
are  to  exist,  we  must  prove  that  our  ex- 
istence is  necessary,  is  to  some  purpose, 
and  not  a  mere  obstacle  to  the  advance  of 
society.  Whatever  good  there  is  in 
Christianity,  considered  as  a  sentiment, 
must  be  warranted  by  reason,  and  so  find 
Its  place  in  metaphysics,  or  will  turn  out 
to  be  no  good,  but  a  delusion  and  a  snare, 
and  so  condemned  by  metaphysics. 

But  in  the  Churches  of  the  Reformation 
there  are  multitudes  for  whom  Christian- 
ity is  still  a  dogmatic  religion,  formulated 
but  not  exhausted  in  catechisms,  articles, 
creeds,  and  even  councils,  which  lay 
down,  though  with  the  indistinctness  of 
fragmentary  teaching,  a  view  of  God  and 
man  that  no  Agnostic  or  atheist  can 
frankly  accept.  In  the  long  battle  between 
naturalism  and  Christianity,  it  has  come  to 
pass  that  orthodox  Protestants,  as  dwell- 
ing on  the  borderland  of  old  and  new, 
have  been  compelled  to  defend  the  outpost 
of  tradition  against  men  less  Christian 
than  themselves.  The  conflict  in  which 
Europe  and  America  are  involved  has 
shown  itself  in  Protestant  countries  as  an 
intellectual  movement ;  in  Catholic  as,  on 
the  whole,  social  and  political.  Hence  it 
Is  Protestants,  rather  than  Catholics,  that 
have  written  apologies  for  Christianity,  the 
innumerable  evidences  of  its  credibility 
and  reasonableness  that,  beginning  in  the 
age  of  Locke,  have  gone  on  increaslYig  in 
cogency,  depth,  and  fervor  to  the  present 
dav.  When  we  analyze  their  method  and 
ask  ourselves  how  they  propose  to  defend 
religion,  we  find  their  roots  always  in  a 
metaphysical  system,  however  little  they 
dwell  upon  the  laws  of  thought,  or  the 
abstract  problems  of  ontology.  We  may 
sum  them  up  as  undertaking  a  twofold 
enterprise,  —  an  historical,  and  a  meta- 
physical. The  historical,  with  which  at 
present  I  am  not  concerned,  was  to  show 
that  Christianity  arose  by  miraculous  in- 
tervention, and  not  by  mere  natural  devel- 
opment. The  metaphysical  has  been 
somewhat  vaguely  described  as  the  con- 
struction of  a  natural  theology,  or  of 
the  argument  from  design.    But,  in  fact, 


647 

it  had  a  larger  though  unconscious  scope, 
—  the  restoration  of  the  whole  Christian 
philosophy,  overborne  and  sunk  into  dis- 
repute from  the  day  that  Luther  revolted 
against  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  and  Des- 
cartes dethroned  Aristotle.  An  enter- 
prise of  piih  and  moment,  in  which  the 
most  unexpected  actors  have  engaged, 
bringing  help  and  light  from  quarters 
where  all  seemed  darkness.  Interesting 
as  it  would  be  to  trace  that  movement 
from  its  beginning  to  its  present  and  most 
promising  development  as  a  metaphysics 
of  theism  and  revelation,  I  can  here  but 
indicate  a  name  or  two  that  strike  me  as 
representative  of  its  different  stages.  I 
said  a  name  or  two,  but  I  meant  three ; 
Butler,  Kant,  and  Hegel.  An  astonishing 
triumvirate!  the  reader  may  cry.  Yes, 
they  differed  much  from  one  another,  and 
from  the  mediaeval  Christian,  but,  without 
them,  orthodox  Protestants  had  fared  ill 
in  their  conflict  with  the  heathen.  Let  us 
consider  them  a  little.  What  Butler  did 
for  Christian  apologetics,  I  think,  was 
this:  in  designing  the  *' Analogy,''  he  led 
the  way  towards  a  triple  concord,  though 
he  did  not  establish  it,  between  revelation 
and  nature,  between  nature  and  reason, 
between  reason  and  society.  The  princi- 
ple upon  which  he  went  was  that  religion 
must  ^tand  or  fall  with  the  metaphysics 
we  assume.  In  saying  that  Christianity 
offered  the  same  kind  of  problem  to  the 
intellect  that  theism  offers,  and,  again, 
that  the  difficulties  of  theism  lie  in  the 
nature  of  things  and  the  limits  of  reason, 
he  was  demonstrating  the  need,  at  last,  of 
a  metaphysics  in  which  it  is  acknowledged 
that  the  nature  of  things  is  infinitely  mys- 
terious, and  human  reason  at  once  consti- 
tuted and  restrained  by  necessary  laws  of 
thought.  But  he  started  a  problem  that 
he  did  not  solve.  The  "Analogy,"  so 
affecting  in  its  embarrassed  rhetoric,  so 
austerely  true,  so  profound  and  mournful, 
so  conversant  with  the  deep  things  of  life, 
so  convincing  and  so  comfortless,  has 
been  after  all  but  a  lamp  to  show  the 
great  darkness  that  lay  on  Butler's  cen- 
tury and  on  the  man  himself.  It  has  re- 
mained a  two-edged  sword  and  a  choice 
of  Hercules;  to  some  justifying  Hume's 
Agnosticism,  whilst  to  the  many  it  has 
seemed  a  prophetic  answer  to  Hume. 
But  one  thing  it  accomplished;  it  made 
an  end  of  Deism.  Butler  undoubtedly 
proved  that,  whatever  obscurities  there 
may  be  in  the  pi^oblem  of  existence,  a  man 
who  believes  in  a  personal  will  as  the 
cause  of  things,  should  find  it  easy  to  be- 
lieve in  providence  and  revelation.  Nay, 


64S 


THE   NEW-BIRTH   OF   CHRISTIAN   PHILOSOPHY. 


as  the  "  Analogy  '*  argued,  he  is  bound  to 
recognize  Christianity  as  at  once  an 
answer  to  his  needs  and  a  justifying  of 
the  ways  of  God  to  man.  A  deep  thinker 
is  reported  to  have  said :  "  I  can  under- 
stand atheism,  and  I  can  understand 
Christianity,  which  seems  to  me  only 
wanting  in  proof;  what  I  cannot  under- 
stand is  Deism  —  to  believe  in  a  God  that 
has  never  spoken."  A  sentence  worthy 
of  George  Eliot,  and  a  most  striking 
motto,  such  as  Butler  might  not  have 
been  unwilUng  to  set  on  the  title-page  of 
his  *' Analogy."  But  it  tells  us  to  look 
backward  as  well  as  onward,  to  survey 
the  prospect  from  end  to  end,  and  to 
measure  the  heights  and  depths  that  are 
disclosed  in  the  primal  problem,  Is  there 
a  God?  We  shall  know  that  when  we 
have  considered,  in  accordance  with  But- 
ler^s  teaching,  how  far  we  can  know  the 
nature  of  things,  and  what  are  the  limits 
of  our  thought.  We  must  pass  from  the 
"  Analogy  "  to  the  "  Critique  of  Reason," 
pure  and  practical. 

The  present  age  has  witnessed  a  return 
to  Kant,  which,  in  spite  of  the  grave  peril 
that  attends  it,  may  have  the  happiest 
consequences  among  Protestants.  I  am 
aware  that  there  have  always  been  Kan- 
tians,  no  less  than  Hegelians,  of  the  Left 
—  nay,  of  the  extreme  Left  —  as  well  as 
of  the  Right.  Nor  do  I  revere  Kant  as 
**  the  master  of  those  that  know,"  for  mine 
is  another  master,  more  famous,  and  as 
•deep  in  philosophy  as  ever  Kant  was. 
But  I  consider  that,  in  the  development 
of  a  modern  Christian  metaphysics,  Kant 
has  played  much  the  most  conspicuous 
part.  Asserting,  as  he  did,  that  '*the 
thing  in  itself"  is  real,  but  unknowable, 
he  might  be  taken  to  lay  stress  on  its  real- 
ity, and  to  indicate  that,  however  incom- 
prehensible, it  was  no  fiction.  Again,  in 
laying  down  his  propositions  synthetic  a 
priori^  it  was  his  own  opinion  that  he  was 
not  surrendering  to  Hume,  but  refuting 
him.  For  Kant  surely  believed  that,  be- 
cause they  were  a  priori^  they  were  true ; 
not  true,  in  the  sense  of  adequately  repre- 
senting the  thing  in  itself,  but  true  in  the 
only  sense  conceivable,  if  our  minds  are 
limited.  To  say  that  the  eji^o^  the  Kos- 
mos,  and  God,  are  ideals  of  the  reason  is 
not  to  deny  them.  When  we  turn  from 
the  **  Critique  of  Speculative  Reason  "  to 
that  of  the  practical,  we  observe  that  to 
Kant  the  ideals  are  absolutely  real,  and 
the  ego  finds  God  in  conscience,  and 
hears  him  in  the  categorical  imperative. 
He  cannot  be  comprehended ;  but  there 
is  a  path  by  which  we  may  come  to  him. 


Remarkably  enough,  this  was  the  method 
of  Butler  also,  a  metaphysics  which  for 
its  account  of  God  as  personal,  went  back 
to  conscience,  and  took  its  stand  on  an 
experience  in  which  there  was  objective 
validity.  Conscience  has  become,  to  use 
a  significant  phrase,  the  key  of  the  posir 
tion ;  and  Butler  and  Kant  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  and  Cardinal  Newman,  a 
disciple  of  Butler's  in  the  nineteenth, 
have  contributed  more  than  any  others  to 
make  it  so.  But  conscience,  I  say,  has 
an  objective  validity,  and  its  declarations 
are  in  their  nature  intuitions.  The  high- 
est, widest,  most  mysterious,  and  most 
certain  of  all  synthetic  propositions  a 
priori  is  the  categorical  imperative,  out  of 
which  issues  the  moral  law.  If  to  Kant 
the  incomprehensibility  of  God  was  one 
pole  of  the  universe  of  thought,  the  moral 
law  was  undoubtedly  the  other ;  and,  by  a 
stroke  of  providence,  the  only  passage  of 
Kant's  that  has  passed  into  European  lit- 
erature, and  will,  perhaps,  survive  his 
works,  the  one  eloquent  word  it  was  given 
him  to  utter,  is  that  wherein  he  declares 
what  things  are  forever  certain  to  him  — 
the  starry  heavens  above,  and  the  law  of 
God  within,  two  revelations  of  the  same 
everlasting  reality.  The  harmony  that 
Butler  desired  between  nature  and  reason 
must  be  sought  where  alone  it  can  be 
comprehended,  in  the  conscience  to  which 
God  speaks.  A  strange  message  to  the 
eighteenth  century,  that  felt  no  conviction 
of  sin,  nor  dreamt  that  a  judgment  was 
coming  upon  it  1  We  must  surely  pardon 
the  coldness,  the  stoic  pedantries,  the  too 
abstract  indifference  of  the  K6nigsberg 
philosopher,  when  we  consider  that  in 
restoring  the  sovereignty  of  conscience, 
he  was  making  a  return  to  Christianity 
not  onlv  possible,  but  in  a  certain  degree 
inevitable.  So,  indeed,  it  has  proved : 
not  for  all  that  admit  the  doctrine  of 
conscience,  but  for  how  many  that  are 
conscience-stricken  I  To  these  the  cre- 
dentials of  the  gospel,  though  not  de- 
monstrable as  a  conclusion  in  geometry, 
are  at  once  overwhelming  and  tidings  of 
great  joy;  they  are  humbled,  repentant, 
and  converted.  Their  ideal  world  has 
henceforth  its  starry  heavens  in  which 
law  and  order  reign ;  for  the  intuitions  of 
morality  are  to  them  clear  and  unchang- 
ing, a  revelation  of  things  objective  but 
within  them,  and  a  practical  solution  of 
the  deepest  problems  in  metaphysics. 
The  conscience  that  was  so  dark  in  the 
*' Analogy  "  has  here  caught  a  glimpse  of 
light  —  nay,  has  seen  the  morning  break, 
as  I  said,  and  found  a  clue  to  all  the  seem- 


THE   NEW-BIRTH   OF   CHRISTIAN    PHILOSOPHY. 


649 


ing  disorder  of  the  world  in  the  concep- 
tion of  eternal  law  and  a  living  ideal  of 
righteousness.  This,  too,  may  be  called 
in  the  language  of  Kant,  an  antinomy; 
for  it  combines  in  the  same  intuition  law 
and  personality;  but  what  then?  Con- 
science reveals  that  our  moral  good  con- 
sists in  this  very  union,  in  striving  to 
identify  ourselves  with  the  law  and  the 
law  with  us ;  nor  is  it  wonderful  that  the 
union  which  makes  us  perfect  should  ex- 
ist, objectively  and  eternally,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  and  the  Cause  of  all  be  himself 
a  living  law,  and  an  infinite,  self-deter- 
mined conscience.  The  *'  Critique  of  Prac- 
tical Reason  "  demonstrates  what  Butler 
had  only  recommended  as  consistent  with 
our  previous  knowledge  —  or  at  least,  not 
inconsistent  with  it  —  viz.,  that  there  is  a 
righteous  God  ;  that  he  reveals  himself  in 
conscience;  and  that  the  spirit  to  which 
he  reveals  himself  is  imnrortal.  But  the 
word  that  solves  all,  when  rightlv  under- 
stood, is  intuition,  knd  the  correlative  of 
intuition  is  law. 

Theism,  then,  was  restored  as  in  meta- 
physics reasonable,  and  in  life  an  experi- 
ence, by  the  teaching  of  Kant  when  inter- 
preted upon  these  principles.  Whatever 
commentaries  might  be  written  in  an  ad- 
verse sense,  this  way  of  taking  him  was 
neither  impossible  nor  improbable.  But 
something  further  was  required.  Kant, 
as  a  metaphysician,  had  gazed  into  the 
individual  mind;  of  minds  acting  in  con- 
cert or  opposition,  and  of  God  as  acting 
upon  them,  he  had  said  but  little ;  for  it 
was  not  in  his  day  that  men  deliberated 
upon  social  phenomena  as  they  have  done 
since.  To  the  metaphysics  of  being  must 
be  added  the  philosophy  of  history.  The 
laws  that  he  had  seen  in  the  starry  heav- 
ens were  not  yet  traced  out  in  the  strata 
of  our  planet,  still  less  in  the  growth  of 
society.  The  conception  of  law  had  still 
something  great  to  yield,  and  must  be- 
come the  theory  of  evolution  —  a  vague 
but  fruitful  word,  not  void  of  meaning, 
nay  rather,  so  vast  in  the  breadth  of  its 
implications,  so  far-reaching  in  its  conse- 
quences, that  for  a  long  time  it  will  seem 
to  include  such  contradictory  and  per- 
plexed ideas  as  only  an  ever-increasing 
knowledge  and  a  perpetual  recurrence  to 
the  intuitions  from  which  we  set  out,  can 
reconcile  or  discriminate.  But  evolution 
is  an  indispensable  notion  in  future  meta- 
physics ;  for  it  is  the  notion  of  law  ap- 
plied to  life.  Now  as  Kant  was  the  leader 
in  testifying  to  the  scientific  worth  of 
conscience,  as  he  taught  modern  Europe 
where  it  may  discover  the  hidden  but  infi- 


nite power  for  which  it  is  seeking,  as  he, 
more  than  any  man  of  his  contemporaries, 
demonstrated  that  the  voice  of  duty  is  an 
echo  of  the  voice  of  Cod ;  so,  to  the 
astonishment  of  Christians,  it  will  appear 
that  Hegel,  though  not  the  stoic,  not  the 
lofty-minded  man  that  his  predecessor 
was,  has  taught  the  nineteenth  century  to 
read  a  divine  meaning  in  history,  and  to 
mark  the  footsteps  of  Providence  where 
they  had  been  all  too  dimly  discerned. 
Again,  if  I  pay  this  tribute  to  Hegel,  it 
must  not  be  supposed  that  I  am  praising 
the  axioms  of  his  philosophy,  or  allowing 
in  more  than  a  limited,  though  a  very  real, 
sense  that  he  was  the  Prometheus  that 
stole  this  new  fire  from  heaven.  His  age 
was  busy  with  the  problem,  and  historical 
and  critical  investigations  were  tending 
in  one  direction ;  but  among  philosophers 
Hegel  was  the  first  to  utter  a  magic  for- 
mula that  has  since,  in  the  writings  of 
Comte  and  Spencer,  of  Wallace,  Darwin, 
and  Mivart,  been  eloquently  and  with 
infinite  illustration  commended  to  the 
times.  Hegelianism  must  be  looked  upon 
as  essentially  a  creed  of  evolution ;  I  do 
not  say  the  true  creed.  But  it  was  the 
idea,  not  the  philosophy  in  detail,  that 
wrought  so  powerfully.  Demonstrations 
of  the  Christian  religion,  hitherto  con- 
structed as  for  a  jury  of  twelve  aldermen 
of  the  city  of  London,  at  once  took  a  wider 
sweep ;  and  a  notion  that  in  the  hands  of 
Lessing  had  seemed  brilliant  but  unfruit- 
ful, the  gradual  education  of  mankind 
under  a  guiding  Providence,  might  now 
be  counted  a  scientific  acquisition,  as  ex- 
pressing a  law  to  which  not  man  alone, 
but  all  created  being,  is  subject.  Religion 
was  seen  to  be  a  reality,  living,  progres- 
sive, and  universal ;  for  the  medium  of  its 
growth  was  the  spirit  wherein  it  had  been 
revealed,  and  from  conscience  to  history 
was  now  but  a  step.  Nay,  more ;  as  in 
conscience  the  "Critique  of  Practical 
Reason "  had  discovered  the  meeting- 
place  of  God  and  man,  so  in  the  social 
organism  did  Hegel  point  out  the  indis- 
pensable means  of  cherishing  and  refining 
the  initial  perceptions  of  religion.  Indi- 
viduals, acting  and  reacting  upon  each 
other  in  the  same  human  family,  revealed 
to  every  age  the  divine  ideal.  But  how 
easy  to  conclude  that,  if  this  be  so,  the 
human  family  is  a  universal  Church  !  We 
must  limit  the  notion  of  progress,  too  em- 
phatic in  Hegel's  philosophy,  by  the 
opposite  but  equally  well-founded  notion 
of  decay  and  retrogression,  for  Hegel 
was  an  optimist  of  a  most  decided  color. 
Nor  can  we  admit  his  universal  Church 


1 


THE   NEW-BIRTH   OF  CHRISTIAN   PHILOSOPHY. 


650 

without  explanations  and  conditions  sav- 
ing the  dignity  of  the  Christian  faith,  as 
the  only  unmixed  and  divinely  intended 
form  ot  religion.  But  upon  this  I  need 
not  insist.  For  my  point  is  that  Hegel's 
theory  of  evolution,  whether  true  or  false, 
has  in  fact  given  Christianity  an  enor- 
mous advantage,  by  associating  it  with 
the  advance  of  mankind  in  every  good, 
and  planting  it  firmly  on  the  foundations 
of  history.  The  least  promising  of  the 
concords  that  Butler  demanded,  the  har- 
mony between  reason  and  society,  is 
shown  to  be  all  one  with  an  acceptance  by 
society  of  the  gospel.  That  Hegel  meant 
this  I  do  not  say,  nor  is  it  any  part  of  my 
argument ;  but  that  he  has  struck  upon 
the  word  that  makes  such  a  demonstra- 
tion possible  will  be  denied  by  none  to 
whom  the  history  of  thought  is  familiar. 

Thus  a  world  of  strange  influences,  act- 
ing upon  the  cruder  natural  theology  of 
Paley  and  the  "  Bridgewater  Treatises," 
may  be  summed  up  in  the  names  of  Kant 
and  Hegel.  The  number  among  Protes- 
tants is  not  small,  though  neither  is  it  a 
majority  nor  like  to  be,  to  whom  Kant^s 
"  Critique  *'  remains  a  demonstration  of 
God  in  conscience,  and  Hegel's  theory  of 
evolution  a  brilliant  argument  for  the  need 
of  the  Christian  revelation  when  it  came, 
and  its  progressive  development  as  the 
living  truth  **  even  to  the  consummation  of 
the  age."  Such  men  are,  before  all  things, 
Christian ;  but  they  demand  a  philosophy 
that  shall  deal  with  human  nature  as  it  is 
shown  in  history,  and  shall  represent  it 
more  worthily  than  the  school  of  common 
sense  and  every-day  prose.  A  remarka- 
ble succession  of  champions  have  come 
forward  not  in  one  country  nor  from  one 
Church  to  defend  Christianity,  votaries  of 
natural  science,  historians,  theologians, 
and  (to  insist  on  the  point  I  am  at  pres- 
ent urging)  metaphysicians,  who  though 
not  of  the  first  rank,  must  be  acknowl- 
edged as  standing  foremost  in  the  second. 
In  all  of  them  the  influence  of  Kant  is 
visible ;  but  they  have  steadily  subordi- 
nated bis  theorems  to  the  principles  of 
revelation ;  not,  of  course,  founding  their 
philosophy  on  their  creed  as  a  conclusion 
from  it,  but  interpreting  the  statements  of 
Kant  in  what  I  may  call  an  Aristotelian 
sense,  and  harmonizing  the  "  Critique  of 
Pure  Reason  *'  with  Scripture  theism. 
Under  the  perplexed  lines  of  Kantianism 
they  read  Aristotle  as  in  a  palimpsest. 
They  do  not  agree  with  the  master  of 
Balliol,  accomplished  though  he  be  in 
Hellenic  and  German  metaphysics,  that 
Aristotle  could  not  have  understood  the 


propositions  synthetic  a  priori*  To 
them  it  appears  that  Kant  and  Aristotle 
differ  in  depth  rather  than  meaning; 
when  the  Greek  tells  us  of  axioms  per  se 
nota,  it  is  thought  that  he  intended  the 
synthetic  and  evident  principles  which  in 
our  day  we  call  intuitions  and  make  the 
starting-point  of  all  reasoning.  The  re- 
turn to  Kant  in  Gernnany,  of  which 
Lange's  "  History  of  Materialism  "  offers 
a  brilliant  though  dangerous  example,  is 
not  more  unmistakable  than  the  gradual 
resumption  by  the  Stagyrite  of  his  author- 
ity, too  long  denied  in  the  interests  of  the 
Reformation,  and  usurped  by  new-comers 
in  whom  there  was  more  force  than  w^is- 
dom.  I  do  not  imagine,  indeed,  that 
Aristotle  has  come  back  like  the  Bour- 
bons, under  the  stainless  white  flag  of 
mediaeval  times  when  he  was  **  the  phil- 
osopher,** and  even  Plato  kept  silence 
before  him.  Aristotle  must  temper  his 
monarchy  with  constitutional  or  demo- 
cratic limitations,  he  must  rule,  as  he  re- 
marks of  the  will  .and  the  passions,  not  as 
a  tyrant,  but  as  a  politic  controller  of 
forces  that  he  cannot  suppress.  But, 
granting  this,  it  is  in  a  high  degree  sig- 
nificant that  the  nineteenth  century  is 
undoing  the  work  of  the  last  three  hun- 
dred years,  so  far  as  it  has  been  a  work  of 
revolt,  disorder,  and  separation  among 
Christian  philosophers.  Returning  to 
Aristotle  through  Kant,  or,  from  another 
point  of  view,  interpreting  Kant  by  Aris- 
totle, we  are  suddenly  raised  to  a  height 
of  contemplation  where  the  entire  aspect 
of  Christian  development  is  changed,  and 
the  question  forces  itself  upon  us  whether 
we  need  seek,  in  the  disjecta  membra  of 
modern  systems,  the  metaphysics  of  the- 
istic  evolution  which  is  at  once  to  justify 
tradition  and  lead  up  to  it.  In  a  word, 
has  there  not  ever  been  a  Christian  meta- 
physics, borrowing  neither  from  Kant  nor 
Hegel,  and  exposing  us  to  the  risk  neither 
of  Pyrrhonism  nor  pantheism  ? 

Such  a  thought,  occurring,  I  dare  say, 
to  few  Protestants,  will  strike  again  and 
again  on  the  Catholic  student  as  he  reads, 
among  orthodox  theologians,  the  works 
of  Luthardt,  Delitzsch,  Tholuck,  and  the 
renowned  Julius  Miiller;  among  philoso- 
phers, those  of  Lotze,  Kuno  Fischer,  and, 
perhaps  more  than  all,  of  Ulrici.  He 
cannot  but  observe  that  between  their 
thought  and  his  the  affinities  are  as  genu- 
ine as  they  are  numerous;  and  it  aston- 
ishes him  that  in  the  deep  central  truths 

•  See  Jowett's  Plato,  and  edition,  vol.  iv.,  p.  xn. 
Introduction  to  "  Thcaetetus.'* 


THE   NEW-BIRTH   OF   CHRISTIAN    PHILOSOPHY. 


of  the  Trinity,  incarnatioD,  grace,  sin,  and 
redemption,  they  have  so  little,  from  the 
Catholic  standing-ground,  to  amend  or 
alter.  Lutherans  and  Calvinists  they  may 
be,  in  the  catalogue;  but  their  inherited 
beliefs  have  been  so  tempered,  the  princi- 
ples of  sound  scholastic  reasoning  have 
been  so  well  applied,  that,  except  for  some 
venturesome  speculations  and  obscurities, 
which,  in  a  science  of  this  extent  must  be 
anticipated,  they  might  seem  to  have 
learnt  theology  at  Rome  or  Mayence.  To 
such  a  pass  have  things  come  in  this  nine- 
teenth century ;  such  are  the  miracles  that 
earnest  Christian  thought  can  achieve;  so 
that  currents  which  seemed  to  be  flowing 
in  opposed  directions  are  at  length  beheld 
uniting  their  separate  streams,  and  min- 
gling in  the  same  channel. 

For  Protestantism  being  a  compromise, 
it  could  not  well  have  made  an  end  of 
Christian  principles  when  it  broke  away 
from  Rome.  That  its  main  necessary 
scope  is  adverse  to  Christianity  will  con- 
sist with  the  retention  by  many  of  tradi- 
tional truths  in  their  old  setting,  that  is  to 
say,  combined  with  an  indistinct,  but  real 
perception  of  the  gospel  teaching  as  a 
whole.  Out  of  that  dim  perception,  kept 
alive  in  the  hearts  of  a  few,  and  strength- 
ened under  the  influence  of  pietistic  Lu- 
theranism  in  Germany,  of  Evangelical 
High  Churchism  (a  Kantian  antinomy, 
contradictory  yet  true)  in  England,  have 
the  revived  Christian  zeal  and  more  defi- 
nite Christian  theology  that  we  see  around 
us  issued.  A  movement,  steady  and  un- 
interrupted since  the  French  Revolution, 
has  been  in  progress  (or  regress,  accord- 
ing to  its  opponents)  towards  the  long- 
forgotten  mediaeval  systems.  Three  **  mo- 
ments," as  a  German  would  style  them, 
may  be  discerned  in  that  progress ;  and 
they  follow  one  another  in  natural  succes- 
sion, —  the  theological,  the  sacramental, 
and  the  metaphysical.  For  the  study  of 
theology  had  never  quite  fallen  extinct  in 
non-Catholic  seats  of  learning,  though  it 
sank  more  and  more  to  a  dismal  antiqua- 
rian dilettantism,  and  an  exegesis  of  the 
most  meagre  kind.  Nothing  but  a  French 
Revolution  could  have  frightened  it  into 
more  active  existence,  or  proved  that  Ox- 
ford, Halle,  and  Berlin  had  still  some 
appreciation  of  the  Christian  past  Soon 
the  change  from  an  unconscious  to  3  con- 
scious belief  in  revelation  brought  in  its 
train  a  revival  of  sacraments  and  symbol- 
ism ;  all  over  northern  Europe  we  began 
to  hear  of  Christian  architecture,  music, 
and  poetry,  as  the  outward  exhibition  of 
revealed  truth.    Tractarianism  has  devel- 


6s  I 

oped  into  Ritualism,  not  always  without 
loss  to  the  grave  thoughtfulness  that 
marked  its  beginning.  But  neither  ritual 
nor  dogma  can  protect  Christianity  from 
the  assaults  of  a  new  religion,  whose 
dogma  is  equally  dogmatic,  and  wherein 
there  will  be  no  lack  of  aesthetic  attrac- 
tiveness whilst  the  age  brings  forth  poets 
that  are  pantheists  and  naturalism  finds 
expression  in  painting  and  music.  Meta- 
physics alone  can  cope  with  the  system 
that  directly  calls  in  question  not  only  the 
revealed  doctrines,  but  theism  and  super- 
naturalism  altogether.  Belief  in  revela- 
tion has  been  undermined  in  so  ipany,  by 
a  suspicion  —  for  they  could  not  prove,  it 
was  only  that  they  had  been  told  —  that 
the  one  true  system  of  metaphvsics,  the 
scheme  of  thought  into  which  all  sciences 
may  be  ultimately  resolved,  admits  neither 
a  personal  God,  nor  an  immortal  eqo^  nor 
any  fundamental  distinction  between  duty 
and  interest,  nor  free  will  by  which  to 
determine  our  lives.  How  many  are  crav- 
ing to  believe  in  God,  if  they  can  but  be 
sure  that  there  is  a  God  ?  But  they  never 
will  believe  in  a  mythology,  in  the  dog- 
matic ritualism  beneath  which  there  lies 
no  reality  for  metaphysicians  to  handle. 
The  demand  on  all  sides  is  for  grounds  of 
religion  that  can  be  verified;  and,  unless 
such  grounds  are  discoverable,  faith  will 
cease  to  be  a  power  in  human  society  ;  or 
rather,  as  I  have  said,  one  kind  of  faith 
will  make  room  for  another.  But  religion 
without  metaphysics  is  vain,  except  as  a 
fading,  ephemeral  sentiment,  cultivated  by 
those  to  whom  history  and  experience  are 
a  dumb  show.  We  cannot  believe  in  a 
mythology.  There  is  something  in  us  that 
despises  poetry  when  it  is  mere  poetry 
and  symbolizes  no  fact.  Reverend  and 
beautiful  are  those  tokens  from  the  world 
of  matter  in  which  truth,  not  adequately 
to  be  expressed,  is  conveyed  as  by  secret 
whispers  to  the  heart ;  but  their  office  is 
done,  and  they  become  pitiful  relics  of 
superstition,  not  exquisite  an^'  more,  nor 
holy,  when  their  meaning  is  discovered  to 
be  a  fiction,  and  themselves  the  poetry  of 
an  earlier  age  not  conversant  with  the 
nature  of  things.  Say  that  Christianity 
is  in  such  sense  a  revelation  that  its 
credentials  may  not  be  searched  into,  and 
you  will  have  granted  that  it  is,  in  Von 
Hartmann's  language,  **the  third  stage  of 
the  world-illusion.*"  But  insist,  as  you 
reasonably  may,  that  the  old  religion  and 
the  new  experimental  sciences  are  point- 
ing  in  the  same  direction,  and  that  a  self- 
authenticating  metaphysics  is  possible  — 
nay,  is  coming  to  light  —  in  which  knowl- 


THE   NEW-BIRTH   OF   CHRISTIAN    PHILOSOPHY. 


652 

ed^e  and  wisdom  are  reconciled,  and  you 
will  have  helped  the  world  to  perceive 
that  evolution  is  one  thin^  and  revolution 
another;  that  the  ideal  and  the  real  are 
no  more  destructive  of  each  other  than 
matter  and  spirit ;  and  that  the  Christian- 
ity which  a  little  philosophy  destroyed,  a 
great  deal  is  able  to  restore.  This  is  what 
the  German  return  to  Aristotle  may  do 
for  us.  The  central  point  of  European 
thought,  the  golden  milestone  whence  and 
whither  all  roads  are  leading,  may  prove 
to  be  the  statue  of  that  greatest  man  of 
science  in  the  classic  world,  who  has  ful- 
filled for  the  Christian  religion  the  func- 
tion of  understanding,  and  is  still  its  mas- 
ter in  logic  and  psychology.  He  is  the 
meeting-place  of  old  and  new. 

And  now  it  is  time  that  I  spoke  of  that 
other  current,  which  appears  on  viewing 
it  to  be  the  main  stream  of  Christian 
philosophy,  that  unbroken,  but  widely 
disregarded  tradition  w^hich  is  once  more 
making  its  influence  felt  in  southern 
Europe,  and  should  sooner  or  later  win 
recognition  from  orthodox  Protestants 
everywhere,  if  they  would  be  Christians 
still.  For  more  than  sixteen  centuries  a 
metaphysics  which  we  may  define  as  the 
combination  of  Aristotle  and  Plato  in  a 
higher  synthesis  has  been  taught,  though 
not  always  profoundly  interpreted,  in 
schools  where  loyal  tradition  abounded, 
rather  than  scientific  originality.  The 
deepest  thinkers  in  the  early  Christian 
Church  were  Origen  and  St.  Augustine ; 
but  the  latter  has  exercised  an  incompa- 
rably  more  powerful  influence  on  succeed- 
ing ages.  St.  Augustine  was,  indeed,  an 
admirer  of  Neo-Platonism,  finding  in  it 
Plato  the  mystic,  rather  than  Socrates  the 
disputant  and  inventor  of  logic.  But  he 
was  likewise  a  Christian  saint,  and  could 
criticise  NeoPlatonism;  and  he  had  been 
trained  in  the  logical  forms  of  Aristo- 
telianism,  which  then,  as  now,  were  in- 
cluded in  a  liberal  education.  Forming, 
as  he  did,  the  mind  of  Latin  Christianity 
during  a  thousand  years,  he  was  no  hin- 
drance to  the  study,  the  admiration,  or  the 
reception  of  Aristotle,  as  the  most  perfect 
of  philosophers,  when  the  Stagyrite  be- 
came known,  in  the  twelfth  century,  to 
the  Universities  of  Paris  and  Cologne. 
Plato  was  not  denied,  though  Aristotle 
held  the  sceptre  among  thinkers;  and 
Augustine  may  be  looked  upon  as  com- 
pleting mediaeval  philosophy  on  its  ideal 
side.  An  age  so  fertile  in  speculation,  so 
childlike  and  daring  and  subtle,  was  well 
adapted  to  search  out  the  agreement  be- 
tween a  revelation  it  unhesitatingly  ac- 


cepted and  a  philosophy  which  has,  in 
fact,  a  deep  and  true  affinity  with  what  is 
human  in  the  writings  of  St.  Paul  and  St. 
John.  I  do  not  pretend  that  the  Middle 
Ages  were  acquainted  with  the  rise  and 
growth  of  Greek  philosophy,  or  could 
have  entered  into  the  limitations  of  Greek 
thought.  Far  from  it  indeed.  To  be 
critical  in  the  modern  sense  demands  a 
knowledge  of  historic  and  pre-historic 
humanity  which  only  the  last  hundred 
years  have  put  within  our  grasp.  But 
the  mediaeval  refraction  of  Platonism  and 
Aristotelianism  would  be  unfairly  de- 
scribed were  we  to  call  it  a  distortion.  la 
the  main  it  was  correct  —  nay,  astonish- 
ingly close  to  the  spirit  of  its  original;  it 
seized  the  distinction  between  the  damns 
Socratica  and  the  opposing  brood  of  De- 
mocritus  and  Epicurus,  between  the  atom- 
ic-atheistic systems  and  the  conception  of 
a  divine  mind,  which  needed  but  the  light 
of  Christianity  to  prove  it  a  personal  God. 
Admitting  all  that  can  be  urged  against 
the  identity  of  a  mediaeval  Catholic  philos- 
ophy with  concepts  that  Hellas  was  only 
begmning  to  formulate,  we  maintain  that 
Christian  theism,  and  not  any  other  meta- 
physics whatsoever,  is  the  outcome  of 
those  elementary  guessings  of  Plato  and 
Aristotle.  The  analogy  is  ever  recurring, 
the  transition  easy,  the  spirit  so  much  in 
harmony  with  Christian  conceptions  —  I 
do  not  mean  with  the  mysterious,  but 
with  the  natural  part  of  Christianity  — 
that  St.  Paul  addressing  Plato  among  the 
Athenians  of  his  day,  might  well  have 
converted  him,  and  Aristotle,  listening  to 
St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  might  have  l)een  a 
willing  disciple.  It  has  never  been  diffi- 
cult or  dangerous  for  Christians  to  read 
Aristotle  and  Plato  combined ;  separately, 
I  confess,  they  may  lead  astray.  But 
whenever  the  atomistic  philosophy  (which 
represents  the  other  great  schools  of 
Hellas)  asserts  its  influence,  we  feel  that 
religion  is  in  danger.  A  simple  and  de- 
cisive test  that,  in  commenting  upon  the 
domus  Socratica  as  Christian,  the  Middle 
Ages  did  well.  More  striking  still  is  the 
return  to  Aristotle  of  which  I  have  been 
speaking,  on  the  part  of  Christian  thinkers. 
The  judgment  of  experienced  Europe 
confirms  the  instinct  of  six  hundred  years 
ago.  In  details  mediaevalism  may  have 
erred,  but  the  character  and  general  bear- 
ing—  nay,  the  innermost  essence  of  Aris- 
totle's thought  —  was  subtly  indicated  by 
his  commentators  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, and  more  than  all  by  him  who 
among  Christians  deserves  to  be  styled, 
like  Averroes  among  Mahometans,  the 


THE   NEW-BIRTH    OF  CHRISTIAN   PHILOSOPHY. 


great  commentator  —  I  mean  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas. 

In  this  name,  so  well  known  to  Catholic 
metaphysicians,  so  dim  and  distant  to  the 
world  at  large,  the  strength  and  beauty 
of  medisevalism  as  a  system  of  thought 
are  forever  expressed.  Aquinas  is  the 
thinker,  as  Dante  is  the  poet  of  thirteenth- 
century  Christendom ;  and  the  *'  Para- 
diso*'  of  Dante,  which  to  Carlyle  seemed 
inarticulate  music,  borrows  its  noblest 
rhythms  and  most  lovely  conceptions  from 
that  other  poem,  the  ^^Summa  Tkeolo^i- 
ca^^  Or,  employing  a  more  sug^gestive 
comparison,  as  the  modern  world  reads 
Aristotle  with  the  eyes  of  Kant,  so  the 
medixval  read  him  with  those  of  the 
Angelic  Doctor,  as  Catholics  style  St. 
Thomas.  Others  were  as  original,  or 
more  so;  and  one,  Albertus  Magnus  of 
Cologne,  possessed  a  knowledge  of  natu- 
ral science  that  in  the  *'  Summa  "  we  do 
not  find  ;  but  none  were  so  faithful  to  the 
spirit  of  Aristotle,  or  comprehended  with 
so  clear  a  glance  the  bearing  of  Christian 
doctrines  on  Christianity  as  a  whole.  His 
characteristic  is  balance,  or  the  power  of 
adjusting  seemingly  opposed  statements 
so  that  they  shall  throw  light  upon  each 
other;  a  power  that  might  be  termed 
artistic  by  the  Greeks,  and  architectonic 
by  Aristotle.  It  is  the  faculty  of  proving 
by  systematizing;  of  winning  a  demon- 
stration by  marshalling  a  number  of  theses 
in  their  metaphysical  order;  or  of  indi- 
cating the  composition  of  thought  in  its 
relation  to  being.  St.  Thomas  is  a  con- 
structive genius ;  he  does  not  strike  out 
original  intuitions;  whilst  dealing  with 
vast  generalizations,  be  dwells  chiefly  on 
the  nexus  of  the  syllogism,  and  is  ever 
inquiring  how  he  may  pass  from  end  to 
end  of  a  philosophyr  He  is  not  more  of 
a  mystic  than  every  Catholic  saint  must 
neeos  be ;  neither  is  he  drawn  to  special 
sciences  like  Roger  Bacon  or  Albert  the 
Great.  He  constructs  a  synthesis  delib- 
erately, does  not  seize  it  intuitively  and 
with  passionate  apprehension  of  all  its 
means.  Intellect,  not  will,  is  to  him  the 
heart  of  things  and  their  essential  foun- 
dation ;  nor  could  he  have  seen  much  else 
than  extravagance  in  the  will-philosophy 
of  Schopenhauer.  Hence,  too,  whilst  ad- 
mitting in  other  terms  what  moderns  have 
studied  so  deeply,  under  the  name  of  the 
unconscious  —  that  is  to  say,  the  indelib- 
erate yet  vital  movements  of  intellect  or 
instinct  —  he  has  not  given  it  the  promi- 
nence it  seems  to  deserve.  He  is  in- 
tensely logical  and  explicit  in  passing 
from  point  to  point ;  and  in  this,  at  least, 


^53 

resembles  Kant.  But  I  do  not  perceive 
in  him  an  excessive  idealism,  as  in  the 
"Critique  of  Pure  Reason."  The  truth 
as  he  presents  it  is  viewed  in  a  crystal 
mirror,  clear,  distinct,  and  beautiful ;  but 
we  cannot  touch  it,  we  must  be  content  to 
hold  it  with  our  eyes.  No  writer  has  ever 
been  more  lucid;  and  he  possesses  the 
charm  of  lucidity,  for  to  read  him  re- 
freshes and  does  not  tire.  His  Latin, 
which  is  curiously  like  Greek  in  construc- 
tion, and  what  I  may  call  tone,  is  a  subtle 
instrument,  never  rhetorical,  eschewing 
the  slightest  ornament,  but  full  of  the 
peculiar  grace  of  an  exquisite  logical  ar- 
rangement; it  has  the  conciseness  and 
strength  of  the  highest  algebra.  He  is 
never  rufBed,  or  moved  from  the  calm 
that  mediaeval  cloisters  created  around 
him;  his  dispassionateness,  in  our  times, 
would  by  the  superficial  be  suspected  as 
indifference,  for  in  all  he  has  written  there 
is  no  word  of  personal  rebuke  for  his 
adversaries.  He  cannot  be  angry;  and 
his  only  way  of  striking  an  enemy  down 
is  to  ofier  him  a  fresh  argument.  But  he 
argues  formidably.  Like  Aristotle  he 
shows  an  easy  skill  in  arranging  the  cos- 
mos, intellectual  and  real,  of  his  time. 
It  was,  however,  the  cosmos  of  the  thir- 
teenth and  not  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
And  this  is  the  most  serious  objection 
to  what  is  now  going  forward,  —  the  re- 
vival of  Scholasticism  as  represented  by 
the  Angelic  Doctor.  It  is  an  objection 
that  must  be  met  fully  and  candidly.  But 
I  do  not  consider  it  insuperable.  Quite 
otherwise.  If  my  faint  outline  of  St. 
Thomas's  genius  be,  so  far  as  it  goes, 
accurate  —  and  it  wilt  probably  stand  the 
criticism  of  the  few  entitled  to  speak  of 
mediaevalism  —  it  must  appear  that  his 
influence  upon  the  thought  of  to-day  can 
be  regulative  only,  not  creative.  He  sug- 
gests the  form  that  Christian  metaphysics 
should  assume,  the  connection  of  proof 
with  proof,  and  how  they  may  be  reduced 
to  order  so  that  their  vital  unity  shall  give 
them  multiplied  force.  To  achieve  such 
a  result  is  like  combining  soldiers  into  a 
regiment,  and  regiments  into  an  army;  it 
is  turning  defeat,  or  at  least,  flight  and 
dispersion,  to  victory.  But  in  accepting 
the  principles  of  St.  Thomas,  we  are 
neither  renouncing  the  acquisitions  of 
knowledge,  nor  binding  ourselves  to  a 
narrower  interpretation  of  history  than 
will  conclude  all  times  and  nations  under 
a  ruling  Providence.  To  comprehend  the 
larger  circles  of  evolution,  we  must  in 
idea  have  traversed  the  smaller;  and  our 
modern  synthesis  will  be  somewhat  more 


THE   NEW-BIRTH   OF  CHRISTIAN"  PHILOSOPHY. 


6S4 

within  our  grasp  if  we  have  studied  the 
great  priuciples  which  determiDC  it  in  a 
sphere  whose  dimensions  are  measurable. 
It  may  be  urged  that  our  minds  have 
developed  under  the  laws  of  evolution, 
and  that  in  bygone  philosophies  there  can 
be  no  fixed  or  stable  element  for  us  to 
inherit.  To  this  conclusion  I  demur. 
Reason  develops  on  a  plan  according  to 
which  the  implicit  becomes  explicit,  the 
unconscious  rises  into  reflex  knowledge; 
what  was  hidden  appears  on  the  surface ; 
but  the  seed  is  of  one  kind  with  its  fruit, 
which  is  but  another  seed;  nor  if  reason 
is  now  aware  that  time  and  space  are  in- 
tuitions of  sense,  and  causality  an  intui- 
tion of  the  spirit,  can  this  denote  a  change 
in  the  constitution  of  mind,  or  a  breach 
of  continuity  between  Aristotle,  St  Thom- 
as Aquinas,  and  ourselves.  To  repeat 
the  formula  that  lays  such  spectres  and 
scepticisms,  evolution  is  not  revolution. 
If  the  abstract  thought  of  medisevalism 
was  valid  at  any  time,  it  is  valid  now. 
What  should  we  say  to  a  man  that  denied 
Euclid's  geometry  because  we  have  since 
discovered  algebra  and  given  to  the  theo- 
rems of  lines  and  angles  a  more  universal 
value  in  abstract  ratios?  With  equal 
justice  might  we  deny  the  worth  of  Aris- 
totelian and  Thomistic  metaphysics,  or 
rather  with  less,  since  in  them  are  laid 
down  the  laws  of  thought,  not  as  exem- 
plified in  extension  merely,  but  as  the 
formulae  of  universal  being.  Evolution 
forbids  us  to  imagine  that  a  past  philoso- 
phy has  exhausted  the  laws  of  thought, 
or  defined  all  their  relations,  or  ascer- 
tained how  far  they  are  complicated  with 
laws  in  an  earlier  day  undiscovered ;  it 
forbids  us  to  assert  that  any  philosophy, 
past  or  present,  has  done  away  with  the 
mysteriousness  of  being,  or  wholly  un- 
locked "the  open  secret."  But  there  are 
certain  primary  intuitions,  neither  depend- 
ing for  their  truth  on  experience,  nor 
changing  with  psychological  and  histori- 
cal progress  or  degradation,  nor  to  be 
dispensed  with  in  the  rudest  or  the  most 
refined  argument,  because  they  are  the 
very  form  and  pressure  that  constitute 
reason ;  and  whatever  philosophy  has 
defined  and  organized  these  will  abide, 
though  we  could  set  up  our  laboratories 
in  the  Pleiades,  or  acquaint  ourselves 
with  the  history  of  extinct  peoples  in 
Orion.  Thought,  admitting  of  develop- 
ment till  it  beholds  the  infinite,  remains 
identical  with  itself;  or,  if  not,  then  we 
may  allow,  with  Mr.  Stuart  Mill,  that  in 
some  part  of  the  universe  parallel  lines, 
though  equidistant  at  all  points  by  their 


definition,  may  meet,  and  that  things 
which  are  equal  to  the  same  may  be  une- 
qual to  each  other.  But  this  would  land 
us  in  mental  confusion  and  mere  Pyr- 
rhonism. Did  anv  fact  of  science  over- 
throw  causality,  the  principle  of  contra- 
diction, the  analogy. of  being,  the  theory 
of  real  relations  which  we  read  in  St. 
Thomas,  I  could  not  say  a  word  for  him. 
But  this,  by  Christians  at  least,  cannot  be 
supposed. 

The  truth  is,  that  whether  loving  Chris- 
tianity or  hating  it,  we  are  all  a  little  over- 
come by  the  scene  that  has  opened  upon 
us  in  heaven  and  earth,  disclosing  more 
things,  it  must  be  confessed,  than  were 
dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy,  and  making 
it  hard  to  remember  that  not  the  extent 
of  ocean,  but  the  unchanging  place  of  the 
stars,  determines  how  our  compass  shall 
move.    Upon  the  widest  waters,  as  in  the 
heavens  themselves,  though    boundless, 
the  card  has  but  thirtv-two  sections,  and 
the  needle  turns  to  the  pole.     So  is  it 
with  metaphysics ;  our  knowledge  of  being 
has  grown,  out  the  nature  of  being  is  not 
altered.    Spirit  has  not  been  made  out 
what  the  atomists  think,  transformed  sen- 
sation or  molecules  exquisitely  grouped, 
because  we  know  in  detail  what  Aquinas 
knew  in  general,  that  its  activity  is  limited 
by  physiological  conditions.    All  things 
are  not  seen  to  be  one  substance  because 
they  can,  in  some  sort,  be  ranged  under  a 
universal  law,  which  some  call  evolution, 
and  others  the  correlation  of  forces,  and 
which   even   now  is  but  a  first  step  on 
the  ladder  of  knowledge.    The  infinite  is 
not  finite,  though  working  in  all   things' 
finite;   nor  are  phenomena  the  sum  of 
reality,  though  apart  from  phenomena  we 
have  experience  of  nothing.     In  a  word, 
and  to  strike  the  modern  fallacy  full  in  the 
face,  conditions  are  not  causes,  and  causes 
are  not    conditions ;   association   is  one 
thing,  identity  another;  and  if  the  induc- 
tion  of  particulars  be  without  end,  the 
canons  of  logic  and    ontology   may    be 
ascertained  by  scrutinizing  what  we  al- 
ready know  oi  our  own  existence.     This, 
which  is  so  often  overlooked,  will  need 
more  and  more  to  be  kept  steadily  in  view. 
Our  enlarged  knowledge  must  not  stultify 
the  very  notion  of  knowledge,  nor  the 
conclusions  that  we  at  last  attain  deny  the 
premisses  without  which  any  conclusioa 
would  be  unattainable.     In  like  manner, 
the  subtlest  approximation  of  one  being  to 
another  in  the  objective  scale,  the  reduc- 
tion of  all  species  to  a  few  primary  forms, 
or  to  a  single  one,  the  closest  intermin- 
gling of  mind  and  sense  in  the  same  per- 


LORD  OF   HIMSELF. 


ception,  or  the  admission  that  things  are 
connected  organically,  vitally,  and  not 
mechanically,  as  the  eighteenth  century 
imagined,  should  not  be  permitted  to  lapse 
into  the  widespread  fallacy  that  the  laws 
of  difiEerence  may  be  summed  up  at  last 
into  a  law  of  absolute  identity.  An  or- 
ganized metaphysics,  dwelling  with  impar- 
tial observation  on  identity  and  difference, 
will  arrive  at  a  true  synthesis  of  the  divine 
and  human  ;  and  will  earn  the  praise  that, 
somewhat  without  warrant,  has  been  de- 
creed to  the  sage  of  Weimar :  — 

Who  made  not  man  too  much  a  God, 
•Nor  God  too  much  a  man. 

That,  indeed,  we  might  say  of  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas.  He  does  not  undertake  to 
solve  all  mysteries,  or  to  strip  the  uni- 
verse of  its  divine  chiaroscuro;  but  he 
defines,  so  far  as  the  moral  law  demands 
it,  our  true  position,  standing  where  we  do 
"in  the  conflux  of  immensities  and  eter- 
nities." His  unique  value  for  modern 
times  is  that  he  has  registered  the  postu- 
lates and  axioms  of'thoua;ht,  and,  by  ana- 
lyzing, has  demonstrated  them.  Again, 
that  he  has  shown  in  particular  how  they 
are  consistent  with  the  Christian  revela- 
tion. And,  lastly,  that  he  has  accomplished 
this  without  risking,  like  Immanuel  Kant, 
a  sceptical  idealism,  or,  with  Hegel,  ac- 
cepting pantheism.  Why,  then,  should 
not  Ulrici,  Tholuck,  Julius  Miiller,  and 
others  like  them,  be  compared,  and  so  far 
as  possible  reconciled  with  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas?  The  efforts  of  such  men  at 
present,  though  highly  and  increasingly 
successful,  are  not  without  danger;  for 
they  must  evolve  a  Christian  metaphysics 
from  the  un-Christian  or  anti-Christian 
philosophies  handed  down  to  them  ;  and, 
guided  at  the  best  by  Aristotle,  must 
grope,  like  him,  for  a  system  of  thought 
which  he  could  not,  apart  from  Chris- 
tianity, have  more  than  prophesied.  A 
coherent  system  will  be  furnished  them 
by  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  alone.  He,  and 
DO  other,  can  do  that  for  metaphysics 
which  Newton  has  done  for  the  physical 
phenomena  of  the  universe  ;  for  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say  that  his  first  principles 
are  as  momentous  in  the  world  of  intel 
lect  as  the  law  of  gravitation  in  the  world 
of  matter.  As  the  controlling  axioms  of 
life,  and  matter,  and  being  —  as  the  form, 
though  not  the  whole  contents  of  our 
knowledge  —  they  cannot  be  questioned, 
unless  we  would  assert  that  Christianity 
IS  false,  and  theism  unthinkable. 

William  Barry,  D.D. 


6SS 

From  The  Sunday  Magazine. 
LORD  OF  HIMSELF. 

BY  EDWARD  GARRETT,  AUTHOR  OF  "  OCCUPA- 
TIONS OF  A  RETIRED  LIFE,"  "THE  CRUST 
AND  THE  CAKE,"  ETC. 

CHAPTER  L 

"  Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thoueht. 
And  simple  truth  his  only  skill.'* 

WOTTON. 

An  expanse  of  clear  sky  stretched  over 
a  gently  undulating  country.  In  the  west, 
the  sun  had  just  gone  to  rest,  and  his  light 
was  still  shining  through  his  curtains  of 
cloud,  though  it  was  swiftly  softening 
from  pure  vermilion  and  gold  to  tender 
roseate  hue,  which  brought  into  sharp 
contrast  the  fainter  tints  that  gradually 
faded  into  dead  grey  on  the  eastern  hori- 
zon. The  faint  odors  of  decay  were  upon 
the  air,  for  it  was  late  autumn,  and  the 
fields  lay,  reaped  and  bare,  brown  or  yel- 
low, while  between  them  ran  the  strag- 
gling white  line  of  a  rough  road,  bounded 
on  either  side  by  a  rude  stone  dyke, 
whose  grim  outline  was  only  here  and 
there  softened  by  the  nei;2:hborhood  of  a 
few  stunted  trees,  whose  last  red  and  yel- 
low leaves  the  light  evening  breeze  was 
drifting,  one  by  one,  to  the  ground. 

There  had  been  rain  lately,  and  as  the 
road  was  ploughed  intQ  deep  ruts  by 
heavy  cartwheels,  it  was  full  of  clear  pua- 
dles,  reflecting  back  the  glories  of  the  sky 
above.  But  two  elderly  -  men,  driving 
slowly  along  in  a  clumsy  little  conveyance, 
could  be  scarcely  expected  to  observe  the 
subtle  beauty  of  that  which  covered  them 
with  uncomfortable  splashes. 

"Heugh!**  groaned  one,  "what  must 
this  be  in  winter  time  ?  I  can*t  think  how 
people  can  make  up  their  minds  to  live  in 
such  places  — at  the  very  back  of  civiliza- 
tion, as  it  were." 

*Mt's  a  good  thing  that  some  of  them 
know  no  better,'*  chuckled  the  other,  **for 
after  all  the  town  could  not  get  on  without 
the  country." 

**If  poor  Tom  had  followed  my  advice 
at  the  first,  and  had  set  up  his  shop  in 
some  growing  town,  he  would  have  made 
his  fortune,*'  said  the  first  speaker,  evi- 
dently resuming  some  subject  of  previous 
conversation,  "  for  certainly  he  was  a  good 
workman." 

**  He  charged  a  fair  price  for  his  work, 
though,"  said  the  other. 

**  He  would  soon  have  got  into  town 
ways,  Mr.  Buyers,"  returned  the  other,  a 
Mr.  Dodds.  **  Tom  did  what  pleased  his 
country  customers — gave  them  a  stout 
article  which  would  scarcely  wear  out. 


«56 

That's  all  well  enough  for  folks  who  have 
plenty  in  kind  and  can  take  care  of  their 
things,  but  are  slow  of  getting  in  cash. 
Now  town  folks  are  always  getting  in 
cash,  and  they  want  showy  articles  that 
look  well  while  they  last,  and  they  don't 
want  them  to  last  too  long,  because  fash- 
ions change,  and  servants  and  such  like 
are  so  careless  and  dishonest  that  there's 
no  use  in  trying  to  keep  things.  If  poor 
Tom  knew  how  to  suit  one  market,  he'd 
have  found  out  how  to  suit  the  other.*' 

*'  I'm  not  sure  it  was  a  matter  of  suiting 
his  market  with  your  cousin,  Mr.  Dodds," 
said  the  other.  **  He  was  a  queer  fellow, 
and  you  mustn't  mind  me  saying  so.  I 
remember  his  observing  once  that  there 
might  be  as  much  conscience  in  making 
shoes  as  in  preaching  a  sermon.  When 
people  get  that  way  of  thinking,  I'm  not 
sure  that  they  are  fit  for  business.  He 
might  have  starved  in  a  town.  Perhaps 
he  was  wise  to  stay  where  be  could  make 
a  decent  living.'* 

"  A  decent  living ! "  echoed  Mr.  Dodds, 
pointing  with  his  whip  to  a  lowly  roof  in 
the  little  hamlet  of  Milden,  as  it  rose  upon 
their  horizon.  *'  Look  I  d'ye  see  that 
house  beside  the  finger-post?  That's 
where  my  cousin,  Tom  Reeves,  lived  and 
died.  And  is  that  a  house  for  a  man  with 
such  a  head  as  his  to  live  and  die  in  — 
when  there's  Hare,  the  bootmaker  in  Cad- 
diford,  employing  nigh  a  hundred  hands 
in  brisk  seasons,  and  keeping  up  his  villa 
and  his  pony-trap  ?  It's  really  hard  when 
one's  relations  have  no  ambition,**  and 
Mr.  Dodds  looked  aggrieved. 

**  People  will  have  their  own  fancies,  I 
suppose,"  said  the  philosophic  Mr.  Buy- 
ers. "  But  they  ought  to  take  care  that 
other  people,  not  holding  the  like,  don't 
have  to  pay  for  them  at  the  last.  I  expect 
your  cousin  has  not  left  bis  wife  and  boy 
very  well  provided  for." 

"  Provided  for  1 "  cried  Mr.  Dodds,  with 
an  alacrity  produced  by  the  liveliest  ap- 
prehensions of  troubles  to  come.  **  Pro- 
vided for,  Mr.  Buyers  !  You  can't  imag- 
ine how  low  down  they've  lived.  If  he  has 
left  enough  to  pay  for  his  own  funeral,  I 
shall  be  pleasantly  surprised." 

*'Was  he  ill  long?"  asked  Mr.  Buy- 
ers. 
.  "  I   don't  know,"  returned  Mr.  Dodds 
rather  curtly,  "  I  had  not  heard  of  him  for 
months  till  his  death  was  announced. 

'*  You'll  have  to  do  something  for 
them,"  said  Mr.  Buyers  carelessly.  '*  It 
might  hurt  you  in  your  business  if  you 
didn't.  People  don't  inquTe  into  the 
rights    and   wrongs  of  things.    Many  a 


LORD  OF   HIMSELF. 


drunkard  and  an  idler  gets  maintenance 
out  of  their  relatives'  sense  of  their  own 
self-interest.  These  things  are  expected 
of  people  when  they  are  in  a  certain  posi- 
tion. As  I  say,  when  workmen  are  agi- 
tating about  capital  drawing  so  much 
more  profit  than  labor  — '  See  how  much 
more  is  expected  of  us  capitalists — no- 
body thinks  anything  of  working  people's 
children  going  to  charity  schools,  and 
their  old  folks  into  the  almshouse,  but  we 
have  to  do  something  for  all  the  kinsfolk 
who  prefer  preying  on  us  to  doing  for 
themselves.  It  is  all  very  fine  for  ray 
tailoresses  to  say  I  don't  pay  them 
enough  to  keep  soul  and  body  together, 
but  look  how  I  have  to  keep  mv-  nieces 
sitting  idle,  with  nothing  to  do  but  look 
after  their  own  dress  and  grumble  that  I 
don't  allow  them  more  for  it.  It's  not  all 
gilt  on  a  capitalist's  gingerbread.'  And 
then  people  who  ought  to  knaw  better  are 
getting  queer  ideas.  What  I've  just  been 
saying  to  you,  I  said  to  our  minister  the 
other  day,  and  didn't  he  answer  that  I'd 
better  divide  the  work  and  all  the  money 
between  my  nieces  ^nd  the  tailoresses, 
and  it  might  be  better  for  everybody? 
And  when  I  said  I  could  not  have  my  own 
flesh  and  blood  in  a  common  workshop, 
didn't  he  say  there  ought  not  to  be  a  work- 
shop so  kept  and  managed  as  not  to  be  fit 
for  anvbody's  flesh  and  blood  ?  It's  ridic- 
ulous I " 

Mr.  Dodds  had  not  given  very  close 
attention  to  Mr.  Buyers's  tirade,  having 
been  thinking  over  a  subject  nearer  home, 
and  which  had  engrossed  much  of  his  at- 
tention since  his  cousin  Reeves's  death. 
He  had  scarcely  heard  what  Mr.  Buyers 
had  said,  so  he  answered  vaguely,  — 

**  There  are  two  sides  to  most  ques- 
tions. But  I  don't  mean  to  stand  strictly 
on  my  duty.  I  had  a  real  respect  for  poor 
Tom  in  spite  of  his  queerness.  I  know 
there's  a  little  fund  for  destitute  widows, 
natives  of  Strathcarn,  in  the  north,  where 
Tom's  wife  comes  from.  I've  written 
about  that  for  her  already.  I  took  upon 
myself  to  do  that,  and  it's  well  I  did,  for 
I've  got  answer  that  she'll  be  in  time  for 
the  next  nomination  —  which  comes  ofiE 
next  month.  It  is  likely  she  would  not 
have  thought  of  that  for  herself.  And 
then  she  can  live  where  she  likes,  and  if 
she's  wise,  nobody  need  know  where  her 
money  comes  from.  Then  there's  the 
boy " 

Mr.  Dodds  hesitated  for  one  moment 
and  resumed. 

"  1  think  I'll  take  him  into  my  place. 
He  must  be  nish  sixteen.    If   be   has 


LORD  OF   HIMSELF. 


learned  anything  of  his  father's  trade  he 
would  not  be  able  to  make  much  of  it  for 
himself,  and  he'd  soon  pick  up  mine.  I 
don't  think  I'd  set  him  to  work,  at  least 
not  more  than  to  show  him  how  things 
ought  to  be  done.  I'd  train  him  as  a  kind 
of  general  assistant.  I'm  beginning  to 
want  somebody  I  can  trust,  as  business 
grows  too  big  for  my  own  eye.  My  eldest 
boy  doesn't  take  to  it ;  he  likes  it  well 
enough  to  get  money  out  of,  but  he  thinks 
it's  beneath  him.  And  journeymen  are 
not  what  they  used  to  be  :  it's  mostly  eye- 
service  nowadays.  And  I'll  engage  Tom 
has  brought  up  his  boy  well :  that's  the 
sort  of  thing  Tom  knew  how  to  do.  So 
he  might  save  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
and  money  too  —  ever  so  much  more  than 
he'd  cost.  For  he  cannot  expect  much 
wages.  The  start  in  life  is  what  many 
would  pay  for." 

Mr.  Buyers  said  nothing,  but  chirruped 
to  the  pony. 

**  It's  a  great  burden  to  think  over  other 
people's  afiEairs,"  observed  Mr.  Dodds, 
quite  plaintively.  "  And  I  know  it's  a  great 
responsibility  that  I'm  taking  on  myself, 
and  I  may  be  bitterly  disappointed.  But 
I  can't  believe  Tom's  son  will  not  turn  out 
well." 

'*  Is  this  he  ?"  asked  Mr.  Buyers,  as  a 
lad,  seeming  to  have  heard  the  sound  of 
approaching  wheels,  stepped  from  the  cot- 
tage which  Mr.  Dodds  had  indicated, 
and  stood  awaiting  them.  **  What  is  his 
name  ?    Tom,  like  his  father  ?  " 

••  No,"  answered  Mr.  Dodds,  "it's  Rich- 
ard, after  his  grandfather.  Tom  always 
called  him  Dick."  He  spoke  in  an  un- 
dertone, for  Mr.  Buyers  had  drawn  in  the 
reins,  and  the  boy's  hand  was  already  on 
the  pony's  bridle. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  come,  sir,"  he 
said,  in  a  pleasant,  though  subdued,  voice. 
Dick  Reeves  had  seen  Mr.  Dodds  once  or 
twice,  and  had  somehow  got  an  impres- 
sion of  him  which  made  him  rather  won- 
der at  this  expression  of  regard  for  the 
dead  and  sympathy  for  the  mourners. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  he  ought  to  have  been 
invited  to  the  father's  funeral.  But  then 
there  had  been  such  very  good  reasons 
why  nobody  should  be  invited. 

"  You  see  you  are  not  left  without 
friends,  Dick,"  said  Mr.  Dodds,  descend- 
ing. 

"  I'm  quite  sure  of  that,  sir,"  Dick  an- 
swered fervently. 

"  I'll  drive  on  to  the  inn,  Dodds,"  said 
Mr.  Buyers,  who  had  kept  his  seat. 

"All  right,"  returned  Mr.  Dodds.  "  I'll 
join  you  there  by-andby."   The  Reeveses' 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2278 


657 

cottage  did  not  promise  any  of  the  com- 
forts which  Mr.  Dodds  required  to  make 
life  tolerable.  He  did  not  invite  his 
friend  to  enter.  Buyers  had  always  been 
impressed  that  the  dead  Tom  Reeves  was 
a  man  who  had  thrown  away  chances 
which  he  had  possessed,  and  Mr.  Dodds 
preferred  that  he  should  keep  this  impres- 
sion, which  the  primitive,  contented,  al- 
ways-has-been-so  poverty  of  the  Reeveses' 
domicile  might  have  removed. 

But  surely  the  place  was  barer  now 
than  it  had  been  as  Mr.  Dodds  previously 
remembered  it.  There  was  the  same  strip 
of  brown  drugget  before  the  fire,  but  it 
was  much  darned  now  —  the  same  blue 
curtains  at  the  little  window,  but  the 
washings  of  years  had  made  them  dini 
and  thin.  But  what  had  become  of  the 
carved  cuckoo-clock  and  of  the  oak  cor- 
ner-cupboard ? 

His  cousin's  widow  came  forward  to 
meet  him  —  a  slight  woman,  who  looked 
almost  as  if  the  light  shone  through  her. 
She,  too,  was  changed  from  her  own  laugh* 
ing,  blooming  self.  The  hair,  which  he 
remembered  in  thick  jet  curls,  now  lay  in 
soft,  pure  silver  under  her  plain,  white 
cap.  But  what  Mr.  Dodds  noticed  most 
was  that,  except  that  cap,  she  had  no 
ordinary  sign  of  mourning  I  Her  dress 
was  sombre  enough  —  a  dark-blue  serge 
—  and  as  his  eyes  became  used  to  the 
dusk,  he  could  see  a  black  band  sewn 
round  the  sleeve  of  the  left  arm,  just 
above  the  elbow.  Doubtless  that  might 
be  some  sign  of  mourning  in  that  far 
Scotch  parish  of  Strathcarn,  whence  she 
came,  and  where  destitute  widows  seemed 
not  entirely  unknown.  But  what  would 
genteel  Caddiford  say  to  it?  Why,  there 
he  had  known  a  drunken  charwoman 
pawn  her  children's  bed  to  put  crape  on 
her  gown  when  her  husband  died  in  gaol ! 
What  right  had  this  cousin's  widow  to 
disgrace  her  respectable  kinsfolk  by  such 
a  manifold  omission  as  this? 

When  Mr.  Dodds  saw  the  simple  viands 
put  before  him  —  oaten  cake  and  apples 
from  the  trees  outside  the  cottage  —  he 
was  glad  to  remember  that  Mr.  Buyers 
was  awaiting  him  at  the  inn,  and  that  there 
they  could  indulge  in  the  highly  seasoned 
meats  and  spirituous  liquors  which  they 
regarded  as  the  necessaries  of  life.  How» 
ever,  he  sat  down  and  made  a  feint  of 
enjoying  the  Reeveses'  homely  and  whole* 
some  fare. 

A  few  inquiries  served  to  discover  that 
his  late  cousin's  illness,  though  not  very 
long,  had  been  of  a  most  trying  and  costly 
kind. 


6s8 


LORD  OF   HIMSELF. 


**We  sold  some  things  among  the 
neighbors,"  the  widow  said;  "that  paid 
the  fee  of  the  surgeon  whom  our  own 
doctor  had  brought  up  from  Caddiford.*' 

"Tom  should  have  gone  into  the  hos- 
pital," said  Mr.  Dodds  curtly.  "Not, 
perhaps,  the  hospital  at  Caddiford,  but  he 
might  have  gone  to  London,  where  he 
would  have  had  the  best  advice  possible." 

The  widow  shook  her  head.  ••  Tom 
liked  to  be  nursed  at  home,"  she  observed. 

"And  while  it  could  be  done  we  had  a 
right  to  do  it,"  chimed  in  her  son  Dick. 

"Tom  often  said  it  was  a  blessing  to 
feel  that  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst 
there  was  the  hospital,  provided  by  good 
people,"  said  the  widow.  "  But  he  said 
while  lie  could  keep  out  of  it  he  must,  to 
leave  room  for  one  who  could  not." 

"Tuts!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dodds  im- 
patiently. "  People  who  are  a  great  deal 
Setter  off  than  Tom  think  nothing  of 
going  in.  Tve  known  people  do  so  who 
had  ever  so  much  money  of  their  own." 

"What  could  they  be  saving  their 
money  for?"  asked  Dick  simply.  "I 
thought  one  only  saved  it  for  use  at  such 
times." 

Mr.  Dodds  took  no  notice  of  this  re- 
mark.    He  changed  the  subject. 

"  And  now,  Dick,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose 
you  are  beginning  to  think  of  how  you  are 
to  make  your  fortune." 

"  Tm  beginning  to  think  how  I  am  to 
keep  mother  and  myself,*'  Dick  replied. 

"  Ah,  I  suspect  it*s  a  good  thing  you 
have  got  a  wiser  head  than  your  own  to 
think  for  you,"  pursued  Mr.  Dodcls,  "  for 
it*s  wonderful  what  people  miss  by  not 
knowing  what  they  might  get.  Mrs. 
Reeves,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  the  widow, 
"do  you  know  that  vou  are  eligible  for 
the  Strathcarn  widow^s  fund  ?  " 

"But  Dick  and  I  think  we  may  manage 
'Very  well,"  she  said  simply. 

••  To  have  to  think  of  you  will  be  a  ter- 
rible burden  on  Dick's  start  in  life,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Dodds. 

The  mother  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes 
£lled  with  tears. 

"  I  don't  know  what  life  would  be  worth 
if  I  had  not  to  care  about  mother,"  ob- 
served Dick. 

"  Of  course  you  should  care  about  her," 
answered  Mr.  Dodds.  "  But  you  need 
not  carry  unnecessary  burdens.  There  is 
a  fund  for  destitute  widows;  and  I  sup* 
pose  your  mother  is  destitute  enough." 

"  She  is  not  destitute  while  she  has 
me,"  said  Dick  modestly. 

"  But  she  has  not  a  penny,"  urged  Mr 
Dodds. 


"Other  widows  mav  be  as  poor,  and 
have  no  son,"  returned  Dick. 

"You'll  think  differently  when  you  be- 
gin to  want  to  get  married,"  said  Mr. 
Dodds. 

Dick  laughed  —  an  incredulous,  boyish 
laugh.    But  he  said,  — 

"  I  hope  I  will  get  a  wife  who  will  like 
to  help  me  to  help  mother." 

Mr.  Dodds  changed  his  tactics.  He 
reflected  that  this  ignorant  lad  did  not 
really  know  what  might  await  him  in  the 
outer  world;  he  was  rejecting  what  he 
did  not  understand. 

"  Well,  Dick,"  he  said,  "  I  had  got  a 
nice  little  plan  laid,  and  I  expect  you  will 
acknowledge  that  when  you  hear  all  about 
it.  Your  mother  was  to  get  this  fund, 
and  then  she  could  live  wherever  she 
liked  —  I  dare  say  she*d  like  to  go  back 
among  her  own  relations  and  friends. 
And  I  meant  to  take  you  back  to  town 
with  me  and  put  you  into  my  warehouse. 
I  dare  say  you  might  even  live  in  my 
house,  Dick ;  that  would  give  you  an  idea 
of  how  things  ought  to  be,  and  of  what 
getting  on  in  the  world  means.*' 

Dick  looked  at  his  mother.  Her  tear- 
ful eyes  did  not  meet  his.  "People  do 
have  to  leave  each  other  for  a  while,  even 
for  each  other's  sake,  mother,"  said  Dick 
sorrowfully. 

Mr.  Dodds  felt  afraid  that  one-half  of 
his  tempting  prospect  was  being  entered 
upon  without  the  other,  and  so  felt  forced 
to  explain. 

"  But  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  earn  any 
wages  for  a  long  time,  Dick.  So  that  you 
can't  come,  unless  your  mother  gets  upon 
that  fund." 

"  Oh,  then  that  settles  it,"  said  Dick. 
"  I  must  say  I  didn't  like  leaving  her  quite 
alone,  just  after  father's  death.  No,  no. 
If  we  keep  together  here,  we  can  live." 

"  Did  your  father  teach  you  his  trade  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Dodds,  pursing  his  lip. 

"  I've  helped  him  ever  since  I  was  so 
high."  And  Dick  measured  a  very  small 
distance  from  the  floor.  "  He  made  it  a 
sort  of  play  for  me.  His  own  work  al- 
ways seemed  like  play  to  him.  I  mean 
he  took  to  it  jollily,  as  men  go  to  quoits 
and  cricket.  I  can't  work  yet  like  lie  did  ; 
but  I'll  do  my  best,  and  the  neighbors  will 
give  me  a  chance.'* 

"My  word!"  cried  Mr.  Dodds,  "you 
seem  to  take  life  easy  down  here.  Fancy 
Caddiford  people  reckoning  on  others  giv- 
ing them  a  chance!  '* 

"Could  not  they,  sir?"  asked  Dick. 
"  Then  it  must  be  a  dreadful  place.  But 
I  can't  believe  it." 


LORD  OF   HIMSELF. 


"  You  won't  get  enough  work  to  make  a 
living,"  asserted  Mr.  Dodds. 

"  I  can't  expect  it  at  first,"  assented 
*Dick,  quite  prepared.  **  But  mother  knits. 
And  at  spare  times  I  make  pine-cone 
baskets  and  so  forth,  against  the  fairs. 
Perhaps  vou  may  know  of  somebody  in 
Caddiford  who  would  take  some.  I  think 
we'll  manage.  Besides,  we  can  live  on  so 
little ! " 

"  It  is  not  living  —  it's  vegetating  —  it*s 
starving!  *'  said  Mr.  Dodds. 

Dick  shook  his  head.  '*  Nobody  here 
has  ever  starved,'*  he  said.  **  That's  one 
thing  which  always  frightens  me  about 
Caddiford.  I'm  always  reading  in  the 
papers  of  somebody  starving  there." 

**  But  think  of  the  many  who  make  their 
fortune,"  urged  Mr.  Dodds.  **  Don't  you 
want  to  make  yours?" 

Dick  laughed.  '*  If  I  can,"  he  said. 
'*  But  what's  the  use  of  a  fortune  made  at 
last  if  you've  not  done  right  in  the  making 
of  it  .^  That's  misery  ail  along,  and  misery 
after  all." 

•*  You've  got  your  father's  fine  ideas," 
said  Mr.  Dodds  impatiently,  "and  what 
did  they  do  for  him?  Left  him  to  live 
poor  and  die  in  debt." 

'*  Our  parson  says  father  was  the  hap- 
piest man  he  ever  knew,"  returned  Dick, 
"and  as  for  his  debts,  I'm  going  to  pay 
them.  We  did  not  run  in  debt  a  penny 
without  first  asking  the  people  if  they 
were  willing  to  wait  for  their  money." 

Mr.  Dodds  groaned.  How  would  ways 
like  these  work  in  Caddiford?  He  felt 
thoroughly  annoyed  that  his  plan  was  not 
to  be  carried  out.  All  through  his  jour- 
ney, two  separate  trains  of  thought  had 
been  running  in  his  mind  —  one  of  his 
own  goodness  and  self-sacrifice  in  troub- 
ling himself  about  these  Reeves  people 
and  their  burdens,  and  the  other  his  good 
fortune  in  securing  on  such  easy  terms 
such  faithful  service  as  he  felt  sure  his 
cousin  Tom's  boy  would  render. 

"  You'll  find  out  your  mistake  when  it 
is  too  late,"  he  said  irritably.  "  I  shan't 
make  such  an  offer  again,  I  can  tell  you." 

"I'm  very  thankful  to  you  for  it,  sir," 
Dick  answered  respectfully,  "  but  we  all 
have  a  right  to  do  what  we  honestly  be- 
lieve to  be  right,  haven't  we,  sir?  " 

"  And  a  right  to  starve  as  the  result ! " 
said  Mr.  Dodds  quite  angrily,  having  just 
recollected  that  he  was  quite  sure  one  of 
his  journeymen  was  robbing  him  in  ways 
he  could  not  find  out,  but  which  sharp 
young  eyes  like  Dick's  could  soon  have 
detected.  "  People  who  have  their  living 
to  make  soon  find  out  they  must  not  be 


6s9 

too  particular."  (It  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  that  might  be  his  thievish  workman's 
own  reflection.)    "They  must  live," 

"  They  have  a  right  to  die  if  they  choose 
that  rather  than  doing  wrong,  sir,"  said 
Dick. 

"Well,  well,"  observed  Mr.  Dodds, 
rising.  "  I'll  go  up  to  the  inn  now,  to  my 
friend.  We  shan't  leave  till  to-morrow 
morning,  and  I'll  look  in  upon  you  as  we 
drive  by.  Remember,  I've  done  my  ut- 
most to  help  you,  and  you  won't  be  helped, 
and  really  it  is  very  ungrateful  and  trying 
on  your  part.  But  1  don't  want  to  be 
hard  on  you,  and  so  I'll  give  you  another 
hint,  Dick.  If  you  ever  do  get  a  little 
money  together  towards  those  debts,  go 
to  your  creditors  and  ask  them  what  they'll 
take  to  give  you  a  discharge  in  full. 
They'll  be  glad  to  see  any  of  the  money, 
and  they'll  let  you  off  nearly  half  they've 
charged.  You  may  be  sure  they've  made 
out  their  bills  expecting  as  much." 

"  I'll  pay  them  every  penny,  sir,"  said 
Dick,  "with  thanks  over  for  their  pa- 
tience. If  they've  cheated  me,  that's 
their  fault.     But  I  know  better." 

Mr.  Dodds  did  not  ask  what  these  for- 
midable debts  were.  If  he  had,  it  might 
have  made  him  uncomfortable  to  find  that 
the  comforts  which  had  soothed  his  cous- 
in's last  days,  and  which  were  to  burden 
Dick's  start  in  life,  scarcely  amounted  to 
more  than  he  and  Mr.  Buyers  paid  for  the 
viands  they  consumed  at  the  sumptuous 
supper  they  ordered  at  the  inn,  and  over 
which  they  sat  long  and  late,  discussing 
unsatisfactory  work-people,  bad  debts,  and 
unfulfilled  contracts. 

They  woke  late  next  morning,  with  bad 
headaches  and  touchy  tempers.  So  Mr. 
Dodds  had  no  time  to  alight  at  the 
Reeveses'  cottage,  but  called  out  to  the 
mother  and  son  to  come  out  and  shake 
hands  with  him.  He  only  paused  long 
enough  to  ask  Dick  if  he  was  still  in  his 
same  foolish  mind.  While  Mr.  Dodds 
was  speaking  to  the  boy,  Mr.  Buyers's 
a;lance  had  wandered  to  the  mother,  and 
just  as  they  drove  off  he  made  some,  re- 
mark to  his  companion,  of  which  Dick 
only  caught  the  word  "price."  Perhaps 
Mrs.  Reeves  heard  something  more: 
could  it  have  been  something  which  made 
her  even  unusually  silent  and  thoughtful 
all  day  ?  Dick  thought  she  was  ponder- 
ing over  the  wisdom  of  his  determination. 
So  just  before  he  said  good-night,  he  put 
his  hands  on  her  shoulders  ana  said,  — 

"  Mother,  isn't  it  jolly  when  what  is 
right  is  also  what  we  like?  If  I  could 
have  helped  you  by  leaving  you,  I'd  have 


66o 


LORD   OF   HIMSELF. 


had  to  go.  But  it  would  have  been  terri- 
bly hard.'' 

She  did  not  answer.  She  raised  her 
eyes  to  his  face,  and  loolced  steadily  at 
him  for  two  or  three  minutes.  Then  she 
said  suddenly,  — 

**  Dick,  I  must  go  to  Caddiford  to-mor- 
row in  the  carrier^  cart." 

"  VVhy,  mother  ?  "  exclaimed  Dick,  sur- 
prised. 

*'  You  must  not  ask  me  why  I  am  go- 
ing/' she  said  nervously. 

It  was  Dick's  turn  to  gaze  at  her.  He 
was  accustomed  to  implicit  obedience  and 
trust.     But  he  asked  now,  — 

"  It  isn't  anything  about  me  ?  " 

**  No,  child,"  she  answered,  with  a  con- 
vulsive effort.  As  she  spoke  she  moved, 
and  Dick's  hand  coming  in.contact  with 
her  hair  displaced  the  comb,  and  it  fell  in 
a  rich,  waving  white  coil  on  her  neck. 
Dick  stroked  it  tenderly. 

"  Father's  silver,"  he  said  in  a  gentle 
whisper.  "  Do  you  remember  how  he 
used  to  call  it  that,  and  make  a  riddle  out 
of  it :  '  When  is  silver  worth  more  than 
gold  ?    When  it  is  on  mother's  head  ! ' " 

The  widow  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears, 
and  threw  her  arms  about  her  son.  "  Yes," 
she  said,  with  a  singular  emphasis,  **yes, 
Dick,  it  w* father's  silver.'" 

CHAPTER  II. 

*'  Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath.*' 

WOTTON. 

Mrs.  Reeves  started  off  in  very  good 
time  for  her  journey  to  Caddiford.  She 
seemed  quite  eager  and  anxious  to  be  off, 
as  if  she  feared  that  something  might 
happen  to  hinder  her,  and  could  not  be  at 
ease  until  she  had  fairly  started.  Dick 
was  naturally  rather  curious  about  her 
errand,  but  she  had  assured  him  that  she 
was  not  going  in  any  way  to  interfere 
with  his  decision  as  to  Mr.  Dodds's  offer, 
and  for  anything  else  he  was  happily  con- 
fident that  she  would  be  sure  to  act  for 
the  best.  Besides,  Dick  had  plenty  to 
do,  and  no  time  for  brooding  over  puzzles, 
or  for  thinking  himself  injured  in  being 
left  in  the  dark. 

Dick  had  a  pair  of  shoes  on  which  he 
was  at  work,  but  he  had  also  a  great 
many  little  tasks  to  get  through  before  he 
could  settle  down  to  that  business.  He, 
the  only  child  of  the  home,  had  from  his 
earliest  days  helped  his  mother  in  her 
household  duties.  Many  things  which 
would  have  been  toil  to  her  had  been  only 
recreation  for  him — drawing  and  carry- 
ing water,  gathering  and  breaking  sticks, 


driving  in  a  nail  here,  or  lifting  a  heavy 
piece  of  furniture  there.  Nor  had  his 
domestic  services  ended  with  these  mat- 
ters. Dick  Reeves  could  make  a  bed, 
polish  shoes,  sweep  a  floor,  and  boil  a 
kettle  with  any  girl  in  the  village.  H  his 
mother  ever  had  a  day's  headache  or 
some  kindly  office  to  perform  for  a  neigh- 
bor, she  had  always  been  able  to  rest  with 
an  easy  mind,  or  to  go  off  with  a  light 
heart,  knowing  that  she  would  not  return 
to  find  things  in  a  muddle. 

He  was  in  the  middle  of  some  of  these 
tasks,  when  a  neighbor  looked  in.  Dick 
would  not  have  called  her  a  neighbor. 
He  called  her  "a  near  hand  person,"  **for 
a  neighbor  is  one  who  does  you  good,  and 
sets  you  up,"  Dick  philosophized,  *'and 
Mrs.  Saunders  does  you  harm  and  pulls 
you  down.  If  the  good  Samaritan  was  a 
neighbor,  then  she  is  the  opposite  of  a 
neighbor,"  he  decided. 

However,  the  minute  he  saw  her  he  set 
a  chair  for  her  and  stirred  up  the  fire. 
'*  One  must  take  care  to  be  civil  to  those 
one  does  not  like,"  he  mused.  **  One  is 
more  than  civil  to  those  one  likes  —  with- 
out taking  care." 

Mrs.  Saunders  sat  down  with  a  groan. 
She  was  always  groaning,  and  as  she  was 
a  very  jovial,  rubicund  person  herself,  her 
groans  always  seemed  to  convey  pity  for 
all  the  world  in  general,  and  for  her  spe- 
cial companion  in  particular.  That  made 
folks  sensitive  —  for  nobody  likes  pity, 
and  when  they  were  once  made  sensitive 
they  felt  her  irritating  thrusts  more  keen- 
ly, and  that  gave  her  the  more  satisfac- 
tion. Mrs.  Saunders  was  like  a  fly  or  a 
flea  —  not  worth  while  making  a  fuss 
about,  but  quite  enough  to  make  life  intol- 
erable. 

•*  Tm  sorry  that  you're  ill,"  said  Dick 
demurely. 

**  Oh,  I'm  not  ill,"  she  said  significantly. 
"  I'm  only  thinking  of  you  and  your  poor 
mother  and  the  changed  times  which  are 
before  you." 

**The  only  change  that  matters  is  fa- 
ther's death,"  returned  Dick,  with  a  sink- 
ing heart,  for  he  could  not  repudiate  the 
coarsest  sympathy  on  that  score. 

**  But  that's  the  common  lot,"  said  Mrs. 
Saunders.  **  Folks  must  die.  It  was  dif- 
ferent when  Saunders  was  taken  and  I 
left  well  off  and  comfortable.  I  reckon 
your  mother  did  not  know  where  to  turn 
till  your  father's  rich  cousin  came  down 
to  advise  and  help.  I  was  gjad  to  see 
him  come.  Says  I  to  the  doctor,  *  We 
need  not  trouble  ourselves  any  more  about 
Mrs.  Reeves  —  there's  Mr.  Dodds  come 


LORD   OF   HIMSELF. 


66 1 


to  look  after  her :  there's  some  that  hasn't 
any  rich  relations  at  all.*  But  next  to 
wanting  help,  the  hardest  thing  Is  receiv- 
ing it,  Dick.  It's  grand  to  need  nothing 
from  no  man." 

"  But  Vd  like  to  give  something  to 
somebody, sometimes,  myself,"  said  Dick. 
*'  And  so  I  suppose  do  some  other  folks. 
So  we  must  each  have  our  turns  in  giving 
and  taking."  Dick  would  neither  confirm 
nor  contradict  Mrs.  Saunders's  notion  as 
to  Mr.  Dodds's  visit.  Mr.  Dodds  had 
meant  to  be  kind  after  his  own  fashion, 
and  if  that  fashion  was  not  theirs,  that 
was  no  blame  to  him.  If  he  told  Mrs. 
Saunders  that  Mr.  Dodds  had  not  helped 
them,  then  she  would  not  trouble  herself 
to  look  into  these  rights  and  wrongs  of  it, 
she  would  only  cry  shame  upon  Mr. 
Dodds,  and  so  do  him  an  injustice. 

"  Dear,  dear,"  sighed  Mrs.  Saunders, 
noticing  that  Dick  was  peeling  the  pota- 
toes. '*  I  suppose  your  poor  mother  was 
so  eager  to  go  ofi  and  get  the  proper 
mourning  that  she  needed  so  sadly,  that 
she's  left  you  to  do  that  for  yourself.  If 
there's  one  thing  more  than  another  that 
I  hate,  it  is  to  see  a  man  doing  woman's 
work.  You're  hardly  a  man  yet,  Dick, 
but  a  boy's  the  same." 

"What  makes  you  hate  it?"  Dick 
asked  quietly. 

"  It  seems  so  beneath  him,"  she  an- 
swered. "Providence  has  put  the  man 
over  the  woman,  don't  you  see  ? "  she 
added  impressively. 

Dick  laughed.  "  Then  he  ought  to  be 
able  and  willing  to  do  all  she  does,  and 
something  over  too.'* 

"But  it's  her  duty  to  do  these  things 
for  him,"  said  Mrs.  Saunders.  "He  is 
the  bread-winner." 

"And  it's  her  duty  to  do  bread-winning 
too  when  he  can't,"  remarked  Dick.  "  Fa- 
ther's last  days  owed  a  good  deal  to  moth- 
er's embroidery." 

"Of  course  it's  a  good  woman's  duty 
to  do  her  best,"  said  Mrs.  Saunders. 

"What's  good  for  the  gander  is  good 
for  the  goose,"  laughed  Dick ;  "  and  if 
it's  good  for  the  man  to  be  kept  when  he 
can't  work,  it's  good  for  the  woman  to  be 
helped  when  she  can't.  And  the  woman 
can't  earn  and  the  man  :can't  help,  at  a 
pinch,  unless  they've  got  into  practice." 

Mrs.  Saunders  shook  her  head.  "  Ah," 
she  said  plaintively,  "you  must  have  al- 
ways had  plenty  to  do,  with  your  mother 
such  a  poor,  fragile  body ;  and  it's  good 
of  you  to  try  to  make  the  best  of  it.  It's 
more  than  some  would  do." 

Dick  bad  had  enough  of  this.    "  I  sup- 


pose a  fellow  has  a  right  to  do  any  work 
he  likes,"  he  said  stoutly,  "and  there's 
nothing  I  like  better  than  helping  moth- 
er." 

Mrs.  Saunders  sighed,  and  sat  in  si- 
lence for  a  few  minutes;  then  she  said 
she  thought  she  had  better  go  —  she  was 
not  one  for  much  gadding  about,  only  it 
was  a  Christian  duty  to  visit  the  father- 
less and  the  widows  in  their  affliction. 
SAe  had  not  been  to  Caddiford  for  ten 
years,  though  she  might  hire  a  chaise  and 
go  comfortably  any  day.  "  So  good-bye, 
Dick,"  she  said.  "  I'm  glad  to  have  seen 
you,  and  to  find  you  so  contented  with 
your  lot,  which  all  would  not  be,  but  which 
it  is  well  you  are,  for  I  don't  see  what  is 
to  improve  it  much.  Nothing  but  a  mir- 
acle can  lift  you  out  of  this  old  groove 
you're  in." 

"  If  I  ought  to  be  lifted  out  of  it,  there'll 
be  a  miracle,  ma'am,"  said  Dick.  "  Father 
said  miracles  are  quite  easy,  once  one  is 
inside  them,  where  God  is." 

Mrs.  Saunders  turned  up  her  eyes  as  if 
she  heard  blasphemy,  and  Dick  opened 
the  door  for  her  to  pass  out,  and  shut* it 
quickly  behind  her,  for  Mrs.  Saunders 
was  a  person  who  sometimes  turned  back. 

As  soon  as  he  had  put  everything  in 
order  he  went  to  his  father's  bench  and 
applied  himself  to  his  shoemaking.  Hare, 
that  Caddiford  bootmaker  who  hired  a 
hundred  "hands"  and  had  "made  his 
fortune,"  while  the  dead  man  Reeves  had 
only  earned  his  daily  bread,  had  no  such 
pleasant  corner  in  his  big  villa  as  the 
cottage  nook  where  Dick  sat  down  to 
work.  It  had  a  low,  deep  window,  from 
which  the  worker,  looking  up,  could  see  a 
pleasant,  sunny  road  winding  down  to  a 
little  hollow,  where  the  church  stood 
among  its  yews.  On  the  window-sill  was 
a  brown  earthenware  jar,  filled  with  varie- 
ties of  bright  nasturtium.  Overhead,  in 
a  wide  wicker  cage  with  a  great  bunch  of 
groundsel  stuck  in  its  sides,  hung  a  star- 
ling, whose  one  sentence,  "There's  a 
good  time  coming,  boys,"  chimed  in  with 
sympathy  in  gladness,  and  with  cheer  in 
woe  —  why,  it  had  not  even  jarred  the 
hearts  of  the  widow  and  orphan  as  it  rang 
through  the  house  while  the  master's 
coffin  lay  on  the  trestles  !  Dick's  bench 
was  of  oak,  so  solid  and  massy  that  half- 
a-dozen  "  upholstery  chairs  "  might  have 
been  hewn  from  it.  And,  as  he  sat  there, 
the  sweet,  sunny  influences  stole  into  his 
young  heart,  so  that,  in  spite  of  the  sor- 
row which  lav  there,  and  the  cares  stirring 
round  it,  he  began  unconsciously  to  sing 
to  himself.    Sorrow  and  care  are  not  evil. 


662 


LORD   OF   HIMSELF. 


as  sin  and  remorse  are ;  they  are  part  of 
God's  plan  in  nature,  like  silent  midnights 
or  barren  mountain  passes,  and  we  know 
the  flowers  can  grow  in  the  one  and  the 
birds  sing  over  the  other. 

There  was  not  very  much  more  to  do 
to  the  pair  of  shoes  on  which  he  was 
working.  Thev  had  been  in  hand  for  a 
long  while,  only  taken  up  at  odd  times, 
for  they  were  not  bespoken,  but  were  in- 
tended for  a  certain  old  farm  servant,  who 
was  sure  to  come  for  them  sooner  or 
later.  So  Dick  looked  around  for  some- 
thing else  he  could  do.  He  had  not  very 
much  leather  in  stock,  and  it  was  rather 
disheartening  to  begin  work  to  suit  the 
requirements  of  former  customers,  who 
might  not  care  to  employ  him  now  that  he 
must  work  without  his  father's  directing 
skill.  But  Dick's  eye  fell  on  some  tiny 
scraps  of  delicate  brown  kid-cuttings  from 
some  boots  which  had  been  made  months 
before  for  some  lady  who  had  stayed 
a  while  in  the  neighborhood  sketching. 
•  **  There  is  enough  there  for  a  little 
child's  shoes,"  mused  Dick.  **It  would 
make  a  very  pretty  pair,  only  there's  no- 
body in  the  village  who  could  pay  what 
would  be  a  right  price  for  such  an  article. 
But  I'll  make  them  !  Father  used  to  say, 
*  In  all  labor  there  is  profit.'  And  if  no- 
body comes  along  who  can  afford  to  buy 
'em,  then  they'll  do  for  a  present  to  some- 
body who  can't.  It's  odd  how  some  peo- 
ple seem  to  think  that  they  keep  what 
they  let  waste,  and  lose  what  they  give. 
The  gift  that  does  not  cost  anything  is 
the  best  gift  after  all,  because  it  is  some- 
body's gain  and  nobody's  loss.  And  that's 
the  way  with  love  itself,  for  nobody  loses 
by  loving.  I've  heard  an  old  verse  which 
runs  something  like  this,  — 

We  only  give  what  we  can  share ; 
Gifts,  without  giving  hands,  are  bare." 

So  Dick  worked  through  the  day,  think- 
ing of  talks  which  he  and  his  father  had 
had,  and  singing  sometimes.  Nothing 
happened ;  he  was  not  much  interrupted 
—  only  he  gave  a  drink  of  water  to  a 
tramp,  and  went  in  pursuit  of  a  chicken 
which  he  saw  straying,  it  having  escaped 
through  a  hole  in  the  netting  of  a  neigh- 
bor's poultry-yard,  and  Dick  took  it  back 
and  restored  it  to  the  frantic  hen,  whose 
volubility  he  could  interpret  as  he  liked, 
as  thanks  to  himself  or  as  a  scolding  to 
her  chick.  Dick  was  a  boy  who  "waited 
on  "  animals,  who  opened  the  door  when 
the  cat  mewed,  and  made  up  a  bed  for  the 
old  dog  to  lie  upon.  It  was  told  as  a 
laugh  against  him  that  be  bad  once  car- 


ried a  saucer  of  water  to  a  frog  which  lay 
half  dead  of  drought  on  the  highroad  on 
a  sultry  day.  But  if  the  angels  knew  of 
that  they  would  not  laugh,  except  it  might 
be  for  very  joy.  They  know  more  than 
we  do.  We  don*t  think  it  is  derogatory 
to  God  to  take  care  of  us  and  give  us 
bread  and  water,  and  really  God  is  very 
much  more  above  us  than  we  are  above  a 
frog,  and  most  people  would  own  that  if 
it  was  so  put  to  them,  only  so  few  people 
take  trouble  to  put  things  rightly  to  them- 
selves ! 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  shad- 
ows were  falling,  just  about  the  same  time 
as  Mr.  Buyers  and  Mr.  Dodds  had  driven 
out  on  the  preceding  evening,  Dick  saw 
his  mother  hastening  homewards.  The 
carrier's  cart  had  put  her  down  at  the 
cross-roads.  She  was  walking  fast,  and 
her  figure  looked  more  erect  and  her  head 
higher  than  it  had  since  the  day  when  she 
was  told  that  her  husband  was  stricken 
with  mortal  sickness. 

**  Something  good  has  surely  happened 
to  mother,"  thought  Dick. 

Something  good  I  Maybe.  But  to  dif- 
ferent people  such  different  things  make 
something  good.  To  one,  it  is  good  to 
have  received  a  fortune.  To  another,  it  is 
equally  good  to  have  given  one  away. 

She  came  in  with  a  strange  light  shin- 
ing in  her  face.  She  kissed  Dick,  and 
without  a  word  took  off  her  shawl  and 
bonnet.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  from 
her.  What  was  it  about  her  which  had 
changed  since  morning  —  a  change  almost 
as  great  as  that  which  Mr.  Dodds  had 
noticed  before  he  discovered  that  her  hair 
had  turned  white?  Why!  —  now  it  was 
that  her  hair  was  wholly  hidden  —  that  her 
cap,  of  a  different  shape  from  any  she  had 
ever  worn,  was  now  drawn  closely  round 
her  face,  so  that  scarcely  one  thread  of 
*'  father's  silver  "  was  to  be  seen. 

Dick  stood  before  her  and  put  a  gentle 
hand  on  each  of  her  shoulders,  for  she 
was  a  little  woman  beside  the  tall  youth. 
As  they  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes,  a 
suspicion  of  the  truth  flashed  across  him. 

"Mother!"  he  cried,  in  half-terrified 
dismay,  "  mother  —  your  hair !  " 

"The  price  they  gave  me  for  it  in  Cad- 
diford  has  paid  all  we  owe  at  the  shop," 
Hhe  said,  with  a  gentle  triumph  which  had 
not  one  note  of  regret  in  it.  "  •  Father's 
silver'  has  paid  it,  Dick.  You  will  not 
start  in  life  in  debt." 

Dick  sat  down,  fairly  overcome.  **  What 
made  you  think  of  such  a  thing?"  h* 
asked. 

"I  heard  Mr.  Buyers  whisper  to  Mr. 


LORD  OF   HIMSELF. 


Dodds,  yesterday:  *What  a  price  they 
would  give  for  that  hair!*  Silver  hair, 
fine  and  abundant,  is  the  rarest  hair  for 
buyin?  and  selling,  they  say*  Many  want 
it  and  very  few  people  have  it,  and  the 
few  who  do  seldom  wish  to  sell  it." 

"O  mother,"  wailed  Dick,  "just  to 
think  that  this  has  become  of  the  hair 
father  used  to  be  so  proud  of  1 " 

"He  liked  it  in  life  and  it  has  served 
him  in  death,"  she  answered.  "  I  never 
liked  it  so  well  as  when  I  saw  it  on  the 
wig-maker's  counter,  and  felt  its  golden 
value  in  my  hand.  It  did  not  matter  to 
me  any  more.'  I  don't  think  you*Il  like 
me  less  for  lacking  it,  Dick." 

"  O  mother !  "  groaned  Dick,  "  but  if 
father  could  only  know !  ** 

"  Who  is  sure  he  does  not  know,  Dick  ?  " 
she  returned. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Dick  impulsive! v, 
'*for  the  thought  of  such  a  thing  would 
have  broken  his  heart ! " 

"He  will  have  greater  wisdom  now," 
she  said  calmly,  "and  it  is  possible  that 
what  I  have  done  may  give  him  exactly 
the  same  sort  of  gentle  delight  he  once 
had  in  the  pretty  hair  itself.  Sainted 
spirits  in  heaven  are  not  likely  to  see  our 
eyes  and  our  hair,  or  the  clothes  we 
wear  and  the  houses  we  live  in.  They 
must  see  our  spirits,  and  the  light  of 
God*s  pleasure,  or  the  darkness  of  his 
sorrow  surrounding  us.  And  they  won't 
care  for  anything  but  love  and  r'l^hu 
Those  are  the  happiness  and  prosperity 
of  heaven,  Dick." 

"  I  would  have  paid  the  bills  In  time, 
mother,"  said  Dick  ruefully. 

"  I  chose  to  pay  them  now,"  she  said. 
"  I  never  hoped  to  feel  again  so  much 
pleasure  as  I  had  in  doing  it." 
^  "  I've  never  thought  about  heaven  in 
the  way  you  seem  to  do,  mother,"  mused 
Dick. 

His  mother  looked  at  him :  "  One  never 
does,  Dick,"  she  said, "  till  one's  own  life  is 
buried  in  another's  grave.  The  disciples 
never  understood  about  the  resurrection 
till  after  Jesus  was  dead.  God  teaches  us 
one  thing  at  a  time,  and  unbelievers  are 
generally  those  who  deny  the  lessons 
they've  not  come  to  yet." 

"  When  have  you  had  time  to  think 
over  these  things,  mother  ?  "  Dick  asked. 

"  Watching  at  nights  through  your  fa- 
ther's illness,"  she  said,  "and  waking  at 
night  since  he  was  taken.  Those  are 
women's  ways  to  a  good  deal  of  wisdom, 


6Q 

Dick  —  and  the  best  men  know  it.  But 
now  tell  me  what  has  been  going  on  since 
I  went  away  in  the  morning." 

"Mrs.  Saunders  looked  in,"  Dick  an- 
swered, his  face  suddenly  darkening,  for 
he  remembered  her  vulgar  inference  that 
his  mother  had  eagerly  gone  to  expend  an 
imaginary  dole  in  mourning.  "  What  will 
people  think  when  they  see  you  without 
your  hair,  mother?" 

She  laughed  softly.  "  I  hope  they 
won't  think  at  all,"  she  answered.  "  I 
hope  they  won't  notice  it.  1  must  make 
up  my  cap  very  adroitly,  and  nobody  will 
look  at  me  so  curiously  as  you  did, 
Dick." 

"Mother,"  Dick  burst  out,  "do  you 
think  there  are  many  things  like  this  done 
on  the  sly,  as  it  were  ?  " 

"  Of  course  there  are,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  it  does  seem  too  bad  ! "  was  his 
rash  young  decision.  "There's  Cousin 
Dodds  getting  credit  for  helping  you  —  as 
he  has  not  done  —  and  you  getting  no 
credit  for " 

"  For  doing  what  was  right  —  and  very 
sweet  to  roe  to  do,"  she  replied  rebuk- 
ingly. 

"  But  then,  mother,"  pleaded  Dick,  "  to 
hear  of  a  good  deed  helps  other  people  to 
do  right." 

"  To  talk  of  our  own  actions  is  wrong," 
said  the  widow,  "and  we  must  not  do  evil 
that  good  may  come." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  great  comfort  that  God 
knows,"  observed  Dick. 

"  He  alone  knows  the  best  side  of  the 
world  he  made,"  said  the  mother. 

"  But  when  there  is  so  much  evil  that 
may  be  truly  related,  and  so  much  more 
that  is  always  being  suspected,"  remarked 
Dick,  "  I  can't  help  saying  that  it  is  a 
pity  the  good  should  not  have  a  hearing." 

"Oh,  but  it  does,"  said  Mrs.  Reeves; 
"the  secrets  which  God  knows  he  tells  in 
the  right  time  and  place.  He  alone  can 
tell  them  without  spoiling  them,  Dick." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  ever  tell  about 
you,  mother?"  asked  the  lad. 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell  about  me,'* 
she  answered.  At  that  moment  there  was 
a  sound  of  wheels  drawn  up  just  outside, 
and  then  a  light,  impatient  rap  at  the 
door,  and  a  clear,  high  voice — an  un- 
known voice  —  asked,  — 

"Is  this  where  the  shoemaker  lives  ?" 

As  Dick  opened  the  door  a  singular 
feeling  came  over  him,  as  if  he  was  open- 
ing the  door  of  his  own  unknown  future. 


664 


JERSEY. 


From  Macmillan's  M^axine, 
JERSEY. 


The  truth  expressed  in  the  familiar 
saying  that  **far  birds  have  fair  feathers,*' 
or,  as  the  Highlanders  have  it,  "far  oxen 
have  long  horns,"  has  unquestionably  a 
very  wide  application  through  the  general 
world  of  human  thinking,  but  is  specially 
illustrated  in  the  habits  and  notions  of 
the  great  family  of  tourists  in  these  loco- 
motive times.  Jersey  is  an  island  lying 
quite  contiguous  to  the  southern  shore 
of  Great  Britain  —  not  more  than  ten 
hours'  sail  from  Southampton  —  an  island 
also  full  of  green  prosperity,  rich  in  heroic 
history,  and  peculiarly  interesting  to  En- 
glishmen as  the  great  conservator  of  the 
old  English  laws  and  customs,  and  of  the 
old  Norman  French  language  of  which 
great  part  of  our  current  English  tongue 
is  composed.  And  yet,  for  one  English 
traveller  who  has  been  at  St.  Helier's  or 
St.  Peter's  Port,  you  will  find  hundreds 
and  thousands  who  have  steamed  up  the 
Rhine  to  Schaffhausen,  or  wandered  rev- 
erently among  the  tombs  of  the  Pharaohs 
at  Carnac,  or  the  mausoleum  of  the  sacred 
bulls  at  Memphis.  It  is  an  infirmity  of 
our  nature;  the  common  loses  its  power 
to  stimulate  the  senses,  simply  because  it 
is  common  ;  and  the  uncommon  possesses 
an  adventitious  attraction,  not  because  it 
is  better  or  more  worthy,  but  simply  be- 
cause it  is  new  and  because  it  is  strange. 
Novelty  is  no  element  either  of  the  beau- 
tiful or  the  sublime;  but  by  the  law  of 
our  nature  a  new  thing  excites  our  curios- 
ity; and  an  ass  with  three  heads  at  any 
time  and  place  will  command  more  gazers 
than  a  wise  man  with  one  head.  In  the 
same' way  it  seems  a  grand  thing  to  go  to 
Cairo,  and  stare  at  a  pyramid,  though  it 
is  only  a  monstrous  cairn,  the  monstrous 
birth  of  a  monstered  civilization;  while  to 
make  three  steps  from  Waterloo  to  South- 
ampton, from  Southampton  to  Guernsey, 
and  from  Guernsey  to  St.  Helier's,  to  see 
a  tight  little  corner  of  the  snug  British 
Empire,  glorying  chiefly  in  green  leaves, 
fair  flowers,  and  nutritive  roots,  seems  a 
matter  too  small  to  stir  in  a  sedentary 
man  the  lust  of  adventurous  movement. 
Such  is  human  nature.  In  this  respect  I 
confess  myself  a  sinner  with  the  rest.  I 
have  in  common  with  my  fellow-sinners, 
in  more  respects  than  one,  sinned  against 
the  sacred  text  which  says,  "Call  nothing 
common  or  unclean.'*  I  confess  that,  led 
by  the  common  delusion  of  an  ambitious 
imagination,  I  bad  travelled  up  to  the 
roots  of  the  Rhine  in  Switzerland,  and 


had  looked  in  the  serene  face  of  the  old 
Egyptian  Rameses,  on  the  rock  temple  of 
Aboo  Sirobel,  near  the  second  cataract  of 
the  Nile,  before  it  entered  my  head  to 
visit  beautiful  Jersey,  which  concerned  me 
in  many  respects  much  more  nearly.  One 
merit  only  I  can  boast  of  above  some  of 
my  fellow-sinners.  I  have  mended  my 
ways,  and  seen  Jersey;  seen  it  and  en- 
joyed, and,  by  way  of  grateful  memory, 
will  set  down  here  a  few  of  its  features 
that  strike  the  stranger  most  prominently. 
Happily  in  doing  so,  I  feel  that,  though 
not  pretending  to  give  an  exhaustive  ac- 
count of  the  island,  I  am  able  to  present 
something  to  the  reader  that,  so  far  as  it 
goes,  will  be  satisfactory.  One  is  not 
overwhelmed,  in  St.  Helier's  as  in  Loo- 
don,  by  a  multitudinous  swarm  of  rich 
and  various  forms  of  life,  more  like  a 
world  than  a  city,  more  like  a  widestretch- 
ing,  loose-straggling  forest  of  houses,  than 
a  distinctly  marked-out  and  well-walled 
garden.  One  can  take  note  of  such  a 
pleasant  self-contained  little  island,  as  one 
takes  note  of  a  Greek  temple,  intelligently 
pleased  with  a  measurable  beauty,  not 
confounded  and  overawed  by  an  incal- 
culable power. 

It  is  wonderful  how  many  persons  in 
sea-girt  England  vex  their  imaginations 
with  the  horrors  of  a  sea-voyage.  The 
Channel,  they  tell  you,  is  particularly 
boisterous,  and  so,  no  doubt,  it  will  be  on 
occasions ;  but  a  stiff  south-wester  is  not 
always  blowing  there ;  and,  for  my  part,  I 
lay  all  night  in  the  middle  of  the  ship,  as 
quietly  unconscious  of  any  sea-motion  as 
if  I  had  been  sleeping  in  my  own  familiar 
bed.  Only  about  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning  I  was  aroused  by  a  loud  rattling 
and  grating  of  chains  behind  my  berth, 
which  rendered  further  slumber  impossi- 
ble. Up  I  started,  and  found  that  we 
were  off  Guernsey,  and  that  the  harsh 
grating  of  iron  by  which  my  rest  had  been 
disturbed  was  only  one  step  in  the  process 
of  unlading,  which,  if  with  more  speed  in 
these  days  of  steam  power,  is  certainly 
not  executed  with  less  noise  than  in  the 
good  old  times.  A  man  can  learn  a  good 
deal  by  merely  keeping  an  observant  eye 
on  the  unlading  process  of  a  big  ship. 
The  whole  traffic  of  a  country  here  passes 
bodily  before  him  in  the  space  of  an  hour; 
and  what  struck  me  most,  when  brooding 
over  this  process  from  the  quarter-deck, 
at  Guernsey,  was  the  interminable  num- 
ber of  empty  casks  or  barrels  that  came 
swinging  up  from  the  hold,  relay  after 
relay,  floundering  about  in  the  air  as  thick 
as  bats  disturbed  by  the  sudden  intrusion 


JERSEY. 


66s 


of  light  into  an  old  tower.  These  casks 
had  come  from  Covent  Garden,  where 
they  had  been  disembowelled  of  their 
wealth  of  early  potatoes  to  fit  out  London 
dinners,  and  were  come  to  their  native 
soil  to  be  replenished  with  fresh  stores  of 
the  nutritive  root  to  satisfy  the  unex 
hausted  gorge  of  the  monster  metropolis 
on  the  Thames.  These  floundering  empty 
casks  were  the  overture,  as  it  were,  to  the 
great  potato  opera,  which  I  saw  after- 
wards played  at  Jersey.  I  n  every  crowded 
street  of  the  town,  and  in  every  narrow 
gr«en  lane  of  the  country,  cars  laden  with 
potato-casks  were  the  prominent  object. 
As  in  the  commencement  of  a  great  war 
you  cannot  move  an  easy  mile  in  any  di- 
rection without  encountering  marshalled 
troops  of  red  or  blue  coats  hurrying  from 
all  quarters  to  the  great  harvest  of  inter- 
national slaughter,  so  at  Jersey,  the  march 
of  the  great  potato  cavalcade  peoples  the 
highway  and  blocks  the  harbor.  There  is 
in  Fleet  Street  and  in  the  Strand,  by  cun- 
ning management,  room  for  two  carriages 
to  pass ;  but  at  Jersey  pier,  a  fortnight 
afterwards,  about  the  end  of  June,  when  I 
was  returning  from  my  sojourn,  there  was 
no  room  for  a  single  cab  to  pass  through 
the  piled-up  mountains  of  potato-casks  on 
the  pier.  It  was  like  the  arrival  of  the 
herring-boats  at  Wick;  a  sight  that  over- 
whelmed all  other  sights  for  the  moment, 
and  stamped  the  word  potato  distinctly 
on  the  brain  of  the  spectator  as  the  badge 
of  Jersey  productiveness  and  the  pledge 
of  Jersey  prosperity.  Since  returning  to 
England  I  have  repeatedly  asked  intelli- 
gent persons  into  what  amount  of  gold 
this  wonderful  growth  of  potatoes  was 
transmuted  by  the  traffic  with  Covent 
Garden ;  their  answer  always  fell  ludi- 
crously beneath  the  mark.  Some  said 
20,000/.,  some  50,000/.,  and  some  even 
went  as  far  as  100,000/.;  but  none  ever 
dreamt  of  the  true  figure,  between  200,- 
000/.  and  300,000/.,  as  I  was  distinctly  in- 
formed by  a  gentleman  at  St.  Helier's 
well  versed  in  the  details  of  the  local 
traffic. 

The  general  character  of  the  island  of 
Jersey  is  distinctly  marked,  running  out 
in  a  long  line  to  the  south-east  as  you  ap- 
proach from  Guernsey,  which  lies  two 
hours'  sail  to  the  north-west  of  St.  Helier's. 
The  coast  is  mostly  rocky,  rising  pretty 
steeply  from  the  sea,  but  nowhere  to  a 
height  above  three  hundred  feet,  as  in- 
deed the  highest  point  in  the  centre  of 
the  island,  Hougue  Biec,  or  Princes' 
Tower,  is  not  more  than  three  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  high,  less  than  half  the 


height  of  Arthur's  Seat,  which  overhangs 
Edinburgh.  In  general  outline  from  the 
sea  it  shows  extremely  like  the  island  of 
Colonsay  as  seen  from  the  high  ground 
above  Oban,  with  no  very  prominent 
points  to  fix  the  eve ;  in  extent  also  it  is 
not  much  larger,  for,  while  the  length  of 
Colonsay  is  about  twelve  miles,  the  whole 
circuit  of  Jersey  is  only  thirty-three  miles, 
about  ten  miles  beyond  the  girth  of  the 
Isle  of  Arran  in  the  Firth  of  Clyde.  As 
you  approach  the  coast  of  Jersey,  the  out- 
standing promontories  —  Grosnez  on  the 
north-west  and  La  Corbi^re  on  the  south- 
west—  distinctly  indicate  with  their 
names  the  French  character  of  the  popu- 
lation. After  crossing  the  Bav  of  Brelade, 
on  the  south-west  corner  ot  the  island, 
where  the  oldest  monument  of  ecclesias- 
tical architecture  remains,  and  rounding 
the  exposed  high  ground  of  Noirmont,  or 
the  Blackmount,  you  find  yourself  sud- 
denly in  front  of  the  wide  sweep  of  the 
Bay  of  St.  Aubin,  with  its  sloping  terraces 
of  peopled  verdure,  and  the  smoking  town 
of  St.  Helier's  in  the  distance.  This  rich 
and  varied  expanse  of  land  and  water,  of 
fort  and  rock,  of  town  and  villa,  at  once 
recalls  to  the  traveller  the  well-known 
beauties  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  —  a  com- 
parison which  grows  in  striking  truth  after 
a  short  residence  in  the  island.  To  those 
who  have  not  seen  Parthenope  the  beauti- 
tiful  Bay  of  Oban  will  at  once  start  up  as 
a  counterpart  to  St.  Helier's ;  but,  if  a 
Vesuvius,  an  Ischia,  and  a  Capri  are 
wanting  to  give  an  effective  back;;round 
to  the  sea-view  from  St.  Helier's,  the  want 
of  the  island  Kerrera,  which  shuts  in  the 
Bay  of  Oban,  is  amply  compensated  by 
the  superior  expanse  of  the  open  sea 
which  laves  the  rich  greenery  of  the  coast, 
and  the  air  of  a  large,  naturally  evolved 
commerce  which  distinguishes  the  metrop- 
olis of  Jersey  from  the  artificially  trumped- 
up  splendor  and  ungracefully  huddled 
domiciles  of  the  great  tourist-pivot  of  the 
west  Highlands. 

To  understand  the  luxuriant,  verdurous 
beauty  and  the  extraordinary  fertility  of 
Jersey,  we  must  take  our  start  from  two 
considerations  —  the  climate,  and  the  ge- 
ology. The  climate,  a  Scot,  like  myself, 
accustomed  to  breathe  the  bracing  air 
that  comes  down  from  Ben  Mucdubh  or* 
Cairngorm,  will  soon  discover  to  be  more 
mild  and  soft  than  suits  the  masculine 
habit  of  his  lungs ;  so  mild  and  kindly 
indeed,  that  the  nursling  of  the  north, 
the  moment  he  treads  the  street  of  St. 
Helier*s,  feels  that  he  is  already  half-way 
to  Italy;  and  is  not  surprised  to  see  the 


666 


JERSEY. 


fig,  the  myrtlCi  and  other  plants  of  trop- 
ical proclivity  growing  in  the  open  air. 
The  west  coast  of  Britain,  generally,  as 
every  one  knows,  is  at  once  more  warm 
and  more  moist  than  the  east.  At  Oban 
fuchsias  grow  luxuriantly  in  the  open  air, 
in  a  fashion  that  Aberdeen  or  St.  An- 
drews would  in  vain  attempt  to  emulate ; 
in  the  south-west  corner  of  Ireland  the 
royal  fern,  which  loves  warm  and  moist 
places,  flings  out  its  bright  green  plumes 
as  grandly  as  the  broom  on  an  Inverness 
moor ;  and  in  Jersey,  where  the  same  rain- 
laden  Atlantic  breezes  prevail,  with  the 
addition  of  circumfluent  sea,  and  a  latitude 
some  hundred  miles  more  to  the  south, 
the  climatic  features  which  differentiate 
the  west  from  the  east  coast  of  Britain  are 
potentiated.  There  are  besides  no  high 
mountains  to  accumulate  stores  of  snow; 
snow  indeed  and  frost,  as  a  local  ballad 
says,  **just  touch  the  smiling  roods  and 
go"  —  and  the  ilex  or  evergreen  oak, 
which  grows  plentifully  everywhere,  seems 
as  naturally  to  symbolize  the  genial  charac- 
ter of  the  Jersey  atmosphere  as  the  harsh 
needles  of  the  pine  indicate  the  sharpness 
of  the  mountain  blasts  with  which  the 
tree  growth  of  stern  Scotland  has  to  con- 
tend. But,  if  the  climate  be  favorable  to 
a  rich  vegetation,  the  same  cannot  be  said 
of  the  soil.  In  the  Channel  Isles  there 
are  no  tracts  of  rich,  loamy  soil,  the  nat- 
ural product  of  slow-rolling  rivers,  as  in 
Egypt,  in  the  valley  of  the  Thames,  and 
in  the  Carse  of  Gowrie;  these  islands 
are,  strictly  speaking,  the  bare  granitic 
skeleton,  or  fragments  of  the  skeleton,  of 
the  underlying  rock  on  which  the  great 
mass  of  the  secondary  and  tertiary  strata 
of  the  rich  land  of  England  and  the  Lo- 
thians  of  Scotland  are  superimposed ;  and 
the  true  character  of  the  islands,  however 
superficially  concealed  by  culture,  is  plain- 
ly seen  in  the  long  stretches  of  rocks  and 
reefs,  often  hidden  at  high  tide,  which 
circumvallate  them  on  all  sides.  The  sci- 
entific analysis  also  of  the  syenitic,  horn- 
blendic,  felspathic,  and  other  metamorphic 
rocks  which  compose  the  basis  of  the 
island,  reveals  little  of  those  elements  on 
which  the  fertility  of  soils  depends.*  The 
main  constituent  of  the  soil,  arising  from 
the  decomposition  of  these  rocks,  is  what 
in  vulgar  speech  might  be  called  '*  rotten 
granite ; "  and  from  such  a  material  no 
Aberdonian,  bred  in  the  atmosphere  of 
east  winds,  and  accustomed  to  measure 
the  fertility  of  granitic  districts  by  the 

*  specially  the  total  want  of  phosphates.  "The 
Channel  Island^' by  Ansted  ana  Latham ;  London, 
1865,  p.  461 ;  the  most  exhaustive  work  on  the  subject 


course  of  the  River  Dee,  could  tvtr  ex- 
pect  any  outgrowth  of  rich,  vegetative  lux- 
uriance to  be  evolved.  But  the  Jersey 
granite  is  not  condemned  to  barrenness; 
for,  in  the  first  place,  the  granitic  stufiF  of 
which  the  island  is  composed,  besides 
being  of  a  more  loose  texture,  is  cut  up  in 
various  ways  by  fissures,  which  give  free 
entrance  to  the  plenteous  rain  that  at  cer- 
tain seasons  oversweeps  these  islands 
from  the  Atlantic;  and  again,  from  the 
eeneral  low  level  and  flatness  of  the  sur- 
face, the  rain,  when  it  falls,  has  leisure  to 
sink  and  to  drain  quietly  into  the  rock,  ia 
a  style  very  different  from  the  rush  of 
water  that  flows  down  from  the  granite- 
girdled  bed  of  the  river  Dee.  But  the 
chief  source  of  the  fertility  of  the  island 
is  no  doubt  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  the 
natural  humidity  of  the  climate,  and,  add- 
ed to  this,  the  diligence  and  the  thrift  of 
a  laborious  population  of  small  proprie* 
tors.  The  presence  of  a  thickly-spread 
and  equally  distributed  population  is  of 
itself  a  guarantee  for  the  production  of 
manure  in  various  ways ;  and,  when  to  this 
is  added  the  plentiful  supply  of  sea-wrack, 
which  is  to  Jersey  agriculture  what  peats 
are  to  Highland  hearths,  we  shall  not  be 
surprised  at  the  pleasant  picture,  every- 
where to  be  seen,  of  the  original  spine  of 
prickly  granite,  now  blooming  like  a  gar- 
den and  blossoming  like  a  rose.  Jersey, 
indeed,  is  a  land  01  gardens;  everywhere 
the  hand  of  man  is  visible  in  graceful 
villas,  trim  terraces,  green  hedges,  flowery 
trimmings,  and  green-mantled  inclosures. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  these  inclosures  stand 
up  in  all  the  bareness  of  their  unadorned 
granite,  fencing  o£E  the  light  and  the  pros- 
pect from  those  who  walk  in  the  narrow 
lane  which  divides  the  domain  of  one 
small  proprietor  from  another.  This,  of 
course,  is  no  beauty;  but  the  walls  are 
necessary  for  the  fruits  in  which  the  island 
delights;  and  in  hot  countries  a  narrow 
lane  without  a  prospect  is  often  more  en- 
joyable than  a  broad  highway  with  one. 

We  have  said  that  the  principal  product 
of  Jersey  is  potatoes.  The  nature  of  the 
soil  and  the  vicinity  of  the  great  London 
market  are  sufficient  to  explain  why  the 
thrifty  economists  of  this  prosperous  lit- 
tle island  have  in  these  latter  days  di- 
rected their  activity  so  largely  into  this 
channel.  When  Inglis  wrote  his  book* 
flfty  years  ago,  though  the  potato  culture 
was  on  the  increase,  he  still  puts  down 
cider  as  the  principal  export  of  the  island 


*  The  Channel  Islands,  by  Menry  B.  loKlit; 
don,  1834,  vol  i.,  p.  189. 


JERSEY. 


667 


But,  though  this  pleasant  bevera«^e  still 
maintains  its  reputation,  I  should  doubt 
much  whether  the  apples  of  the  trees 
now  produced  in  the  orchards,  could  be 
transmuted  into  as  much  gold  as  is  de- 
rived from  the  **  apples  of  the  earth." 
At  all  events  I  heard  great  complaints 
everywhere  of  the  disfigurement  of  the 
country  by  the  cutting  down  of  trees,  and 
the  supplanting  of  the  ancestral  apple 
culture  by  the  potato,  to  satisfy  the  insa- 
tiate demands  of  the  herbivorous  purlieus 
of  Covent  Garden.  This  may  be  true  for 
natives,  to  whom  any  old  tree  has  a  his- 
tory; and  in  fact  no  old  tree  anywhere 
can  be  cut  down  without  bringing  a  pang 
to  some  one  who  had  appealed  vainly  to 
the  destroyer  in  the  words  of  the  song, 
"Woodman,  spare  that  tree;"  but  de- 
spite the  invasion  of  orchards  by  potato- 
fields,  and  of  branchy  trees  here  and 
there  turned  into  maimed  and  unsightly 
pollards,  no  traveller  who  has  seen  vari- 
ous parts  of  the  world  will  be  apt  to  com- 
plain that  the  prominent  want  of  Jersey 
is  trees.  Trees  there  are  everywhere,  not 
so  broad  and  umbrageous  indeed  as  on 
the  lawn  of  Taymouth  Castle,  or  in  Berke- 
ley Square,  Piccadilly,  but  large  enough 
to  give  the  whole  island  that  look  of  rich, 
wavy  beauty,  which  a  fine  head  of  hair 
gives  to  a  fair  lady ;  and  as  to  the  size  of 
the  trees,  this  is  in  no  wise  affected  by 
the  potato  culture,  but  by  the  tremendous 
western  blasts  to  which  these  flat-topped 
islands  are  peculiarly  exposed.  Next  to 
potatoes  and  cider  —  or  rather  perhaps 
on  sesthetical,  if  not  on  pecuniary  grounds 
superior  to  both,  is  the  Jersey  cow,  better 
known  in  England  as  the  Alderney  cow  ; 
but  the  breed  is  all  the  same,  or  with  a 
difference  not  worth  noting.  The  Jersey 
cow  is  indeed  a  fine  animal,  bearinoj  the 
same  relation  to  other  creatures  of  the 
cow  family  that  a  lady  does  to  a  woman 
who  is  only  a  woman,  and  not  a  lady. 

So  smooth  and  flat,  so  neat  and  trim, 
With  such  a  slender  shapely  limb. 
And  such  fine  head,  and  large  full  eye, 
When  on  soft  grass  you  see  her  lie, 
So  placid,  motherly  and  mild. 
She  courts  the  touch  of  any  child. 

Literally  so ;  and  the  reason  why  she  is 
so  gentle,  mild,  and  motherly  seems  to 
me  plain ;  she  is  not  allowed  to  roam 
largely  about  the  braes,  as  Highland  cat- 
tle are,  or  English  cows  in  large  fields, 
but  she  is  tethered  to  a  small  spot,  where, 
like  a  fine  lady  on  a  soft  sofa,  she  culti- 
vates recumbent  habits,  and  is  easily  ap- 
proached and  lightly   bandied.    She   is 


tenderly  treated  also,  as  ladies  are  by 
amorous  husbands,  or  Yorkshire  horses 
by  fox-hunters;  and  Inglis  quotes  from  a 
writer  of  authority,*  who  says  that,  though 
from  the  nature  of  the  locality  she  cannot 
be  allowed  large  freedom  of  browsing, 
yet  **her  station  is  shifted  five  or  six 
times  a  day,"  so  that  she  is  treated  with 
great  variety  of  fresh  and  fair  feeding. 
**  In  winter  she  is  warmly  housed  by  night, 
and  fed  with  parsnips;  when  she  calves, 
she  is  regaled  with  toast,  and  with  the 
nectar  of  the  island,  cider;  to  which  pow- 
dered ginger  is  added."  The  parsnip 
here  mentioned  is  one  of  the  staple  prod- 
ucts of  the  island;  sweet  as  honey  of 
Hybla ;  and,  when  the  cows  are  largely 
fed  with  it,  Mr.  Inglis  states  that  from 
seven  quarts  of  milk  a  pound  of  the  most 
delicious  butter  is  produced.  The  same 
writer  states  that  in  his  time  the  price  of 
Jersey  cows  had  considerably  fallen  in  the 
market,  and  that  the  average  price  then 
brought  from  8/.  to  10/.  I  have  no  doubt, 
however,  that  along  with  the  potato,  the 
Jersey  cow  has  risen  largely  in  mercan- 
tile value  in  the  course  of  the  last  fifty 
years ;  for  I  inquired  particularly  as  to 
the  truth  of  a  fact  statea  to  me  in  conver- 
sation, and  traced  to  the  fountain-head 
the  undoubted  verity  that  an  American 
dealer  of  insight  and  adventure  had  paid 
down  literally  1,000/.  for  a  Jersey  cow  of 
first-rate  quality!  To  the  potatoes  and 
the  cows,  the  cider  and  the  parsnips, 
might  be  added  oysters  as  valuable  prod- 
ucts of  the  islands,  for  the  culture  of 
which  the  long  stretches  of  sharp  reefs 
on  the  shallow  coasts  are  particularly 
suitable,  and  grapes,  which  grow  here 
under  glass,  but  with  the  natural  heat  of 
the  sun  more  favorable  to  the  genuine 
grape  flavor  than  the  artificial  heat  of 
hot-houses.  Fish  of  various  kinds  are 
also  procured  in  large  quantities  from  the 
seas  around ;  though  from  the  agricultural 
habits  of  the  people,  as  in  the  Scottish 
Highlands,  there  is  not  so  much  of  intel- 
ligent adventure  put  forth  in  this  direc- 
tion as  one  might  desire.  One  of  the 
most  characteristic  displays  in  the  fish- 
market  is  the  huge  conger-eel  at  St.  He- 
Iier*s ;  the  rich  soup  from  which,  distilled 
with  dainty  herbs,  slides  with  a  glib  lus- 
ciousness  down  the  diner's  throat,  pass- 
ing the  experience  of  the  most  highly 
cultivated  aldermanic  oesophagus  in  the 
city.  And  if  not  specially  at  the  dinner 
table,  certainly  in  the  streets,  and  on  the 

*  Report  on  the  Agricalrare  of  the  Island  of  Jersey, 
by  Quaile,  in  iSia,  published  by  the  Board  of  AgricuJp 
tore  in  1815. 


668 


JERSEY. 


roads,  among  the  praises  of  Jersey,  men- 
tion must  be  made  of  the  kail,  which,  like 
the  conger-eel,  attains  in  this  insular  par- 
adise to  an  enormous  size,  and  grows  so 
strong  that  walking-sticks  are  made  of  it 
equal  in  solidity  and  lightness  to  the  best 
cane.  A  gentleman,  a  native  of  the  isl- 
and, assured  me  that  he  had  seen  one 
such  *'kail  runt,"  as  the  Scotch  call  it, 
sixteen  feet  high,  including  the  fan-like 
leafage,  in  the  style  of  a  dwarf  palm-tree, 
at  the  top.  I  myself  measured  one,  in  a 
garden  at  the  Millbrook  station,  between 
eight  and  nine  feet  high.  To  the  flour- 
ishing trade  carried  on  with  these  kail 
canes  the  windows  of  the  shops  in  Beres- 
ford  Street  and  Bath  Street,  St.  Helier's, 
bear  striking  testimony. 

In  all  the  old  books  about  Jersey  I  find 
mention  made  of  toads  as  a  peculiar  and 
characteristic  product.  In  the  *'Tour 
through  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,*'  orig- 
inally be^un  by  De  Foe,  and  afterwards 
continued  by  Richardson,  and  completed 
by  other  literary  gentlemen  (1769),  under 
the  head  Jersey  I  read  thus :  **  The  ugly, 
but  harmless  and  perhaps  wholesome  ani- 
mal, the  toad,  abounds  here,  as  do  innox- 
ious creatures  of  the  serpentine  kind, 
particularly  lizards,  which  gaze  on  pas- 
sengers as  they  lie  basking  in  the  sun."* 
The  rapid  march  of  culture  and  the  im- 
provement of  the  roads  since  the  time  of 
Governor  Sir  George  Don  has  no  doubt 
tended  largely  to  diminish  the  number  of 
these  innocent  creatures;  their  presence, 
however,  is  noticeable  as  indicative  of  the 
warmth,  humidity,  and  verdure  of  the 
country.  Toads  delight  in  gardens,  and 
one  can  imagine  that  they  perform  good 
service  there  by  feeding  on  the  grubs  and 
slugs  of  various  kinds  which  a  climate  of 
such  vegetative  vitality  naturally  breeds ; 
but  the  inquisitive  traveller  nowadays 
will  not  light  upon  them  so  obviously  as 
on  the  kail.  The  Jersey  toad,  or  crapaud^ 
as  they  call  it,  is  less  of  a  dingy  grey- 
brown  than  our  English  toad,  and  is 
largely  flecked  or  freckled  with  white ;  at 
least  so  the  one  was  which  a  kind  lady 
brought  to  me  in  a  box,  which  she  kept  in 
her  orangerie  and  petted  daintily  with  her 
lily-white  hand,  as  our  ladies  are  wont  to 
do  kittens  and  Maltese  dogs.  Kindness 
to  the  animal  creation  is  not  one  of  the 
characteristically  English  virtues  ;  and  it 
is  good  that  an  animal  '*  with  a  jewel  in  its 
head,"  and  all  guiltless  of  venomous 
slaver  in  its  mouth,  should  find  a  refuge 
from  the  maltreatment  of  wicked  boys, 

*  Vol.  iil,  p.  34  z. 


and  the  horror  of  sentimental  misses,  10 
the  soft  hand  of  a  good  Jersey  le  Gros,  or 
de  Carteret. 

But  the  most  interesting  thing  in  Jer- 
sey, to  the  intelligent  thinker,  is  neither 
potatoes,  nor  apples,  nor  cows,  nor  kail, 
nor  parsnips,  nor  toads  and  lizards,  but 
the  economic  state  and  condition  of  the 
people,  and  by  what  hereditary  happy 
heritage  of  beneficent  laws  and  customs  it 
has  chanced  that  this  small  island — a 
chip  struck  from  France  —  should  present 
such  a  shining  face  of  contented  prosper- 
ity, while  the  big  island  of  Ireland,  at  our 
own  door  and  under  our  own  direct  con- 
trol, lies  fretful  and  wrathful  under  a  grim 
social  cachexy  of  distressful  centuries. 
The  reason  of  this  striking  contrast  lies  in 
a  single  sentence;  the  Channel  Islands 
were  left  by  the  Norman  kings  to  grow 
out  of  their  natural  root  unhindered,  with 
the  full  enjoyment  of  their  old  Norman 
laws;  while  Ireland,  instead  of  being 
nourished  and  cherished  according  to  its 
own  type,  had  English  laws  and  English 
rule  forced  upon  it  in  a  style  equally  in- 
human and  impolitic. 

With  William  the  Conqueror  and  the 
two  stout  Henries  who  came  from  his 
loins  and  inherited  his  bellicose  habits 
and  administrative  talent,  the  great  prob- 
lem was  at  first  to  hold  the  conquered 
people  in  subjection,  and  then  gradually 
to  weld  their  original  possessions  in  Nor- 
mandy and  their  grand  domain  of  conquest 
in  England  in  such  a  fashion  as  that 
friendly  understanding  and  wise  co-oper- 
ation might  gradually  work  the  mass  into 
a  new  organic  unity.  This,  of  course,  was 
no  easy  matter.  The  danger  ahead  lay  in 
the  Norman  law  of  succession,  which  al- 
lowed a  certain  limited  primogeniture  for 
military  purposes,  but  disallowed  that  ab- 
sorption of  all  rights  of  real  property  by 
the  eldest  son,  to  which  we  have  long 
been  accustomed  in  England.  By  this 
old  law  the  English  lands  distributed 
among  his  barons  by  the  Conqueror,  if 
they  were  selected  by  the  eldest  son  as  his 
heritage  —  which  selection  was  his  right 
—  necessitated  a  surrender  of  his  lands  in 
Normandy  to  the  younger  members  of  the 
family,  a  separation  of  domain  which 
would  naturally  create  a  separation  of  in- 
terests, and  tend  to  a  dismemberment  of 
the  loosely  compacted  kingdom.  For  this 
reason  policy  dictated  to  the  Conqueror 
and  his  immediate  successors  the  exten- 
sion of  the  original  right  of  limited  pri- 
mogeniture, so  as  to  comprehend  all  real 
property,  and  unite  the  lord  of  the  insular 
and  the  Continental  domain  by  a  common 


JERSEY. 


669 


bond  of  interest  to  maintain  the  unity  of 
the  conjunct  sovereignty. 

But  this  consolidation  of  fiefs,  not  natu- 
rally contiguous,  beinsc  confessedly  a  de- 
vice to  enlist  the  English  barons  on  the 
side  of  the  Conqueror  by  an  exceptional 
grant  of  large  manorial  rights,  naturally 
applied  only  to  England:  in  Normandy, 
or  at  least,  in  those  parts  of  it  where  no 
conflicts  of  old  Norman  and  new  English 
law  could  arise,  the  old  law  remained, 
which,  in  consistency  with  the  known  law 
of  Rome,  of  the  Saxons,  and  we  may  add 
also  of  natural  equity,  did  not  allow  the 
eldest  son,  whatever  privileges  he  might 
enjoy,  to  swallow  up  the  whole  heritage  of 
the  father,  to  the  prejudice  of  the  whole 
family.  It  was  therefore  plainly  for  mili- 
tary and  political  purposes,  not  for  any 
economical  advantages  or  general  social 
fitness,  that  the  entirely  anomalous  law  of 
unlimited  primogeniture  at  present  ac- 
knowledged in  England  was  introduced. 
Whatever  arguments  may  be  used  in  its 
favor  now,  it  was  historically  simply  a 
badge  of  conquest ;  and  we  bear  it  as  a 
dog  wears  a  gilded  collar,  because  it  is 
needful  for  the  master,  and  looks  dignified 
in  the  dog.  But  besides  the  preservation 
of  the  kindly  old  Norman  law  of  limited 
primogeniture,  and  along  with  this  the  in- 
valuable blessing  of  a  numerous  indepen- 
dent resident  proprietary,  other  circum- 
stances and  influences  seem  to  have  oper- 
ated in  favor  of  the  Channel  Islands,  so 
as  to  make  it  almost  appear,  in  the  words 
of  their  old  historian,  that  divine  Provi- 
pence  watched  with  a  special  care  over 
their  well-being.*  In  the  first  place,  they 
had  the  happiness  of  being  a  little  out  of 
the  way,  besides  fenced,  as  we  have 
noted,  by  a  coast  singularly  difficult  of 
access.  In  the  next  place,  they  naturally 
held  by  their  old  Norman  dukes;  and  so 
long  as  the  paw  of  France  was  held 
threatfully  over  them,  never  had  the  re- 
motest inclination,  or,  indeed,  the  slight- 
est cause,  to  exchange  the  fatherly  tie  of 
an  inherited  for  the  imposed  yoke  of  a  for- 
eign dynasty.  Of  this  the  English  kings 
could  not  fail  to  be  aware  ;  and  so,  when 
foolish  John  Lackland  was  forced  to  sur- 
render the  whole  of  the  Continental  patri- 
mony of  his  ancestors  into  the  hands  of 
the  French,  he  seemed,  says  the  old  his- 
torian, to  have  looked  on  the  Channel 
Islands,  topographically  belonging  rather 
to  France  than  to  England,  as  **  the  last 

*  "  Few  places  have  been  so  manifestly  the  care  of 
Heaven  as  these  islands.'*  Kalte,  Account  of  Jersey. 
London,  1797,  !>.  2&  The  old  edition  dates  1694,  and 
is  rare. 


plank  left  to  him  in  so  great  a  shipwreck," 
to  which  plank  he  clung  accordingly;  and, 
in  reward  for  their  good  services  to  him 
in  his  adversity —  for  he  twice  visited 
Jersey  —  granted  to  these  favored  islands 
**  manv  excellent  laws  and  privileges  con- 
firmecf  to  us  in  after  times  by  the  succeed- 
ing kings  and  queens  of  England.  Him, 
therefore,  for  that  reason,  we  must  con- 
sider as  our  special  benefactor;  and  what- 
ever ill  things  other  persons  may  say  of 
him,  we  in  Jersey  must  in  gratitude  cher- 
ish a  great  veneration  and  gratitude  for 
his  memory." 

A  few  words  will  now  naturally  be  ex- 
pected on  the  manner  in  which  the  pecul- 
iar laws  and  privileges  of  Jersey  act  in 
securing  the  prosperity  of  the  island.  By 
far  the  most  iipportant  law  in  this  regard  is 
unquestionably  the  law  of  limited  primo- 
geniture, or  the  succession  to  real  estate, 
of  which  we  have  shown  the  historical 
origin ;  and  its  detailed  operation  is  as 
follows.  The  leading  principle  of  the  old 
Norman  law  of  succession  is  that  no 
owner  of  land  being  head  of  a  family, 
can,  by  a  deed  to  operate  after  death, 
alienate  from  his  son  the  heritage  which 
he  received  from  his  father.  The  law  en- 
forces what  it  presumes  to  be  the  natural 
wish  of  a  parent  in  favor  of  his  children, 
and  this  operates  as  a  perpetual  entail  in 
the  method  of  nature,  a  very  different 
thing  from  the  artificial  old  Scotch  entail, 
which  locks  up  the  land  forever  by  a 
statutable  limitation  against  all  claimants. 
Every  proprietor  in  Jersey  is  absolute 
master  of  his  property,  so  long  as  he 
lives ;  but  the  moment  he  departs,  and  be- 
longs no  more  to  this  stage,  the  law  steps 
in  for  the  protection  of  the  family,  as  fol- 
lows. When  a  person  dies  possessed  of 
considerable  landed  and  personal  prop- 
erty, an  appraisement  is  made  of  it  by 
sworn  measurers  and  appraisers ;  and  the 
heritable  property  in  the  first  place  is 
divided  and  inventoried,  according  to  its 
natural  lots  —  that  is  to  say,  into  as  many 
separate  estates  as  are  held  by  distinct 
titles,  and  form  a  natural  whole.  Such 
estates  the  law  holds  as  indivisible,  and, 
having  a  favor  for  the  eldest  son,  allows 
him,  by  right  of  his  "  eldership,"  to  choose 
the  lot  that  most  commends  itself  to  him. 
Of  course  he  will  naturally  choose  the  big- 
gest and  the  best,  and  every  eldest  son 
having  the  same  privilege,  as  the  course 
of  generations  rolls  on,  it  will  naturally 
happen  that,  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, the  same  propertv  remains  in  the 
family,  so  that  practically,  as  we  said,  the 
law  acts  as  a  close  family  entail.    But  let 


670 


JERSEY. 


those  who  are  accastomed  to  the  action 
of  primogeniture,  in  the  old  Scottish  law 
of  entail,  and  by  the  English  law,  or 
rather  custom,  of  repeatecf  settlements, 
here  note  the  difference.  The  Jersey  law, 
while  providing  amply  for  the  honor  of 
the  family,  and  its  representation  by  the 
eldest  son,  follows  nature  and  the  Roman 
law  in  showing  a  due  regard  to  the  nat- 
ural ria:hts  and  fair  expectations  of  other 
membefs  of  the  family.  When  the  prin- 
cipal manor  has  been  judicially  set  apart 
for  the  eldest  son,  the  rest  of  the  property, 
both  real  and  personal,  is  divided  among 
co-heirs,  two  thirds  among  the  sons,  and 
one-third  among  the  daughters.  By  this 
general,  and,  in  the  main,  equitable  ar- 
rangement, the  right  of  testamentary  in- 
terference with  the  division  of  property 
is,  as  will  be  evident,  largely  curtailea. 
In  fact,  the  right  of  a  testator  to  dispose 
of  his  property  by  will  after  death,  is 
limited  to  one-third  part  of  his  movables. 
The  remaining  two-thirds,  as  a  matter  of 
right,  descend  one-third  to  the  children  or 
descendants,  and  one-third  to  the  widow, 
should  she  elect  to  take  part  in  the  per- 
sonal estate ;  otherwise  she  has  her  terce, 
or  one-third  of  the  real  estate  always  sure. 
By  these  very  simple  and  equitable  ar- 
rangements, the  old  Norman  law,  as  it 
obtains  in  the  Channel  Islands,  can  un- 
questionably boasts  its  superiority  to  the 
English  practice  of  unlimited  primogeni- 
ture, as  it  obtains  in  this  country.  In 
the  first  place,  it  secures  whatever  advan- 
tages of  local  family  persistence,  family 
precedency,  and  family  pride,  are  usually 
urged  in  favor  of  our  custom  of  primogen- 
iture ;  it  gives  the  good  of  the  custom 
without  its  attendant  evils ;  it  does  the 
same  thing  moderately,  and  therefore  bet- 
ter, both  according  to  Aristotle  and  St. 
Paul;  as  if  one  should  say,  supposing 
port  wine  to  be  a  good  drink  in  a  cold 
climate,  that  it  is  better  to  solace  one's 
stomach  with  a  glass  or  two  than  to  drain 
a  whole  bottle.  In  the  second  place,  it 
secures  by  simple  operation  of  law  to  all 
the  younger  branches  of  the  family  that 
share  in  the  paternal  inheritance  to  which 
they  may  fairly  consider  themselves  en- 
titled. In  the  third  place,  it  effectually 
prevents  that  process  of  progressive  dis- 
memberment of  estates  which  presents 
not  a  few  unpleai^ant  features  under  the 
French  law  of  equal  compulsory  division. 
And  lastly,  it  entirely  forecloses  and  ren- 
ders unnecessary  the  complicated  network 
of  settlement  upon  settlement,  by  which, 
under  the  action  of  the  English  law,  either 
the  exaggerated  predominance  of  the  eld- 


est son  may  be  more  firmly  secured,  or 
the  balance  in  favor  of  the  natural  rights 
of  the  younger  branches  be  restored.  In 
every  view,  therefore,  it  has  a  right  to  be 
considered  as  the  golden  mean  between 
the  two  extremes  of  petty  parcelling  (/;v^r- 
cellement)  and  monstrous  accumulation 
that  have  in  practice  been  developed  in 
this  domain ;  a  golden  mean  in  which 
neither,  on  the  one  hand,  are  large  im- 
provements prevented  by  the  impecunios- 
ity  of  a  race  of  petty  proprietors,  nor,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  the  country  cheated  of 
its  natural  complement,  a  hardy  and  inde- 
pendent yeomanry,  to  favor  the  artificial 
nature  of  a  race  of  overgrown  and  oftea 
absentee  proprietors.  How  contrary  this 
is  to  the  general  notions  of  Englishmen, 
may  be  illustrated  by  what  I  heard  his 
Excellency  the  governor  of  Jersey  declare 
at  a  public  meeting  of  the  inhabitants.  An 
Englishman,  he  said,  one  of  the  numerous 
race  of  tourists  who  look  in  for  a  day  or  a 
week  at  St.  Helier's,  and  then  depart,  had, 
in  the  course  of  after-dinner  conversation, 
been  pleased  to  express  his  admiration  of 
the  prosperous  state  of  the  island,  every- 
where green  orchards,  flourishing  potato- 
fields,  good  roads,  in  the  harbor  the  most 
undeniable  sign  of  a  large  and  various 
commerce.  Only  one  thing  this  green 
little  gem  of  the  sea  required  to  make  it 
perfect,  a  full  participation  in  the  benefits 
of  English  law!  To  which  remark  his 
Excellency,  who,  by  some  years'  residence 
in  the  island,  knew  something  of  the  mat- 
ter, with  a  laugh,  replied,  **  The  absence 
of  English  law,  specially  of  the  English 
land  laws,  is  the  very  thing  to  which  the 
men  of  Jersey  with  good  reason  attribute 
their  notable  prosperity."  How  different 
from  this  insolent  conceit  of  the  vulgar 
English  mind  is  the  recorded  opinion  of  a 
distinguished  English  jurist,  to  the  effect 
that  "  the  English  law  of  real  property  is 
the  most  unmitigated  nonsense  ever  put 
together  by  the  perverted  ingenuity  of 
man  " !  ♦ 

*  Spinoza,  by  Fred.  Pollock,  Barrister- at-Law. 
London,  1880,  p.  90.  The  general  ignorance  in  this 
country  of  the  law  ot  succession  in  the  Channel  Islands 
is  proved  by  the  fact  that,  even  in  books  of  authority, 
it  is  generally  spoken  of  as  identical  wiih  the  old  Saxon 
law  of  gavelkind  allowed  exceptionally  by  WilHam  the 
Conqueror,  and  still  maintained  in  K.ent.  But  equal 
division  of  all  heritage  and  limited  primogeniture  are  two 
very  different  things  in  principle;  in  practice  no  doubt 
they  may  approach  to  one  another  in  various  degrees, 
esoecially  where,  as  in  Kent,  the  power  of  the  individ- 
ual testator  is  allowed  to  override  the  general  action  of 
the  law.  My  information  on  this  subject  is  derived 
from  the  best  authority,  viz.,  **  Observations  uu  the  Law 
of  Descent  in  the  United  Kingdom,"  by  Henrv  Tupper, 
Judge  in  the  Royal  Court  of  Guernsey;  London,  Simn* 
kin  and  Marshall,  1868 ;  a  work,  so  far  as  I  can  learn, 
very  inadequately  known,  even  to  professed  lawyers  ia 


JERSEY. 


671 


As  to  the  general  economical  result  of 
the  laws  of  succession  in  Jersey,  con* 
trasted  with  the  results  produced  under 
the  English  law  of  unlimited  primogeni- 
ture, it  may  be  sufficient  to  remark,  that 
though  certain  large  operations,  such  as 
the  making  of  roads  and  bridges,  and  the 
introduction  of  sweeping  changes  when 
necessary,  take  place  more  readily  under 
the  system  of  large  proprietors,  and  im- 
mense consolidated  farms,  a  vast  mass  of 
reliable  statistics  is  available  to  prove 
that  a  greater  amount  of  field  culture,  and 
a  larger  account  of  field  produce,  is,  under 
most  circumstances,  produced  by  the 
small  proprietor  who  must  work,  than  by 
the  larger  proprietors  who  may.  .Besides, 
it  must  never  be  forgotten,  that,  while  the 
effort  of  immensely  large  proprietors  will 
naturally  be  to  accumulate  monstrous 
wealth  in  the  hands  of  a  few,  the  effort  of 
smaller  proprietors  will  certainly  be  to 
distribute  the  material  benefits  of  wealth, 
and  the  moral  advantages  of  proprietor* 
ship  among  a  large  number  of  indepen- 
dent citizens.  As  in  the  body  physical, 
health  consists  not  so  much  in  the  quan- 
tity of  blood  in  the  system,  as  in  its  fair 
distribution  ;  so  in  the  bodv  social  —  not 
how  few  are  very  rich,  and  now  many  are 
miserably  poor,  is  the  critical  question, 
but  in  what  proportion  is  property  dis- 
tributed amongst  a  stout,  industrious, 
prosperous,  and  well-contented  popula- 
tion. This  just  proportion  has  been  at- 
tained in  Jersey,  principally  by  the  natural 
action  of  the  old  Norman  law.  How  little 
it  has  been  attained,  or  even  dreamt  of, 
in  this  country,  the  evidence  led  before 
the  Crofter  Commission  now  sitting  in  the 
Highlands  and  islands  will  abundantly 
testify.  Under  the  old  Norman  law  in 
Jersey,  the  vassals  holding  feudally  under 
the  lord  of  the  manor  have  fixity  of  tenure, 
and  are,  in  fact,  with  a  slight  acknowledg- 
ment to  the  superior,  independent  propri- 
etors. Under  the  English  rule,  starting 
historically  from  the  same  root,  the  feudal 
law  has  degenerated  into  a  system  which 
enables  the,  proprietor  of  whole  parishes 
or  counties  to  clear  the  land  of  its  natural 
population,  and  substitute  for  it  any  largest 
number  of  antlered  wild  beasts  that  he 
may  choose   to   breed,  or  any  smallest 

this  country.  Those  who  are  altogether  unacquainted 
with  the  general  bearings  of  the  question  could  not  do 
better  than  consult  the  excellent  discourse  on  "The 
Law  and  Custom  of  Primogeniture,"  by  the  Hon.  S.  C. 
Brodrick,  in  **  Systems  of  Land  Tenure,"  published  by 
the  Cobden  Club,  London,  1876 ;  and  the  professional 
fttudent  will  also  note  particularly,  **V AncUnng  Cou- 
tume  d*  Normandu^^  French  and  Latin,  by  Laurence 
de  Gruchy,  Justiciary  of  the  Royal  Court  of  Jersey. 
Jersey,  1881. 


number  of  heartless  human  bipeds  that 
he  may  choose  to  import. 

Of  the  privileges  of  Jersey,  one  of  the 
most  notable  is  that  one  of  which  the  En- 
glish tourist  would  most  devoutly  wish  that 
it  should  be  deprived.  St.  Helier's  is  a  free 
port;  and  by  virtue  of  this  any  English 
traveller,  coming  from  the  island  to  South- 
ampton, must  submit  his  luggage  to  the 
inspection  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Custom 
House,  in  as  disagreeable  a  fashion  as  if 
he  were  entering  Austria,  or  the  sacro- 
sanct precincts  of  the  Roman  pope.  Nei- 
ther cigars  nor  eau-de^olo^ne  will  be 
allowed  to  pass  unquestioned  through  this 
bar;  and  whoever  considers  it  consistent 
with  the  character  of  a  good  citizen  to 
tell  or  to  act  lies  to  the  prejudice  of  the 
public  tax-gatherer,  will  find  a  favorable 
opportunity  here. 

Of  the  peculiarities  of  the  island  one 
of  the  most  characteristic,  in  an  ethno- 
logical point  of  view,  is  the  bilingual  char- 
acter of  the  population.  Neither  in  Wales, 
nor  in  Ireland,  nor  in  the  Scottish  High- 
lands, has  the  language  of  the  common 
people  asserted  itself  so  stoutly  alongside 
of  the  dialect  of  the  upper  classes,  as  in 
the  Channel  Islands.  The  reason  is  ob- 
vious. Society  in  Jersey  has  grown  natu- 
rally and  healthily  out  of  its  own  root, 
without  being  hindered  by  any  violently  im* 
posed  extraneous  civilization ;  but  Wales 
and  Ireland  suffered  equally,  though  in 
different  degrees,  the  curse  that  belongs 
to  conquest;  while  the  Scottish  High- 
lands, though  not  strictly  a  conquered 
country,  suffered  practically  similar  evils, 
first,  from  their  ill-advised  rebellions  in 
favor  of  a  dispossessed^dynasty ;  second- 
ly, from  the  compulsory  imposition  of  the 
feudal  law  upon  the  native  law  of  the  clan 
system  ;  and  thirdly,  from  the  elimination 
of  the  middle  classes  from  the  body  so- 
cial as  the  natural  sequence  of  the  exis- 
tence of  immense  properties  combined 
with  the  two  other  elements.  The  ab- 
sence of  these  depopularizing  influences 
in  the  Channel  Islands  has  preserved  the 
French  language,  not  only  among  the 
common  people,  but  as  the  language  of 
the  law  courts  and  the  Legislative  As- 
sembly. A  gross  anachronism,  most  En- 
glishmen would  be  inclined  to  say,  and  no 
small  hindrance  in  the  way  of  improve- 
ment. *'Not  at  all,"  I  heard  his  Excel- 
lency the  governor  declare  in  a  public 
meeting  for  the  distribution  of  school 
prizes;  it  is  practically  an  immense  ad- 
vantage for  a  Jersey  man  to  start  with  a 
bilingual  dexterity  in  two  such  useful  lan- 
guages   as    French   and    English;  and, 


672 

though  in  the  nature  of  things  the  French 
language  will  die  out  more  and  more,  it  is 
more  consistent  with  an  enlarged  policy 
to  treat  it  kindly,  while  it  lives,  than  to 
force  it  prematurely  out,  by  the  selfish 
laziness  which  is  the  nurse  of  apathy,  and 
the  shallow  ambition  which  anects  gen- 
tility. 

One  other  point  only  of  general  public 
interest  remains.  I  was  anxious,  when 
making  myself  for  a  season  at  home  in  a 
place  conveniently  situated  within  an  easy 
distance  of  France  and  England,  to  as- 
certain exactly  what  advantages  it  pre- 
sented to  strangers  travelling  in  pursuit 
of  health  or  recreation.  In  the  way  of 
recreation  certainly  the  island  of  Jersey 
does  not  offer  sucn  rich  fields  for  view- 
hunters,  scientific  explorers,  and  gymnasts 
of  all  kinds,  from  the  deer-stalker  down- 
wards, as  many  of  the  more  favored 
haunts  of  the  rusticating  and  locomotive 
world  ;  but  those  who  can  enjoy  a  bright 
sky,  a  mild  climate,  and  a  kindly  people, 
with  an  agreeable  variation  from  flitting 
guests,  will  find  that  they  can  live  with 
equal  elegance  and  considerably  more 
cheaply  at  St.  Helier*8  than  at  Brighton, 
or  in  any  other  elegant  resort  of  the  great 
colony  of  roving  Englishmen.  For  edu- 
cation there  is  an  admirable  school  or 
college  —  for  the  world  is  governed  by 
names  —  erected  in  these  latter  days,  to 
use  the  phrase  of  the  playbills,  under 
'*the  presence  and  patronage*'  of  her 
most  gracious  majesty  Queen  Victoria, 
whose  name  it  bears.  As  to  its  sanatory 
character,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
mildness  of  the  climate  is  favorable  to  all 

Eersons  laboring  under  chest  complaints, 
ronchitic  or  otherwise;  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  is  equally  certain  that  those 
whose  nervous  habitude  requires  the 
stimulant  of  a  keen  and  bracing  breeze 
will  be  wise  to  seek  restored  vigor  rather 
among  the  braes  of  Braemar  or  the  moors 
of  Strathspey  than  in  the  sun-fronting  Bay 
of  St.  Helier's  or  the  ferny  slopes  of  the 
Gr^ve-de-Lecq.  Terrible  things  have  been 
written  about  the  unfavorable  influences 
of  the  climate  of  Jersey  on  all  rheumatic 
complaints,  a  medical  gentleman  of  au- 
thority having  seriously  stated  that 
"among  the  people  in  the  rural  districts 
rheumatism  in  some  form  or  other  is  uni- 
versal after  the  age  of  thirty; *'♦  but  this 
remark,  it  will  be  observed,  applies  only 
to  the  laboring  classes  in  the  country, 
whose  avocations  expose  them  to  the  evil 


*  On   Health  and  Disease  in  Jersey,  by  Matthew 
Scholefield,  M.D.  and  M.B.  in  Inglis,  voL  i.,  chap.  xi. 


A  CURIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


influences  of  a  humid  climate  doing  nec- 
essary out-field  work  at  certain  seasons  of 
the  year.  Besides,  it  must  be  borne  in 
mina,  as  remarked  to  me  by  a  medical 
gentleman  now  practising  in  the  island, 
that  much  has  been  done  since  Inglis's 
day  in  the  way  of  widening  the  roads  and 
clearing  the  country  from  superfluous 
stores  of  moisture.  Certain  it  is  that  on 
a  visit  which  I  paid  to  Fort  Elizabeth,  at 
the  west  wing  of  the  Bay  of  St.  Helier*s, 
where,  as  in  Fort  Regent  on  the  other 
wing,  a  garrison  is  regularly  stationed,  a 
soldier  who  had  lived  three  years  in  the 
place  assured  me  that  he  had  not  known 
a  single  case  of  rheumatism  during  all 
that  time. 


From  The  Ai^gosy. 
A  CURIOUS  EXPERIENCE. 

What  I  am  about  to  tell  of  took  place 
during  the  last  year  of  John  Whitney's 
life,  now  many  years  ago.  We  could 
never  account  tor  it,  or  understand  it :  but 
it  occurred  (at  least,  so  far  as  our  experi- 
ence of  it  went)  just  as  I  relate  it. 

It  was  not  the  custom  for  schools  to 
give  a  long  holiday  at  Easter  then :  one 
week  at  most.  Dr.  Frost  allowed  us  from 
the  Thursday  in  Passion  week,  to  the 
following  Thursday;  and  many  of  the 
boys  spent  it  at  school. 

Easter  was  late  that  year,  and  the 
weather  lovely.  On  the  Wednesday  in 
Easter  week,  the  squire  and  Mrs.  Todhet- 
ley  drove  over  to  spend  the  day  at  Whit- 
ney Hall,  Tod  and  1  being  with  them. 
Sir  John  and  Lady  Whitney  were  begin- 
ning to  be  anxious  about  John's  health  — 
their  eldest  son.  He  had  been  ailing 
since  the  previous  Christmas,  and  he 
seemed  to  get  thinner  and  weaker.  It  was 
so  perceptible  when  he  got  home  from 
school  this  Easter,  that  Sir  John  put  him- 
self into  a  flurry  (he  was  just  like  the 
squire  in  that  and  in  many  another  way), 
and  sent  an  express  to  Wcycester  u>r 
Henry  Carden,  asking  him  to  bring  Dr. 
Hastings  with  him.  They  came.  John 
wanted  care,  they  said,  and  they  could  not 
discover  any  specific  disease  at  present. 
As  to  his  returning  to  school,  they  both 
thought  that  question  might  be  left  with 
the  boy  himself.  John  told  them  he  should 
prefer  to  go  back,  and  laughed  a  little  at 
this  fuss  being  made  over  him  :  he  ^faould 
soon  be  all  right,  he  said ;  people  were 
apt  to  loose  strength  more  or  less  in  the 
spring.    He  was  sixteen  then,  a  ^lendery 


A  CURIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


upright  boy,  with  a  delicate,  thoughtful 
face,  dreamy,  grey-blue  eyes,  and  brown 
hair,  and  he  was  ever  gentle,  sweet-tem- 
pered, and  considerate.  Sir  John  related 
to  the  squire  what  the  doctors  had  said, 
avowinor  that  he  could  not  "  make  much 
out  of  it." 

In  the  afternoon,  when  we  were  out  of 
doors  on  the  lawn  in  the  hot  sunshine 
listenincr  to  the  birds  singing  and  the 
cuckoo  calling,  Featherston  came  in,  the 
local  doctor,  who  saw  John  nearly  every 
day.  He  was  a  tall,  grey,  hard-worked 
man,  with  a  face  of  care.  After  talking  a 
few  moments  with  John  and  his  mother, 
he  turned  to  the  rest  of  us' on  the  grass. 
The  squire  and  Sir  John  were  sitting  on  a 
garden  bench,  some  wine  and  lemonade 
on  a  little  table  between  them.  Feathers- 
ton  shook  hands. 

"Will  you  take  some?'*  asked  Sir 
John. 

**  I  don't  mind  a  glass  of  lemonade  with 
a  dash  of  sherry  in  it,"  answered  Feath- 
erston, lifting  his  hat  to  rub  his  brow.  "  I 
have  been  walking  beyond  Goose  Brook 
and  back,  and  upon  my  word  it  is  as  hot 
as  midsummer." 

"  Ay,  *lis,"  assented  Sir  John.  "  Help 
yourself,  doctor." 

He  filled  a  tumbler  with  what  he  want- 
ed, brought  it  over  to  the  opposite  bench, 
and  sat  down  by  Mrs.  Todhetley.  John 
and  his  mother  were  at  the  other  end  of 
it ;  I  sat  on  the  arm.  The  rest  of  them, 
with  Helen  and  Anna,  had  gone  strolling 
away ;  to  the  North  Pole,  for  all*  we 
knew. 

"John  still  says  he  shall  go  back  to 
school,"  began  Lady  Whitney,  to  Feath- 
erston. 

"Ay;  to-morrow's  the  day,  isn't  it, 
John  ?  Black  Thursday,  some  of  you  boys 
call  it." 

"  I  like  school,"  said  John. 

"Almost  a  pity,  though,"  continued 
Featherston,  looking  up  and  about  him. 
"  To  be  out  at  will  all  day  in  this  soft  air, 
under  the  blue  skies  and  the  healing  sun- 
beams, might  be  of  more  benefit  to  you. 
Master  John,  than  being  cooped  up  in  a 
close  schoolroom." 

"  You  hear,  John  !  "  cried  Lady  Whit- 
ney. "  I  wish  you  would  persuade  him  to 
take  a  longer  rest  at  home,  Mr.  Feathers- 
ton ! " 

Mr.  Featherston  stooped  for  his  tum- 
bler, which  he  had  lodged  on  the  smooth 
grass,  and  took  another  drink  at  it  before 
replying.  "  If  you  and  John  would  follow 
my  advice.  Lady  Whitney,  I'd  be  happy 
to  give  it." 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2279 


c< 


*  Yes  ?  "  cried  she,  all  eagerness. 
Take  John  somewhere  for  a  fortnight, 
and  let  him  go  back  to  school  at  the  end," 
said  the  surgeon.    "That  would  do  him 
good." 

"  Why  of  course  it  would,"  called  out 
Sir  John,  who  had  been  listening.  **  And 
I  say  it  shall  be  done.  John,  my  boy,  you 
and  your  mother  shall  go  to  the  seaside  — 
to  Aberystwith." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  I  should  quite  say 
that,  Sir  John,"  said  Featherston  again. 
"The  seaside  would  be  all  very  well  in 
this  warm  weather;  but  it  may  not  last,  it 
may  change  to  cold  and  frost.  I  should 
suggest  one  of  the  inland  watering-places, 
as  they  are  called :  where  there's  a  spa, 
and  a  pump-room,  and  a  parade,  and  lots 
of  gay  company.  It  would  be  lively  for 
him.  and  a  thorough  change." 

"  What  a  nice  idea  ! "  cried  Lady  Whit- 
ney, who  was  the  most  unsophisticated 
woman  in  the  world.  "  Such  as  Pump- 
water." 

"  Such  as  Pumpwater :  the  very  place,** 
agreed  Featherston.  "  Well,  were  I  you, 
my  lady,  I  would  try  it  for  a  couple  of 
weeks.  Let  John  take  a  companion  with 
him;  one  of  his  schoolfellows.  Here's 
Johnny  Ludlow:  he  might  do." 

"  I'd  rather  have  Johnny  Ludlow  than 
anybody,"  said  John. 

Remarking  that  his  time  was  trp^  for  a 
patient  waited  for  him,  and  that  he  must 
leave  us  to  settle  the  question,  Feathers- 
ton took  his  departure.  But  it  arppeared 
to  be  settled  already. 

"  Johnny  can  go,"  spoke  up  the  squire, 
"The  loss  of  a  fortnight's  lessons  is  not 
much,  compared  with  doing  a  littleservice 
to  a  friend.  Charming  spots  are  those  in- 
land watering-place.s,  and  Pumpwater  is 
about  the  best  of  them  all." 

"We  must  get  lodgings,"  said  Lady 
Whitney  presently,  when  they  had  done 
expatiating  upon  the  gauds  and  glories  of 
Pumpwater.  "To  stay  at  ar>  hotel  would 
be  so  noisy;  and  expensive  besides." 

"  I  know  of  some,"  cried  Mrs.  Todhet- 
ley, in  sudden  thought.  "  If  you  could 
get  into  Miss  Gay's  rooms,  you  would  be 
well  off.  Do  you  remember  them?"  — 
turning  to  the  squire.  "  We  stayed  at  her 
house  on  our  way  from  —  " 

"  Why,  bless  me,  to  be  sure  I  do,"  he 
interrupted.  "  Somebody  had  given  us 
Miss  Gay's  address,  and  we  drove  straight 
to  it  to  see  if  she  had  rooms  at  liberty; 
she  had,  and  took  us  in  at  once.  We 
were  so  comfortable  there  that  we  stayed 
at  Pumpwater  three  days  instead  of  two." 

It  was  hastily  decided  that  Mrs.  Tod- 


674 

hetley  should  write  to  Miss  Gay,  and  she 
went  in-doors  to  do  so.  All  being  well, 
Lady  Whitney  meant  to  start  on  Satur- 
day. 

Miss  Gay's  answer  came  punctually, 
reaching  Whitney  Hall  on  Friday  morn- 
ing. It  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Todhetley, 
but  Lady  Whitney,  as  had  been  arranged, 
opened  it.  Miss  Gay  wrote  that  she 
should  be  much  pleased  to  receive  Lady 
Whitney.  Her  house,  as  it  chanced,  was 
then  quite  empty;  a  family,  who  had  been 
with  her  six  weeks,  had  just  left :  so  Lady 
Whitney  might  take  her  choice  of  the 
rooms,  which  she  would  keep  vacant  until 
Saturday.  In  conclusion,  she  begged 
Mrs.  Todhetley  to  notice  that  her  address 
was  changed.  The  old  house  was  too 
small  to  accommodate  the  many  kind 
friends  who  patronized  her,  and  she  had 
moved  into  a  larger  house,  superior  to  the 
other  and  in  the  best  position. 

Thus  all  things  seemed  to  move  smooth- 
ly for  our  expedition  ;  and  we  departed  by 
train  on  the  Saturday  morning  for  Pump- 
water. 

It  was  a  handsome  house,  standing  in 
the  highroad,  between  the  parade  and 
the  principal  street,  and  rather  different 
from  the  houses  on  each  side  it,  inasmuch 
as  that  it  was  detached  and  had  a  narrow 
slip  of  gravelled  ground  in  front.  In  fact, 
it  looked  too  large  and  handsome  for  a 
lodging-house;  and  Lady  Whitney,  re- 
garding it  from  the  fly  which  had  brought 
us  from  the  station,  wondered  whether  the 
driver  had  made  a  mistake.  It  was  built 
of  red  brick,  with  ornamental  white  stone 
facings ;  the  door,  set  in  a  pillared  portico, 
stood  in  the  middle,  and  three  rooms, 
each  with  a  bay  window,  lay  one  above 
another  on  both  sides. 

But  in  a  moment  we  saw  it  was  all 
right.  A  slight,  fair  woman,  in  a  slate  silk 
gown,  came  running  out  and  announced 
herself  as  Miss  Gay.  She  had  a  mild, 
pleasant  voice,  and  a  mild,  pleasant  face, 
with  light  falling  curls,  the  fashion  then 
for  everybody,  and  she  wore  a  lace  cap 
trimmed  with  pink.  I  took  to  her  and  to 
her  face  at  once. 

"  I  am  glad  to  be  here,"  said  Lady 
Whitney  cordially,  in  answer  to  Miss 
Gay's  welcome.  *'  Is  there  any  one  who 
can  help  with  the  luggage  ?  We  have  not 
brought  either  man  or  maidservant." 

**  Oh  dear  yes,  my  lady.  Please  let  me 
show  you  indoors,  and  then  leave  all  to 
me.  Susannah  !  —  Oh,  here  you  are,  Su- 
sannah !  Where's  Charity  ? —  my  cousin 
and  chief  helpmate,  my  lady." 


A  CURIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


A  tall,  dark  person,  about  Miss  Gay's 
own  age,  which  might  be  forty,  wearing 
brown  ribbon  in  her  hair  and  a  purple 
bow  at  her  throat,  dropped  a  curtsey  to 
Lady  Whitney.  This  was  Susannah.  She 
looked  strong-minded  and  capable.  Char- 
ity, who  came  running  up  the  kitchen 
stairs,  was  a  smiling  young  woman-ser- 
vant, with  a  coarse  apron  tied  round  her, 
and  red  arms  bared  to  the  elbow. 

There  were  four  sitting-rooms  on  the 
ground  floor;  two  in  front,  with  their 
large  bay  windows;  two  at  the  back,  look- 
ing out  upon  some  bright,  semi-public 
gardens. 

"  A  delightful  house  !"  exclaimed  Lady 
Whitney  to  Miss  Gay,  after  she  had 
looked  about  a  little.  '*  I  will  take  one  of 
these  front  rooms  for  our  sitting-room," 
she  added,  entering,  haphazard,  the  one  on 
the  right  of  the  entrance  hall,  and  putting 
down  her  bag  and  parasol.  **This  one,  I 
think.  Miss  Gay." 

"Very  good,  my  lady.  And  will  you 
now  be  pleased  to  walk  up-stairs  and  fix 
upon  the  bedrooms?" 

Lady  Whitney  seemed  to  fancy  the 
front  of  the  house.  **  This  room  shall  be 
my  son's ;  and  I  should  like  to  have  the 
opposite  one  for  myself,"  she  said,  rather 
hesitatingly,  knowing  they  must  be  the 
two  best  chambers  of  all.  "  Can  I,  Miss 
Gay  ?  " 

Miss  Gay  seemed  quite  willing.  We 
were  in  the  room  over  our  sitting-room  on 
the  right  of  the  house  looking  to  the 
front*  The  objection,  if  it  could  be  called 
one,  came  from  Susannah. 

•*  You  can  have  the  other  room,  certain- 
ly, my  lady;  but  I  think  the  young  gen- 
tleman would  find  this  one  noisy,  with  all 
the  carriages  and  carts  that  pass  by,  night 
and  morning.  The  back  rooms  are  much 
more  quiet.'' 

"But  I  like  noise,"  put  in  John;  "it 
seems  like  company  to  me.  If  I  could  do 
as  I  would,  I'd  never  sleep  in  the  coun- 
try." 

"One  of  the  back  rooms  is  very  lively, 
sir;  it  has  a  view  of  the  turning  to  the 
pump-room,"  persisted  Susannah,  a  kind 
of  suppressed  eagerness  in  her  tone  ;  and 
it  struck  me  that  she  did  not  want  John 
to  have  this  front  chamber.  "  I  think  you 
would  like  it  best." 

"No,"  said  John,  turning  round  from 
the  window,  out  of  which  he  had  been 
looking,  "  I  will  have  this.  I  shall  like  to 
watch  the  shops  down  that  turning  oppo- 
site, and  the  people  who  go  into  them." 

No  more  was  said.  John  took  this 
chamber,  which  was  over  our  sitting-room. 


A   CURIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


Lady  Whitney  had  the  other  front  cham- 
ber, and  I  bad  a  very  good  one  at  the 
back  of  John's.  And  thus  we  settled 
down. 

Pumpwater  is  a  nice  place,  as  you  would 
know  if  I  gave  its  proper  name,  bright 
and  gay,  and  our  house  was  in  the  best  of 
situations.  The  principal  street,  with  its 
handsome  shops,  lay  to  our  right ;  the 
parade,  leading  to  the  spa  and  pump- 
room,  to  our  left,  and  company  and  car* 
riages  were  continually  passing  by.  We 
visited  some  of  the  shops  and  took  a  look 
at  the  pump-room. 

In  the  evening,  when  tea  was  over.  Miss 
Gay  came  in  to  speak  of  the  breakfast. 
Lady  Whitney  asked  her  to  sit  down  for 
a  little  chat.  She  wanted  to  ask  about  the 
churches. 

"What  a  very  nice  house  this  is!" 
again  observed  Lady  Whitney  presently: 
for  the  more  she  saw  of  it,  the  better  she 
found  it.  "  You  must  pay  a  high  rent  for 
it.  Miss  Gay." 

**  Not  so  high  as  your  ladyship  might 
think,"  was  the  answer;  "not  high  at  all 
for  what  it  is.  I  paid  sixty  pounds  for  the 
little  house  I  used  to  be  in,  and  1  pay  only 
seventy  for  this." 

"Only  seventy!"  echoed  Lady  Whit- 
ney, in  surprise.  "How  is  it  you  get  it 
so  cheaply?" 

A  wagonette,  full  of  people,  was  pass- 
ing just  then;  Miss  Gay  seemed  to  want 
to  watch  it  by  before  she  answered.  We 
were  sitting  in  the  dusk  with  the  blinds 
up. 

"  For  one  thing,  it  had  been  standing 
empty  for  some  time,  and  I  suppose  Mr. 
Bone,  the  agent,  was  glad  to  have  my 
ofiEer,"  replied  Miss  Gay,  who  seemed  to 
be  as  fond  of  talking  as  anybody  else  is, 
once  set  on.  "It  had  belonged  to  a  good 
old  family,  my  lady,  but  they  got  embar- 
rassed and  put  it  up  for  sale  some  six  or 
seven  years  ago.  A  Mr.  Calson  bought 
it.  He  had  come  to  Pumpwater  about 
that  time  from  foreign  lands;  and  he  and 
his  wife  settled  down  in  the  house.  A 
puny,  weakly  little  woman  she  was,  who 
seemed  to  get  weaklier  instead  of  stronger, 
and  in  a  year  or  two  she  died.  After  her 
death  her  husband  got  ill;  he  went  away 
for  change  of  air,  and  died  in  London ; 
and  the  house  was  left  to  a  little  nephew 
living  over  in  Australia." 

"  And  has  the  house  been  vacant  ever 
since?"  asked  John. 

"  No,  sir.  At  first  it  was  let  furnished, 
thefn  unfurnished.  But  it  had  been  vacant 
some  little  time  when  I  applied  to  Mr. 
Bone.    I  conclude  he  thought  it  better  to 


I 


let  it  at  a  low  rent  than  for  it  to  stand 
empty." 

"It  must  cost  you  incessant  care  and 
trouble,  Miss  Gay,  to  conduct  a  house 
like  this  —  when  you  are  full,"  remarked 
Lady  Whitney. 

"It  does,"  she  answered.  "  One's  work 
seems  never  done  —  and  I  cannot,  at  that, 
give  satisfaction  to  all.  Ah,  my  lady, 
what  a  difference  there  is  in  people !  — 
ou  would  never  think  it.  Some  are  so 
ind  and  considerate  to  me,  so  anxious 
not  to  give  trouble  unduly,  and  so  satis- 
fied with  all  I  do  that  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
serve  them  :  while  others  make  gratuitous 
work  and  trouble  from  morning  till  night, 
and  treat  me  as  if  I  were  just  a  dog 
under  their  feet.  Of  course  when  we  are 
full  I  have  another  servant  in,  two  some- 
times." 

"  Even  that  must  leave  a  great  deal  for 
yourself  to  do  and  see  to." 

"The  back  is  always  fitted  to  the  bur- 
den," sighed  Miss  Gay.  "  My  father  was 
a  farmer  in  this  county,  as  his  ancestors 
had  been  before  him,  farming  his  three 
hundred  acres  of  land,  and  looked  upon 
as  a  man  of  substance.  My  mother  made 
the  butter,  saw  to  the  poultry,  and  super- 
intended generally  her  household  :  and  we 
children  helped  her.  Farmers' daughters 
then  did  not  spend  their  days  in  playing 
the  piano  and  doing  fancy  work,  or  expect 
to  be  waited  upon  like  ladies  born." 

"They  do  now,  though,"  said  Lady 
Whitney. 

"So  I  was  ready  to  turn  my  hand  to 
anything  when  hard  times  came  —  not 
that  I  had  thought  I  should  have  to  do 
it,"  continued  Miss  Gay.  "Hut  my  fa- 
ther's means  dwindled  down.  Prosperity 
gave  way  to  adversity.  Crops  failed ;  the 
stock  died  off;  two  of  my  brothers  fell 
into  trouble  and  it  cost  a  mint  of  money 
to  extricate  them.  Altogether,  when  fa- 
ther died,  but  little  of  his  savings  remained 
to  us.  Mother  took  a  house  in  the  town 
here,  to  let  lodgings,  and  I  came  with  her. 
She  is  dead,  my  lady,  and  I  am  left." 

The  silent  tears  were  running  down 
poor  Miss  Gay's  cheeks. 

"It. is  a  life  of  struggle,  I  am  sure," 
spoke  Lady  Whitney  gently.  "And  not 
deseVved,  Miss  Gay." 

"  But  there's  another  life  to  come," 
spoke  John,  in  a  half  whisper,  turning  to 
Miss  Gay  from  his  favorite  ground,  the 
large  bay-window.  "  None  of  us  will  be 
overworked  M^r^." 

Miss  Gay  stealthily  wiped  her  cheeks. 
*•  I  do  not  repine,"  she  said  humbly.  "  I 
have  been  enabled  to  rub  on  and  keep  my 


676 

head  above  water,  and  to  provide  little 
comforts  for  mother  in  her  need;  and  1 
gratefully  thank  God  for  it." 

The  bells  of  the  churches,  ringing  out 
at  eight  o'clock,  called  us  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. Lady  Whitney  was  downstairs  first, 
I  next.  Susannah,  who  waited  upon  us, 
had  brought  up  the  breakfast.  John  fol- 
lowed me  in. 

"  I  hope  you  have  slept  well,  my  boy," 
said  Lady  Whitney,  kissing  him.  ^*  I 
have." 

"  So  have  I,"  I  put  in. 

"Then  you  and  the  mother  make  up 
for  me,  Johnny,"  he  said;  "for  I  have  not 
slept  at  all." 

"  Oh  John  ! "  exclaimed  his  mother. 

"  Not  a  wink  all  night  long,"  added 
John.  "  I  can't  think  what  was  the  mat- 
ter with  me." 

Susannah,  then  stooping  to  get  the 
sugar  basin  out  of  the  sideboard,  rose, 
turned  sharply  round  and  fixed  her  eyes 
on  John.  So  curious  an  expression  was 
on  her  face  that  I  could  but  notice  it. 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  was  the  noise, 
sir.^"  she  said  to  him.  "I  knew  that 
room  would  be  too  noisy  for  you." 

**  Why  the  room  was  as  auiet  as  could 
be,"  he  answered.  "A  tew  carriages 
rolled  by  last  night  —  and  I  liked  to  hear 
them ;  but  that  was  all  over  before  mid- 
night ;  and  I  have  heard  none  this  morn- 
ing." 

'*  Well,  sir,  Tm  sure  you  would  be  more 
comfortable  in  a  back  room,"  contended 
Susannah. 

•*  It  was  a  strange  bed,"  said  John.  "  I 
shall  sleep  all  the  sounder  to-night." 

Breakfast  was  half  over  when  John 
found  he  had  left  his  watch  up-stairs,  on 
the  chest  of  drawers.     I  went  to  fetch  it. 

The  chamber  door  was  open,  and  I 
stepped  to  the  drawers,  which  stood  just 
inside.  Miss  Gay  and  Susannah  were 
making  the  bed  and  talking,  too  busy  to 
see  or  hear  me.  A  lot  of  things  lay  on 
the  white  cloth,  and  at  first  I  could  not 
see  the  watch. 

"  He  declares  he  has  not  slept  at  all; 
ftoi  at  all^^  Susannah  was  saying  with 
emphasis.  "If  you  had  only  seconded 
me  yesterday,  Harriet,  they  need  not  have 
had  this  room.  But  you  never  made  a 
word  of  objection ;  you  gave  in  at  once." 

"  Well,  I  saw  no  cause  to  make  it,"  said 
Miss  Gay  mildly.  "  If  I  were  to  give  in 
to  your  fancies,  Susannah,  I  might  as  well 
shut  up  the  room.  Visitors  must  get  used 
to  it." 

The  watch  had  been  partly  hidden  un- 


A   CURIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


der  one  of  John's,  neckties.     I  caagbt  it 
up  and  decamped. 

We  went  to  church  after  breakfast. 
The  first  hymn  sung  was  that  nice  one 
beginning,  "  Brief  life." 

Brief  life  is  here  our  portion ; 

Brief  sorrow,  short-lived  care : 
The  life  that  knows  no  ending. 

The  tearless  life  is  there. 

As  the  verses  went  on,  John  touched 
my  elbow:  "Miss  Gay,"  he  whispered; 
his  eyelashes  moist  with  the  melody  of 
the  music.  I  have  often  thought  since 
that  we  might  have  seen  by  these  very 
moods  of  John  —  his  thoughts  bent  upOQ 
Heaven  more  than  upon  earth  —  that  his 
life  was  swiftly  passing. 

There^s  not  much  to  tell  of  that  Sunday. 
We  dined  in  the  middle  of  the  day ;  JohQ 
fell  asleep  after  dinner ;  and  in  the  even- 
ing we  attended  church  again.  And  I 
think  everybody  was  ready  for  bed  when 
bedtime  came.     I  know  I  was. 

Therefore  it  was  all  the  more  surprisin^^ 
when,  the  next  morning,  John  said  he  had 
again  not  slept. 

"What,  not  at  all!"  exclaimed  his 
mother. 

"  No,  not  at  all.  As  I  went  to  bed,  so 
I  got  up  —  sleepless." 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!  "  cried 
Lady  Whitnev.  "  Perhaps,  John,  you  were 
too  tired  to  sleep?" 

"  Something  of  that,"  he  answered.  "  I 
felt  both  tired  and  sleepy  when  I  got  into 
bed  ;  particularly  so.  But  I  got  no  sleep : 
not  a  wink.  I  could  not  lie  still,  either; 
I  was  frightfully  restless  all  night ;  just  as 
I  was  the  night  before.  I  suppose  it  can*t 
be  the  bed  ?  " 

"Is  the  bed  not  comfortable?"  asked 
his  mother. 

"  It  seems  as  comfortable  a  bed  as  can 
be  when  I  first  lie  down  in  it.  And  thea 
I  get  restless  and  uneasy." 

"  It  must  be  the  restlessness  of  extreme 
fatigue,"  said  Lady  Whitney.  "  I  fear 
the  journey  was  rather  too  much  for  you, 
my  dear." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  all  right  as  soon  as  I 
can  sleep,  mamma." 

We  had  a  surprise  that  morning.  John 
and  I  were  standing  before  a  tart-shop, 
our  eyes  glued  to  the  window,  when  a 
voice  behind  us  called  out,  "  Don't  they 
look  nice,  boys !  "  Turning  round,  there 
stood  Henry  Garden  of  Worcester,  arm- 
in-arm  with  a  little  white-haired  gentleman. 
Lady  Whitney,  in  at  the  fishmonger's  next 
door,  came  out  while  he  was  shaking  hands 
with  us. 


A   CURIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


*'  Dear  me  !  —  is  it  you  ?  "  she  cried  to 
Mr.  Garden. 

**  Ay/*  said  he  in  his  pleasant  manner, 
'*  here  am  I  at  Pumpwater !  Come  all 
this  way  to  spend  a  couple  of  days  with 
ray  old  friend:  Dr.  Tambourine,"  added 
the  surgeon,  introducing  him  to  Lady 
Whitney.  Anyway,  that  was  the  name 
she  understood  him  to  say.  John  thought 
he  said  Tamarind,  and  1  Carrafin.  The 
street  was  noisy. 

The  doctor  seemed  to  be  chatty  and 
courteous,  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school. 
He  said  his  wife  should  do  herself  the 
honor  of  calling  upon  Lady  Whitney  if 
agreeable;  Lady  Whitney  replied  that  it 
would  be.  He  and  Mr.  Garden,  who 
would  be  starting  for  Worcester  by  train 
that  afternoon,  walked  with  us  up  the 
parade  to  the  pump  room.  How  a  chance 
meeting  like  this  in  a  strange  place  makes 
one  feel  at  home  in  it! 

The  name  turned  out  to  be  Paraiin. 
Mrs.  Parafin  called  early  in  the  afternoon, 
on  her  way  to  some  entertainment  at  the 
pump-room :  a  chatty,  pleasant  woman, 
younger  than  her  husband.  He  had  re- 
tired from  practice,  and  they  lived  in  a 
white  villa  outside  the  town. 

And  what  with  looking  at  the  shops, 
and  parading  up  and  down  the  public 
walks,  and  the  entertainment  at  the  pump- 
room,  to  which  we  went  with  Mrs.  Parafin, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  we  felt  uncommonly 
sleepy  when  night  came,  and  were  begin- 
ning to  regard  Pumpwater  as  a  sort  of 
Eden. 

"Johnny,  have  you  slept?" 

I  was  brushing  my  hair  at  the  glass, 
under  the  morning  sun,  when  John  Whit- 
ney, half-dressed,  and  pale  and  languid, 
opened  my  door  and  thus  accosted  me. 

"  Yes ;  like  a  top.  Why  ?  Is  anything 
the  matter,  John  ?  " 

"See  here,**  said  he,  sinking  into  the 
easy-chair  by  the  fireplace,  "  it  is  an  odd 
thing,  but  I  have  again  not  slept.  1  can^i 
sleep." 

I  put  my  back  against  the  dressing-table 
and  stood  looking  down  at  him,  brush  in 
hand.  Not  slept  again  I  It  was  an  odd 
thing. 

"  But  what  can  be  the  cause,  John  ?" 

"  1  am  beginning  to  think  it  must  be  the 
room." 

"  How  can  it  be  the  room  ?  " 

"  1  don't  know.  There's  nothing  the 
matter  with  the  room  that  I  can  see ;  it 
seems  well  ventilated  ;  the  chimney's  not 
stopped  up.  Yet  this  is  the  third  night 
that  1  cannot  get  to  sleep  in  it." 


677 

"  But  why  can  you  not  get  to  sleep  ?  "  I 
persisted. 

"  I  say  I  don't  know  why.  Each  night 
I  have  been  as  sleepy  as  possible  ;  last 
night  I  could  hardly  undress  1  was  so 
sleepy;  but  no  sooner  am  I  in  bed  than 
sleep  goes  right  away  from  me.  Not  only 
that;  I  get  terribly  restless." 

Weighing  the  problem  this  way  and 
that,  an  idea  struck  me. 

"John,  do  you  think  it  is  nervousness  ?  " 

"  How  can  it  be?  I  never  was  nervous 
in  my  life.** 

"  I  mean  this :  not  sleeping  the  first 
night,  you  may  have  got  nervous  about  it 
the  second  and  third.** 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  have  been 
nothing  of  the  kind,  Johnny.  But  look 
here:  I  hardly  see  what  1  am  to  do.  I 
cannot  go  on  like  this  without  sleep ;  yet, 
if  I  tell  the  mother  again,  she'll  say  the 
air  of  the  place  does  not  suit  me  and  run 
away  from  it " 

"Suppose  we  change  rooms  tonight, 
John  ?  "  1  interrupted.  "  I  can't  think  but 
you  would  sleep  here.  H  you  do  not, 
why  it  must  be  the  air  of  Pumpwater,  and 
the  sooner  you  are  out  of  it  the  better." 

"You'd  not  mind  changing  rooms  for 
one  night?"  he  said  wistfully. 

"Mind!  Why  I  shall  be  the  gainer. 
Yours  is  the  best  room  of  the  two." 

At  that  it  was  settled ;  nothing  to  be 
said  to  anybody  about  the  bargain.  We 
did  not  want  to  be  kidnapped  out  of 
Pumpwater  —  and  Lady  Whitney  had 
promised  us  a  night  at  the  theatre. 

Two  or  three  more  acquaintances  were 
made,  or  found  out,  that  day.  Old  Lady 
Scott  heard  of  us,  and  came  to  call  on 
Lady  Whitney;  they  used  to  be  intimate. 
She  introduced  some  people  at  the  pump- 
room.  Altogether,  it  seemed  that  we 
should  not  lack  society. 

Night  came ;  and  John  and  I  went  up- 
stairs together.  He  undressed  in  his  own 
room,  and  I  in  mine;  and  then  we  made 
the  exchange.  1  saw  him  into  my  bed 
and  wished  him  a  good  night. 

"Good-night,  Johnny,"  he  answered. 
"  I  hope  you*  will  sleep.'* 

"  Little  doubt  of  that,  John.  I  always 
sleep  when  1  have  nothing  to  trouble  me. 
A  very  good  night  to  j'^?//." 

I  had  nothing  to  trouble  me,  and  I  was 
as  sleepy  as  could  be;  and  yet,  I  did  not 
and  could  not  sleep.  I  lay  quiet  as  usual 
after  getting  into  bed,  yielding  to  the  ex- 
pected sleep,  and  I  shut  my  eyes  and 
never  thought  but  it  was  coming. 

Instead  of  that,  came  restlessness.  A 
strange  restlessness  quite  foreign  to  me. 


678 

persistent  and  unaccountable.  I  tossed 
and  turned  from  side  to  side,  and  I  had 
not  had  a  wink  of  sleep  at  morning  light, 
nor  any  symptom  of  it.  Was  I  getting 
nervous?  Had  I  let  the  feeling  creep 
over  me  that  I  had  suggested  to  John  ? 
No;  not  that  I  was  aware  of.  What 
could  it  be? 

Un refreshed  and  weary,  I  got  up  at  the 
usual  hour,  and  stole  silently  into  the 
other  room.  John  was  in  a  deep  sleep, 
his  calm  face  lying  still  upon  the  pillow. 
Though  I  made  no  noise,  my  presence 
awoke  him. 

"Oh  Johnny! "he  exclaimed,  *M  have 
bad  such  a  night." 

"  Bad  ?  " 

•*  No ;  ;f^«%7//.  I  went  to  sleep  at  once 
and  never  woke  till  now.  It  has  done  me 
a  world  of  good.     And  you  ?  " 

"I?  Oh  well,  I  don't  think  I  slept 
quite  as  well  as  I  did  here ;  it  was  a  strange 
bed,"  I  answered  carelessly. 

The  next  night  the  same  plan  was  car- 
ried out,  he  taking  my  bed,  I  his.  And 
again  John  slept  through  it,  while  I  did 
not  sleep  at  alL  I  said  nothing  about  it : 
John  VVhitney's  comfort  was  of  more  im- 
portance than  mine. 

The  third  night  came.  This  night  we 
had  been  to  the  theatre,  and  had  laughed 
ourselves  hoarse,  and  been  altogether  de- 
lighted. No  sooner  was  I  in  bed,  and 
feeling  dead  asleep,  than  the  door  slowly 
opened  and  in  came  Lady  Whitney,  a 
candle  in  one  hand,  a  wineglass  in  the 
other. 

**  John,  my  dear,"  she  began, "  your  tonic 
was  forgotten  this  evening.  I  think  you 
had  better  take  it  now.  Featherston  said, 
you  know  —  good  gracious !  "  she  broke 
off.     "  Why,  it  is  Johnny ! " 

I  could  hardly  speak  for  laughing,  her 
face  presented  such  a  picture  of  aston- 
ishment. Sitting  up  in  bed,  I  told  her 
all ;  there  was  no  help  for  it :  that  we  had 
exchanged  beds,  John  not  having  been 
able  to  sleep  in  this  one. 

"And  do  you  sleep  well  in  it?"  she 
asked. 

"No,  not  yet.  But  I  feel,  very  sleepy 
to-night,  dear  Lady  Whitney." 

"  Well,  you  are  a  good  lad,  Johnny,  to 
do  this  for  him  ;  and  to  say  nothing  about 
it,"  she  concluded,  as  she  went  away  with 
the  candle  and  the  tonic. 

Dead  asleep  though  I  was,  I  could  not 
get  to  sleep.  It  would  be  simply  useless 
to  try  to  aescribe  my  sensations.  Each 
succeeding  night  they  had  been  more 
marked.  A  strange,  discomforting  rest- 
lessness pervaded  me;  a  feeling  of  un- 


A   CURIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


easiness,  I  could  not  tell  why  or  where- 
fore. I  saw  nothing  uncanny,  I  heard 
nothing;  nevertheless,  I  felt  just  as  though 
some  uncanny  presence  was  in  the  room, 
imparting  a  sense  of  semi-terror.  Once 
or  twice,  when  1  nearly  dozed  off  from 
sheer  weariness,  I  started  up  in  real  ter- 
ror, wide  awake  again,  my  hair  and  face 
damp  with  a  nameless  fright. 

I  told  this  at  breakfast,  in  answer  to 
Lady  Whitney*s  questions:  John  con- 
fessed that  precisely  the  same  sensations 
had  attacked  him  the  three  nights  he  lay 
in  the  bed.  Lady  Whitney  declared  she 
never  heard  the  like;  and  she  kept  look- 
ing at  us  alternately,  as  if  doubting  what 
could  be  the  matter  with  us,  or  whether 
we  had  taken  .scarlet  fever. 

On  this  morning,  Friday,  a  letter  came 
from  Sir  John,  saying  that  Featherston 
was  coming  to  Puropwater.  Anxious  on 
the  score  of  his  son,  he  was  sending 
Featherston  to  see  him,  and  take  back  a 
report.  "I  think  he  would  stay  a  couple 
of  days  if  you  made  it  convenient  to  en- 
tertain him,  and  it  would  be  a  little  holi- 
day for  the  poor  hard-worked  man,"  wrote 
Sir  John,  who  was  just  as  kind-hearted  as 
his  wife. 

"To  be  sure  I  will,"  said  Lady  Whit- 
ney.  "  He  shall  have  that  room ;  I  dare 
say  he  won*t  say  he  cannot  sleep  in  it :  it 
will  be  more  comfortable  for  him  than 
getting  a  bed  at  an  hotel.  Susannah  shall 
put  a  small  bed  into  the  back  room  for 
Johnny.  And  when  Featherston  is  gone, 
I  will  take  the  room  myself.  1  am  not 
like  you  two  silly  boys  —  afraid  of  lying 
awake." 

Mr.  Featherston  arrived  late  that  even- 
ing, with  his  grey  face  of  care  and  his 
thin  frame.  He  said  he  could  hardly  re- 
call the  time  when  he  had  had  as  much  as 
two  days'  holiday,  and  thanked  Lady  Whit- 
ney for  receiving  him.  That  night  John 
and  I  occupied  the  back  room,  having  con- 
ducted Featherston  in  state  to  the  front, 
with  two  candles;  and  both  of  us  slept  ex- 
cellently well. 

At  breakfast  Featherston  began  talking 
about  the  air.  He  had  always  believed 
Pumpwater  to  have  a  rather  soporific  air, 
but  supposed  he  must  be  mistaken.  Any- 
way, it  had  kept  him  awake;  and  it  was 
not  a  little  that  did  that  for  him. 

"  Did  you  not  sleep  well  ?  '*  asked  Lady 
Whitney. 

"  I  did  not  sleep  at  all;  did  not  get  a 
wink  of  it  all  night  long.  Never  mind,  my 
lady,"  he  added  with  a  good-natured 
laugh,  "  1  shall  sleep  all  the  sounder  to- 
night." 


A  CURIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


Bat  he  did  not.  The  next  morning 
(Sunday)  he  looked  grave  and  tired,  and 
eat  his  breakfast  almost  in  silence.  When 
we  bad  finished,  he  said  he  should  like, 
with  Lady  Whitney's  permission,  to  speak 
to  the  landlady.  Miss  Gay  came  in  at 
once :  in  a  light  fresh  print  gown  and 
black  silk  apron. 

*'  Ma'am,"  began  Featherston  politely, 
**  something  is  wrong  with  that  bedroom 
overhead.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"Something  wrong,  sir?"  repeated 
Miss  Gay,  her  meek  face  flushing. 
"Wrong  in  what  way,  sir?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Featherston  ; 
"I  thought  perhaps  you  could  tell  me: 
anyway,  it  ought  to  be  seen  to.  It  is 
something  that  scares  away  sleep.  I  give 
you  my  word,  ma'am,  I  never  had  two  such 
restless  nights  in  succession  in  all  my  life. 
Two  such  stranj^e  nights.  It  was  not 
only  that  sleep  would  not  come  near  me; 
that's  nothing  uncommon,  you  may  sajft 
but  I  lay  in  a  state  of  uneasy,  indescrioT 
ble  restlessness.  I  have  examined  the 
room  again  this  morning,  and  I  can  see  no 
cause  to  induce  it,  yet  a  cause  there  must 
undoubtedly  be.  The  paper  is  not  made 
of  arsenic,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"The  paper  is  pale  pink,-  sir,"  ob- 
served Miss  Gay.  "  I  fancy  it  is  the 
green  papers  that  have  arsenic  in  them." 

"  Ay  ;  well.  I  think  there  must  be  pot- 
son  behind  the  paper;  in  the  paste, say," 
went  on  Featherston.  "Or  perhaps  an- 
other paper  underneath  has  arsenic  in  it  ?  " 

Miss  Gay  shook  her  head,  as  she  stood 
with  her  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 
Lady  Whitney  had  invited  her  to  sit,  but 
she  declined.  "  When  I  came  into  the 
house  six  months  ago,  that  room  was  re- 
papered,  and  I  saw  that  the  walls  were 
thoroughly  scraped.  If  you  think  there's 
anything  —  anything  in  the  room  .that 
prevents  people  sleeping,  and  —  and 
could  point  out  what  it  is,  I'm  sure,  sir,  I 
should  be  glad. to  remedy  it,'*  said  Miss 
Gay,  with  uncomfortable  hesitatfon. 

But  this  was  just  what  Featherston,  for 
all  he  was  a  doctor,  could  not  point  out. 
That  something  was  amiss  with  the  room, 
he  felt  convinced,  but  he  had  not  discov- 
ered what  it  was,  or  how  it  could  be  reme- 
died. 

"  After  lying  in  torment  half  the  night, 
I  got  up  and  lighted  my  candle,"  said  he. 
"  1  examined  the  room  and  opened  the 
window  to  let  the  cool  breeze  blow  in.  I 
could  find  nothing  likely  to  keep  me 
awake,  ixo  stuffed-up  chimney,  no  accumu- 
lation of  dust ;  and  I  shut  the  window  and 
got  into  bed  again.    I  was  pretty  cool  by 


679 

that  time  and  reckoned  I  should  sleep. 
Not  a  bit  of  it,  ma'am.  I  lay  more  rest- 
less than  ever,  with  the  same  unaccounta- 
ble feeling  of  discomfort  and  depression 
upon  me.  Just  as  I  had  felt  the  night  be- 
fore." 

"  I  am  very  sorrv,  sir,"  sighed  Miss  Gay, 
taking  her  hand  from  the  chair  to  depart. 
"  If  the  room  is  close,  or  anything  of 
that " 

"But  it  is  not  close,  ma'am.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  And  I'm  sure  I  hope 
you  will  be  able  to  find  out,  and  get  it 
remedied,"  concluded  Featherston  as  she 
withdrew. 

We  then  told  him  of  our  experience: 
John's  and  mine.  1 1  amazed  him.  "  What 
an  extraordinary  thing!"  he  exclaimed. 
"  One  would  think  the  room  was  haunt- 
ed." 

"Do  vou  believe  in  haunted  rooms, 
sir  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  such  things  are,"  he 
answered.  "Folks  say  so.  I ^  haunted 
houses  exist,  why  not  haunted  rooms  .^" 

"  It  must  lie  in  the  Pumpwater  air," 
said  Lady  Whitney,  who  was  too  practical 
to  give  in  to  haunted  regions ;  "  and  I  am 
very  sorry  you  should  have  had  your  two 
nights'  rest  spoilt  by  it,  Mr.  Featherston. 
I  will  take  the  room  myself:  nothing 
keeps  me  awake." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  ghost,  sir  ?  "  asked 
John. 

"  No,  never.  But  I  know  those  who 
have  seen  them;  and  I  cannot  disbelieve 
what  they  say.  One  such  story  in  partic- 
ular is  often  in  my  mind ;  it  was  a  very 
strange  one." 

"  Won't  you  tell  it  us,  Mr.  Feathers- 
ton ?  " 

The  doctor  only  laughed  in  answer. 
But  after  we  came  out  of  church,  when  he 
was  sitting  with  me  and  John  on  the  pa- 
rade, he  told  it.  And  I  only  wish  I  had 
space  to  relate  it  here. 

He  left  Pumpwater  in  the  afternoon, 
and  Lady  Whitney  had  the  room  prepared 
for  her  use  at  once,  John  moving  into 
hers.  So  that  I  had  mine  to  myself  again, 
and  the  little  bed  was  taken  out  of  it. 

The  next  '^ay  was  Monday.  When 
Lady  Whitney  came  down  in  the  morning 
the  nrst  thing  she  told  us  was,  that  she 
had  not  slept.  All  the  curious  symptoms 
of  restless  disturbance,  of  inward  agita- 
tion, which  we  had  experienced,  had  vis- 
ited her. 

"  I  will  not  g^ve  in,  my  dears,"  she  said 
bravelv.  "  It  may  be,  you  know,  that 
what  f  had  heard  against  the  room  took 
all  sleep  out  of'me,  though  I  was  not  con* 


68o 


A   CURIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


scious  of  it ;  so  I  shall  keep  to  it.  I  roust 
say  it  is  a  most  comfortable  bed." 

She  "  kept "  to  the  room  until  the 
Wednesday ;  three  nights  in  all ;  getting 
no  sleep.  Then  she  gave  in.  Occasion- 
ally during  the  third  nig^ht,  when  she  was 
dropping  asleep  from  exhaustion,  she  was 
startled  up  from  it  in  sudden  terror :  ter- 
ror of  she  knew  not  what.  Just  as  it  had 
been  with  me  and  with  John.  On  the 
Wednesday  morning. she  told  Susannah 
that  they  must  give  her  the  back  room 
opposite  mine,  and  we  would  abandon 
that  front  room  altogether. 

"  It  is  just  as  though  there  were  a  ghost 
in  the  room,"  she  said  to  Susannah. 

"  Perhaps  there  is,  my  lady,"  was  Su- 
sannah's cool  reply. 

On  the  Friday  evening  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Parafin  came  in  to  tea.  Our  visit  would 
end  on  the  morrow.  The  old  doctor  held 
John  before  him  in  the  lamplight,  and  de- 
cided  that  he  looked  better  —  that  the 
stay  had  done  him  good. 

"  I  am  sure  it  has,"  assented  Lady 
Whitney.  "Just  at  first  I  feared  he  was 
going  backward  :  but  that  must  have  been 
owing  to  the  sleepless  nights." 

"  Sleepless  nights  ! "  echoed  the  doctor, 
in  a  curious  tone. 

**  For  the  first  three  nights  of  our  stay 
here,  he  never  slept;  never  slept  at  all. 
After  that " 

"Which  room  did  he  occupy?"  inter- 
rupted the  doctor  breathlessly.  **  Not  the 
one  over  this?" 

"Yes,  it  was.  Why?  Do  you  know 
anything  against  it?"  questioned  Lady 
Whitney,  for  she  saw  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Parafin 
exchange  glances. 

"Only  this:  that  I  have  heard  of  other 
people  who  were  unable  to  sleep  in  that 
room,"  he  answered. 

"  Hut  what  can  be  amiss  with  the  room, 
Dr.  Parafin  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  "  there  you  go  beyond 
me.  It  is,  I  believe,  a  fact,  a  singular 
fact,  that  there  is  something  or  other  in 
the  room  which  prevents  people  sleeping. 
Friends  of  ours  who  lived  in  the  house 
before  Miss  Gay  took  it,  ended  by  shut- 
ting the  room  up." 

"Is  it  haunted,  sir?"  I  asked.  "Mr. 
Featherston  thought  it  might  be." 

He  looked  at  me  and  smiled,  shaking 
his  head.  Mrs.  Parafin  nodded  hers,  as 
much  as  to  say,  //  is. 

"  Nobody  has  been  able  to  get  any 
sleep  in  that  room  since  the  Calsons  lived 
here,"  said  Mrs.  Parafin,  dropping  her 
voice. 


"  How  very  strange  !  "  cried  Lady  Whit- 
ney. "  One  might  think  murder  had  beea 
done  in  it." 

Mrs.  Parafin  coughed  significantly. 
"  The  wife  died  in  it,"  she  said.  "  Some 
people  thought   her  husband  had  —  had 

—  had  at  least  hastened  her  death  '* 
"  Hush,  Matty  I  "  interposed  the  doctor 

warningly.  "It  was  all  rumor;  all  talk. 
Nothing  was  proved  —  or  attempted  to 
be." 

"  Perhaps  there  existed  no  proof,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Parafin.     "And  if  there  had 

—  who  was  there  to  take  it  up?  She  was 
in  her  grave,  poor  woman,  and  he  was  left 
flourishing,  master  of  himself  and  every- 
body about  him.  Anyway,  Thomas,  be 
that  as  it  may,  you  cannot  deny  that  the 
room  has  been  like  a  haunted  room  since.*' 

Dr.  Parafin  laughed  lightly,  objecting 
to  be  serious ;  men  are  more  cautious  than 
women.  "  I  cannot  deny  that  people  find 
yaemselves  unable  to  sleep  in  the  room ; 
r  never  heard  that  it  was  *  haunted'  in 
any  other  way,"  he  added,  to  Lady  Whit- 
ney. "  But  there  —  let  us  change  the  sub- 
ject; we  can  neither  alter  the  fact  nor 
understand  it." 

After  they  left  us.  Lady  Whitney  said 
she  should  like  to  ask  Miss  Gay  what  her 
experience  of  the  room  had  been.  But 
Miss  Gay  had  stepped' out  to  a  neighbor*s, 
and  Susannah  stayed  to  talk  in  her  place. 
She  could  tell  us  more  about  it,  she  said, 
than  Miss  Gay. 

"  I  warned  my  cousin  she  would  do  well 
not  to  take  this  house,"  began  Susannah, 
accepting  the  chair  to  which  Lady  Whit- 
ney pointed.  "  But  it  is  a  beautiful  house 
for  letting,  as  you  see,  my  lady,  and  that 
and  the  low  rent  tempted  her.  Besides, 
she  did  not  believe  the  rumor  about  the 
room;  she  does  not  believe  it  fully  yet, 
though  it  is  beginning  to  worry  her:  she 
thinks  the  inability  to  sleep  must  lie  in  the 
people  the.mselves." 

"  It  has  been  an  uncanny  room  since 
old  Calson's  wife  died  in  it,  has  it  not, 
Susannah  ?  "  said  John,  as  if  in  jest.  "  I 
suppose  he  did  not  murder  her  ?  " 

"  /  think  he  did,''^  whispered  Susannah. 

The  answer  sounded  so  ghostly  that  it 
struck  us  all  into  silence. 

Susannah  resumed.  "  Nobody  ^it^n^.* 
but  one  or  two  suspected.  The  wife  was 
a  poor,  timid,  gentle  creature,  worship- 
ping the  very  ground  her  husband  trod 
on,  yet  always  in  awe  of  him.  She  lay  in 
the  room,  sick,  for  many,  many  months 
before  she  died.    Old  Sarah " 

"  What  was  her  sickness  ?  "  interrupted 
Lady  Whitney. 


A   CURIOUS   EXPERIENCE. 


68 1 


**  My  lady,  that  is  more  than  I  can  tell 
you ;  more,  I  fancy,  than  anybody  could 
have  told.  Old  Sarah  would  often  say  to 
roe  that  she  did  not  believe  there  was  any 
great  sickness,  only  he  made  it  out  there 
was,  and  persuaded  his  wife  so.  He 
could  just  wind  her  round  his  little  finger. 
The  person  who  attended  on  her  was  one 
Astrea,  quite  a  heathenish  name  I  used 
to  think,  and  a  heathenish  woman  too: 
she  was  copper-colored,  and  came  with 
them  from  abroad.  Sarah  was  in  the 
kitchen,  and  there  was  only  a  man  besides. 
I  lived  housekeeper  at  that  time  with  an 
old  lady  on  the  parade,  and  1  looked  in 
here  from  time  to  time  to  ask  after  the 
mistress.  Once  1  was  invited  by  Mr. 
CalsoQ  up-stairs  to  see  her:  she  lay  in 
the  room  over  this;  the  one  that  nobody 
can  now  sleep  in.  She  looked  so  pitiful ! 
—  her  poor,  pale,  patient  face  down  deep 
in  the  pillow.  Was  she  better,  I  asked ; 
and  what  was  it  that  ailed  her.  She 
thought  it  was  not  much  beside  weakness, 
she  answered,  and  that  she  felt  a  constant 
nausea;  and  she  was  waiting  for  the  warm 
weather:  her  dear  husband  assured  her 
she  would  be  better  when  that  came.*' 

'*  Was  he  kind  to  her  Susannah  ?  " 

•*  He  seemed  to  be,  Master  Johnny ;  very 
kind  and  attentive  indeed.  He  would  sit 
by  the  hour  together  in  her  room,  and 
give  her  her  medicine,  and  feed  her  when 
she  grew  too  weak  to  feed  herself,  and  sit 
lip  at  night  with  her.  A  doctor  came  to 
see  her  occasionally ;  it  was  said  he  could 
not  find  much  the  matter  with  her  but  de- 
bility, and  that  she  seemed  to  be  wasting 
away.  Well,  she  died,  my  lady ;  died 
quietly  in  that  room ;  and  Calson  ordered 
a  grand  funeral." 

**  So  did  Jonas  Chuzzlewit,''  breathed 
John. 

**  Whispers  got  afloat  when  she  was 
under  ground  —  not  before  —  that  there 
had  been  something  wrong  about  her 
death  ;  that  she  had  not  come  by  it  fairly, 
or  by  the  illness  either,"  continued  Su- 
sannah. **  But  they  were  not  spoken 
openly ;  under  the  rose,  as  may  be  said ; 
and  they  died  away.  Mr.  Calson  con- 
tinued to  live  in  the  house  as  before ;  but 
he  became  soon  ill.  Real  sickness,  his 
was,  my  lady,  whatever  his  wife's  might 
have  been.  His  illness  was  chiefly  on  the 
nerves;  he  grew  frightfully  thin;  and  the 
setting-in  of  some  grave  inward  complaint 
was  suspected ;  so  if  he  did  act  in  any  ill 
manner  to  his  wife  it  seemed  he  would 
not  reap  long  benefit  from  it.  All  the 
medical  men  in  Pumpwater  were  called  to 
him  in  succession;  but  they  could  not 


cure  him.  He  kept  growing  thinner  and 
thinner  till  he  was  like  a  walking  shadow. 
At  last  he  shut  up  his  house  and  went  to 
London  for  advice;  and  there  he  died, 
fourteen  months  after  the  death  of  his 
wife." 

**  How  long  was  the  house  kept  shut 
up?"  asked  Lady  Whitney,  as  Susannah 
paused. 

"About  two  years,  my  lady.  All  his 
property  was  willed  away  to  the  little  son 
of  his  brother,  who  lived  over  in  Australia. 
Tardy  instructions  came  from  thence  to 
Mr.  Jermy  the  lawyer  to  let  the  house 
furnished,  and  Mr.  Jermy  put  it  into  the 
hands  of  Bone  the  house-agent.  A  family 
took  it,  but  they  did  not  stay:  then  an- 
other family  took  it,  and  they  did  not  stay. 
Each  party  went  to  Bone  and  told  him 
that  something  was  the  matter  wMth  one 
of  the  rooms  and  nobody  could  sleep  in  it. 
After  that,  the  furniture  was  sold  off,  and 
some  people  took  the  house  by  the  year. 
They  did  not  remain  in  it  six  months. 
Some  other  people  took  it  then,  and  they 
stayed  the  year,  but  it  was  known  that 
they  shut  up  that  room.  Then  the  house 
stayed  empty.  My  cousin,  wanting  a  bet- 
ter house  than  the  one  she  was  in,  cast 
many  a  longing  eye  towards  it;  finding  it 
did  not  let,  she  went  to  Bone  and  asked 
him  what  the  rent  would  be.  Seventy 
pounds  to  her,  he  said ;  and  she  took  it. 
Of  course  she  had  heard  about  the  room, 
but  she  did  not  believe  it ;  she  thought, 
as  Mr.  Featherston  said  the  other  morn- 
ing, that  something  must  be  wrong  with 
the  paper,  and  she  had  the  wall  scraped 
and  cleaned  and  a  fresh  paper  put  on." 

**And  since  then  —  have  your  lodgers 
found  aught  amiss  with  the  room  ?"  ques- 
tioned Lady  Whitney. 

**  I  am  bound  to  say  they  have,  my  lady. 
It  has  been  the  same  story  with  them  all 
—  not  able  to  get  to  sleep  in  it.  One 
gentleman,  an  old  post-captain,  after  try- 
ing it  a  few  nights,  went  right  away  from 
Pumpwater,  swearing  at  the  air.  But  the 
most  singular  experience  we  have  had 
was  that  of  two  little  girls.  They  were 
kept  in  that  room  for  two  nights,  and  each 
night  they  cried  and  screamed  all  night 
long,  calling  out  that  they  were  frightened. 
Their  mother  could  not  account  for  it ; 
they  were  not  at  all  timid  children,  she 
said,  and  such  a  thing  had  never  hap- 
pened with  them  before.  Altogether,  tak- 
ing one  thing  with  another,  I  fear,  my 
lady,  that  something  is  wrong  with  the 
room.  Miss  Gay  sees  it  now:  but  she  is 
not  superstitious,  and  she  asks  w/ial  it 
can  be." 


682 


THE   SUNS   CORONA. 


Well,  that  was  Susannah's  tale:  and 
we  carried  it  away  with  us  on  the  mor- 
row. 

Sir  John  Whitney  found  his  son  looking 
all  the  better  for  his  visit  to  Pumpwater. 
Temporarily  he  was  so.  Temporarily 
only ;  not  materially :  for  John  died  before 
the  year  was  out. 

Have  I  heard  anything  of  the  room 
since,  you  would  like  to  ask.  Yes,  a  little. 
Some  eighteen  months  later,  I  was  halting 
at  Pumpwater  for  a  few  hours  with  the 
squire,  and  ran  to  the  house  to  see  Miss 
Gay.  But  the  house  was  empty.  A  black 
board  stood  in  front  with  big  white  letters 
on  it,  TO  BE  LET.  Miss  Gay  had  moved 
into  another  house  facing  the  parade. 

*Mt  was  of  no  use  my  trying  to  stay  in 
it,"  she  said  to  me,  shaking  her  head. 
'*  I  moved  into  the  room  myself.  Master 
Johnny,  after  you  and  my  Lady  Whitney 
left,  and  I  am  free  to  confess  that  I  could 
not  sleep.  I  had  Susannah  in,  and  she 
could  not  sleep ;  and,  in  short,  we  had  to 
go  out  of  it  again.  So  I  shut  the  room 
up,  sir,  until  the  year  had  expired,  and 
then  1  gave  up  the  house.  It  has  not 
been  let  since,  and  people  say  it  is  falling 
into  decay." 

"  Was  anything  ever  seen  in  the  room. 
Miss  Gay  ? " 

"Nothing,"  she  answered,  "or  heard 
either;  nothing  whatever.  The  room  is 
as  nice  a  room  as  could  be  wished  for  in 
all  respects,  light,  large,  cheerful,  and 
airy ;  and  yet  nobody  can  get  to  sleep  in 
it.     I  shall  never  understand  it,  sir." 

I'm  sure  I  never  shall.  It  remains  one 
of  those  curious  experiences  that  cannot 
be  solved  in  this  world.  But  it  is  none 
the  less  true. 

Johnny  Ludlow. 


From  The  Nineteenth  Century. 
THE  SUN'S  CORONA. 

Among  the  roost  interesting,  but  seem- 
ingly most  intractable,  problems  presented 
to  the  students  of  science,  are  those  con- 
nected with  the  mysterious  solar  appen- 
dage called  the  corona.  For  many  years 
astronomers  were  not  able  to  decide, 
though  in  reality  they  had  evidence  enough 
on  which  to  base  an  opinion,  whether  the 
corona  is  a  solar  appendage  or  not. 
Eclipse  after  eclipse  passed,  and  still  the 
imperfect  drawings  and  descriptions  by 
observers  at  different  stations  gave  little 
support  to  the  true  theory.    It  was  clear 


that,  if  the  corona  belongs  to  the  scin,  all 
the  pictures  should  show  the  same  general 
features  from  whatever  part  of  the  earth's 
surface  they  were  taken.  But  so  far  was 
this  from  being  the  case,  that,  on  the 
strength  of  the  wide  differences  between 
various  pictures  of  the  corona  during  the 
same  total  eclipse,  many  were  led  to  be> 
lieve  that  the  corona  is  a  merely  optical 
phenomenon,  variously  figured  according 
as  it  is  seen  by  different  eyes,  precisely 
as  the  rays  seen  around  a  bright  star  (but 
having,  of  course,  no  real  existence)  are 
differently  shaped  for  every  observer  who 
sees  them.  But  at  last  the  true  theory  of 
the  corona  in  this  respect  was  established^ 
and  all  astronomers  recognized  what  had 
long  been  obvious  to  those  of  them  who 
were  mathematicians,  that  they  had  to 
deal  in  the  corona  with  a  stupendous  solar 
appendage.  Further  and  further  from  the 
sun^s  surface  this  appendage  was  traced, 
till  it  was  seen  that  it  merges  into  the 
zodiacal  (so  to  name  the  solar  appendage 
which  produces  what  we'call  the  zodiacal 
light).  Closer  and  closer  became  the 
scrutiny  to  which  its  structure  was  sub- 
jected, until  at  length  the  complicated  sys- 
tem of  streamers  —  curved  and  straight^ 
continuous  and  broken  —  shown  in  the 
engravings  illustrating  Mr.  Ranyard's  ad- 
mirable monograph  on  solar  eclipses  (a 
large  recent  volume  of  the  "  Memoirs  of 
the  Astronomical  Society")  was  fully  rec- 
ognized; while  even  that,  complicated 
though  it  is,  is  known  to  indicate  but  the 
general  features  of  a  real  structure  more 
complicated  still. 

But  the  very  fulness  of  the  knowledge 
astronomers  had  gained  respecting  the 
corona,  as  seen  on  special  occasions,  only 
showed  them  how  little  they  could  really 
learn  about  this  marvellous  solar  appen- 
dage, tinless  they  could  see  it  and  watch 
it  when  the  sun  is  not  eclipsed.  They 
saw  that  the  processes  taking  place  with- 
in a  structure  so  vast  and  so  complicated, 
and  situated  in  a  region  exposed  to  the 
action  of  intense  light  and  heat,  to  say 
nothing  of  intense  gravitating  force,  and 
probably  of  even  more  active  repulsive 
energies,  must  be  exceedingly  important, 
and  must  be  varied  and  complicated  in 
like  degree.  But  what  chance  was  there 
that  the  nature  of  these  processes  could 
be  ascertained  when  the  corona  could  only 
be  seen  at  long  intervals,  and  then  only 
for  a  very  short  time  and  under  unfavor- 
able conditions  ?  It  has  been  calculated 
that,  adding  together  all  the  minutes  of 
total  solar  eclipse  during  an  entire  cen- 
tury, we  obtain  a  period  of  about  eight 


THE   SUNS  CORONA. 


days  —  eight  days  in  36,525,  or  only  about 
one  part  in  8,566  —  durin«;  which  the 
corona  can  be  observed.  But  even  this 
computation  fails  to  indicate  the  real  rela- 
tive shortness  of  the  time  during  which 
the  corona  is  visible.  For  it  is  obvious 
that  could  a  single  observer  see  the  co- 
rona each  time  when  it  is  visible  through- 
out a  century,  he  would  have  a  much 
better  chance  of  forming  an  opinion  than 
any  number  of  observers  seeing  the  co- 
rona as  astronomers  have  hitherto  been 
able  to  see  it ;  that  is,  each  on  some  four 
or  five  occasions  at  the  outside,  during 
from  two  to  six  minutes.  No  man  has 
ever  yet  seen  the  corona  during  (in  all)  a 
full  half-hour,  and  it  is  exceedingly  un- 
likely that  any  man  ever  will.  How  can 
satisfactory  information  be  expected  from 
observations  thus  limited,  scattered  over 
four  or  five  different  occasions  on  which 
the  corona  has  been  seen  ;  now  in  winter, 
now  in  summer;  at  one  time  in  the  north- 
ern hemisphere,  at  another  in  the  south- 
ern ;  through  clear  skies  on  one  occasion, 
in  the  midst  of  scattered  cloud  and  haze 
on  another  ? 

H  we  consider  what  astronomers 
learned  about  the  colored  prominences 
before  the  method  was  devised  by  wliich 
these  can  be  seen  without  the  aid  of  an 
eclipse,  we  shall  be  able  to  form  a  just 
idea  of  the  utterly  unsatisfactory  nature 
of  our  present  knowledge  respecting  the 
corona,  compared  with  that  which  we  may 
hope  to  obtain  when  the  corona  can  be 
studied  day  after  day  and  year  after  year. 

The  prominences  had  been  recognized 
as  solar  appendages  as  early  as  the  year 
185 1,  though  it  was  not  until  i860  that  they 
were  photographed  at  different  stations, 
and  thus  unmistakably  identified  as  great 
masses  of  ruddy  matter  extending  twenty, 
thirty,  fifty,  in  some  cases  even  eighty  or 
a  hundred  thousand  miles  from  the  sur- 
face of  the  sun.  Thereafter,  until  1868, 
no  important  discovery  was  made  respect- 
ing them.  Till  then  it  was  maintained  by 
different  astronomers  (1)  that  the  promi- 
nences are  great  rose-tinted  solar  moun- 
tains, standing  above  the  general  level  of 
the  photosphere,  like  mighty  icebergs 
above  a  glowing  sea,  only  it  was  seen  that 
they  must  be  intensely  heated ;  (2)  that 
they  are  great  luminous  clouds  in  the  solar 
atmosphere ;  (3)  that  they  are  vast  masses 
of  gloiving  gas.  The  eclipse  of  1868 
showed  what  they  really  are,  proving  the 
third  of  these  hypotheses  to  be  the  only 
true  one.  It  was  found  that  the  colored 
prominences  shine  only  with  a  few  special 
tints,  a  ruddy  tint,  a  yellow-orange  tint, 


683 

and  a  greenish-blue  tint  being  conspicu- 
ous among  some  nine  or  ten  several  col- 
ors detected  by  Rayet,  John  Herschel 
(son  of  the  great  Sir  John),  Janssen,  and 
other  observers. 

It  is  not  saying  too  much  to  assert  that 
what  was  then  demonstrated  was  the  last 
of  the  discoveries  which  could  have  been 
made  respecting  the  sun's  colored  flames 
if  no  new  method  had  been  invented  for 
observing  them.  But  very  soon  after,  in 
fact,  the  verv  next  day,  such  a  method 
was  invented  and  put  in  practice — a 
method  which,  extended  and  perfected  by 
Mr.  Huggins,  enabled  astronomers  to 
watch  the  prominences  systematically 
whenever  or  wherever  the  sky  is  clear. 
We  know  now,  thanks  to  this  invention, 
what  gases  and  vapors  are  present  in  the 
sun's  colored  flames,  and  in  that  lower 
stratum  called  the  sierra  bv  its  first  ob- 
servers (Grant,  Secchi,  and  others^  but 
named  by  some  who  preferred  long  words, 
and  in  this  case  chanced  to  be  ignorant  of 
Greek,  the  chromosphere  (as  one  might 
call  a  photograph  a  phograph).  In  the 
great  prominences  we  find  glowing  hydro- 
gen and  sodium,  and  another  gas  whose 
identity  has  not  yet  been  determined.  In 
the  sierra  or  chromatosphere  the  presence 
and  nature  of  many  other  vapors  are 
noted.  The  movements  and  changes  of 
the  prominences  from  day  to  day  have 
been  followed.  Their  relation  to  sun 
spots  has  been  determined.  They  have 
been  classified  according  to  the  various 
forms  of  cloud-like  and  jet-like  promi- 
nences. The  rates  at  which  the  gases 
forming  them  move  from  and  towards  the 
sun's  surface,  or  in  cyclonic  whirls 
athwart  that  surface,  have  been  deter- 
mined. In  fine,  nearly  all  that  we  know 
about  the  prominences  now  has  been  as- 
certained since  the  method  was  invented 
by  which  they  are  rendered  visible  with- 
out the  aid  of  an  eclipse,  and  could  not 
poss.bly  have  been  learned  had  not  that 
method  been  invented. 

It  was  natural,  then,  that  astronomers 
should  anxiously  inquire  whether  some 
method  might  not  be  devised  by  which  the 
yet  more  interesting  problems  associated 
with  the  corona  might  be  as  successfully 
dealt  with. 

Yet  how  hopeless  at  first  view  the  prob- 
lem seems  I 

As  the  sun's  disc  is  more  and  more 
covered  by  the  moon  in  an  eclipse,  the  as- 
tronomer still  looks  in  vain  for  the  co- 
rona until  a  few  seconds  before  totality 
begins.  It  is  not  until  the  sun  is  quite 
bidden  by  the  moon  that  the  outer  parts 


684 


THE   SUNS   CORONA. 


of  the  corona  can  be  seen.  The  use  of 
the  most  powerful  telescope,  so  far  from 
rendering  the  corona  visible  earlier  as 
totality  approaches,  or  later  after  it  is 
over,  produces  the  reverse  effect.  The 
corona  is  best  seen  as  a  whole  during 
eclipse  without  any  telescopic  aid  at  all ; 
and  no  one  has  ever  seen  with  the  tele- 
scope tl>e  lonv  rays  and  streamers  which 
are  visible  under  favorable  conditions  to 
the  unaided  eye. 

But  it  will  be  said,  so  much  was  known 
of  the  colored  prominences,  and  these 
can  be  seen  without  eclipse;  why  should 
not  the  same  happen  with  the  corona  also? 

There  was  reason  at  one  time  for  sup- 
posing that  something  like  this  might 
happen.  To  explain  the  matter,  and  to 
show  also  in  what  respects  the  problem 
of  the  corona  differs  from  the  problem  of 
the  prominences,  I  must  briefly  describe 
the  way  in  which  these  last  are  rendered 
visible  without  the  aid  of  an  eclipse. 

It  was  shown  that  the  prominences  are 
great  masses  of  glowing  gas  —  glowing 
hydrogen  in  the  main  —  so  soon  as  it  was 
discovered  that  they  shine  with  certain 
special  tints.  The  light  of  a  prominence, 
analysed  by  the  spectroscope,  does  not 
give  a  rainbow-tinted  ribbon  as  the  light 
of  the  sun  or  of  the  sky  does,  but  only  a 
certain  number  of  bright  bands  Iving 
across  the  breadth  of  the  tract  along  wnich 
the  rainbow-tinted  ribbon  formed  from 
sunlight  falls.  If  the  light  is  received 
through  a  circular  opening,  the  ordinary 
spectrum  is  in  reality  made  up  of  a  multi- 
tude of  circular  images.  There  are  thou- 
sands of  images  of  all  tints  of  red,  from 
the  deep  red,  almost  brown,  tint  of  the 
very  end  of  the  visible  spectrum  to  the 
orange-red  where  the  orange  part  of  the 
spectrum  begins.  Then  there  are  thou- 
sands of  orange  images  of  all  tints  be- 
tween orange-red  and  orange-yellow ;  thou- 
sands of  yellow  images;  thousands  of 
green  ones,  of  blue,  of  indigo,  and  lastly, 
of  violet  images.  Tens  of  thousands  of 
images  there  are,  of  all  the  colors  of  the 
rainbow,  all  so  merging  into  each  other 
along  the  entire  length  of  the  spectrum 
that  none  can  be  separately  seen.  It  is 
the  same  if  the  aperture  is  square  or  ob- 
long, unless  it  is  very  narrow,  when  if  its 
length  lies  athwart  the  spectrum,  thou|;h 
the  separate  images  cannot  actually  be 
discerned,  the  absence  of  many  tints  in 
sunlight  is  shown  by  multitudinous  dark 
lines  across  the  breadth  of  the  spectrum, 
these  being  really  places  where  images  of 
the  hole  through  which  the  light  comes 
are  wanting.    But  if  the  light  of  one  of 


the  sun*s  colored  prominences  were  al- 
lowed to  pass  through  a  circular  hole  and 
received  on  a  prism,  as  in  Newton's  fa* 
miliar  experiment  with  sunlight,  there 
would  only  be  formed  a  few  circular  im- 
ages  of  the  hole,  some  brighter,  some 
fainter;  the  most  conspicuous  being  a  red 
image,  an  orange-yellow  one,  and  a  greeo- 
blue  one.  The  experiment  has  not  been 
tried,  for  the  simple  reason  that  during 
the  precious  moments  of  total  solar  eclipse 
the  observer  cannot  waste  time  receiving 
prominence  light  through  a  hole  upon  a 
screen.  He  uses  the  retina  of  his  eye  for 
a  screen,  and  there  notes  the  special  tints 
with  which  the  prominences  shine.  Nor 
would  there  be  any  occasion  for  an  aper« 
ture  of  special  form.  He  could  look 
through  the  spectroscope  at  the  promi- 
nence itself,  and  see  a  red  image,  an  or- 
ange-yellow image,  and  a  greenish-blae 
image  of  the  prominence  in  all  its  details. 

Now,  if  it  had  been  found  instead  that 
the  prominences  shine  with  all  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow,  it  would  have  been  hope- 
less to  attempt  to  see  them  when  the  sua 
is  not  eclipsed.  The  eye  is  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish the  minute  excess  of  light  re- 
ceived from  that  part  of  the  sky  in  which, 
in  reality,  a  prominence  is  shining,  over 
the  light  received  from  neighboring  parts 
of  the  sky;  and  there  is  no  optical  con- 
trivance whatever  by  which  the  slight  dif- 
ference (something  like  the  difference 
between  8oi  and  800)  can  be  increased 
and  so  made  perceptible,  if  both  illumina- 
tions are  received  at  the  same  time.  We 
may  increase  both,  but  both  being  in- 
creased in  equal  degree  we  are  in  no  way 
helped. 

If,  however,  we  can  in  some  way  ar- 
range matters  so  that  a  large  proportion 
of  the  light  from  the  sky  does  not  reach 
the  retina  at  all,  while  no  such  change  is 
made  in  the  amount  of  light  from  a  prom- 
inence, the  case  is  altered;  and,  owing 
to  the  peculiar  constitution  of  the  light 
of  a  colored  prominence,  this  is  feas- 
ible enough.  Suppose  light  from  a 
prominence  and  the  sky  together  passing 
through  a  circular  hole,  as  in  Newton*s 
experiment,  and  first  falling  on  a  white 
screen  without  prismatic  dispersion.  They 
would  form  together  a  white  circular  im- 
age, not  differing  appreciably  from  what 
would  be  seen  if  the  light  of  the  sky 
shone  there  alone.  But  if  now  we  inter- 
pose the  prism,  or,  if  necessary,  a  battery 
of  prisms,  what  will  happen?  Manifestly 
the  light  from  the  sky  will  form  the  usual 
rainbow-tinted  spectrum,  made  up  of  mul- 
titudinous circular  images,  while  the  light 


THE   SUNg   CORONA. 


68s 


from  the  prominence  will  only  make  its 
three  images  —  one  in  the  red  part  of  the 
spectrum,  one  in  the  orange-yellow,  and 
another  in  the  green-blue.  Each  of  these 
shines  with  about  one4hird  of  the  total 
lifht  from  the  prominence;  but  each  part 
of  the  long,  rainbow-tinted  ribbon,  on 
which  these  images  are  projected,  shines 
with  but  a  small  fraction  of  the  total  light 
from  the  sky.  Thus  the  light  of  the  three 
prominence  images  is  much  more  likely 
to  be  discernible  than  —  before  the  dis- 
persion —  the  total  light  from  the  promi- 
nence. If  they  still  remain  invisible, 
owing  to  the  light  still  remaining  in  the 
rainbow-tinted  streak,  we  may  increase 
the  dispersion,  making  the  streak  longer 
and  correspondingly  fainter,  but  only 
throwing  the  images  formed  by  the  prom- 
inence light  farther  apart.  It  is  evident 
that  at  last  we  must  in  this  way  make 
these  images  visible ;  for  we  can  make 
the  rainbow-tinted  streak  as  long  as  we 
please,  and  proportionately  faint,  while 
the  images  formed  by  the  prominence 
light  remain  unchanged  in  brightness. 

In  reality  this  has  been  the  method  by 
which  the  colored  prominences  have  been 
rendered  visible,  although  they  have  never 
been  seen  on  a  screen  in  the  manner  de- 
scribed ;  for  as  they  have  been  ^dually 
seen,  the  retina  of  the  eye  has  simply* 
replaced  the  screen  of  Newton's  experi- 
ment. The  principle  is  the  same  on  either 
plan.  It  maybe  briefly  expressed  thus: 
the  light  of  the  sky  is  of  thousands,  tens 
of  thousands,  of  tints  ;  the  light  of  a  col- 
ored prominence  belongs  almost  entirely 
to  three  tints  only :  when  we  sift  out  both 
kinds  of  light  we  have  each  tint  of  sky 
light  having  a  very  small  fraction  of  the 
whole  light  from  the  sky,  while  the  light 
from  each  of  the  three  tints  of  a  promi- 
nence is  very  nearly  a  full  third  of  the 
whole  light ;  thus,  however  greatly  the  sky 
light  exceeds  the  prominence  light  before 
dispersion,  the  red  tint  from  the  sky  light 
IS  alone  not  able  to  master  the  red  promi- 
nence tint,  nor  the  orange-yellow  to  master 
the  orange-yellow,  nor  the  green-blue  the 
green-blue.  Combined,  the  multitudinous 
tints  of  sunlight,  as  received  from  the 
bright  sky,  overmaster  utterly  the  three 
prominence  tints  ;  but  each  of  these  three 
prominence  tints  can  contend  success- 
fully against  any  one  of  the  myriads  of 
sky  light  tints. 

Now  let  us  consider  what  means  may 
be  employed  to  show  the  solar  corona 
without  an  eclipse. 

When  we  analyze  the  light  of  the  co- 
rona with  the  spectroscope  we  find  that 


the  greater  portion  is,  like  the  light  of  the 
sky,  of  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  It 
is  true  that  during  the  total  eclipse  of 
June,  1869,  the  American  astronomers 
found  that  a  part  of  the  corona's  light  is 
of  a  special  tint  of  green ;  and  this  ob- 
servation was  confirmed  during  the  eclipse 
of  December,  187a  But  it  was  evident, 
from  the  faintness  of  these  tints,  and  the 
existence  of  a  rainbow-tinted  background, 
formed  by  the  spectroscopic  dispersion  of 
the  rest  of  the  corona's  light,  that  only  a 
very  minute  proportion  of  the  total  light 
from  the  corona  was  of  this  special  tint. 
In  later  eclipses  it  was  shown  that  the 
green  tints  (for  another  had  been  de- 
tected) are  not  even  always  present.  la 
187 1,  during  the  second  Indian  eclipse,  it 
was  proved  that  a  considerable  portion  of 
the  corona's  light  is  reflected  sunlight,  for 
the  dark  lines  peculiar  to  sunlight  were 
seen  by  Janssen  in  the  spectrum  of  the 
corona. 

At  this  stage  of  the  inquiry  matters  had 
not  a  very  hopeful  aspect.  I  had  myself 
made  a  suggestion  respecting  the  corona 
which,  had  a  larger  share  of  its  light  be- 
longed to  a  specific  green  tint,  might  have 
led  to  the  corona  being  seen  as  desired.  I 
proposed  that  the  light  from  the  sun  and 
the  region  around  him  should  pass  through 
a  green  absorptive  medium  (solid  or  li- 
quidX  and  then  form  an  image  in  the 
usual  way  on  a  screen,  only  that  the  screen 
should  be  of  the  precise  color  of  the  green 
coronal  tint  we  are  considering.  The 
part  of  the  screen  on  which  the  sun*s  im- 
age would  fall  in  this  way,  was  to  be  cut 
away  —  that  is,  a  suitably  sized  circular 
hole  cut  out  of  the  screen  —  so  that  his 
overwhelmingly  brilliant  rays  should  not 
tax  the  eye,  strained  to  detect,  if  possible, 
the  fafnt  light  of  the  corona.  Hut  there 
would  have  been  little  chance,  as  I  pointed 
out,  that  the  mere  use  of  a  green  absorp- 
tive medium  and  of  a  green  reflective  sur- 
face would  make  the  corona  visible.  My 
main  reliance  had  been  on  spectroscopic 
dispersion.  I  hoped  that  the  illuminated 
card,  if  examined  through  a  spectroscope 
adjusted  to  the  green  coronal  tint,  would 
show  the  corona,  just  as  we  see  a  promi- 
nence through  a  spectroscope  adjusted  to 
the  red,  or  to  the  orange-yellow,  or  to  the 
greenish-blue  prominence  tint. 

But  this  method  never  really  had  a 
chance  of  success.  The  green  tint  of  the 
corona  is  altogether  too  faint  to  show  the 
corona  without  an  eclipse,  as  was  shown 
in  1871  by  the  circumstance  that  it  will 
not  give'an  image  of  the  corona  even  dur* 
ing  totality. 


686 


THE   SUN'S   CORONA. 


It  seemed,  till  last  May,,  that  astrono- 
mers must  give  up  all  idea  of  seeing  the 
corona  except  during  the  occasions  of 
eclipses.  But  during  the  eclipse  of  May 
17  last  the  spectrum  of  the  corona  was 
photographed,  and  a  peculiarity  was  thus 
indicated  which  again  renewea  the  hope 
that  the  corona  might  be  systematically 
studied.  The  photograph  showed  that 
the  part  of  the  corona's  light  which  be- 
longs to  the  violet  end  of  the  spectrum  is 
much  stronger  than  the  rest.  There  is  no 
definite  tint  of  violet  which  includes  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  coronal  light, 
but  there  is  a  general  superiority  of 
strength  throughout  the  indigo  and  violet 
parts  of  the  coronal  spectrum. 

This  being  so,  the  spectroscopic  method 
applied  to  the  prominences  could  not  be 
applied  to  the  corona.  That  this  is  so 
will  be  seen  at  once  if  we  consider  the 
matter  in  the  light  of  Newton's  experi- 
ment, as  we  have  already  considered  the 
visibility  of  the  prominences.  Taking  sky 
light  and  prominence  light  together,  we 
had  a  rainbow-tinted  spectrum  formed  by 
multitudinous  tints  of  light  from  the  sun- 
lit sky,  along  which  three  prominence 
images  could  be  seen  —  one  in  the  red, 
one  in  the  orange-yellow,  and  one  in  the 
green-blue.  Taking  sky  light  and  coronal 
fight  together,  we  should  have  a  rainbow- 
tinted  spectrum  from  the  sky  light  as  be- 
fore, and  in  addition  a  rainbow-tinted 
spectrum,  stronger  in  the  violet  part,  from 
the  corona.  We  might  or  might  not  be 
able  to  detect  the  relative  excess  of  violet 
light ;  but  whether  we  did  or  not,  we 
should  see  nothing  of  the  coronal  figure. 
If  the  rainbow-tinted  spectrum  of  the  sky 
light  were  entirely  removed,  as  during 
total  eclipse  for  instance,  no  image  of  the 
corona  would  be  seen  in  this  way,  for  the 
relatively  strong  violet  part  of  the  coronal 
spectrum  which  would  be  seen  would  be 
made  up  of  multitudinous  violet  images 
blended  indistinguishably  together. 

But  although  the  spectroscopic  method 
would  not  be  in  this  way  available,  the 
absorptive  method  —  that  is  the  use  of 
colored  media  —  would  apply  very  favor- 
ably to  this  case.  For  while  we  know  of 
no  absorptive  media  that  allow  only  light 
of  certain  definite  tints  to  pass  through, 
we  can  always  tind  a  medium  which  will 
allow  an  excess  of  light  of  any  of  the  spec- 
tral colors  to  pass  while  the  other  colors 
are  absorbed.  We  can  test  the  absorptive 
qualities  of  various  media  for  this  purpose 
most  exactly  by  means  of  the  spectro- 
scope ;  for  the  mere  color  of  a  medium,  as 
judged  by  the  eye,  is  no  sufficient  test  of 


its  absorptive  capacity  for  particular  spec- 
tral tints :  a  medium  green  to  the  eye  may 
be  found  under  spectral  analysis  not  to 
suffer  green  rays  to  pass  —  to  be  opaque 
to  such  rays  —  but  to  let  yellow  and  blue 
rays  pass  in  such  pro|)ortions  as  to  pro- 
duce the  observed  green  light. 

Selecting  suitable  violet  absorptive 
media,  Mr.  Huggins  thought  of  trying  to 
see  the  corona  by  means  of  its  excess  of 
violet  light.  "It  appeared  to  me  by  no 
means  improbable,"  he  writes,  "  that  the 
corona''  (after  its  light  had  been  thus 
sifted) '*  would -be  able  so  far  to  hold  its 
own  against  the  atmospheric  glare,  that 
the  parts  of  the  sky  immediately  about  the 
sun,  where  the  corona  was  present,  would 
be  in  a  sensible  degree  brighter  than  the 
adjoining  parts,  where  the  atmospheric 
light  alone  was  present."  He  did  not, 
however,  thus  see  the  corona.  He  saw 
reasons  for  not  attempting  thus  to  see  it. 
"It  was  obvious,"  he  says,  "that  in  our 
climate  and  low  down  on  the  earth's  sur- 
face, even  with  the  aid  of  suitable  screens, 
the  addition  of  the  coronal  light  behind 
would  be  able  to  increase  but  in  very 
small  degree  the  illumination  of  the  sky 
at  those  places  where  it  was  present "  — 
which  is  another  way  of  saying  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  discern  the  form 
and  figure  of  the  corona.  Tlien,  again, 
the  portion  of  the  light  on  which  reliance 
was  placed,  namely,  the  violet,  is  not  such 
light  as  our  eyes  are  readily  able  to  deal 
with  so  as  to  recognize  small  differences 
of  illumination.  It  is  much  easier  to  de* 
tect  slight  differences  in  the  brightness 
of  red,  yellow,  or  green  light,  than  corre- 
sponding differences  in  violet  light. 

It  occurred  then  to  Mr.  Huggins  that 
he  would  attempt  what,  if  he  succeeded, 
would  be  of  far  greater  value.  There  was 
another  consideration  of  importance.  He 
remarks :  "  The  corona  is  an  object  of  very 
complex  form,  and  full  of  details  depend- 
ing on  small  differences  of  illumination ; 
so  that,  even  if  it  could  be  glimpsed  by 
the  eye,  it  could  scarcely  be  expected  that 
observations  of  a  sufficiently  precise  char- 
acter could  be  made  to  permit  of  the 
detection  of  the  more  ordinary  changes 
which  are  doubtless  taking  place  in  it." 
What,  then,  Mr.  Huggins  planned  was 
from  the  first  to  use  photography,  which 
possesses  extreme  sensitiveness  in  the 
discrimination  of  minute  differences  of 
illumination.  It  also  possesses,  Mr.  Hucr. 
gins  notes,  the  enormous  advantage  of 
furnishing  from  an  instantaneous  exposure 
a  permanent  record  of  the  most  complex 
forms.    "  I  have  satisfied  myself,"  he  says. 


THE   SUNS   CORONA. 


*<by  some  laboratory  experiments,  that, 
under  suitable  conditions  of  exposure  and 
development,  a  photographic  plate  can  be 
made  to  record  minute  differences  of  illu- 
mination existing  in  different  parts  of  a 
bright  object,  such  as  a  sheet  of  drawing- 
paper,  which  are  so  subtile  as  to  be  at  the 
very  limit  of  the  power  of  recognition  of 
a  trained  eye,  and  even,  as  it  appeared  to 
me,  of  those  which  surpass  that  limit." 

To  increase  his  chance  of  success,  Mr. 
Huggins  soon  substituted  a  reflecting  tel- 
escope for  the  refracting  instrument  he 
had  at  first  employed.  He  used  a  New- 
tonian reflector,  having  a  mirror  six  inches 
in  diameter.  We  need  not  describe  the 
contrivances  used  to  obtain  on  the  photo- 
graphic plate  an  image  of  the  region 
around  the  sun  (and  the  sun  itself)  after 
absorption  of  all  but  the  violet  light ;  for 
the  description  would  not  be  intelligible 
except  to  those  familiar  with  photographic 
telescopy.  The  violet  medium  employed 
was  at  first  violet  glass  (pot  —  that  is,  not 
merely  flashed  with  a  violet  tint,  but  the 
glass  itself  so  tinted);  afterwards  a  strong 
and  newly  made  solution  of  potassic  per- 
manganate in  a  glass  cell  with  carefully 
polished  sides. 

After  some  trials  Mr.  Huggins  satisfied 
himself  that  on  every  one  of  the  plates 
an  appearance  strikingly  resembling  the 
corona  could  be  detected.  He  would  have 
waited  until  more  distinct  images  bad 
been  obtained ;  but,  as  he  truly  says,  our 
climate  is  very  unpropitious  for  such  ob- 
servations, and  very  few  intervals,  even 
of  short  duration,  occur  in  which  the  at- 
mospheric glare  immediately  around  the 
sun  is  not  very  great.  He  therefore 
thought  it  best  to  describe  his  results  at 
once,  so  that  his  method  might  be  applied 
in  other  countries  where  the  conditions 
are  more  favorable.  In  the  mean  time 
the  results  he  has  actually  obtained  are 
very  promising. 

The  work  was  begun  at  the  end  of  May 
last,  and  the  photographs  were  obtained 
between  June  and  September.  On  twenty 
of  them  the  coronal  form  appears.  It 
does  not  consist  merely  of  increased  pho- 
tographic action  around  the  sun  ;  but  there 
are  distinct  coronal  forms  and  rays,  ad- 
mitting in  the  best  plates  of  measurement 
and  of  drawings  being  made  from  them. 
The  agreement  in  plates  taken  on  differ- 
ent days,  with  different  violet  media,  with 
the  sun  in  different  parts  of  the  field,  and 
attention  being  given  to  other  necessary 
precautions,  would  seem  to  make  it  evi- 
dent that  the  real  corona  was  photo- 
graphed, and  not  an  optical  phantom,  the 


'687 

result  of  mere  instrumental  effects.  There 
are  some  who  think  that  the, sun's  bright 
rays,  received  on  the  glass,  and  reflected 
from  the  back  of  the  plate,  have  produced 
forms  simulating  those  of  the  sun's  coro- 
nal radiance.  But  after  carefully  con- 
sidering the  precautions  employed  by  Mr. 
Huggins,  one  of  the  most  cautious  and 
careful  physicists  living,  I  6nd  it  impossi- 
ble to  regard  this  explanation  as  admissi- 

The  plates  taken  with  very  short  ex- 
posures show  the  inner  corona  only,  but 
its  outline  can  be  clearly  seen  when  the 
plates  are  examined  under  suitable  illu- 
mination. Increased  exposure  showed 
the  curved  rays  and  rifts  peculiar  to  the 
outer  corona,  while  the  details  of  the  inner 
corona  were  lost.  '*In  the  plates  which 
were  exposed  for  a  long  time,"  says  Mr. 
Huggins,  ****not  only  the  sun  but  the  corona 
also  is  photographically  reversed ;  and  in 
these  plates,  having  the  appearance  of  a 
positive,  the  white  reversed  portion  of  the 
corona  is  more  readily  distinguished  and 
followed  in  its  irregularly  sinuous  outline 
than  is  the  case  in  those  plates  where  the 
sun  only  is  reversed,  and  the  corona  ap- 
pears as  in  the  negative,  dark." 

The  opinion  of  those  best  qualified  to 
judge  is  that  Mr.  Huggins  has>eally  ac- 
complished the  difficult  task  he  attempted ; 
that  at  last  we  have  the  means  of  obtain- 
ing not  only  views,  but  permanent  records 
of  this  great  solar  appendage.  Professor 
Stokes,  most  cautious  of  physicists,  re- 
gards the  appearance  on  the  plates  as 
"certainly  very  corona  like,"  and  is  "dis- 
posed to  think  it  probable  that  it  is  really 
due  to  the  corona;"  which  from  him  is 
equivalent  to  the  expression  of  strong 
conviction  on  the  part  of  any  other  physi- 
cist. Captain  Abney,  after  careful  com- 
parison of  the  photographs  with  those 
obtained  during  the  eclipse  of  last  May, 
goes  so  far  as  to  say  that  if  Mr.  Hug* 
gins's  photographs  do  not  represent  the 
real  corona,  those  taken  during  the  eclipse 
do  not,  either.  Mr.  Huggins  himself,  re- 
specting whom  I  may  say  that  a  long 
experience  assures  me  that  he  himself 
would  be  the  severest  critic  of  his  own 
work,  says  that  there  remains  little  doubt 
that  by  the  method  described  in  his  paper, 
but  "under  better  conditions  of  climate, 
and  especially  at  considerable  elevations, 
the  corona  may  be  distinctly  photographed 
from  day  to  day  with  a  definiteness  which 
would  allow  of  the  study  of  the  changes 
which  doubtless  are  always  going  on  in 
it."  By  an  adjustment  of  the  times  of 
exposure,  either  the  brighter  part  of  the 


688 


THE   ROCK  OF  CASHEL. 


corona  near  the  sun,  or  the  fainter  exte- 
rior ravs,  could  be  obtained  as  might  be 
desireci. 

Then,  too,  there  is  good  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  the  method  itself  may,  with 
practice  and  experience,  be  greatly  im- 
proved. The  sensibility  of  photographic 
plates,  whether  wet  or  dry,  is  being  in- 
creased year  after  year.  With  advantage 
taken  o!  every  advance  in  experience, 
both  respecting  the  corona  itself  and  re- 
specting the  photographic  art,  we  may 
well  hope  that  the  method  thus  happily 
inaugurated  will  be  more  and  more  suc- 
cessfully applied,  until  at  last,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  numerous  observatories 
existing  in  the  Old  and  New  World,  and 
both  north  and  south  of  the  equator,  we 
shall  have  daily  records  of  the  figure  and 
changes  of  figure  of  the  corona,  and  shall 
be  at  length  enabled  to  determine  its  real 
structure  and  sis:niiicance. 

Richard  A.  Proctor. 


From  The  Month. 
THE  ROCK  OF  CASHEU 

It  was  in  the  reign  of  Core,  the  son  of 
Luehaidh,  of  the  race  of  Heber  Fionn, 
and  in  the  year  of  grace  377,  that  befel 
the  wonder  we  are  about  to  recount.  Be- 
neath the  great  oak-trees  that  sprang  from 
the  flanks  of  the  rock  of  Sidhe  l3ruim, 
where  the  fairies  were  wont  to  gather,  and 
which  rises  from  the  green  bosom  of  the 
golden  vale  in  the  county  of  Tipperary, 
two  swineherds  were  guarding  their  herds 
of  swine.  Their  names  were  Cularan 
and  Durdon,  and  for  three  months  they 
had  dwelt  beneath  the  shelter  of  the  arch- 
ing boughs  and  the  dense  leafage  of  the 
forest.  Their  swine  were  scattered  far 
and  wide,  feasting  on  the  golden  acorns 
which  strewed  the  short  turf,  and  they 
themselves,  with  their  faithful  watch-dogs, 
were  reclining  on  the  soft  sod,  in  the  dim 
noonday  of  shade,  when  lo!  there  shone 
before  them,  brighter  than  the  brightest 
ray  of  sunshine  that  ever  sent  its  shafts 
of  light  through  the  forest  break,  an  an- 

fel.  The  swineherds  were  but  pagans, 
ut  this  celestial  vision  drew  them  to  their 
knees,  and  with  lips  apart,  and  wide-open 
eyes,  and  straining  ears,  half  in  dread,  half 
in  wonder  and  amaze,  they  saw  and  heard 
the  resplendent  vision  consecrate  the  rug- 
ged rock  to  the  eternal  God,  with  ravish- 
ing music,  such  as  they  had  never  heard 
belore,  and  prophesy  the  coming  of  a 
messenger,  a  teacher,  an  apostle,  whose 


name  was  Patrick.  When  the  glorious 
vision  had  passed,  and  the  music  had  died 
away,  the  swineherds  rose,  and  through 
the  forest,  which  now  looked  darker  and 
more  mysterious  than  ever,  they  dro\*e 
their  herds  to  the  palace  of  their  master, 
the  king  of  Munster,  and  straightway  told 
him  the  wondrous  story.  Then  the  king 
arose,  and  taking  with  him  his  knights, 
and  skilled  artificers,  he  went  to  Sidhe 
Druim,  and  having  felled  many  great  oaks, 
he  caused  a  palace  to  be  built  upon  the 
rock.  There  he  held  his  court,  and  there 
he  received  tribute  from  the  men  of  Eire, 
seated  on  the  great  stone  which  tradition 
still  points  out  on  the  ascent  to  the  height, 
and  so  the  rock  was  known  as  Cios-ail,  or 
Cashel,  which  is  to  say,  the  Rock  of  Trib* 
ute. 

Such  is  the  history  which  has  come 
down  to  us  through  the  dim  vista  of  lon^ 
past  ages  of  the  origin  of  the  wide-spread 
tame  of  the  Rock  of  Cashel. 

We  do  not  propose  to  attempt  anything^ 
like  a  continuous  history  of  this  most 
interesting  place,  which  figures  largely 
both  in  the  ecclesiastical  and  civil  records 
of  the  province  of  Munster,  but  before 
we  sketch  the  description  of  the  rock  as 
it  now  stands,  it  is  well  to  allude  to  some 
more  immediately  interesting  facts  of  its 
past  story. 

King  Core's  palace,  built  on  the  sum- 
mit of  the  rock,  became  doubtless  not 
only  a  royal  residence  according  to  the 
ideas  of  the  fourth  century,  but  a  royal 
fortress,  and  with  these  two  objects  was 
combined  a  place  of  worship.  St.  Pat- 
rick visited  Cashel  in  the  reign  of  i£n- 
ghus  MacNadfraech,  the  grandson  of 
Core,  and  the  idols  in  the  palace  fell  from 
their  pedestals  at  the  presence  of  the 
messengers  of  God.  This  marvel,  and 
the  preaching  of  the  glorious  apostle, 
touched  the  heart  of  the  king,  and  he  was 
baptized,  and  admitted  to  the  Church,  the 
first  Christian  king  of  Munster. 

It  was  during  the  reign  of  this  convert 
monarch  that  one  of  the  earliest  synods 
of  Ireland  was  held,  in  the  royal  seat  and 
metropolis  of  Cashel.  Amongst  the  mem- 
bers of  that  solemn  gathering  we  find  the 
names  of  five  saints,  five  of  the  glories  of 
the  Island  of  Saints  in  those  wonderful 
days  of  holiness  and  learning  —  St.  Pat- 
rick, Ailbe,  Declan,  Ciaran,  and  I  bar,  sat 
in  the  hall  of  iCnghus  the  king. 

It  does  not  clearly  appear  when  the 
Rock  of  Cashel,  and  the  town  which  by 
degrees  gathered  round  its  foot,  was 
raised  to  the  dignity  of  an  episcopal  see, 
but  at  the  beginning  of  the  tenth  century 


1 

11 


THE   ROCK   OF   CASHEL. 


tbe  royal  title  is  found  in  combination 
with  that  of  a  bishop,  in  the  person  of 
Corroac  MacCullinan.  This  remarkable 
man  has  left  as  a  literary  monument  of 
his  learning  and  piety  "The  Psalter  of 
Cashel/'  a  glossary  in  the  Gaedhelic,  or 
Scotic  language,  of  which  he  was  a  pro- 
found student.  His  repute  as  a  man  of 
piety,  both  as  bishop  and  anchorite,  was 
wide-spread,  but  his  love  for  the  excite- 
ment of  conquest,  ^d  the  rush  and  clash 
of  battle,  often  led  him  to  lay  aside  the 
pen  and  the  pastoral  staff  for  the  shield 
and  spear.  It  was  in  a  foray  into  the 
county  of  Kildare  that  Cormac  fell,  with 
six  thousand  of  the  men  of  Munster,  by 
the  victorious  sword  of  Fiach  Ua  Ugfa- 
den,  A.D.  902. 

We  pass  on,  through  a  long  record  of 
war,  rapine,  festivities,  and  death,  to  the 
year  of  our  Lord  i  loi,  when  the  dUn^  or 
palace,  on  the  Rock  of  Cashel  became  an 
appanage  of  the  Church,  and  was  solemnly 
given  to  God.  We  quote  from  the  "  An- 
nals of  the  Four  Masters :  "  "  A  meeting 
of  Leath-Mogha  was  held  at  Caiseal 
(Cashel)  by  Murcheartach  Ua  Brian,  with 
the  chiefs  of  the  laity,  and  Ua  Dunain, 
noble  Bishop  and  Chief  Senior,  with  the 
chiefs  of  the  clergy ;  and  on  this  occasion 
Murcheartach  Ua  Brian  made  a  grant 
such  as  no  King  had  ever  made  before, 
namely,  he  granted  Caiseal  of  the  Kings  to 
religious,  without  any  claim  of  layman  or 
clergymen  on  it,  but  the  religious  of  Ire- 
land in  general,"  dedicating  that  "hither- 
to royal  seat "  of  the  kings  of  Munster  to 
God,  St.  Patrick,  and  St.  Ailbe.  Straight- 
way after  this  noble  gift,  the  church  was 
begun  which  has  come  down  to  our  day  as 
one  of  the  most  deeply  interesting  eccle- 
siastical edifices  in  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland,  if  not  in  Europe,  known  far  and 
wide  as  Cormac's  Chapel.  Wearily,  but 
patiently,  in  honor  of  God  and  St.  Patrick, 
the  gritstone  of  which  the  church  was 
built  was  drawn  by  long  teams  from  Drom- 
bane,  nine  miles  off  across  the  plain,  from 
the  mountains  to  the  summit  of  the  steep 
rock.  The  consecration  of  the  church,  by 
the  archbishop  and  bishops  and  clergy  of 
Munster,  with  a  great  gathering  of  princes 
and  people,  took  place  in  1134.  Cormac, 
whose  name  as  the  founder  has  come 
down  to  us  associated  with  his  foundation, 
was  king  of  South  Munster,  having  as- 
cended the  throne  in  the  city  of  Cashel, 
A.D.  1123.  Besides  the  TeampuU  Chor- 
maic  on  the  Rock  of  Cashel,  this  zealous 
monarch  founded  two  other  churches  in 
Lismore,  and  his  bounties  to  the  clergy, 
and  his  sumptuous  gifts  of  sacred  vessels 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  228o 


689 

and  jewels  to  the  Church,  are  matters 
of  history.  But  Cormac  MacCarthy  was 
a  doughty  warrior,  as  well  as  a  zealous 
Christian,  and  the  fame  of  his  arms  was 
the  theme  of  many  an  heroic  ballad.  For 
years  he  struggled  against  his  predatory 
neighbors,  and  beat  back,  after  many 
changing  fortunes,  the  fierce  invader  of 
Munster,  Torlach  O'Conor,  king  of  Con- 
naught.  At  last,  when  peace  seemed 
to  promise  him  repose  in  his  palace  at 
Cashel,  he  was  traitorously  assassinated 
under  his  own  rooftree  by  Foirdealbhach, 
son  of  Diarmid  Ua  Brian,  at  the  instiga- 
tion of  his  own  foster-child  and  son-in-law, 
the  treacherous  and  ungrateful  Turlough 
O'Brian,  A.D.  1 138. 

The  affluence  of  the  faithful,  and  the 
growth  in  importance  of  Cashel,  soon  de- 
manded larger  church  space  than  that 
afforded  by  the  miniature  chapel  of  King 
Cormac,  and  —  circa  1169  —  Donald 
O'Brien,  king  of  Limerick,  founded  and 
erected  the  cathedral.  It  was  during  the 
period  of  the  building  that  Henry  the 
Second,  with  the  blood-stain  of  the  martyr 
Thomas  k  Becket  upon  his  hands,  had 
undertaken  the  invasion  of  Ireland,  a 
work  "  which  never  seems  to  have 
brought  much  blessing  on  either  Ireland 
or  England."  The  bishops  assembled  in 
synod  at  Cashel, bowed  to  the  invader-— 
and  acknowledged  Henry's  suzerainty, 
but  the  troubles  resulting  from  his  own 
miserable  faults,  and  the  terrible  scourge 
of  the  unfilial  conduct  of  his  sons,  hurried 
him  from  Ireland,  and  he  left  behind  him 
a  legacy  of  wrong  and  conflict.  How- 
ever, amidst  distracting  war  and  misery, 
the  cathedral  church  grew  on  the  sum- 
mit of  the  Rock  of  Cashel,  built  up  like 
itself  in  enduring  limestone.  The  ad- 
joining chapel  of  King  Cormac  was  scru- 
pulously preserved;  indeed,  as  we  shall 
see  hereafter,  the  new  and  great  church 
was  specially  adapted,  in  its  plan  and  site, 
so  as  not  to  alter  the^more  ancient  one  in 
the  smallest  degree,  and  it  was  still  fur- 
ther recognized  and  secured  by  being 
converted  into  the  chapter  house. 

In  1 1 72  the  cathedral,  much  as  we  see 
it  nowadays,  in  the  prevailing  and  new 
style  of  the  elegant  pointed  arch,  contrast- 
ing with  the  solid  round  arched  style  just 
gone  out  of  fashion  in  the  chapel  adjacent, 
was  consecrated.  King  Donogh,  called 
Carbrac,  son  and  successor  of  the  found- 
er, added  to  its  endowments  by  lands  in 
Thomond,  and  two  islands  named  Tul- 
luth  and  Kirmacayl,  and  King  John  con- 
firmed these  donations  (Sept.  6, 1215),  just 
as  he  put  his  name  to  the  Magna  Charta 


690 

barely  two  months  before.  We  hear  but 
little  more  o£  Cashel  till  on  Palm  Sunday, 
1316,  Edward  Bruce,  at  the  head  of  the 
Irish  barons  and  the  victors  of  Bannock- 
burn,  visited  the  city  on  his  way  from 
Limerick  to  Nenagh.  A^ain,  in  1372, 
Cashel  had  grown  into  such  importance 
that  a  solemn  Parliament  met  within  its 
walls,  and,  in  the  ensuing  reign  of  Rich- 
ard the  Second,  an  honest  effort  to  re- 
move abuses,  and  reconcile  the  people, 
and  make  amends  for  the  past,  doubtless 
would  tend  to  add  still  further  to  the  re- 
pute and  fame  of  the  ancient  city. 

Not  many  years  later,  Richard  O'He- 
dian,  then  archbishop  (1406  to  1440), 
founded  the  College  of  Vicars  Choral, 
and  erected  their  hall  upon  the  rock. 
There  were  formerly  eight  vicars  and  chor- 
isters, besides  an  organist,  a  sexton,  and 
purveyor  or  steward.  The  vicars  and 
organist  had  an  annuity  of  £$  each,  de- 
rived from  lands  given  for  the  purpose  of 
endowment  by  their  founder.  At  the 
same  time  the  archbishop  made  various 
repairs  to  the  cathedral,  which  was  grown 
ruinous,  after  its  existence  of  over  two 
centuries  and  a  half.  In  1495  an  incident 
took  place  which,  though  grave  enough, 
has  an  aspect  of  a  certain  grim  facetious- 
ness  not  devoid  of  local  color.  Gerald, 
Earl  of  Kildare,  during  this  period  of 
baronial  feuds,  had  managed  to  quarrel 
with  David  Creagh,  the  then  Archbishop 
of  Cashel.  With  the  reckless  love  of  the 
use  of  fire  and  sword  characteristic  of  the 
age,  the  earl  beleaguered  the  rock,  and 
his  kernes  and  men-at-arms  soon  con- 
trived, under  the  orders  of  their  lord,  to 
overwhelm  the  garrison  of  the  castle  and 
set  fire  to  the  cathedral.  Brought  before 
King  Henry  for  this  outrage,  the  earl 
gave,  as  the  best  possible  excuse  that 
could  be  offered,  **that  he  thought  his 
enemy  the  archbishop  was  in  the  cathe- 
dral at  the  time,  or  otherwise  he  should 
not  have  burnt  it ! "  , 

But  we  must  pass  on  over  an  eventful 
period  of  a  century  and  a  half,  during 
which  national  apostasy,  treason,  and  rev- 
olution had  lit  their  baleful  fires  at  home, 
and  carried  fresh  misery  and  wrong  to 
Ireland.  In  1647  Lord  Inchiquin  marched 
from  the  siege  of  the  Castle  of  Cahir  and 
sat  down  before  the  Rock  of  Cashel. 
The  Roundheads  had  found  the  city  de- 
serted, for  the  ill  fame  of  their  atrocious 
conduct  had  arrived  before  them,  and 
they  preferred  the  shelter  of  the  sturdy 
walls  and  the  rugged  rock  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  Cromwell's  lieutenant.  The 
garrison  was  valiant  and  full  of  heart,  the 


THE   ROCK  OF  CASHEL. 


castle  and  church  well  stored  with  pro- 
visions and  ammunition,  and  so,  when 
Lord  Inchiquin's  envoy  offered  to  leave 
them  unmolested,  under  the  condition  of 
receiving  ;£3,ooo  and  a  month's  pay  to  his 
soldiery,  the  citizens  boldly  rejected  bis 
proposal.  A  fierce  cannonade  was  opened 
upon  the  devoted  patriots,  and  long  and 
gallantly  they  resisted,  till  the  massive 
walls  of  the  castle  roost  exposed  to  the 
iron  storm  began  to  «how  signs  of  ruin, 
and  the  outer  walls  were  battered  and 
crumbling,  when  the  invaders  rushed  to 
the  storm,  and  after  a  fierce  struggle 
and  a  frightful  slaughter,  the  rock  was 
captured.  With  characteristic  brutality, 
twenty  priests,  who  had  taken  refuge  with 
the  townsfolk  in  the  vaulted  basement  of 
the  castle,  were  burnt  alive  by  the  Parlia- 
mentary soldiers,  who  heaped  turf  against 
the  door  of  their  place  of  refuge  and  set 
it  on  fire,  a  deed  of  infamy  which  has 
earned  for  Morgan  O'Brien,  Earl  of  Inchi- 
quin, the  name  of  Murihan  tho  Thaun^ 
or  Morgan  the  Burner.  The  Presbyte- 
rians did  not  leave  Cashel  without  dis- 
playing their  religious  hate  by  blowing  off 
the  cathedral  roof,  and  we  may  be  well 
thankful  that  the  stone  vault  of  Cormac's 
Chapel  did  not  invite  their  iconoclastic 
zeal.  The  ruined  church,  where  the  mass 
had  been  said  for  so  long,  and  the  faith 
of  St.  Patrick  had  now  ceased  to  be 
preached,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  hence- 
forth dominant  and  alien  "reformed" 
Church,  and  gradual  decay  and  ruin  be- 
came its  heritage,  until  Dr.  Arthur  Price, 
D.D.  (1749),  dismantled  the  venerable 
ruin,  and  by  act  of  Parliament  made  his 
"cathedral**  in  the  parish  church  of  St. 
John  in  the  city  below  the  rock. 

Let  us  now  attempt  to  give  our  readers 
a  general  idea  of  the  Rock  of  Cashel  as 
we  see  it  in  our  own  day.  Never  shall 
we  forget  our  feelings  when  we  first  gazed 
on  this  hallowed  spot.  It  was  a  lovely 
summer  evening,  and  the  vast  gray  mass 
of  limestone  rock  —  the  Rock  of  Cashel 
—  rose  abruptly  before  us,  crowned  with 
its  coronal  of  cathedral,  castle,  and  tow- 
ers— 

Within  their  steepy  limits  pent 
By  bulwark,  line,  and  battlement. 

At  its  foot  clustered  the  homes  of  the 
city,  with  relics  of  its  ancient  importance 
rising  here  and  there,  the  blue  smoke  mov- 
ing upwards  amidst  the  foliage,  which, 
since  the  days  of  King  Core,  still  clothe 
to  some  extent  the  foot  of  the  rock.  Be- 
yond spread  the  fair  pastures  of  the 
"Golden  Vale," —  " worth  fighting  for," 


THE   ROCK   OF  CASHEL. 


as  Cromwell  grimly  said  of  it,  —  clothed 
with  browsing  cattle,  and  bounded  on  the 
horizon  by  the  noble  forms  of  the  blue 
mountains,  whilst  as  a  glorious  back- 
ground to  this  beautiful  landscape,  the 
setting  sun  had  steeped  the  long,  barred 
clouds  in  tints  of  indescribable  splendor. 
The  distant  bark  of  a  dog,  or  a  far-off  cry 
from  the  city  alone  broke  the  silence,  only 
to  intensify  it,  and  the  soul  of  the  specta- 
tor, absorbed  and  entranced,  received  im- 
pressions of  calm  and  peace,  such  as  are 
only  bestowed  on  man  at  rare  intervals  in 
life,  but  which  death  will  alone  blot  out 
but  to  replace,  in  the  mercy  of  God,  by 
more  glorious  and  enduring  spectacles  of 
eternal  peace  and  unfading  beauty. 

The  next  day  was  one  of  those  long, 
delightful  days  known  and  never  forgot- 
ten by  the  archaeologist,  to  whom,  with 
sketch-book  and  measure,  is  given  to  com- 
mune with  the  builders  of  old,  to  follow 
them  in  their  labors,  to  unravel  their  ob- 
jects and  intentions,  to  realize  their  intui- 
tive common  sense,  their  natural  and 
unstrained  love  of  the  beautiful,  and  their 
hatred  of  shams.  All  alone  with  the 
crowding  memories  of  the  past,  the  grey 
ruins  round  about,  the  blue  heavens  above, 
and  far  away  —  thank  God  !  —  from  **  men 
of  taste,"  and  "  art  critics,"  we  have  gained 
the  summit  of  the  rock,  passing  the  an- 
cient tribute  stone  of  which  we  have 
spoken  above,  and  find  ourselves  in  pres- 
ence of  the  wonderful  group  of  buildings, 
the  history  of  which  we  have  roughly 
sketched.  The  great  mass  of  limestone 
rock  is  rugged  and  irregular,  and  in  some 
parts  almost  inaccessible.  Clustered  upon 
the  limited  area  of  its  summit  and  rising 
from  the  thymy  turf,  stand  first  the  mas- 
sive walls  of  the  castle,  the  southern  tran- 
sept of  the  cathedral,  with  its  battlemented 
central  tower,  squat  and  strong.  Just 
beyond,  in  marvellous  perfection,  the  ven- 
erable chapel  of  King  Cormac,  with  its 
ruddy  gritstone  walls  and  roof,  exquisitely 
tinted  by  green  and  golden  patches  of 
lichen,  contrasting  with  limestone  of  the 
other  buildings  of  the  embattled  choir. 
To  our  right  the  hall  of  the  vicars  choral 
stands  on  the  edge  of  the  rock,  and  per- 
haps we  catch  sight  of  the  apex  of  the 
venerable  round  tower,  whilst  the  fore- 
ground is  marked  by  the  antique  church- 
yard cross,  with  our  Lord  crucified  on  one 
face  and  St.  Patrick  on  the  reverse,  where 
it  rises  from  its  base  adorned  with  runic 
knotwork.  We  enter  the  cathedral  by  the 
north-west  porch,  and  find  ourselves  in  a 
roofless  nave  of  singular  proportions,  be- 
ing only  37  feet  long  by  31  feet  4  inches 


691 

wide,  terminated  by  the  eastern  wall  of 
the  castle,  which  is  at  the  same  time  the 
western  wall  of  the  church.  The  castle 
presents  features  of  very  special  interest 
to  the  student  of  mediaeval  military  archi- 
tecture, with  its  vast  walls  threaded  by 
passages  offering  means  of  offence  and 
defence,  and  its  massive  vaults  in  stone. 
It  was  probably  erected  as  part  and  parcel 
of  the  cathedral,  and  was  built  on  what 
would  have  been  in  the  ordinary  propor- 
tions of  a  church  the  position  of  the  nave, 
but  as  the  rock  was  an  important  military 
position,  this  castle  fitly  took  its  place  as 
sentinel  and  guard  of  the  ecclesiastical 
structure.  One  great  storeroom  formed 
the  basement,  completely  cut  off  from  the 
upper  floors,  save  by  a  narrow  stair 
through  the  thickness  of  the  walls,  and 
easily  defended  by  one  resolute  man.  A 
state-room  above,  and  smaller  apartments 
on  the  upper  floor,  composed  the  rest  of 
the  building,  which,  terminated  by  its  bat- 
tlemented roof,  formed  a  great  western 
tower  to  the  cathedral,  measuring  at  its 
base  some  26  feet  6  inches  by  42  feet  6 
inches,  and  rose  far  over  thb  ridges  of  the 
church  roof.  From  the  upper  floors  direct 
access  was  given  to  the  battlemented 
cathedral  naves  and  down  to  the  level  of 
its  floor  and  the  draw-well,  under  a  stair- 
case in  the  northern  transept,  sunk  deep 
and  wide  into  the  solid  mass  of  the  lime- 
stone rock. 

Advancing  eastwards  along  the  cathe- 
dral, we  come  at  once  beneath  the  central 
tower,  with  its  shattered  vaults,  borne  up 
on  four  great  arches  of  rich  detail ;  to 
right  and  left  the  transepts  stretch  away, 
giving  a  total  extent  of  123  feet.  These 
transepts  are  remarkably  line  exaniples  of 
what  is  known  as  **  first  pointed,"  or 
"early  English"  architecture,  with  noble 
groups  of  triplet  lancets  richly  shafted  and 
moulded  within,  and  wheel  windows  above 
which  fill  the  north  and  south  gables. 
The  side  walls  of  these  transepts  are 
pierced  for  chapels  thrown  out  eastwards, 
two  to  each  transept,  vaulted  in  stone,  and 
with  elegant  couplets  of  lancet  windows. 
Through  one  of  these  chapels,  by  a  door- 
way formed  when  it  became  the  chapter 
house,  we  pass  into  Cormac  Chapel. 
This  occupies  the  south-east  angle,  formed 
by  the  projection  of  the  choir  and  south* 
ern  transept,  when  built  up  against  the 
more  ancient  chapel,  though  at  another 
angle  of  orientation,  leaving  two  small 
and  irregular  courts  between  the  walls  of 
the  two  structures.  Cormac's  Chapel 
consists  of  a  nave  17  feet  8  inches  wide 
by  30  feet  long,  a  deep  chancel  arch,  and 


692 

a  small  chancel  13  feet  8  inches  by  11  feet 
6  inches  wide,  terminating  with  a  deep 
altar  recess.  The  building  is  a  most  elab- 
orate and  beautifully  treated  specimen  of 
what  is  known  as  Lombard  or  Norman 
architecture,  but  offering,  nevertheless, 
peculiar  and  characteristic  ieatures  which 
are  distinctively  Irish,  and  are  easily  rec- 
ognizable by  students  of  the  details  of  the 
beautiful  and  intricate  opus  Hybernicum 
famed  throughout  Europe  in  its  time. 
Certain  similarities  of  treatment  may  also 
be  well  set  side  by  side  with  parallel  pas- 
sages in  French  round-arched  architec- 
ture, and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  they  may 
be  the  result  of  the  extensive  acquain- 
tance with  France  through  the  regular  and 
secular  clergy  of  Ireland  at  that  period. 
The  exterior  of  the  chapel  is  clothed  with 
tiers  of  arcades  diversely  treated,  divided 
by  moulded  and  enriched  string-courses, 
and  adorned  with  sculptured  capitals. 
Two  towers,  with  a  distinct  diminution  as 
thev  taper  upwards,  flank  the  chancel 
arch,  and  rise  to  an  elevation  of  about  68 
feet.  The  church  and  towers  are  covered 
by  steep  pyramidal  roofs  of  stone,  one 
tower  only  being  somewhat  ruined.  Two 
external  doorways  originally  gave  access 
to  the  chapel ;  that  to  the  south  being 
comparatively  simple,  though  shafted, 
adorned  with  chevron  mouldings,  and 
with  a  sculptured  tympanum;  the  north- 
ern doorway,  formerly  the  principal  en- 
trance, now  rendered  virtually  useless  by 
reason  of  the  erection  of  the  choir,  and 
opening  into  a  little  area  of  about  thir- 
teen feet  square,  is  of  a  much  more  elab- 
orate type,  being  recessed  to  the  depth  of 
nearly  eight  feet,  richly  shafted,  sculp- 
tured with  the  characteristic  chevron  or 
zigzag,  grotesque  heads  and  patera^  and 
enclosing  in  the  tympanum  of  its  notched 
head  a  relief  of  a  centaur  or  Sagittarius 
shooting  with  bow  and  arrow  a  beast, 
which  may  be  a  lion  or  a  ram.  Adjoining 
this  doorway  is  a  recess  arched  over,  pro- 
tected by  a  sloping  roof  of  stone,  and 
traditionally  said  to  have  been  the  orig- 
inal position  of  the  tomb  of  the  founder. 
A  stone  coffin  or  kist  —  absurdly  called 
"a  font''  —  which  is  at  least  as  ancient 
as  the  chapel,  and  is  identical  both  in  re- 
spect to  material  and  ornamentation  with 
the  ancient  churchyard  cross  we  have 
already  described,  being  wrought  in  grit- 
stone and  adorned  with  runic  knotwork 
of  intertwininc;  serpents  and  foliage,  ex- 
ists in  one  of  the  chapels  in  the  north 
transept. 

The  opinion  of  the  learned  Dr.  Petrie 
tends  to  establish  that  this  ancient  tomb 


THE   ROCK   OF   CASHEL. 


formerly  filled  the  recess  in  question,  bat 
as.the  inscribed  lid  has  disappeared,  there 
seems  little  probability  of  the  question 
being  absolutely  decided.  It  is  an  inter- 
esting fact,  that  when  this  tomb  was 
opened  about  a  century  ago  an  episcopal 
staff  of  early  form  and  exceedingly  beau- 
tiful workmanship  was  discovered  there- 
in, and  though  Dr.  Petrie  brings  forward 
arguments  which  seem  to  establish  that 
King  Cormac  MacCarthy  combined  the 
episcopal  with  the  regal  dignity,  no  defi- 
nite light  is  thrown  on  the  contents  of  the 
coffin.  Within,  the  chapel  is  entirely 
vaulted  with 'stone,  in  what  is  known  as  a 
"barrel,"  or  continuous  arch,  broken  oa 
its  surface  by  ribs  which  rise  from  en- 
gaged shafts  on  the  flank  walls;  those 
walls  are  arcaded,  and  two  small  windows 
to  the  south,  and  one  at  the  west  end, 
alone  afforded  light.  The  chancel  arch 
is,  without  anv  apparent  reason,  construc- 
tive or  symbolic,  cut  completely  out  of  the 
centre  of  the  eastern  wall  to  the  south, 
and  is  richly  adorned  with  mouldings  and 
ornaments.  On  either  hand  of  the  arch, 
doorways  give  access  to  the  flanking  tow- 
ers; that  to  the  north  being  most  elab- 
orate in  its  detail,  though  giving  access  to 
nothing  more  important  than  the  small 
basement  floor  of  the  tower;  that  to  the 
south  is  perfectly  simple  and  small  in  size, 
and  affords  the  approach,  by  a  winding 
stone  stair,  to  a  space  above  the  vault. 
The  chancel  is  groined  by  diagonal  ribs 
of  stone,  springing  from  the  four  angles. 
Two  small  windows,  north  and  south, 
alone  gave  it  light.  The  walls  are  clothed 
with  arcades,  and  the  altar  recess  is  elab- 
orated with  carved  capitals,  arch  mould- 
ings, even  the  shafts  being  enriched  in 
Lombardic  fashion  with  human  heads, 
grotesques,  zigzags,  and  the  like.  Re- 
mains of  colored  decorations  are  still  vis- 
ible on  the  walls  and  vault,  and  even  in 
the  more  sheltered  external  arcades,  and 
there  is  little  doubt  that  the  use  of  color 
was  general  in  this  instance,  as  it  may 
be  traced  on  other  ancient  ecclesiastical 
buildings  in  Ireland. 

Quitting  the  chancel,  and  ascending  by 
the  stairs  of  the  south  tower  —  worn  by 
many  a  footfall  during  the  seven  centuries 
and  a  half  which  have  passed  since  these 
same  stairs  were  built  up  —  we  find  our- 
selves in  a  singular  apartment,  walled, 
floored,  and  roofed  in  stone,  measuring 
27  ft.  long  by  16  ft.  6  in.  wide,  and  21  ft. 
high  to  the  apex  of  the  acutely  pointed 
"Gothic"  rock,  which  springing  from  the 
level  of  the  floor  (which  is  the  upper  and 
levelled  surface  of  the  circular  vault  be- 


THE   ROCK   OF   CASHEL. 


low)  forms  the  interior  of  the  steep  stone 
roof  of  the  chapel.  This  remarkable 
apartment  was  lit  by  two  slits  opening 
throu^rh  the  stone  roof  to  the  south,  and 
two  others  in  the  western  gable.  A  small- 
er vaulted  room  exists  over  the  chancel 
at  a  lower  level  of  five  feet.  The  larger 
vault  seems  to  have  had  an  upper  floor 
within  its  curve  about  7  ft.  3  in.  over  the 
stone  floor,  for  a  range  of  corbels  at  that 
height  point  to  some  such  arrangement. 
But  the  most  interesting  feature  in  this 
unique  apartment  is  a  large  fireplace  in 
the  western  gable,  from  the  hearth  of 
which  at  the  floor  level,  branch  off,  right 
and  left,  two  flues,  passing  through  the 
massive  walls,  which  terminate  in  the 
north  and  south  towers.  Various  theo- 
ries on  the  object  of  these  flues  have 
been  suggested,  the  most  probable  being 
that  they  were  for  heating  the  room,  or 
supplying  currents  of  fresh  air  to  the  fire 
which  once  blazed  on  the  spacious  hearth ; 
in  either  case,  they  are  another  example, 
that  even  in  such  matters  as  are  consid- 
ered the' special  results  of  this  our  scien- 
tific heating  and  ventilating  age,  "there 
is  nothing  new  under  the  sun." 

Leaving  this  deeply  interesting  and 
most  venerable  structure,  as  we  entered 
It,  by  the  doorway  opening  into  the  south 
transept  of  the  cathedral,  we  find  our- 
selves at  the  entrance  to  the  choir,  which 
is  in  width  27  ft.  5  in.,  and  84  ft.  4  in. 
long  to  the  extreme  east  end.  The  ar- 
chitecture is  of  the  early  pointed  lancet 
style  with  shafted  lancets,  and  at  the  east 
triplets  and  a  wheel  window  above,  such 
as  we  have  described  in  the  transepts. 
What  appears  to  be  a  triforium  passage 
passes  through  its  walls  above  the  win- 
dows, located  in  a  curious  fashion  by 
shafted  openings  with  arched  heads  and 
reversed  arches  forming  the  sills.  Both 
choir  and  transepts  have  had  open  timber 
roofs,  as  is  evident  from  the  rows  of  cor- 
bels, and  the  crossing  beneath  the  central 
tower  and  the  transept  chapels  having 
alone  been  vaulted  in  stone.  The  limit  of 
the  choir  proper,  both  eastward  and  west- 
ward, is  defined  by  lines  of  steps,  giving 
an  extent  of  fifty  feet  for  the  canons' 
stalls,  corbels  for  the  canopies  of  which 
remain.  A  sedile  and  piscina  remain  in 
the  upper  sanctuary  space,  and  corbels 
seem  to  indicate  a  rood-loft  at  the  west 
end  of  the  choir.  Externally,  the  general 
character  of  the  architecture  is  simple  and 
dignified,  with  hardly  any  ornamental  de- 
tail, excepting  in  the  massive  buttresses  of 
the  transepts,  which  are  adorned  with  four 
double  tiers  of  pedimented  and  tref oiled 


693 

niches,  all  bereft  of  their  statues.  The 
windows  are  absolutely  simple  lancets 
with  string-courses  above  and  below,  and 
quarterfoiled  openings  between  them  in 
the  choir.  The  eaves  throughout  are 
crowned  by  the  characteristic  three- 
stepped  battlement,  possibly  of  a  later 
date,  but  such  as  may  be  seen  in  the  an- 
cient cathedrals  of  Limerick  and  Ard- 
fert.  The  building  has  only  been  given 
up  to  desolation  and  ruin  for  less  than  a 
century,  and  thanks  to  its  massive  con- 
struction, and  excellent  materials,  had  not 
suffered  to  the  extent  tliat  might  be  ex- 
pected from  time,  war,  and  Cromwelllan 
cannon-balls,  when  we  made  a  careful 
survey  and  measurements  of  it  some  few 
years  ago.  Restoration  as  a  matter  of 
construction  would  not  be  by  any  means 
impossible,  and  if  done  with  the  conscien- 
tious care  and  strict  sense  of  responsi- 
bility and  self-abnegation  which  such  a 
work  would  imperatively  demand  —  or  it 
were  better  to  let  it  crumble  into  dust  — 
it  would  be  impossible  to  exaggerate  the 
deep  interest  of  the  undertaking  in  its 
value  to  Catholic  Ireland  first  and  fore- 
most, and  we  may  say  to  all  Christendom 
besides.  Immediately  adjoining  the 
north-eastern  angle  of  the  northern  tran- 
sept, which  has  been  worked  into  its 
lower  portion,  and  through  which  a 
doorway  has  been  broken,  rises  the 
round  tower,  probably  the  most  ancient 
and  not  the  least  interesting  of  the  group 
of  buildings  on  the  rock.  It  is  built,  like 
Cormac's  Chapel,  in  gritstone,  and  excel- 
lently constructed.  The  diameter  at  the 
base  is  about  nineteen  feet,  and  the 
elevation  about  ninety  feet.  It  retains 
its  original  stone  capping  of  conical  form, 
and  a  cornice,  immediately  below  which 
four  small  openings  face  the  cardinal 
points.  Other  openings,  which  once  lit 
the  floors  at  lower  levels,  have  disap- 
peared, and  the  doorway,  now  blocked  up, 
gave  a  guarded  access  at  a  height  of  ten 
feet  from  the  ground.   * 

The  vicars'  choral  hall  is  of  late  date, 
circa  1415.  Stone  seats  in  the  embra- 
sure of  the  transomed  and  mullioned 
windows  command  a  view  over  the  city  at 
the  foot  of  the  rock,  and  a  wide  hearth, 
with  its  ancient  corbelled  mantel,  and 
massive  chimney,  speak  of  a  traditional^ 
Irish  hospitality,  as  the  battlemented 
walls  above  tell  of  watch  and  ward  in  the 
troubled  times  of  attack  and  foray. 

The  summit  of  the  rock  is  mostly  gir- 
dled by  a  wall,  and  from  its  circuit  are  to 
be  seen  the  fine  ruins  of  the  great  cruci- 
form conventual  church  of  the  Cistercian 


694 

Abbey,  with  its  massive  central  tower 
and  tail  triplets  of  lancets  in  the  gables, 
standing  all  desolate  and  grey  and  hoar 
—  as  it  is  called —  in  the  fields  beyond 
the  city.  From  another  point  of  view 
may  be  distinguished  the  fragments  of  the 
lower  part  of  the  city,  and  one  may  trace 
out  more  or  less  the  ancient  line  of  walls, 
not  many  years  swept  away,  whilst  the 
Dominican  Abbey,  and  the  site  of  the 
Franciscan  Friary,  where  now  stands  the 
modern  Catholic  church,  rise  from  amidst 
the  houses  of  the  citizens.  All  round 
about  stand  the  noble  outlines  of  the 
Sleive  Bloom,  the  Galtees,  the  Comeraght 
Mountains,  which  guard  and  look  down 
upon  the  green  plain  at  their  feet,  over 
which  float  purple  cloud  shadows.  As  we 
gaze,  and  shut  for  a  moment  our  ears  to 
the  horrid  jar  of  contention  and  strife, 
which,  alas  !  fills  the  air,  the  poet's  words 
come  upon  us  with  full  force  before  this 
lovely  spectacle  — 

She  is  a  rich  and  rare  land, 
Oh  !  she^s  a  fresh  and  fair  land. 
She  is  a  dear  and  rare  land, 
This  native  land  of  thine  ! 

G.   GOLDIE. 


AN   ANNAMESE   DECALOGUE. 


From  The  Saturday  Review. 
AN  ANNAMESE  DECALOGUE. 

MiNH  Mang,  the  grandfather  of  Tu 
Due,  was  a  remarkable  man  for  an  East- 
ern potentate.  He  hated  the  French,  and, 
as  he  identified  Christianity  with  them, 
persecuted  the  Christians  most  cruelly. 
The  Jesuits  had  their  revenge  on  him. 
As  far  as  Europeans  are  concerned,  they 
had  the  making  of  the  history  of  Annam, 
and  they  have  lavished  on  Minh  Mang  all 
the  bad  names  they  could  draw  from 
ancient  history  or  personal  indignation. 
But,  apart  from  his  animosity  to  the  Chris- 
tians, his  Majesty  was  quite  an  amiable 
personage.  His  cruelties  were  partly  due 
to  his  own  strong  religious  convictions, 
and  partly  to  a  prophetic  distrust  of  the 
intentions  of  the  French.  From  the  very 
moment  he  ascended  the  throne  he  was 
bound  over  to  regard  the  French  with 
suspicion.  His  father,  the  great  Gia 
^Long,  the  founder  of  the  present  empire, 
called  him  to  his  bedside  as  he  was  dying, 
and  delivered  himself  of  the  following 
testament :  "  Love  France  and  the  French, 
my  son,  but  never  grant  them  an  inch  of 
land  in  your  dominions.'*  Gia  Long  him- 
self was  greatly  indebted  to  the  French, 
for  it  was  mainly  through  the  exertions  of 


Mgr.  Pigneaux  de  Behaine,  the  famous 
Bishop  of  Adran,  that  the  monarch,  from 
being  a  fugitive  in  danger  of  his  life,  was 
enabled  to  regain  the  throne  of  Cochin 
China,  and  finally  to  reduce  Tong-king  to 
the  position  of  a  province  of  Annam.  In 
gratitude,  therefore,  he  allowed  the  Jesuit 
fathers  every  facility,  and  the  result  was  a 
great  extension  of  evangelizing  missions 
over  the  country,  and  especially  in  Tong- 
king.  Unfortunately,  however,  Tong-king 
was  precisely  that  part  of  the  kingdom 
where  the  civil  war  of  the  beginning  of 
the  century  lingered  longest.  The  Tong- 
kinese  dicl  not  relish  their  subjection  to 
the  southern  and  less  warlike  State,  and 
the  last  of  the  Tay-son  rebels  found  ready 
protection  from  the  populace  and  abun- 
dant coigns  of  vantage  in  the  northern 
hills,  whence  they  could  sally  out  and  flut- 
ter the  Annamese  dovecots,  and  regain 
their  friendly  shelter  before  the  king's 
troops  had  fully  realized  the  situation. 

When  Minh  Mang  came  to  the  throne 
he  found  from  the  district  mandarin's  re- 
turns that  there  were  over  a  hundred 
thousand  Christians  in  Tong-king,  and 
that  the  new  faith  was  rapidly  spreading. 
He  immediately  connected  this  fact  with 
the  disturbed  state  of  the  province,  and 
issued  orders  for  the  repression  of  Chris- 
tianity. Several  French  fathers  were 
tortured;  others  were  simply  put  to  death 
or  lodged  in  prison,  which  implied  the 
same  thing.  Great  numbers  of  native 
Christians  were  executed,  and  a  good 
many  more  apostatized.  Immediately 
upon  this  there  occurred  a  terrible  out- 
break of  cholera  and  the  plague,  and, 
added  to  this,  a  water  famine.  The  Jesuit 
fathers  were  not  slow  to  declare  this  to  be 
a  visitation  from  heaven  to  punish  the 
country  for  the  impiety  of  the  king.  The 
accusation  spread  about  quickly  in  the 
panic-stricken  villages,  andf  Minh  Mang 
soon  became  aware  that  the  people  blamed 
him  and  his  debauches  and  despotism 
and  persecutions  for  the  pestilence  which 
depopulated  whole  townships.  His  Maj- 
esty was  never  wanting  in  energy  and 
resolution,  and  he  very  speedily  resolved 
to  put  an  end  to  complaints  of  this  kind. 
Accordingly  he  made  a  public  and  general 
confession  of  his  sins,  to  appease  the  gods 
and  his  subjects.  The  whole  was  drawn 
up  in  a  proclamation  written  bv  himself. 
Minh  Mang  had  the  credit  of  being  the 
most  cultivated  man  in  the  country.  He 
was  well  versed  in  the  Nine  Classics,  and 
could  cap  quotations  with  the  best  read  of 
the  literati.  He  left  behind  him  a  num- 
ber of  fugitive  verses,  which  are  as  good 


1 


AN   ANNAMESE   DECALOGUE. 


as  anything  there  is  in  Annamese  litera- 
ture ;  and  to  the  present  day  many  of  his 
jeux  de  mots  and  caUmbonrs  are  quoted 
with  approval.  Into  this  confession, 
therefore,  he  threw  all  his  powers  of  com- 
position, and  the  result  was  regarded  as 
quite  a  triumph  of  literary  skill.  The 
royal  document  ended  as  follows:  "In 
the  face  of  heaven,  and  in  good  faith,  we, 
as  the  chief  culprit,  form  the  resolution  to 
change  our  manner  of  life ;  we  exhort  the 
mandarins  to  follow. our  example  and  the 
common  people  to  imitate  the  mandarins. 
So  shall  heaven  consent  to  reopen  the 
canals  which  our  sins  have  choked  up, 
and  so  shall  the  divine  beneficence  once 
more  flow  over  and  fertilize  the  land.*' 
Not  much  good  was  expected  to  come  of 
this  remarkable  production.  The  king 
indeed  seemed  to  be  really  penitent  for 
six  weeks,  and  then  the  virtue  induced  by 
the  moral  altitude  of  the  sentiments  ex- 
pressed in  his  edict  evaporated,  and  be 
returned  to  his  Bordeaux.  His  Majesty 
was  very  fond  of  Bordeaux,  and  was  wont 
to  say  that  the  only  thing  in  which  the 
French  excelled  was  in  the  preparation  of 
that  wine  and  the  construction  of  ships. 
Beyond  these  two  items  he  would,  how- 
ever, concede  nothing,  and  strenuously 
denied  the  existence  out  of  his  dominions 
of  any  virtue  which  was  worth  cultivating, 
or  of  any  knowledge  worth  having.  The 
mandarins  from  the  very  first  regarded 
the  edict  as  a  mere  literary  tour  de  force. 
They"" admired  the  turn  ot  the  sentences 
and  the  pretty  reminiscences  of  Confucius 
and  the  L^  K^,  the  Book  of  Kites,  but 
the  idea  of  looking  upon  the  exhortations 
as  anything  beyond  mere  rhetorical 
clothes-horses,  or  subjects  for  academical 
discussion,  never  dawned  upon  them. 
The  people  had  therefore  no  models  set 
before  them.  They  could  not  read  the 
royal  effusion,  and  when  it  was  read  aloud 
to  them  in  the  marketplaces  they  were 
only  puzzled  by  its  balanced  periods. 
The  season  of  national  humiliation  was 
therefore  a  failure.  An  insinuation  that 
the  public  calamities  were  caused  by  the 
evil  eye  of  the  French  priests  appealed 
much  more  to  the  common  imagination, 
and  thenceforward  great  interest  was 
taken  in  the  executions  of  the  Christians. 
The  blood  of  sorcerers  was  looked  upon 
as  a  panacea  for  all  diseases.  The  exe- 
cutioners scraped  their  sabres  dry,  and 
sold  a  pinch  for  a  silver  nen,  about  seven 
shillings.  The  hair  of  the  martyrs  and 
the  cages  in  which  they  were  confined 
were  eagerly  brought  up.  The  blood  that 
soaked  into  the  ground  was  gathered  to- 


gether,  and  fetched  marvellous  prices  as 
a  preventive  against  cholera  and  smallpox. 
The  king  had  now  directed  public  atten- 
tion more  than  ever  to  the  persecution  of 
the  Christians.  The  people  were  as  anx- 
ious as  he  could  be  for  the  multiplication 
of  martyrs,  but  this  was  hardly  a  result  he 
desired,  and  certainly  it  was  one  he  had 
not  contemplated.  There  were  periodical 
revolts  against  his  rule,  both  in  the  north- 
ern parts  of  Tongking  and  down  in  the 
south  in  the  provinces  which  now  make 
up  French  Cochin  China.  Minh  Mang 
was  afraid  that  desperation  might  send 
the  Christians  into  the  arms  of  the  rebels, 
and  they  would  then  form  a  body  formi- 
dable enough  to  seriously  endanger  his 
throne.  He  thereupon  issued  an  order 
banishing  all  foreigners  from  his  domin- 
ions at  once,  and  followed  this  up  by 
another,  forbidding  any  European  to  enter 
the  country  on  pain  of  immediate  death. 
Here,  again,  he  was  baffied  for  a  time  by 
the  return  to  Annam  of  M.  Chaigneau,  a 
French  officer  who  had  enjoyed  the  com- 
plete confidence  of  the  late  king,  and  was 
highly  esteemed  throughout  the  country. 
M.  Chaigneau,  moreover,  held  the  title  of 
a  mandarin  of  the  first  rank.  He  re- 
mained, however,  little  over  a  year  with 
the  new  sovereign,  and  then  went  back  to 
France. 

His  Majesty  reverted  to  his  old  ways 
again  for  a  time,  but  he  was  speedily  con- 
vinced that  he  could  not  kill  off  all  the 
Christians.  He  was  a  very  well-read  man, 
as  we  have  said,  and  he  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  it  would  be  much  more  simple 
as  well  as  infinitely  more  glorious  if  he 
could  supplant  the  Western  faith  by  a 
new  religion  devised  by  himself.  He 
knew  little  about  Christianity  except  that 
it  had  a  Decalogue,  and  that  the  Buddhist 
priests  themselves  spoke  of  these  Com- 
mandments as  very  praiseworthy  and  al- 
most  as  good  as  the  rules  laid  down  by 
the  Buddha.  Minh  Mang  therefore,  as  a 
prince-philosopher,  determined  that  he 
would  oppose  cult  against  cult,  State  fes- 
tivals against  religious  mysteries,  and 
Decalogue  against  Decalogue.  Accord- 
ingly he  set  the  chief  literati  of  the  coun- 
try to  make  a  digest  of  all  the  moral  works 
known  to  him  —  chief  among  them  being 
of  course  the  works  of  Confucius.  The 
affairs  of  the  country  were  left  to  manage 
themselves  while  the  principal  ofiicers  of 
State  noted  down  the  finest  and  most  ele- 
vating passages  in  these  classics.  Those 
which  were  supposed  to  have  any  analogy 
to  Christian  doctrines  were  especially 
marked.    Then  all  these  disjointed  bits 


696 

of  wisdom  and  morality  were  tagged  to- 
gether and  snipped  at  the  edges  as  much 
as  possible  so  as  to  take  away  any  ten- 
dency to  jerkiness.  This  hotch-potch  of 
philosophy  was  then  further  condensed, 
and  finally  divided  into  ten  separate  heads. 
His  Majesty  set  to  work  to  compose  a 
pompous  preface.  Desirous,  he  said,  to 
follow  in  the  steps  of  his  illustrious  an- 
cestors, the  king  in  his  paternal  solicitude 
had  drawn  up  Ten  Religious  Precepts. 
They  were  based  on  the  wisdom  of  the 
divine  philosophers ;  they  were  seasoned 
by  the  practical  experience  of  many  ages. 
The  exact  observance  of  these  Ten  Com- 
mandments could  not  fail  to  obtain  from 
heaven  tranquillity  and  happiness  for  the 
inhabitants  of  the  kingdom,  and  abundant 
harvests  would  reward  the  pious  land. 
His  Majesty  himself  had  new-modelled 
his  life  on  these  rules,  and  he  expected 
his  lieges  to  follow  that  august  example. 

Each  division  of  the  Decalogue  begins 
with  a  concise  statement  of  the  virtue  to 
be  practised.  A  commentary  then  fol- 
lows giving  the  authorities  for  the  rule, 
and  setting  out  at  length  the  advantages 
that  are  to  result  from  its  observance. 
The  Ten  Commandments  are  as  follows: 
I.  Observe  carefully  all  social  relations. 
That  is  to  say,  honor  the  king  and  take 
him  as  the  supreme  model;  bow  down 
before  all  magistrates  and  men  of  learning, 
and  let  each  man  rear  his  family  to  be 
good  citizens.  2.  Cultivate  purity  of  in- 
tention beyond  all  things'.  3.  Let  each 
man  carry  out  with  diligence  the  duties 
of  his  estate  and  condition  in  life.  These 
two  rules  are  explained  to  mean  the  strict 
observance  of  the  established  laws  of  the 
country,  whether  the  Luat,  the  fundamen- 
tal and  **  natural ''  law,  common  to  all 
peoples  of  Chinese  race  and  civilization ; 
or  the  Ld,  the  ''civil  "  law,  the  enactments 
special  to  the  kingdom  of  Annam.  4. 
Be  sober  in  eating  and  drinking.  The 
commentary  explains  that  excess  leads  to 
gambling,  gambling  leads  to  poverty,  pov- 
erty to  theft,  murder,  and  brigandage. 
5.  Observe  the  rights  and  usages.  This 
refers  directly  to  the  study  of  the  Lb  K^, 
the  Book  of  Rites,  to  carry  out  the  pro- 
visions of  which  there  is  a  permanent 
board  established  in  Peking.  6.  Let 
fathers  and  mothers  rear  up  their  chil- 
dren with  care,  and  let  elder  brothers  ren- 
der the  same  duty  to  their  younger  broth- 
ers. The  commentary  points  out  that 
home  education  is  the  soundest  foundation 
of  the  national  welfare.  This  one  rule  is 
sufficient  to  raise  Minh  Mang  to  the  dig- 
nity of  a  modern  social  reformer,  and 
proves  that  he  was  not  the  mere  erratic 


AN   ANNAMESE   DECALOGUE. 


despot  his  critics  would  have  us  believe. 
The  Annamese  coarse  of  education  may, 
no  doubt,  be  most  wooden  and  useless. 
The  best  scholar  is  the  man  who  is  the 
most  brimful  of  texts,  who  can  read  and 
trace  the  greatest  number  of  characters. 
Beyond  this  he  knows  nothing,  and  does 
not  want  to  know  anything.  But  the  king 
was  not  formulating  an  education  code. 
He  was  inventing  a  State  religion.  7. 
Avoid  evil  doctrines,  and  study  only  the 
good.  The  commentary  is  an  invective 
against  the  Jesuits  and  all  their  teaching. 
8.  Observe  chastity  and  modesty.  The 
priestly  opponents  of  Minh  Mang  are 
very  scathing  in  their  remarks  on  this 
ordinance.  It  is  an  anomaly,  they  say,  in 
a  country  where  the  law  itself  despises 
chastity,  and  none  but  the  p>oor  people 
know  how  to  set  about  the  practice  of  it. 
Nevertheless  the  royal  commentary  prom- 
ises rewards  to  all  those  who  shall  distin- 
guish themselves  in  the  practice  of  virtue; 
whereon  a  Monsignor  is  constrained  to 
remark  that  Minh  Mang  should  have  ap- 
pointed an  academy  of  literary  men  to 
distribute  these  rewards  after  the  fashion 
of  the  prix  Monthyon  in  France.  His 
Majesty  seems,  however,  to  have  had  a 
shrewd  suspicion  that  the  recipients  would 
probably  do  as  little  credit  to  the  judg- 
ment of  the  electors  as  is  ordinarily  the 
case  in  the  republic,  q.  Obey  implicitly 
the  laws  of  the  kingdom.  This  would 
seem  to  mean  more  particularly.  Do  not 
fail  to  pay  the  taxes  punctually  —  a"  very 
practical  kind  of  religion  from  the  govern- 
mental point  of  view.  10.  Practise  good 
works.  This  is  the  essence  of  Buddhism, 
having  for  its  reward  a  favorable  trans-in- 
corporation in  another  existence. 

There  is  no  mention  whatever  in  this 
rationalistic  Decalogue,  or  in  the  commen- 
tary attached,  of  deceit,  thieving,  or  homi- 
cide. Neither  is  there  any  reference  to  a 
Supreme  Being,  which  however  was  to  be 
expected  in  a  country  where  Buddhism  is 
the  ostensible  religion.  Whether  the  ob- 
servance of  these  rules  was  assumed  to 
preclude  any  of  the  more  obvious  forms 
of  wrong-doing,  or  whether  too  much 
philosophy  made  the  drafters  forgetful  of 
the  commoner  human  frailties,  or  whether 
the  omission  was  designedly  made,  does 
not  appear.  At  any  rate  it  is  significant, 
and  turnished  a  convenient  text  for  de- 
nunciatory sermons.  Having  drawn  up 
his  Commandmants,  Minh  Mang  resolved 
that  the^  should  be  inaugurated  by  a  sol- 
emn religious  function.  He  had  the  man- 
uscript enclosed  in  a  sort  of  casket  like 
a  reliquary,  and  ordained  that  on  a  certain 
day  it  should  be  carried  out  of  the  palace, 


BEARDS. 


697 


and  that  all  the  officials  and  the  people 
should  come  in  solemn  procession  to 
meet  it.  This  was  to  bring  its  provisions 
into  force.  The  edict  prescribed  the  num- 
ber of  prostrations  and  genuflexions  to  be 
performed,  and  was  composed  very  much 
in  the  style  of  the  document  respecting 
the  image  in  the  plain  of  Dura,  which 
Nebuchadnezzar  the  king  had  set  up.  It 
was  also  provided  that  there  should  be 
quarterly  assemblies  of  the  people  to  hear 
the  new  Decalogue.  The  district  magis- 
trates were  to  preside,  and  were  to  deliver 
lectures  and  give  interpretations  wherever 
they  might  seem  necessary.  The  man- 
darins faithfullv  carried  out  the  ceremo- 
nies as  orderecf.  That,  however,  was  all 
the  success  the  new  religion  obtained. 
The  Christians  were  alarmed ;  the  uncon- 
verted laughed,  and  stuck  to  their  old 
Buddhistic  and  Taouistic  observances; 
nobody  obeyed  the  new  Commandments. 
There  was,  indeed,  nothing  particular  to 
obey.  The  regulations  laid  down  con- 
tained nothing  that  differed  radically  from 
the  faith  the  people  had  been  accustomed 
to.  It  was  therefore  impossible  to  lay 
hands  on  disloyal  heretics,  unless  it  were 
the  Christians,  and  the  persecution  of 
them  was  nothing  new.  His  Majesty, 
however,  was  perfectly  pleased.  He  had 
no  fanatical  belief  in  any  one  of  the  estab- 
lished religions,  and  the  cult  he  had  in- 
vented was  so  vague  in  its  injunctions 
that  hardly  any  one  could  do  great  vio- 
lence to  his  tenets  in  declaring  that  he 
followed  them.  There  was  therefore 
nothing  in  the  way  of  direct  opposition  to 
be  seen.  That  was  enough  for  him.  He 
bad  revived  religion  upon  earth,  and 
looked  on  the  title,  Tang-kin  Fo  Yeh,  the 
Buddha  of  the  present  day,  as  particu- 
larly his  due.  He  had  written  the  pref- 
ace to  the  Decalogue,  and  was  placed  by 
admiring  mandarins  on  a  level  with  Con- 
fucius in  regard  to  literary  ability.  The 
plague  had  worked  itself  out  and  did  not 
return  to  the  country  —  a  fact  naturally 
ascribed  to  the  new  Decalogue.  Minh 
Mang  issued  his  edict  in  1835.  For  six 
years  he  built  many  canals  and  improved 
the  roads  of  the  country  from  Saigon  to 
Hud  and  from  Hud  to  Hanoi.  He  also 
devoted  much  time  to  organizing  the  stud- 
ies for  the  government  examinations.  In 
1841  he  died  of  a  fall  from  his  horse. 
Since  then  his  Decalogue  has  remained 
quietly  in  monastic  muniment  boxes,  or 
among  the  properties  of  the  various  local ! 
magistracies.  It  is  no  longer  read  aloud  ' 
to  the  people,  but  it  is  just  as  well,  or  as 
ill,  observed  as  ever  it  was. 


From  The  Spectator. 
BEARDS. 


There  is  a  good  deal  of  recrimination, 
more  are  less  amicable,  between  men  and 
women,  on  the  question  which  of  the  two 
sexes  is  more  under  the  slavery  of  fashion. 
Men,  doubtless,  have  much  to  say  on  their 
side.  Their  fopperies  in  dress  are  foolish 
enough,  and  have  been  at  times  almost  in- 
credibly silly  —  witness  the  shoes  with 
curling  toes  in  which  the  dandies  in  the 
days  of  the  early  Plantagenets  rejoiced  — 
but,  on  the  whole,  they  do  not  match  the 
extravagances  of  feminine  taste.  And  then 
there  is  tight-lacing,  a  practice  to  which, 
while  artists  vainlv  proclaim  that  it  disfig- 
ures the  form,  and  physicians  to  as  little 
purpose  declare  that  it  is  unhealthy,  the 
women  obstinately  cling.  But  then,  on4he 
other  hand,  the  history  of  the  beard  is  a 
terrible  record  of  male  folly.  If  some  in- 
habitant of  a  superior  sphere  were  called 
down  to  hear  the  case,  as  in  Leigh  Hunt's 
apologue  the  angel  is  called  in  to  arbitrate 
between  the  man  and  the  fish,  what  would 
he  say  when  it  was  thus  presented  ?  Here 
is  a  natural  growth  which  is  commonly 
allowed  to  be  ornamental,  which  certainly 
conceals  what  are  often  the  weaker  and 
least  shapely  parts  of  the  face,  which 
helps  to  protect  important  organs  of  life, 
the  removal  of  which  is  tedious,  painful, 
and,  in  possibility  at  least,  dangerous  — 
was  not  Dionysius  compelled  to  singe  off 
his  beard  with  hot  walnut-shells,  for  fear 
of  letting  a  razor  approach  his  tyrannous 
throat  ?  —  and  yet  at  various  epochs  sun- 
dry nations  have  agreed,  as  far  as  might 
be,  to  remove  it,  —  and  not  only  this,  but 
to  make  its  removal  a  test  of  mental  san- 
ity and  moral  goodness.  It  is  this  last 
fact,  the  bigotry,  so  to  speak,  which  has 
commonly  been  associated  with  this  fash- 
ion, that  makes  the  history  of  the  beard 
so  strange  and,  we  may  venture  to  say,  so 
humiliating  a  record.  Does  it  not  seem 
absolutely  incredible  that  not  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  Archbishop 
Tait,  then  Bishop  of  London,  an  excep- 
tionallv  liberal  prelate,  actually  forbade 
one  of  his  clergy,  a  man  of  the  highest 
character,  to  read  prayers  in  his  owa 
church  on  the  occasion  of  a  confirmation, 
because  he  had  the  sense  to  let  the  hair 
grow  on  his  upper  lip ;  and  that  Lord  Jus- 
tice Knight  Bruce  absolutely  refused  to 
hear,  in  fact  ignored  the  presence  of,  a 
bearded  young  barrister  who  attempted 
to  address  him ;  and  that  in  a  case  well 
known  to  the  present  writer,  all  the  dig- 
nified machinery  of  a  governing  body  of  a 
school  was  called  in  by  the  bead  master, 


BEARDS. 


698 

to  compel    an    innovating    colleague   to 
shave  ? 

These  instances  are  striking,  because 
they  are  recent,  but  the  whole  history  of 
the  subject  is  full  of  the  most  curious 
anomalies.  In  earlier  antiquity,  the  wear- 
inor  of  the  beard  was,  with  the  exception 
of  Egypt,  where  the  priests  certainly  were 
shaven,  universally  customary.  It  was, 
indeed,  held  to  be  peculiarly  sacred.  To 
touch  it  was  to  make  the  most  solemn  ap- 

Ceal  possible  to  compassion  (a  fact  possi- 
ly  connected  with  the  helplessness  of  a 
man  so  grasped).  The  Greeks  recognized, 
indeed,  a  peculiar  type  of  beauty  in  the 
beardless  Apollo ;  but  this  feature  was 
certainly  a  part  of  their  ordinary  concep- 
tion of  the  manly  form,  and  they  certainly 
did  not,  as  Dr.  Doran  supposes  (strangely 
misled  by  an  analogy  of  sound),  *'  style  as 
barbarians,  unshaven  savages,  all  nations 
who  were  out  of  the  pale  of  their  own 
customs  and  religion"  ("Encyclopaedia 
Britannica,"  edition  1876).  Shaving,  how- 
ever, seems  to  have  become  common  after 
the  best  days  of  Greece  had  past.  Alex- 
ander the  Great  is  represented  with  a 
beardless  face;  and  he  is  said  to  have 
made  his  Macedonians  dofiE  their  beards, 
as  affording  a  dangerous  hold  to  the  enemy 
in  close  combat.  It  was  certainly  one  of 
the  Greek  fashions  that  made  their  way 
into  Rome,  and  after  a  long  struggle  it 
seems  to  have  prevailed.  Barbers  from 
Sicily  are  said  to  have  settled  in  the  city 
as  early  as  300  B.C.  Conservatives,  such 
as  Cato,  the  elder,  seem  to  have  fiercely 
resisted  the  change.  Scipio  Africanus  the 
younger  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  who 
shaved  daily.  But  the  fashion  prevailed. 
The  heads  of  the  great  Romans  of  the 
last  age  of  the  republic  are  beardless; 
and  the  custom  seems  to  have  continued 
diiring  the  early  empire.  To  be  able  to 
grow  a  beard  was,  of  course,  a  sign  of 
manly  years,  and  the  young  Romans  culti- 
vateci  it  as  diligently  as  an  ambitious  lad 
among  ourselves ;  but  to  cut  it  off  was  a 
necessary  sacrifice  to  custom,  though,  if 
we  may  judge  from  an  expression  in  one 
of  Cicero^s  letters,  there  was  a  class  of 
ultra-fashionable  youths  who  wore  a  small 
beard.  Augustus,  the  elder  Pliny  tells 
us,  always  used  the  razor.  '*  Bearded  *' 
became  a  synonym  for  something  old-fash- 
ioned, and  even  silly.  The  philosophers, 
however,  still  were  champions  of  nature, 
though  not  always  creditable  champions, 
as  they  were  often  believed  to  make  the 
beard,  and  its  accompaniment  the  cloak, 
serve  in  the  stead  both  of  wisdom  and 
virtue.    Some  of  the  emperors,  however, 


after  the  end  of  the  first  century  of  oar 
era,  seem  to  have  worn  the  beard,  Julian, 
in  the  fourth  century,  being  a  conspicu- 
ous example.  In  our  own  country,  the 
English  before  the  Conquest  were  com- 
monly bearded,  though  the  Norman  fash- 
ion of  shaving  was  creeping  in,  just  as 
the  Greek  fashion  had  crept  into  Rome. 
"An  army  of  priests,"  was  the  report 
brought  back  by  Harold^s  spy  from  the 
camp  of  the  invaders.  The  conquerors 
of  Senlac  seem  to  have  imposed  their  cus- 
tom of  shaving  upon  the  conquered,  and  it 
was  one  of  the  grievances  of  the  English 
under  their  new  masters  that  they  were 
compelled  to  shave.  After  two  centuries, 
however,  beards  again  asserted  their  right 
to  exist.  The  portraits  of  pre-Reformalion 
founders  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  fre- 
quently display  the  beard  ;  but  it  seems  to 
have  gone  partially  out  of  fashion  in  the 
days  of  the  Tudors.  Dr.  Doran  tells  us 
that  the  benchers  of  Lincoln's  Inn  for* 
bade  any  bearded  person  to  sit  at  table 
unless  he  paid  for  double  commons.  Still, 
there  are  conspicuous  exceptions.  The 
beard  which  Sir  Thomas  More  moved  out 
of  the  way  of  the  executioner's  axe  has 
become  famous.  The  appendage,  too, 
must  have  been  common,  when  Elizabeth 
thought  it  worth  while  to  impose  a  tax  on 
all  wTio  wore  a  beard  of  more  than  a  fort- 
night's growth.  The  Reformers,  again, 
certainly  were  bearded,  as,  in  the  earlier 
half  of  the  next  century,  were  the  states- 
men and  prelates  of  the  Stuart  monarchy. 
Meanwhile,  shaving  became  more  and 
more  common  among  the  ecclesiastics  of 
the  Roman  Church  (the  Greek  commun- 
ion, conservative  in  this,  as  in  all  things, 
has  always  clung  to  the  beard),  though  the 
popes,  as  late  as  the  end  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  seem  not  to  have  per- 
sonally followed  the  practice.  With  us; 
shaving  became  almost  universal  with  the 
Restoration,  the  second  Charles,  with 
whom  the  growth  seems  to  have  been  nat- 
urally deficient,  setting  the  fashion.  Still, 
there  were  those\who  refused  to  surrender 
the  beard.  In  Ely  Cathedral,  for  instance, 
as  late  as  the  first  decade  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  we  see  the  bearded  effigy  of  a 
bishop  of  the  see.  Then  came  a  long 
period,  lasting  down  almost  to  this  gen- 
eration, during  which  no  words  were  hard 
enoua;h  for  the  audacious  creature  who 
dared  to  show  himself  in  the  haunts  of 
his  fellows,  as,  it  may  be  presumed,  nature 
had  intended  him  to  be.  He  was  sup- 
posed to  be  revolutionary  in  politics,  and 
heretical  in  faith,  if  not  positively  an 
atheist.    Persons  not  yet  middle-aged  will 


JEWS   AT  JOBAR, 


699 


remember  how  fiercely  the  controversy 
raged.  It  sounds  ludicrous  now  to  a 
younger  generation,  which,  thanks  to  the 
struggles  of  their  elders,  enjoj*s  a  perfect 
freedom  in  such  matters ;  but  it  was  not  a 
laughing  matter  at  the  time.  Bishops  and 
judges,  as  has  been  said  before,  not  only 
denounced,  but  persecuted  the  bearci. 
Masters  forbade  it  to  their  employes.  A 
well-known  West-End  bank,  with  a  cer- 
tain humor  that  does  something  to  atone 
for  the  tyranny  of  the  act,  issued  an  edict 
that  '*  gentlemen  were  not  to  wear  beards 
or  moustaches  during  office  hours."  Con- 
gregations  deserted  ministers  who  had  the 
presumption  to  appear  as  according  to  all 
tradition,  and  indeed  all  probability,  the 
founder  of  their  religion  appeared.  Slowly 
the  opposition  became  less  vehement.  A 
bearded  clergyman  was  appointed  to  a 
bishopric  (not  in  England,  it  is  true, — 
that  has  not  vet,  we  think,  happened),  and 
declined  to  follow  the  suggestion  of  his 
metropolitan,  and  &have.  Now,  every  man 
may  do  as  he  pleases;  but  certainly,  while 
he  has  to  own  to  a  record  of  such  unrea- 
sonable intolerance  on  the  part  of  his  own 
sex,  he  cannot  say  much  about  feminine 
subservience  to  fashion. 


From  The  Saturday  RcTiew. 
JEWS   AT  JOBAR. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  Oriental  city  whose 
suburbs  invite  an  afternoon  ride  so  tempt- 
ingly as  do  those  of  Damascus.  For  they 
offer  what  is  almost  always  lacking  else- 
where —  a  pleasant  shade  overheadand  a 
fair  path  under  foot,  neither  deep  in  mud 
nor  paved  with  petrified  potatoes.  We 
may  turn  south  to  Catana,  west  to  Ain- 
Figi,  north  to  Menin,  or  east  to  DQmar, 
with  equal  beauty  on  our  way ;  but  for  a 
short  canter,  no  leafier  lanes  present  them- 
selves than  those  which  lead  to  Jobar. 

But  why  should  the  Jews  resort  to  Jobar 
when  Damascus  itself  has  many  gardens 
within  five  minutes*  walk  of  their  small 
Jerusalem  ?  The  reason  is  not  far  to 
seek ;  Damascus  gardens  are  pur  excel- 
lence the  pleasure-grounds  of  its  Moslems. 
Towards  sunset  the  native,  who  has  cov- 
ered his  face  in  the  liwan  since  noon, 
dons  his  smartest  sudreeyeh  and  gayest 
gombdz^  to  join  his  friends  in  the  ecstatic 
song  and  cheerful  cup  under  the  boughs 
of  the  fruit-trees.  The  mouthpiece  of  the 
narghileh  passes  from  lip  to  lip,  and  its 
bubble  keeps  up  a  characteristic  accom- 
paniment to  the  thrum  of  the  V^r/and  the 


nasal  chant  of  "  Ya  !  leileh."  Then  even- 
ins:  deepens,  and  the  coffee  gives  place  to 
rakiy  or,  if  the  carousers  be  good  Mus- 
sulmans, to  bottles  of  Aitken's  beer,  which 
thev  classify  as  mere  fermented  water, 
and  so  comfort  consciences  and  hanker- 
ings at  the  same  time.  As  the  hours 
pass,  their  spirits  rise  from  a  jovial  to  a 
turbulent  level,  at  the  first  indications  of 
which  any  Christians  or  Jews  who  may 
happen  to  be  there  discreetly  slip  away 
from  the  neighborhood  of  the  superior 
race.  It  is  in  order  to  enjoy  themselves 
without  fear  of  snubbing  that  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  Israel  have  chosen  for 
themselves  separate  places  of  rendezvous 
far  from  their  overbearing  compatriots; 
and  one  of  the  most  favored  of  these  is 
the  tiny  village  of  Jobar,  which  is  always 
full  at  the  feast  of  Ansara,  corresponding 
to  the  Greek  Whitsuntide. 

To  visit  Jobar  we  leave  Damascus  by 
Bab  TOma,  and,  instead  of  following  the 
Aleppo  road,  turn  to  the  right,  and  are 
quickly  among  the  orchards.  The  sun 
cannot  penetrate  the  thickness  of  shade 
on  our  path,  and  the  trees  are  heavy  with 
peaches,  apricots,  plums,  and  walnuts. 
Here  and  there  a  garden  is  full  of  a  pick- 
ing party.  Half  a  dozen  are  holding  an 
enormous  sheet,  while  two  or  three  among 
the  branches  are  shaking  down  the  golden 
fruit.  Some  is  being  carried  away  in 
baskets,  to  be  sold  at  three  farthings  a 
pound,  and  the  rest  is  crushed  into  a  pulp 
and  rolled  out  thin  on  boards,  to  dry  in 
the  sun  into  apricot  paste.  This  industry 
employs  an  immense  number  of  hands 
throughout  the  month  of  June,  both  in 
preparing  the  paste  and  in  making  the 
cases  for  exportation,  in  dexterous  pack- 
ing, and  in  porterage  by  camel  and  mule 
to  the  coast.  Now  we  are  forced  to  stand 
by,  that  a  Bedouin  family  may  pass  on 
camels  and  donkeys,  since  a  camel  recog- 
nizes no  rule  of  the  road,  but  always 
swims  down  the  middle  with  a  sovereign 
contempt  of  all  creation.  The  Bedouin 
girls  laua;h  at  our  discomfiture,  but  it  is 
easy  to  forgive  them,  for  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  a  happy  woman's  face.  The  Beda- 
weeyehs,  either  young  or  old,  have  an 
unvarying  expression  of  content  on  their 
brown  and  tattooed  lips,  and  our  idea  of 
ai^WcouId  be  with  difficulty  associated 
with  many  other  Eastern  females,  though 
we  can  apply  it  at  once  to  the  mischievous 
and  merry-looking  daughters  of  the  desert. 
In  less  than  half  an  hour  we  enter  the 
village  and  seek  the  Jews' quarter,  a  small 
square  of  low  houses  built  round  an  open 
court,  one  side  of  which  is  occupied  by 


700 


JEWS   AT  JOBAIU 


the  Synagogue  of  St.  George.  It  would 
be  rash  to  attempt  an  accurate  enumera- 
tion of  the  number  of  churches  in  Syria 
dedicated  to  the  redoubtable  soldier-saint, 
who  appears  at  ^ne  period  to  have  occu- 
pied the'{>osition  almost  of  patron  saint  to 
Syria.  There  are  at  least  half  a  dozen  we 
believe,  within  a  day's  ride  of  Damascus, 
each  claiming  the  honor  of  containing  his 
bones.  The  synagogue  of  Jobaris  nearly 
subterranean,  but  the  Jews  do  not  take 
^le  trouble  to  keep  it  lighted.  An  old 
lady  is  always  ready  to  show  its  mysteries 
to  visitors,  and  a  small  crowd  will,  prob- 
ably jostle  and  fight  to  follow  the  strangers 
in.  An  oblong  slab  covering  a  tomb,  sup- 
posed to  be  that  of  Elijah,  is  the  centre 
of  attraction  at  the  western  end  of  the 
church,  a  tall  and  mean  pulpit  occupies 
the  middle  of  the  aisle,  and  the  books  of 
the  law  are  kept  at  the  eastern  extremity. 
These  are  under  lock  and  key  in  cup- 
boards let  into  the  wail,  whose  doors  are 
inscribed  in  Hebrew  with  holy  words,  and 
they  are  further  enclosed  in  cardboard 
and  velvet  cases  embossed  with  silver. 
These  cases  open  like  oysters,  and  the 
scrolls  of  the  law  are  revealed,  written  in 
beautiful  manuscript,  but  not  highly  illu- 
minated. A  door  to  the  right  gives  access 
to  a  dark  staircase,  and  with  a  rushlight 
and  a  Jew  we  may  descend  barefooted  to 
the  tomb  of  St.  George.  The  Israelite 
prostrates  himself  and  kisses  the  mark  on 
the  marble  floor  which  is  the  only  sign  of 
the  sepulchre;  and,  having  seen  all  that 
is  to  be  seen,  we  may  remount.  As  we 
emerge  from  the  church  a  franc  will  buy  a 
fervent  blessing  in  the  name  of  the  God 
of  Abraham,  and  a  dozen  invitations  will 
be  proffered  to  rest  a  while  in  the  dim  inte- 
riors of  the  houses  round  the  quadrangle, 
just  visible  through  the  doorways  crowded 
with  holiday-makers. 

The  open  air  seems  preferable  never- 
theless, and  so  we  politely  decline  and 
stroll  leisurely  out  of  the  square,  leaving 
our  horses  tied  to  the  church  porch.  It 
does  not  take  long  to  get  out  of  Jobar, 
and  we  make  for  the  gardens  past  the 
Moslem  threshing-floors,  where  unmuz- 
zled oxen  are  treading  out  the  corn,  and 
brawny  arms  are  tossing  the  barley-ears 
aloft  to  catch  the  winnowing  wind.  Be- 
tween the  mud  walls  we  can  catch  a 
glimpse  of  white  dresses  and  an  echo  of 
many  voices,  which  mark  the  camp  of  a 
picnic  party.  They  have  chosen  the  spot 
well,  with  olive,  poplar,  and  willow  trees 
growing  beside  a  running  stream,  far 
enough  from  the  village  for  the  enjoyment 
of  liberty  and  freedom  from  observation. 


A  few  fine  mares  tethered  and  hobbled 
show  that  the  Jew  is  rejoicing  in  momen- 
tary emancipation,  for  riding  is  an  amuse- 
ment he  does  not  care  to  indulge  in  at 
Damascus.    The  exercise  is  one  which 
Mohammedans  consider  too  noble  for  any 
but    co-religionists,   and,   though    forced 
with  disgust  to  see  the  proud  Frank  riding 
thoroughbreds  through  their  holy  streets, 
the  same  necessity  does  not  bind  tbeni  to 
respect  the  Jew,  who  will  often  run  agood 
chance  of  being  ignominiously  forced  to 
dismount  if  a  fanatical  Moslem  bids  him. 
Most  of  the  present  part^  have,  however, 
ridden  on  hired  animals,  which  will  return 
at  sunset  or  on  the  morrow  to  take  them 
back.     As  we  arrive,  four  donkeys  trot  up 
from  the   opposite    direction  with    lady 
riders,  who  scorn  side-saddles  and  tumble 
ofiE  with  awkward  haste  to  make  a  bout  de 
toilette  before  joining  their  friends  under 
the  trees.     For  all  Jews  know  each  other, 
and  even  if  by  rare  chance  it  should  hap- 
pen that  they  were  not  acq^uainted  before, 
an  occasion  like  this  woula  at  once  bring 
the  strangers  into  relation  with  the  rest, 
and  a  stronger  intimacy  would  be  estab- 
lished in  five  minutes  by  a  share  of  the 
pipe  and  a  seat  on  |he  carpet  than  we  in 
England  could  attain  to  in  a  month's  in- 
tercourse.    Apart  from   the  complicated 
relationships  which  always  exist  by  inter- 
marriage between  every  Jewish  family  in 
any  particular  town,  and  besides  the  na- 
tional freemasonry  which  unites  the  mem- 
bers of  a  race  against  which   the   world 
seems  to  have  issued  a  decree  of  outlawry, 
the  Jews  of  Damascus  have  the  common 
tie  of  a  common  and  ever-present  enemy, 
and  of   identical  interests  and  jdentical 
wrongs  which  they  cannot  tire  of  describ- 
ing.    When  he  is  in  the  city  the  Hebrew 
never  forgets  that  walls  have  ears,  and 
speaks  of  his  woes  in   undertones,  and 
half  apologetically.     Now,  however,  there 
are  none  but  friends  around,  and  he  can 
I  launch  into  the  bitterest  expression  of  his 
I  feelings  against  this  official  and  that  one, 
I  against  the  impossibility  of  recovering  his 
I  debts,  against  the  ruin  brought  upon  him 
by  dishonored  Serkiz  bonds,  and  against 
the    perfidy     of    every    successive    wait 
whose  promises  have  run  free  lik6  water 
and  as  quickly  away.     Nevertheless  the 
influence  of  country  quiet  and  good  meat 
I  and  drink  will  gradually  lead  away  from 
these  subjects,  and  theti  the  instruments 
of  music   will  be  produced.     These  may 
be  many  or  few,  but  the  'ood  and   the 
zither  are  sure  to  be  among  them.     Thirty 
years  ago  the  former  was  unknown   in 
1  Syria,  but   a    musical  Damascene    who 


FRENCH  CONVICT  MARRIAGES. 


jot 


beard  ft  played  in  Egypt  was  so  enchanted 
with  its  capacities  that  he  set  to  work  to 
learn  the  art  and  brought  it  back  with  him 
to  his  own  country.  This  man^  stringed 
banjo  is  now  one  of  the  favorite  instru- 
ments, and  is  perhaps  the  most  highly 
esteemed,  if  we  except  the  vioh'n.  Play- 
ing the  vjolin  is  a  comparatively  rare  ac- 
complishment, and  he  who  has  mastered 
the  fiddle  is  at  once  placed  in  the  first 
rank  of  musicians.  Curiously  Scriptural 
is  the  action  of  the  white-haired  old  man 

* 

who  takes  down  the  zither  from  the  wil- 
low-tree —  the  harp  hung  up  by  the  waters 
in  the  land  of  captivity  —  and  then  the 
concert  begins.  At  first  it  is  listened  to 
with  rapt  attention,  till  the  violinist  breaks 
into  a  song  of  his  people  and  all  join  in 
the  refrain  with  glad  enthusiasm.  It  re- 
quires to  be  a  Jew,  however,  to  share  in 
their  evident  admiration.  The  player  on 
the  'ood  can  talk  a  little  English  perhaps 
—  many  of  them  speak  either  English  or 
French  —  and  undertakes  to  prove  to 
demonstration  the  innate  superiority  of 
Oriental  music  to  the  European  gamut. 
As  a  Jew  of  Syria  is  worse  to  argue  with 
than  an  Irishman,  it  is  better  to  agree  at 
once,  and  afford  general  pleasure  even  at 
the  expense  of  a  twinge  of  conscience. 
The  next  day  half  the  Jews  in  Damascus 
will  be  repeating  how  Elias  convinced  an 
Englishman  that  Arabian  melody  was  far 
sweeter  than  Frankish.  There  is  no  sep- 
aration here  between  men  and  women, 
and  the  latter  speak  as  freely  to  the  stran- 
ger as  to  their  brothers  *or  husbands. 
Some  of  them  are  very  pretty,  but. only 
the  young ;  after  fifteen  the  natural  charms 
of  a  Jewess  fade  quickly.  She  is  inde- 
fatigable, however,  in  trying  to  remedy 
the  ravages  of  years  with  the  powder- 
puff,  the  hare's  foot,  and  the  koh ling- 
needle.  To  our  ideas,  a  more  ungracious 
spectacle  would  be  hard  to  find  than  a 
married  Jewess  in  full  costume.  Over  her 
natural  hair  she  wears  a  matron's  wig 
with  a  painfully  wide  and  white  parting, 
while  an  enormous  fringe  curls  over  her 
forehead.  Her  upper  and  under  eyelids 
are  equally  loaded  with  ko/t/t  and  her  eye- 
brows are  joined  and  thickened  to  unnat- 
ural proportions  with  the  same  pigment. 
None  of  her  skin  is  visible  through  a 
liberal  layer  of  enamel  powder,  over  which 
rouge  has  been  distributed  as  brilliantly 
as  if  she  were  behind  the  footlights  in- 
stead of  under  a  scorching  Syrian  sun. 
But  there  is  no  accounting  for  taste ;  and 
as  the  fashion  appears  equally  to  please 
the  ladies  and  their  male  companions,  far 
be  it  from  us  to  quarrel  with  it.    Though 


they  seem  to  get  on  well  together,  the 
men  pav  little  attention  to  the  women,  and 
least  of  all  to  the  unmarried,  while  the 
jealousy  of  the  Moslem  does  not  appear 
to  enter  into  their  minds.  The  women, 
on  the  other  hand,  are  extremely  coquet- 
tish, and  it  cannot  be  put  down  to  them 
as  a  virtue  if  the  green-eyed  phantom  is 
an  absentee  from  their  homes.  Never- 
theless they  are  good  mothers,  and  ridicu- 
lously fond  of  their  children,  whom  they 
universally  spoil  with  too  much  kindness. 
The  shadows  of  the  tall  poplars,  pur- 
pling over  the  June-ripened  corn,  give  the 
signal  for  a  general  move.  The  ashes 
are  emptied  from  the  narghileh  bowls,  the 
dishes  are  washed  in  the  stream,  the  in- 
struments are  packed  in  their  cases,  and 
the  rugs  are  rolled  from  the  grass.  Many 
of  the  holiday-makers  are  going  to  sleep 
with  their  friends  at  Jobar,  probably  fit- 
teen  or  twenty  in  a  low  and  stuffy  room ; 
but  they  are  accustomed  to  such  expe- 
riences. The  patient  donkeys,  who  have 
made  the  journey  many  a  time  that  day, 
are  waiting  for  their  last  loads,  and  whisk 
their  rat-tails  merrily  as  they  receive  it. 
It  is  indifferent  to  them  whether  it  be  a 
sack  of  corn  or  a  fiffeen-stone  Jewess; 
the  weight  is  equally  dead.  So  we  leave 
them  there,  and  gallop  into  Damascus, 
changing  our  company  in  ten  minutes 
from  the  descendants  of  David  to  the  fol- 
lowers of  Mahomet ;  and,  instead  of  the 
Hebrew's  love-song,  we  hear  the  hundred- 
tongued  minarets  proclaiming  the  oldest 
city's  creed  as  the  sunset  reddens  Sala- 
hiyeh. 


From  Chambers'  Joumal. 
FRENCH  CONVICT  MARRIAGES. 

An  interesting  report  has  lately  been 
published  by  the  French  Ministry  of  Jus- 
tice, giving  an  account  of  the  convict 
mSna^es  —  that  is,  of  couples  who  have 
been  married  in  the  colony,  and  of  those 
who  have  merely  been  re-joined  there. 
The  marriages  in  which  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  were  both  convicts  have  ex- 
ceeded six  hundred  since  1873.  They 
constitute  no  actual  innovation  in  prison 
life,  but  are  merely  a  return  to  the  prac- 
tice that  prevailed  before  the  great  Revo- 
lution, when  the  French  colonies  used  to 
be  recruited  with  convicts,  who  had  been 
released  from  the  galleys  on  condition  of 
their  marrying  women  who  had  been  in- 
mates of  gaols.  Nowadays,  it  is  of  course 
required  of  a  convict  bride  that  she  should 


702 


FRENCH  CONVICT  MARRIAGES. 


have  been  —  legally  speaking,  at  least  — 
a  criminal  of  a  very  bad  kind  ;  no  female 
prisoner  is,  in  fact,  eligible  for  transporta- 
tion unless  she  shall  have  been  sentenced 
to  seven  years'  penal  servitude.  Twice 
every  year  a  notice  is  posted  up  in  the 
workshops  of  the  female  convict  prisons 
—  of  which  that  at  Clermont  is  the  prin- 
cipal —  that  any  woman  under  thirty  years 
of  age  who  has  served  two  years  of  her 
sentence,  may  petition  to  be  transported, 
provided  that  on  arriving  in  New  Caledo- 
nia she  consents  to  marry  a  convict.  Ob- 
viously, women  who  have  been  sentenced 
for  seven  years  only,  and  who  may  by 
good  conduct  obtain  a  remission  of  two 
years  at  home,  have  not  much  interest  in 
getting  transported  during  the  third  year 
of  their  punishment;  so  it  is  not  unusual 
to  offer  such  women  the  option  of  trans- 
portation within  six  months  after  their 
sentence.  As  a  rule,  however,  those  who 
put  down  their  names  on  the  transport 
lists  h&ve  been  condemned  to  very  long 
terms.  It  is  not  said  that  any  favoritism 
IS  shown  in  the  selections,  the  number  of 
candidates  fulfilling  all  the  required  con- 
ditions being  too  few  to  allow  the  author- 
ities much  range  of  choice  ;  but  it  is  cer- 
tain that  the  heinousness  of  a  woman's 
antecedents  is  never  held  to  disqualify 
her  so  long  as  she  is  young  and  strong; 
and  this  no  doubt  must  seem  hard  to 
women  who,  owing  to  physical  infirmities, 
or  from  being  just  over  age,  cannot  claim 
the  same  indulgence  as  younger  ones. 
The  diporties  are  treated  with  kindness 
on  their  passage  out;  they  have  new  kits 
given  to  them  ;  and  they  do  not  wear  the 
regular  convict  garb,  but  a  sort  of  peas- 
ant costume  with  an  ample  brown  cloak 
and  hood.  On  landing  at  Noumea,  they 
are  consigned  to  a  house  of  detention  for 
a  month  or  two,  and  during  that  time  their 
marriages  are  arranged  for  them  through 
the  agency  of  officials,  through  the  chap- 
lains of  the  female  prison  and  the  male 
penitentiary,  and  through  the  wardresses, 
who  are  nuns.  Nothing  is  done  in  a 
hurry  or  with  any  brutal  disregard  of  a 
woman's  feelings  ;  indeed,  many  ordinnry 
marriages  of  free  people  in  France  are 
projected  with  less  caution  than  these 
convict  unions.  The  marriage  board  {^Bu- 
reau des  Mina^^es)  —  consisting  of  the 
governor  of  the  colony,  two  magistrates, 
two  priests,  and  the  matron  of  the  female 
prison  —  make  themselves  acquainted 
with  all  the  antecedents  of  the  parties 
who  are  to  be  married;  and  they  try  as 
far  as  possible  to  plan  matches  between 
individuals  whose  tempers  fit  them  to  live 


together.  To  the  credit  of  the  authori- 
ties, it  must  be  said  that  they  are  particu- 
lar as  to  the  tempers  of  the  men  whom 
they  select  for  marriage,  and  never  choose 
a  man  who  is  notorious  for  having  a  sav- 
age,  ruffianly  disposition,  or  for  being 
addicted  to  drink.  When  it  has  been  de- 
cided, after  due  inquiry,  that  a  couple  — 
say  A.  and  B.  —  may  be  united,  it  is  sought 
to  excite  in  each  of  the  parties  an  inter- 
est in  the  other.  A.  is  told  all  about  the 
past  life  of  B.,  and  vice  versd;  they  are 
also  shown  each  other's  photographs. 
Then,  if  the  parties  do  not  object  to  meet, 
an  appointment  is  made;  and  they  gener- 
ally see  each  other  in  the  parlor  of  the 
female  prison  in  presence  of  the  matron. 
As  to  this,  however,  the  manner  of  inter- 
views varies;  for  the  matron  and  chap- 
lains may  arrange  matters  as  they  please, 
so  that  everything  be  done  with  propriety. 
The  intended  bridegroom  is  always  in 
possession  of  a  cottage  and  a  plot  of  land ; 
for  he  cannot  marry  until  it  is  proved  that 
he  can  maintain  himself  out  of  the  prod- 
uce  of  his  holding,  eked  out  by  the  wages 
he  may  receive  as  a  laborer  on  public 
works.  Naturally,  he  is  not  compelled  to 
take  the  bride  whom  the  authorities  have 
designated  for  him.  If  she  pleases  him 
at  first  sight,  he  generally  sees  her  two  or 
three  times  more  before  a  regular  engage- 
ment is  Tnade.  She  goes  to  visit  his  cot- 
tage in  company  with  a  nun,  or  some 
employment  is  given  her  out  of  doors  in 
laundry  or  dairy,  where  she  may  be  seen 
in  comparative  freedom.  When  at  last 
the  engagement  is  concluded,  the  intended 
bride*  goes  and  spends  a  few  days  at  the 
convent  of  our  Lady  of  Mercy,  held  by 
the  Augustine  nuns;  and  it  is  there  that 
the  marriage  takes  place  with  the  small- 
est amount  of  publicity  possible.  If  the 
parties  cannot  sfford  to  buy  a  gold  wed- 
ding-ring, a  silver  one  is  provided  for 
them.  After  their  marriage,  the  convict 
couple  become  probationary  free  colonists 
under  certain  conditions:  they  must  dress 
in  brown ;  they  must  not  enter  any  estab- 
lishment where  intoxicating  liquors  are 
sold  ;  and  they  must  not  leave  their  cot- 
tage after  nightfall  without  a  written  per- 
mit. These  and  other  restrictions  are 
gradually  removed  in  reward  for  good 
conduct  — till  at  last  the  UbirS  condition- 
nel  becomes  a  free  settler  and  proprietor 
of  his  piece  of  land.  It  takes  about  five 
years  to  attain  full  freedom,  dating  from 
the  time  when  the  convict  got  his  first 
ticket-of-leave ;  and  once  free,  he  may  en- 
gage in  industrial  or  commercial  pursuits, 
open  a  shop  or  set  up  a  factory  if  he  have 


i 


OLD   POSTAL   DAYS   IN   SAN   FRANCLSCO. 


703 


the  means.  But  he  must  never  leave  the 
colony.  The  children  born  of  convict 
marria«:es  are  to  remain  in  New  Caledo- 
nia until  they  are  twenty-one  years  of  age, 
at  which  time  an  inducement  will  be  of- 
fered to  the  sons  to  settle  definitely  in  the 
colony  by  exempting  them  from  military 
service.  But  those  who  prefer  to  go  to 
France  will  of  course  be  allowed  to  do 
so,  taking  the  chances  common  to  all 
Frenchmen  of  being  drafted  by  conscrip- 
tion for  the  army.  At  present,  the  oldest 
children  of  convict  marriages  in  the  col- 
ony are  only  in  their  eighth  year.  It  has 
happened  more  than  once  that  female 
prisoners  sent  out  to  marry  convicts  have 
won  the  affections  of  minor  colonial  offi- 
cials. The  government  report  states  that 
within  eight  years  more  than  twenty  appli- 
cations for  leave  to  marry  diporties  were 
made  by  warders,  army  sergeants,  dock- 
3'ard  inspectors,  etc.  The  nrst  of  these 
applications  threw  the  authorities  into 
great  perplexity.  They  saw  that  to  allow 
a  convict  woman  to  marry  a  free  man  was 
tantamount  to  restoring  her  to  full  liberty. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  seemed  unadvisable 
to  them  to  let  a  prisoner  wed  a  man  who, 
by-and*by,  when  the  first  ardor  of  love 
had  cooled,  might  taunt  her  about  oppro- 
brious bygones.  However,  the  first  man 
who  fell  in  love  with  a  convict  girl  was  so 
much  in  earnest  about  it  that  he  carried 
his  point  by  signing  an  engagement  to 
live  subject  to  all  the  rules  imposed  upon 
ticket-of-leave  men,  and  never  to  leave 
the  colony.  Similar  engagements  have 
been  demanded  since  of  all  the  men  who 
wish  to  VMJX^  diporties ^zxiA  in  every  case 
they  have  been  subscribed  to.  It  is  as 
yet  too  soon  to  predict  anything  as  to  the 
future  of  New  Caledonia  under  its  con- 
vict settlers;  but  this  point  may  already 
be  noted,  that  there  is  not  a  single  re- 
corded case  of  a  convict  having  been 
punished  during  the  two  years  immedi- 
ately following  his  marriage  —  that  is 
during  the  time  when  he  was  forbidden 
to  enter  public  houses.  All  offences 
committed  by  married  convicts  —  assaults, 
attempts  at  sedition,  etc. —  appear  to 
have  been  perpetrated  after  their  good 
conduct  had  earned  them  the  right  to  re- 
enter the  drink-shop. 


From  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 
OLD  POSTAL  DAYS  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

One  morning,  while  waiting   for  the 
coachi  an  old  Califoraian  miner  gave  me 


a  very  vivid  description  of  the  postal  ser- 
vice as  he  remembered  it  twenty  years 
ago.  Not  in  the  wild  mountain  regions 
where  we  were  —  for  these  were  at  that 
time  an  unknown  wilderness  —  but  on  the 
great  plains,  where  the  Pacific  railroad 
now  runs  so  smoothly.  In  those  days,  a 
heavily  laden  wagon  starting  from  the 
Eastern  States  took  six  months  to  cross 
the  great  continent,  and  emigrants  trav- 
elled in  large  companies  for  security.  So 
it  was  reckoned  a  great  feat  (equal  to  Jules 
Verne's  »» Round  the  World  in  Eighty 
Days")  when  a  party  of  keen,  hard-riding, 
fearless  men  resolved  to  carry  letters 
from  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic  to  those  of 
the  Pacific,  in  fourteen  days,  and  carried 
out  their  promise  in  the  teeth  of  all  diffi- 
culties. A  company  was  formed,  known 
as  the  Central  Overland  California  and 
Pike's  Peak  Express.  Almost  the  entire 
distance  from  ocean  to  ocean  was  divided 
into  runs  of  sixty  miles  each,  and  at  all 
such  points  rude  log  huts  were  erected, 
as  stations  for  the  Pony  Express.  Here 
the  most  experienced  scouts  and  trappers 
—  men  noted  for  their  horsemanship  and 
courage  —  were  placed  in  charge  of  strong, 
swift  ponies,  selected,  like  their  riders,  for 
their  powers  of  endurance  and  general 
hardiness.  They  were  a  cross  between 
the  stout,  sure-footed  Indian  pony  and  the 
swift  American  horse.  Perilous  lives 
these  men  led,  in  constant  danger  of  at- 
tack by  highway  robbers  or  wild  Indians, 
but  the  wages  paid  by  the  company  were 
sufficient  to  secure  a  stafiE  of  determined 
men,  hard  as  nails,  and  accustomed  to 
face  danger  and  death  without  shrinking. 
Twelve  hundred  dollars,  equal  to  two  hun- 
dred and  forty  pounds,  was  the  monthly 
wage  of  an  express  rider.  Of  course,  un- 
der such  circumstances,  postage  was  high ; 
the  charge  for  a  quarter-ounce  letter  being 
live  dollars  in  gold,  equal  to  one  sovereign. 
The  total  weight  carried  was  ten  pounds. 
As  a  commercial  speculation,  the  experi- 
ment proved  a  failure,  and,  after  running 
steadily  for  two  years,  the  express  com- 
pany was  found  to  have  lost  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  at  which  period  it  col- 
lapsed, leaving  no  trace  of  its  existence, 
save  a  few  ruinous  log  huts.  The  tele- 
graph being  then  completed,  its  continu- 
ance was  no  longer  deemed  necessary. 
On  the  east,  the  railway  was  already 
constructed  as  far  as  St.  Joseph,  which, 
consequently,  was  the  iirst  pony  station 
on  the  New  York  side.  The  vast  expanse 
of  the  prairie  and  mountain  lying  between 
St.  Joseph  and  San  Francisco  had  to  be 
traversed  in  two  hundred  and  forty  hours. 


704 


OLD   POSTAL   DAYS   IN   SAN   FRANCISCO. 


which  was  reckooed  "good  time,"  and  no 
mistake  about  it,  the  distance  being  fully 
two  thousand  miles.  Once  a  week,  a 
messenger  started  from  either  shore  of 
the  great  continent.  Spurring  his  steed 
to  its  utmost  capacity,  he  galloped  over 
hill  and  dale  for  sixty  miles  at  a  stretch, 
till  he  reached  his  destination,  where  the 
next  express-man  was  waiting,  ready  to 
start  without  the  delay  of  one  moment  — 
the  incomer  not  waiting  even  to  dismount, 
but  tossing  the  precious  letter-bag  to  its 
next  guardian.  Then  man  and  beast  en- 
joyed a  well-earned  rest  till  the  arrival  of 
the  messenger  from  the  other  direction, 
when  they  started  on  the  return  journey. 
So  marvellously  punctual  was  this  mail 
service,  that  the  last  man  generally  deliv- 
ered up  his  charge  within  a  few  moments 
of  the  time  fixed,  notwithstanding  all  the 
troublous  chances  it  might  have  encoun- 
tered on  its  journey  of  two  thousand 
miles,  of  what  might  truly  be  called  a 
"great  lonely  land."  The  general  post, 
with  heavier  bags,  reached  California  vid 
the  Isthmus  of  Panama,  to  which  point 
steamers  ran  twice  a  week  from  New  York 
and  San  Francisco.  From  one  city  to  the 
other  was  a  whole  month's  journey.  The 
arrival  of  the  eastern  mail  was  a  signal  for 
wild  excitement  in  San  Francisco.  Mer- 
chants eager  for  their  business  letters, 
miners  longing  for  a  word  from  home, 
rushed  to  the  post-office,  the  moment  the 
gun  was  fired  to  announce  that  the  steamer 
was  in  harbor,  each  eager  to  take  up  a 


position  as  near  as  possible  to  the  post- 
office  window.  In  a  few  moments  a  line 
was  formed,  perhaps  literally  half  a  mile 
long,  of  anxious  letter-seekers,  and  late 
arrivals  knew  that  hours  might  elapse 
before  they  could  hope  to  get  near  the 
window.  Then  a  sort  of  auction  com- 
menced, and  men  who  had  rushed  in  and 
secured  good  places  in  the  front  of  the 
line  (often  without  the  smallest  expecta- 
tion of  a  letter,  but  simply  as  a  specula- 
tion), sold  their  position  to  the  highest 
bidder.  Five,  ten,  twenty  pounds  were 
sometimes  paid  down  by  eager  men,  flush 
of  gold,  rather  than  wait  five  or  six  hours 
for  the  letters  they  longed  for,  but  which, 
too  often,  were  expected  in  vain,  and 
grievous  was  the  disappointment  with 
which,  at  last,  they  turned  away.  Some 
were  even  so  anxious  that  they  took  up  a 
post  at  the  window,  hours  before  the 
steamer  arrived,  even  waiting  through  the 
night,  and,  after  all,  were  compelled  to 
abandon  their  position  and  go  in  search 
of  needful  food.  Perhaps  at  that  very 
moment  the  firing  of  the  mail-gun  called 
them  back,  to  find  a  long  line  rapidly 
forming!  at  the  end  of  which  they  had  to 
take  their  places  with  the  prospect  of 
again  waiting  for  hours.  What  a  di£FereDt 
scene  from  the  San  Francisco  of  to-day; 
the  busy,  bustling,  vast  city,  with  its  intri- 
cate postal  service,  and  daily  mountains  of 
mail-bags,  brought  from,  and  despatched 
to,  all  corners  of  the  earth,  by  railways, 
steamers,  and  sailing-ships ! 


Hair  Suddenly  turning  WnrrK.  — 
Apropos  of  this  subject,  Mr.'  C.  A.  Ward,  in 
his  article  on  the  human  hair,  in  Fennell's 
Antiquarian  Chronicle  and  Literary  Advertiser 
(p.  i66),  gives  the  following  instance:  — 

When  the  Duke  of  Alva  was  in  Brussels, 
besieging  Hoist,  the  provost-marshal  had  put 
some  to  death  by  the  duke's  secret  commis- 
sion. There  was  a  Captain  Bolea,  a  friend  of 
the  provost's,  and  he  went  to  him  one  evening 
to  his  tent,  and  brought  a  confessor  and  an 
executioner,  and  said  he  was  come  to  execute 
martial  law  upon  him.  The  captain  started 
up,  with  his  hair  on  end,  and  asked  how  he  had 
offended  the  duke.  I  cannot  expostulate,  said 
the  provost,  but  must  execute  my  commission. 
He  fell  on  his  knees  before  the  priest,  and  the 
hangman  put  the  halter  round  his  neck,  but 


the  provost  threw  it  awav,  laughing,  and  said 
he  had  done  it  to  try  hfs  courage.  **  Then, 
sir,"  returned  the  captain,  '*  get  you  out  uf  my 
tent ;  for  you  have  done  me  a  very  ill  office.^ 
The  next  morning,  though  a  young  man,  he 
was  perfectly  grey. 

Another  instance  I  get  second-hand  from 
the  Penny  Magazine^  1834 :  — 

Guarino  Veronese,  ancestor  of  the  author  of 
"  Pastor  Fido,"  having  studied  Greek  at  Con- 
stantinople, brought  from  thence  on  his  return 
two  cases  of  Greek  manuscripts,  the  fruit  of 
his  indefatigable  researches ;  one  of  them  being 
lost  at  sea,  on  the  shipwreck  of  the  vessel,  the 
chagrin  of  losing  such  a  literary  treasure,  ac- 
quired by  so  much  labor,  had  the  effect  of  turn- 
ing the  hair  of  Guarino  grey  in  one  night. 
(Sismondi.)  Notes  and  Queries. 


LITTELL'S  LIYING  AG-E. 


Fifth  Series 
Volune  XLIV 


I  \  No.  2061.  — December  22,  1883. 


j  From  Beginningf 
(      Vol.  OLIX. 


CONTENTS. 

I.   The  Copts, Ctmiemporary  Review^ 

II.   Between  two  Stools,         .       •       •       •  Temple  Bar^ 

III.  Saint  Teresa,        ••.•••  Quarterly  Review^ 

IV.  A  Maiden  Fair,   ..••..  Good  Cheer^ , 

V.  The  Modern  Nebuchadnezzar,         •        •  Longman's  Magazine^ 

'  VI.  Toadstools, Daily  Telegraphy  . 

VII.  Venice  IN  the  East- end,    ....  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 

VIII.   The  Mole, Chambers' Journal, 

IX.   Mr.  Ruskin  on  "Punch,"   ....  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 


707 
716 

723 
746 

755 
762 

764 
766 

767 


POETRY. 


A  Nocturne, 706 

Ballade  of  his  own  Country,        .    706 
Song. 706 


"The  thoughts  are  strange  that 


crowd  into  my  brain. 


M 


.        706 


-••^ 


PUBLISHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,   BOSTON. 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

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lor  ayear,yr##  o/poxtar*. 

Kemittanoes  snoula  be  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-office  money-order,  if  possible.  If  neither 
<A  these  can  be  procured,  the  moneyshouldbe  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  postnaasters  are  obliged  to  register 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.  i>rafu,  checks  and  money^rdera  should  be  made  payabla  to  the  order  of 
LiTTBLL  &  Co. 

Single  Numbers  of  Ths  Liviifa  Agb,  s8  cents. 


jo6 


A   NOCTURNE,   ETC. 


A  NOCTURNE. 


BY  WALTER  JERROLD. 

When  night's  dark  mantle  round  the  earth  is 
drawn 

And  al)  the  world  lies  still, 
I  love  to  wander,  till  the  gray  of  dawn 

Breaks  over  yonder  hill. 

To  see  the  city  slumbering  in  the  plain, 

Where  all  is  calm  repose. 
Where  some  will  rise  to  pleasure  once  again, 

Some  rise  to  many  woes : 

Where  some  will  rise  to  happiness  and  wealth. 

Some,  poverty  and  pain  ; 
Some  rise    to   Nature's    greatest    blessing  — 
health ; 

Some  never  rise  again. 

I  see  a  meteor  flash  across  the  sky, 

I  catch  its  transient  gleams ; 
It  but  reminds  me  how  our  time  doth  fly,  ' 

How  meteor-like  life  seems. 

I  see  a  changeful  cloud,  white  flecked, 

Pass  silently  o'erhead ; 
Our  lives  as  changeful  pass,  till  wrecked 

And  numbered  with  the  dead. 

When  Phoebus  gilds  the  morn  with  light. 

And  dusk  night  flees  away, 
It  tells  that  after  mortal  night 

Is  Heaven's  eternal  day. 


BALLADE  OF  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY. 
TO  C  H.  A. 

Let  them  boast  of  Arabia,  oppressed 

By  the  odor  of  mvrrh  on  the  breeze ; 
In  the  isles  of  the  £ast  and  the  West 

That  are  sweet  with  the  cinnamon-trees 
Let  the  sandal-wood  perfume  the  seas ; 

Give  the  roses  to  Rhodes  and  to  Crete, 
We  are  more  than  content,  if  you  please, 

With  the  smell  of  bbg-myrtle  and  peat  I 

Though  Dan  Virgil  enjoyed  himself  best 

With  the  scent  of  the  limes,  when  the  bees 
Hummed  low  round  the  doves  in  their  nest, 

While  the  vintagers  lay  at  their  ease, 
Had  he  sung  in  our  northern  degrees, 

He'd  have  sought  a  securer  retreat. 
He'd  have  dwelt,  where  the  heart  of  us  flees. 

With  the  smell  of  bog-myrtle  and  peat ! 

Oh,  the  broom  has  a  chivalrous  crest. 

And  the  daffodil's  fair  on  the  leas. 
And  the  soul  of  the  Southron  might  rest, 

And  be  perfectly  happy  with  these  ; 
But  w^t  that  were  nursed  on  the  knees 

Of  the  hills  of  the  North,  we  would  fleet 
Where  our  hearts  might  their  longing  appease 

With  the  smell  of  bog-myrtle  and  peat  1 


Envoy. 

Princess,  the  domain  of  our  quest 
It  is  far  from  the  sounds  of  the  street, 

Where  the  Kingdom  of  Galloway's  blest 
With  the  smell  of  bog-myrtle  and  peat ! 
Longman's  Magazine.  A.  LaNG^ 


Thb  following  poem,  considered  to  be  the  best  ever 
written  upon  Niagara  Falls,  was  composed  by  John 
Gardiner  Calkins  Brainard.  the  editor  of  the  Cam' 
tucticui  Mirror  of  Hartford  from  iSaa  to  iSaS. 
He  was  a  native  of  New  London,  was  educated  at 
Vale,  and  died  of  consumption  at  twenty-eight.  H  e 
is  said  to  have  *Mashed  the  poem  o£F'*  in  the  print- 
ing-office while  the  comptisitor  was  waiting  for  copy. 
It  is  a  curious  fact  that  he  never  siw  Niagara,  and 
never  was  nearer  to  it  than  four  hundred  and  fiftj 
miles. 

The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my 

brain 
While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 
As  if  God  poured  thee  from  his  hollow  han4 ; 
Had  hung  his  bow  upon  thy  awful  front ; 
Had  spoke  in  that  loud  voice  which  seemed  to 

him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake. 
The  sound  of  many  waters ;  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  thy  ages  back. 
And  notch  his  centuries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 
Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we 
That  hear  the  question  of  .that  voice  sublime.^ 
O  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rang 
From  war's  vain  trumpet  by  thy  thundering 

side? 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make. 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar? 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  him 
Who  drowned  a  world,  and  heaped  the  waters 

far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  ?    A  light  wave 
That    breaks    and  whispers  of    its    Maker's 

might  I  Old  Paper. 


SONG. 

A  BOUQUET  for  my  love  who  loves  me  not ! 

What  shall  I  gather  ?    Rich  dark  roses  set 
In  thorns,  ah  me,  like  love  ;  or  lilies  fair, 

Tall  bloodless  lily-blooms ;  or  violets  wet 
And  sweet  with  night's  dews;  or  carnations 
rare? 

And  yet  — 
White  poppy  buds  are  best,  that  teach  one  to 
forget. 

A  song  for  my  dear  love  who  loves  me  not ! 

Sing,  blackbird,  thrilling  in  yon  leafy  brake; 
Coo,  cushat,  coo ;  chant,  thrush,  thy  sweetest 
strain ; 
Thou    nightingale  with    passionate    throb- 
bings  wake 
Pain  in  her  heart,  who  heeds  not  of  my  pain. 

And  make 
Her  pity  him,  who  dies  for  her  sweet  sake. 

All  the  Year  Round. 


THE   COPTS. 


707 


From  The  Contempoiary  Review. 
THE  COPTS. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  Copts  of 
Egypt  excite  in  many  quarters  an  interest 
which  the  more  general  aspects  of  the 
Egyptian  question  fail  to  stimulate.  Nor 
is  it,  perhaps,  more  surprising  that  the 
majority  of  those  who  are  intimately  con- 
cerned with  Egyptian  politics,  internal 
and  external,  treat  the  topic  of  the  Coptic 
Church  as  one  of  purely  religious  signifi- 
cance, and  as,  if  too  prominently  thrust 
forward,  likely  rather  to  confuse  than  to 
assist  the  due  estimate  of  purely  political 
elements  and  forces. 

The  complexion  of  the  classes  of  per- 
sons who  hitherto,  in  England,  have  alone 
interested  themselves  in  the  condition  of 
the  Copts  as  distinguished  from  the  rest 
of  the  inhabitants  of  Egypt,  has  served 
to  lend  a  color  to  this  prevalent  want  of 
broad  political  appreciation,  l^hese  per- 
sons may  be  loosely  classified  as  the  re- 
ligious antiquarians;  the  High  Church- 
men who  hope  to  set  off  primitive  purity 
against  puritanical  reformation  ;  the  High 
Churchmen  who  are  scrutinizing  the  text- 
ure of  the  Eastern  Churches  in  order  to 
discover  materials  for  a  reunion  of  East 
and  West  by  way  of  protest  against  Ro- 
man assumptions  of  infallibility;  and, 
lastly,  the  more  intelligent  travellers  who, 
learning  from  their  guide-books  that  the 
Copts  form  some  tenth  part  of  the  popu- 
lation of  Egypt,  visit  their  churches,  at- 
tend long  night  as  well  as  early  morning 
services,  and  compete  with  each  other  for 
exclusive  scraps  of  information  as  to  their 
practices  and  beliefs. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  occasional 
labors  of  these  desultory  classes  of  in- 
quirers, it  is  extraordinary  how  minute  is 
the  interest,  and  how  unfathomable  the 
ignorance,  surrounding  the  whole  subject. 
Among  those  persons  in  England  who 
actively  concern  themselves  with  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  England  to  Egypt,  there 
are  found  grave  doubts  whether  Coptic  is 
or  is  not  a. spoken  language,  and  whether 
it  is  the  only  language  spoken  in  Egypt, 
or,  if  it  is  not,  what  language  has  taken 
its  place ;  whether  Coptic  Christians  be- 
lieve in  Christ;  whether  they  practise 
polygamy;  whether  they  believe  in  Mo- 


hammedanism ;  whether  their  ritual  is  or 
is  not  identical  with  that  of  the  Greek 
Church ;  how  far  the  Copts  are  at  all  dis- 
tinguishable from  the  rest  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Egypt ;  and  last,  but  not  least  as 
a  ground  of  profound  doubt,  who  on  earth 
the  Copts  are. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  in  this  paper  to 
attempt  to  give  a  compendious  history 
and  description  of  the  Coptic  Church. 
The  best  and  most  accessible  account  for 
English  readers  will  be  found  in  Mr. 
Fuller's  article  in  Smith's  'Dictionary  of 
Christian  Biography,  Literature,  Sects, 
and  Doctrines."  Lane's  "Modern  Egyp- 
tians," and  Baedeker's  "Guide-book  to 
Lower  Egypt,"  though  not  always  true  to 
the  conditions  of  the  present  moment, 
will  serve  to  correct  all  the  grave  miscon- 
ceptions and  baseless  conjectures.  I 
shall  confine  myself  to  bringing  into  prom- 
inence certain  facts,  tested  by  my  own 
investigations  conducted  in  every  availa- 
ble manner  during  the  past  three  years, 
and  to  drawing  what  I  hold  to  be  political 
conclusions  of  the  highest  significance. 

The  Copts  are,  strictly  speaking,  those 
of  the  primitive  inhabitants  of  Egypt 
who,  after  being  converted  to  Christianity, 
were  not  subsequently  converted  to  Mo- 
hammedanism. Of  course  when  such  a 
word  as  "primitive"  is  used  in  speaking 
of  the  inhabitants  of  a  small  country  pe- 
culiarly accessible  to,  and  repeatedly  over- 
run by,  foreigners,  it  is  a  relative  rather 
than  a  positive  term.  There  are  some 
persons,  indeed,  who  assert  that,  with- 
Greeks,  Romans,  Arabs,  and  Levantines 
interpenetrating  the  country,  it  is  impos- 
sible that  pre-Ptolemaic  Egypt  can  be 
represented  at  all  in  the  blood  of  any  of 
the  inhabitants  of  modern  Egypt.  But 
such  persons  do  not  allow  enough  for  the 
early  geographical  separation  of  the  Greek 
and  the  Roman  settlers,  for  the  want  of 
facilities  for,  and  of  disposition  to,  loco- 
motion throughout  the  villages  of  upper 
Egypt,  for  the  confining  and  secluding 
e£Eect  of  religious  animosities  and  perse- 
cutions, and  for  the  separating  influences 
of  a  peculiar  language  and  of  race  sym- 
pathies. 

The  Coptic  language  is,  undoubtedly, 


7o8 

the  language  of  pre-Christian  or  ancient 
Egypt.  Its  Greek  characters  were  adopt- 
ed on  the  introduction  of  Christianity, 
because  of  the  ineffaceable  association  of 
the  hieroglyphic,  and  even  of  the  hieratic, 
character  with  paganism.  But  the  use  of 
the  language  among  the  Copts,  and  espe- 
cially for  religious  purposes,  has  been 
retained  almost  up  to  the  present  century. 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  it  has  been 
spoken  in  some  of  the  remote  villages  of 
upper  Egypt  within  living  memory,  and 
';he  hieratic  alphabet,  for  purposes  of 
numeration,  has  hardly  yet  died  out  among 
the  older  Copts  in  Cairo  itself.  In  the 
churches  a  few  verses  of  the  Coptic  ver- 
sion of  the  Scriptures  are  read  at  every 
service,  but  the  Arabic  translation  is  add- 
ed, and  the  whole  chapter  is  read  through 
in  Arabic.  There  is  always  a  department 
in  the  chief  schools  for  teaching  Coptic, 
but  only  the  more  enterprising  candidates 
for  the  ministry  study  it  any  further  than 
is  necessary  for  performing  the  services 
in  church. 

It  is  usually  loosely  said  that  the  Copts 
are  a  heterodox  body  of  Christians,  who 
abandoned  the  orthodox  faith  by  rejecting 
the  decrees  of  the  Council  of  Chalcedon 
in  A.D.  451.  But,  if  any  one  will  study 
the  whole  historical  circumstances  of  that 
time,  he  will  find  that  this  is  a  most  un- 
fair and  misleading  account  of  the  trans- 
actions alluded  to.  The  result  of  the 
misrepresentation  has  been  most  perni- 
cious, as  it  has  chilled  the  sympathy  of 
many  in  England  who  might  otherwise 
have  held  out  the  right  hand  of  fellowship 
to  brother  Christians,  and  has  made  some 
people  talk  nonsense,  as  cruel  as  it  is 
ridiculous,  about  first  obliging  the  Coptic 
Church  to  be  "reconciled"  to  the  patri- 
arch of  Alexandria  before  moving  a  step 
in  the  direction  of  recognizing  and  help- 
ing it  as  a  Christian  body. 

The  real  truth  of  the  case  will  be  found, 
on  impartial  examination,  to  be  that  for 
years  before  the  date  of  the  Council  of 
Chalcedon,  the  Egyptian  Church,  as  rep- 
resented by  its  patriarch  at  Alexandria, 
was  engaged  in  a  conflict  —  conducted  on 
both  sides  with  all  the  vehemence  and 
brutality  peculiar  to  ecclesiastical  contro- 


THE   COPTS. 


versy  at  the  time— ittii 
Constantinople,  on  the 
mode  of  combioationoitbei 
the  manhood  io  Cbrisl  Mi 
of  the  controversy,  and  lii 
promises  as  to  terms  and  1 
Egyptian  Church  had  atucb 
importance  to  the  propo&M 
Lord  Jesus  Christ"  was" fii 
one  Christ:  one;  not  by  coii 
the  Godhead  into  flesh,butb;| 
the  manhood  into  God"  TIkI 
ing  varieties  of  opinion  oi  thtj 
those  of  the  Eut)chian5,wbQ' 
there  being  only  one  nature- 
—  in  Christ,  and  of  the  Nestor 
divided  Christ  into  two  pcrsos 
two  natures,  the  divine  and 
which  were  only  temporarily, 
were  "occasionally," associated 
The  assembling  of  the  Coundll 
I  cedon  was  an  attempt  to  obtain  a»| 
itative  condemnation  of  the  rinu 
but,  in  fact,  its  proceedings  were 
diably  tinged  with  personal  Uti 
most  of  all  against  Eutycbcs,iM 
gerated  that  aspect  of  the  truth  tftj 
the  Egyptian  Church  consiitur 
leaned.  Consequently  the  sternest! 
tance,  not  to  the  doctrine  or  acts  olb^' 
the  assumption  of  authority  by,  the  ^ 
cil,  was  encountered  in  Egypt  g««^ 
The  patriarch  of  Alexandria,  Di«c* 
had  been  banished  by  the  Council 
not  long  afterwards  the  excited  popal* 
Alexandria  murdered  Proterius,  the 
cessor  of  Dioscurus.  In  482  the  cm] 
Zeno  propounded  what  4S  known  i 
Henoticon^  as  a  formula  to  be  acccp' 
the  contending  parties.  This  fc 
repeated  and  confirmed  all  that  ha^ 
decreed  in  the  Councils  of  Nice,  Cc 
tinople,  Ephesus,  and  Chalcedon,  J 
the  Arians,  Nestorians,  and  Euty 
It  fully  recognized  the  doctrines 
Council  of  Chalcedon  without  fi 
alluding  to  that  body^  and  anathe 
**  every  person  who  has  thought  01 
otherwise  either  now  or  at  any  oth 
whether  at  Chalcedon  or  at  an 
synod  whatever,  but  more  especii 
aforesaid  persons,  Nestorius  an 
ches,  and  such  as  embrace  the 
'  ments."    This   formula   of   accc 


^cim'f^^.  ™E  COPTS. 

•  *Jopr.  Cou^'iively  embraced  in  Egypt  after,  be- 
^!*%*aodt(^,,  bscribed  by  the  leaders  of  the  Mo- 
'^0^,  ^^42,^  site  (holders  of  one  paramount  na- 
^^c;,o/t4fj^jjj^in  Christ)  party,  Peter  Moggus, 
*^^//»ipiBttci>fH^P  of  Alexandria,  and  Peter  Fullo, 
y)^  Egmj^  r.l*>p  of  Antioch.  1 1  was  also  approved 
to'/iB|)o,jjj^.'*\cacius,  Bishop  of  Constantinople, 
y,  'ioffi  J  /by  all  the  moderate  of  both  parties. 
7:oQg  Q  ■  '^  violent  on  both  sides  resisted  it,  and 
the  Gcdh  ^?^^^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^  Henoticon  did  injus- 
'thcaankuyi  ^  ^°  '^^  Council  of  Chalcedon. 
/W  •^^ .  '^^  ow,  considering  that  the  Coptic 
j^  .  ,  irch  recites  the  Nicene  Creed  m  its 
,g^  1  .  -vices;  that  the  general  acceptance  of 
iaCh^^^'"^^  //if»tf/«V<?i«  may  well  be  taken  as  an 
•J  ."*:*' ^-eptance  of  the  doctrine,  in  spite  of  the 
^iW-jL'-.ujiatiQn  Qf  ti,g  authority,  of  the  Coun- 
^ons,tlie:r,Qi  Chalcedon;  that  a  Church  with  so 
^  '^"POflZ/i'T^tinct  a  theological  history  and  such 
^'^^'^^r  4rked  national  peculiarities  as  the 
«^«%ft'n:,yptian  might  well  be  entitled  to  fine 
^UiOittes^:  ^des  of  theological  preference  in  the 
OflrftffflttiiK.iunciation  of  doctrine  which  only  the 
^  its  pnat:, ost  tyrannical  standards  would  restrict, 
^ged  with  /eu  we  may  be  disposed  gladly  to  accept 
/^'osrlclosheim's  conclusion  that  it  *'  is  no  rash 
^^/Md/:^  pin  ion  of  some  very  learned  men  that 
u  Oarc  iie  Monophysites  differ  from  the  Greeks 
K^seatyr^ind  Latins  more  in  words  than  in  sub- 
ie(toJKJitance,*' 

iofiotkr.  It  is  true  that  from  time  to  time,  as  one 
/f/n/tfi^-in tolerant  faction  or  the  other  possessed 
//l/«i2r.themselves  of  imperial  influence  at  Con- 
n/i[f(^.8tanttnople,  patriarchs  who  supported  the 
itbeexc'i  Council  of  Chalcedon  occupied  the  chair 
td  Prciir.  of  St.  Mark,  and  stigmatized  their  oppo- 
,  /fl^C"  nents  as  heterodox.  But  it  is  none  the 
iitisiSf  less  true  that  the  genuine  Egyptian 
ktoki  Church  which  had  repudiated  the  Council 
•5,  n>  of  Chalcedon  maintained  its  integrity  and 
gjlit  unity  throughout  the  country  in  the  face 
)fSki  of  the  Greco-Roman  colony  at  Alexan- 
aJcesi  dria,  which,  in  spite  of  imperial  favor,  had 
id E:  ^^^  more  the  aspect  of  a  schismatic  body 
than  the  Egyptian  Church  of  a  heretical 
body  ;  and  that  at  the  time  of  the  Moslem 
invasion  the  so-called  orthodox  Church  at 
Alexandria  had  sunk  so  deep  in  corrup- 
tion and  depravity  that  the  true  Egyptian 
Church  at  Memphis  was  prepared  to  make 
terms  with  the  infidel  invaders,  rather 
than  endure  longer  the  vicious  intoler- 
ance which  reigned  at  Alexandria. 

So   preposterous    and   historically  un- 


^*'/; 

3tk 
ta 

DV 

'3i. 
it, 

r  icsi' 
d  u 


709 

meaning  is  the  appeal  to  the  national 
Church  of  Egypt  to  reconcile  itself  with 
the  Greek  patriarch  of  Alexandria.  If 
Christianity  is  really  to  subdue  all  nations, 
national  proclivities  must  be  allowed  for, 
and  must  be  consulted  in  the  expression 
of  the  finer  logical  consequences  following 
from  the  tenets  of  the  Apostles',  and  per- 
haps of  the  Nicene,  Creed.  There  are 
yet  to  be  founded  true  national  Churches 
in  such  ancient  countries  as  India,  China, 
and  Japan.  If  an  identity  of  opinion  and 
expression  is  to  be  sought  for  more  exact 
than  those  of  the  creeds  of  the  first  three 
Christian  centuries,  the  value  of  the  God- 
made  distinction  of  nation  and  nation 
would  be  annihilated. 

It  appears,  then,  that  the  Egyptian 
Church  is  not  at  heart  infected  with  any 
radical  misapprehension  of  Christian  doc- 
trine, albeit  its  province  has  been  to  pro- 
test rather  in  favor  of  the  truth  of  the 
Godhead  of  Christ,  and  against  the  di- 
vision of  his  substance,  than  against  the 
opposite  tendency  to  confound  his  person- 
ality. In  the  direction  of  its  province 
and  its  national  calling  would  no  doubt  be 
found  its  perplexities  and  its  characteris- 
tic errors.  In  cross-questioning  an  intel- 
ligent and  educated  Copt,  I  have  found 
that  in  the  prevalent  teaching  the  line  is 
not  drawn  so  sharply  as  in  the  English 
Church  between  the  perfect  manhood  and 
the  perfect  Godhead  co-existing  in  one 
Christ.  The  disposition  is  undoubtedly 
to  exalt  in  theological  statement  the  God- 
head to  the  disparagement  of  the  perfect 
manhood.  But  I  have  not  noticed  that 
effect  of  the  tendency  either  in  the  ritual 
or  in  the  popular  apprehension  of  the 
whole  scheme  of  Christianity.  I  have 
searched  for  a  peculiarity  of  view  which 
might  seem  traceable  to  Monophysite 
belief,  but  I  have  never  found  any.  I  am 
convinced  that  the  richness  of  Christian 
doctrine  with  which  the  Church  was  im- 
bued at  the  first,  the  ritual  and  ceremonial 
which  in  early  ages  crystallized  the  modes 
of  belief,  and  the  incessant  persecution 
which  the  Egyptian  Church  has  suffered, 
have  combined  to  keep  its  faith  on  essen- 
tia] points  singularly  free  from  the  admix- 
ture of  error. 


710 


THE   COPTS. 


There  is  no  doubt  present  at  this  day  fn 
the  Coptic  Church  a  belief  in  such  a 
change  of  the  elements  in  the  Eucharist 
as  amounts  to  consubstantiation,  if  not  to 
more.  I  have  stood  by  at  the  celebration 
of  the  Eucharist  and  been  addressed  by 
more  than  one  inquirer  as  to  my  own  views 
on  the  matter;  and  on  my  explaining,  as 
best  I  could,  what  I  took  to  be  the  posi- 
tion of  the  Church  of  England,  the  ex- 
press words,  "This  is  my  body,"  were 
referred  to  in  reply:  and  it  was  remarked 
by  one  teacher,  that  if  the  miraculous 
change  of  the  elements  was  disbelieved  in, 
there  was  no  firm  foothold  for  any  other 
supernatural  feature  of  their  religion.  Not- 
withstanding, however,  these  views,  which 
in  England  have  repulsive  associations  to 
many,  I  believe  much  of  the  actual  senti- 
ment and  teaching  which  attend  the 
celebration  of  the  Eucharist  to  be  what 
in  England  would  be  known  as  *' scrip- 
tural •'  and  "  evangelical."  I  have  heard 
an  earnest  sermon  on  the  subject  mainly 
devoted  to  inviting  to  repentance  and  to 
a  new  life,  and  among  portions  of  the 
Eucharistic  ritual  the  petition  of  the  cele- 
brating priest,  that  the  congregation  will 
forgive  him  his  offences  against  them, 
certainly  relieves  the  service  from  the 
incubus  of  undue  priestly  assumption.  In 
speaking  of  Coptic  perversions  and  cor- 
ruptions it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that 
the  Church  has  existed  on  the  same  soil 
for  some  eighteen  hundred  years;  that 
during  all  this  time  there  has  not  been 
a  single  opportunity  for  comprehensive 
reformation  ;  that  it  has  been  in  the  closest 
contact  not  only  with  the  Greek  and  Abys- 
sinian branches  of  the  Oriental  Church, 
but  with  the  Roman  Catholic  Church 
through  Franciscan  missionaries;  and 
that,  owing  to  its  conflict  with  Islam,  it 
has  been  bound  to  the  most  rigid  and 
jealous  conservatism  in  favor  even  of  its 
own  errors  and  corruptions.  When  all 
this  is  duly  considered  it  is  not  extraordi- 
nary that  the  Egyptian  Church  has  erred, 
as  other  great  Churches  have  erred,  but 
rather  it  is  strange  that  the  errors  are  so 
few,  so  slightly  adherent,  and  so  overlaid 
with  a  rich  volume  of  unmixed  Christian 
truth. 

One  source  of  health  and  purity  which 
impresses  a  visitor  to  Coptic  services  at 
the  present  day  is  the  familiar  and  popu- 
lar use  of  the  Bible  in  the  vulgar  tongue 
which  pervades  all  the  services  of  the 
Church.  Take,  for  instance,  the  Easter 
services,  which  I  have  carefuUv  watched, 
in  company  with  a  highly  intelligent  Cop- 
tic friend,  more  than  once.    The  Wednes- 


da)^ before  Easter  is  devoted  to  meditating 
on  the  sufferings  of  Job,  and  the  whole 
Book  of  Job  is  read  through  in  the  course 
of  the  protracted  services.  The  practice 
is  for  a  few  lines  to  be  read  in  Coptic, 
and  then  for  a  whole  chapter  to  be  read 
clearly  and  intelligibly  in  Arabic,  —  not 
mumbled  or  hurried  through,  but  read  (of- 
ten by  a  layman),  with  an  oratorical  enun- 
ciation which  English  clergymen  might 
well  copy. 

The  Thursday  before  Easter  is  the  day 
on  which  the  symbolical  washing  of  the 
disciples'  feet  is  performed.  Every  pas- 
sage, from  the  beginning  of  the  Bible  to 
the  end,  which  touches  upon  washing  in 
its  typical  aspect  is  read  throughout,  first 
in  Coptic  shortly,  and  then  in  Arabic  at 
full  length.  The  service  is  a  very  long 
one,  as  are  most  Coptic  services ;  but  the 
symbolism  is  natural  and  really  interest- 
ing. There  are  many  of  these  living 
symbolic  dramas  in  the  Coptic  ritual,  and 
they  seem  to  belong  to  a  very  early  Chris- 
tian era,  when  the  meaning  of  the  sym- 
bols was  fresh  in  people's  minds,  and  the 
representation  was  not  overwhelmed  and 
concealed  by  adventitious  trappings. 
Among  such  symbolic  dramas,  the  knock- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  sanctuary  and  the 
solemn  opening  of  the  door,  followed  by 
the  procession  round  the  Church  headed 
by  a  picture  of  our  Lord,  is  one  of  the 
most  impressive  and  affecting.  The  scene 
is  less  vivid  in  the  great  Coptic  cathedral, 
where  I  have  witnessed  it  among  a  dense 
crowd  of  visitors  of  all  religions,  at  twelve 
o'clock  on  Easter  Eve,  than  it  is  —  where 
I  have  also  witnessed  it  —  in  a  remote 
little  Coptic  church,  of  the  oldest  and  most 
strictly  "primitive"  fashion,  among  the 
poorest  and  humblest  of  congregations, 
and  yet  amid  a  blaze  of  midnight  candles 
exceeding  the  brightness  of  the  sun.  In 
a  word,  the  symbolism  is  universally  nat- 
ural, instructive,  strictly  scriptural,  and 
free  from  superstitious  features. 

A  word  may  be  here  interposed  as  to 
the  liberal  use  of  pictures  in  Coptic 
churches.  This  is  well  known  to  be  a  char- 
acteristic feature  of  the  Oriental  churches 
everywhere,  and  I  have  done  my  best  to 
ascertain  how  far  these  pictures  are  re- 
garded superstitiously  among  the  Copts. 
The  educated  Copts  are  fully  alive  to  their 
danger,  so  much  so  that  a  late  reforming 
patriarch  —  Cyril  —  removed  them  en- 
tirely from  one  church  at  least.  As  far 
as  I  can  find,  nothing  coming  under  the 
name  of  worship  is  recognized,  either  by 
the  ritual  or  by  the  ecclesiastical  author- 
ity, as  properly  owed  either  to  the  Virgin 


THE   COPTS. 


71X 


Mary  or  to  saints,  though  they  are  both 
held  in  a  somewhat  higher  degree  of 
honor  than  in  the  English  Church.  liut, 
in  fact,  the  suprenae  place  occupied  by 
Christ  himself,  and  to  which  all  Coptic 
ritual  and  theological  expression  inces- 
santly recurs,  leaves  no  opening  for  the 
admission  of  rival  mediator  or  intercessor. 

One  of  the  most  important  aspects  of 
the  modern  Egyptian  Church  is  its  rela- 
tion to  Islam ;  and  this  relation  will  be 
found,  on  examination,  to  contain  both 
good  and  bad  elements ;  while  the  whole 
of  this  part  of  the  subject  is,  looking  to 
the  future  of  Egypt,  of  the  highest  polit- 
ical as  well  as  religious  significance. 

The  potent  influence  of  Mohammedan- 
ism on  Egyptian  Christianity  has  been 
wrought  partly  by  direct  persecution,  part- 
ly by  the  unconscious  contagion  of  exam- 
ple or  servile  imitation,  partly  by  legiti- 
mate moral  suggestiveness,  and  partly  by 
considerations  of  practical  convenience. 

With  the  exception  of  the  non-recogni- 
tion of  polygamy  or  concubinage,  the 
whole  position  of  women  in  relation  to  men 
among  the  Copts  is  far  more  dictated  by 
Mohammedan  tradition  and  custom  than 
based  on  Christian  notions  of  the  rela- 
tions of  men  and  women,  and  of  husband 
and  wife.  Women  are  never  educated ; 
their  life  is,  from  childhood,  kept  jeal- 
ously apart  from  that  of  the  men,  even  in 
the  same  family;  they  have  no  concern 
with  any  of  the  business  of  the  world; 
they  are  married  while  little  more  than 
children,  without  being  consulted ;  and 
they  are  never  allowed  to  be  seen  in  a 
place  of  worship  except  through  a  remote 
grating.  A  Coptic  friend  of  mine  told  me 
that  his  sister,  living  at  Cairo,  already  of 
an  age  to  receive  an  offer  of  marriage, 
would  have  no  notion  of  what  the  Pyra- 
mids were,  or  that  they  were  or  had  been 
aught  but  rubbish  heaps  of  stones,  and 
that,  so  far  as  he  knew,  she  had  never 
seen  them  even  from  a  distance.  Within 
two  years  of  this  conversation  the  same 
girl  has  been  married  to  a  rich  bey  in 
high  office,  and  for  the  first  year  of  her 
marriage  is  prevented  from  so  much  as 
going  out  into  the  street. 

The  wedding  and  the  funeral  cere- 
monies of  the  Copts  have  much  in  com- 
mon with  those  ot  the  Moslems,  and  this 
common  element  is  perhaps  rather  Ori- 
ental than  of  characteristic  religious  sig- 
nificance. The  Koran  is  much  valued  by 
the  Copis,  and  many  Copts  can  recite  it 
throughout  by  heart.  Indeed,  the  com- 
mon   salutations,    ejaculations,   impreca- 


tions, and  the  like,  which  are  largely 
culled  from  the  Koran,  are  used  alike  by 
Copts  and  Mohammedans ;  and  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  in  the  intercourse 
of  the  market-place  and  the  social  table, 
or  rather  divan,  the  manners  of  the  **  Ara- 
bian Nights"  are  equally  reproduced  by 
Christians  and  infidels,  or,  to  put  it  other- 
wise, by  infidels  and  Moslems. 

It  is  proper  to  notice,  however,  that  the 
reason  alleged  by  the  Copts  themselves 
for  this  meek  acceptance  of  Moslem  fash- 
ions is  the  persecution  to  which  they  have 
been  exposed  up  to  very  recent  days. 
They  were  (they  say)  obliged  to  keep  their 
women  secluded  in  their  houses,  in  order 
to  protect  them  against  insults,  just  as 
they  have  been  obliged  to  adopt  a  shabby 
dress,  and  even  dirty  habits  of  life  ex- 
ternally, in  order  to  propitiate  jealousy 
and  rapacity.  They  do  not  defend  these 
things.  They  hope  for  better  things  in 
the  future.  A  good  school  for  girls  is 
one  of  the  immediate  reforms  they  are 
contemplating,  and  the  closer  association 
with  Europeans  is  likely  to  stimulate 
cleanliness  and  banish  slovenliness. 

It  is  important  to  notice  that  at  this 
very  moment  an  agitation  of  an  unprece- 
dented character,  directed  against  the  ex- 
clusive financial  power  of  the  patriarch, 
has  resulted  in  the  nomination  of  an  inde- 
pendently and  freely  elected  council  to 
manage  the  funds  01  the  Church,  to  pro- 
vide for  education  of  all  sects,  to  build 
schools,  and,  in  fact,  to  perform,  in  the 
name  of  the  community,  all  those  func- 
tions which  are  not  of  a  strictly  spiritual 
kind,  and  which,  hitherto,  the  patriarch 
affected  to  perform  in  an  irresponsible 
way,  but  which  practically  he  wholly  neg- 
lected. The  authority  of  the  khedive  — 
though  a  Mohammedan  —  was  invited  to 
bring  about  this  reform,  and  it  was  inter- 
posed —  not  unwillingly  on  the  part  of  the 
Egyptian  government  —  on  the  ground 
that  one  of  the  abuses  was  the  fraudulent 
exemption  from  the  conscription  of  in- 
numerable persons  properly  liable  on  the 
spurious  ground  of  their  holding  some 
subordinate  office  in  the  Coptic  Church. 

The  Copts,  throughout  the  country,  fill 
the  government  offices  and  all  posts  re- 
quiring accurate  account -keeping  and 
book-keeping;  and  in  towns  they  repre- 
sent the  trades  requiring  superior  skill 
and  trustworthiness,  —  such  as  those  of 
carpenters  and  goldsmiths.  In  the  towns 
they  are,  in  fact,  what  in  other  countries 
would  be  a  middle  class ;  though  up  to 
the  present  time  thev,  in  their  own  coun- 
try, have  suffered  from  much  the  same 


712 


THE   COPTS. 


social  disadvantages  as  the  Jews  in  coun- 
tries not  their  own.  They  have  been 
almost  invariably  regarded  by  their  Mo- 
hammedan fellow-citizens  with  the  utmost 
contumely  and  contempt.  Every  kind  of 
indirect  disabilitv  and  ill-usage  has  been 
imposed  upon  tnem  by  the  government. 
It  has  been  impossible  for  them  —  espe- 
cially in  Upper  Egypt  —  to  obtain  redress 
for  private  or  public  injuries.  When  they 
have  not  been  directly  persecuted,  as  they 
have  been  times  without  number,  they 
have  been  "afflicted  and  tormented,*'  and 
the  words  "  massacre  of  Christians  "  have 
had  a  reality  of  meaning  for  them  which 
they  have  rarely  had  for  any  Christians 
but  themselves.  Before  the  British  army 
occupied  Cairo  last  year,  and  when  the 
rebel  hopes  were  still  being  kept  up,  the 
Copts  were  for  hours  and  days  together 
almost  incessantly  at  their  prayers,  public 
and  private.  It  is  well  established  that  a 
massacre  of  the  Christians  had  been  defi- 
nitely planned  and  announced  to  them. 
When  the  British  army  entered,  Copt  met 
Copt  with  the  Easter  salutation,  **  Christ 
is  risen  !  '*  and  for  months  after  they  never 
passed  a  British  soldier  in  the  street  with- 
out invoking  a  solemn  blessing  on  his 
head.  This  vindication  of  the  Egyptian 
Christian  from  Moslem  fanaticism  was, 
indeed,  a  rich  first-fruits  of  the  policy  of 
claiming  "Egypt  for  the  Egyptians.'* 

It  appears  clearly,  then,  that  the  Copts, 
though  numerically  of  small  relative  ac- 
count, are  in  every  other  respect  of  the 
highest  importance,  from  a  political  point 
of  view.  Thev  are  the  most  educated, 
and,  it  must  be  added,  in  deference  to 
their  true  Christian  training  and  customs, 
the  most  civilized  portion  of  the  popula- 
tion; at  the  same  time  by  language  and 
physical  propinquity,  as  well  as  by  com- 
munity of  purely  Oriental  sympathies,  they 
are  far  closer  to  the  Moslem  inhabitants 
of  Egypt  than  any  European  race  ever 
will  be.  Hitherto  persecution  and  con- 
tumely have  done  much  to  weld  ^he  Copts 
together,  and  keep  their  religion  uncon- 
taminated  by  the  admixture  of  foreign 
ingredients,  or  by  concessions  to  foreign 
assumptions.  Neither  Alexandrian  pa- 
triarch nor  Bagdad  khalif  succeeded  in 
doing  more  than  cleansing  the  ranks  of 
Egyptian  Christianity,  and  reducing  its 
scattered,  though  necessarily  guerilla, 
forces  to  a  stern  and  compact  garrison,  — 
forced  times  without  number  to  fight  to 
the  death  for  their  existence  and  their 
faith.  But  already  liberal  influences  even 
in  the  Oriental  world  are  telling,  not  alto- 


gether favorably,  on  the  position  of  the 
Copts.  The  broad  line  between  Copt 
and  Moslem  is  being  slowlv  effaced,  not 
by  Christian  sentiments  anci  usages  sub- 
duing those  which  are  Moslem,  but  by 
Moslem  sentiments  and  usages  encroach- 
ing on  those  which  are  Christian.  There 
is  no  longer  the  same  repugnance  that 
there  was  among  the  Copts  to  attend 
Moslem  religious  shows.  The  European 
dress  largely  in  use  among  the  official 
Copts  is  calculated  to  efface  all  distinct- 
ness in  religion ;  while  the  urgent  demand 
among  the  more  ambitious  of  the  young 
Copts  themselves  for  purely  secular 
schools,  is  likely,  if  gratified,  to  foster 
religious  indifference,  and  thereby  to  as- 
similate them  to  the  majority  around  — 
that  is,  to  Moslems. 

It  is  a  serious  but  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  the  British  intervention,  and  of 
the  attempt  which  is  being  made  to  secure 
impartial  justice  and  fair  political  repre- 
sentation throughout  the  country,  that  the 
assimilation  of  Copt  and  Moslem  must 
needs  proceed  at  a  more  rapid  pace  than 
before.  Political  and  social  separation 
have  hitherto  helped  much  to  keep  up 
religious  separation,  and  so  far  as  the  one 
kind  of  separating  forces  has  at  any  time 
or  anywhere  been  weakened,  the  other 
kind  has  relaxed  proportionately.  Of 
course  the  promotion  of  real  unity  of  all 
sorts  is  always  a  political  object  of  the 
first  importance,  and  so  far  as  a  strong 
and  just  government  tends  by  its  action 
—  direct  and  indirect  —  to  obliterate  re- 
ligious antipathies  and  race  animosities, 
it  confers  benefits  of  supreme  value.  But 
where,  as  in  the  present  case,  the  direct 
and  immediate  enect  of  liberalizing  insti- 
tutions is  to  sweep  away  barriers  which 
have  protected  a  weak  minority  profess- 
ing a  particular  faith  against  the  over- 
whelming pressure  of  a  majority  profess- 
ing a  faith  of  a  different  and  opposite 
kind,  it  is  the  bounden  duty  of  all  persons 
who  regard  the  faith  of  the  minority  as 
true,  and  that  of  the  majority  as  relatively 
false,  to  step  in  and  do  what  in  them  lies 
in  their  private  capacity  to  supply  to  their 
fellow-religionists  the  helps  and  correc- 
tives necessary  to  save  their  faith  from 
slow  extermination. 

The  Coptic  Christians,  standing  as  they 
do  between  Europeans  and  Mohamme- 
dans—  allied  to  the  one  by  their  faith, 
and  to  the  other  by  their  Oriental  extrac- 
tion and  language — ought  to  be  the  most 
direct  medium  by  which  an  honest  West- 
ern government  in  command  of  Egypt 
can  impress  ideas  and  aspirations  on  the 


THE   COPTS. 


713 


inhabitants  of  the  country.  But  then  the 
Coptic  Christians  must  not  cease  to  be 
Christians.  Their  Christianity  must  not 
be  diluted  away  so  as  to  be  indistinguish- 
able from  the  Mohammedanism  around 
them.  On  the  contrary,  it  must  be 
strengthened  and  purified,  so  as  to  re- 
spond to  the  new  claims  made  upon  it, 
and  it  is  the  clear  duty  of  England  and  of 
English  men  and  English  women,  above 
all  other  nations  and  people,  to  bring  this 
about. 

It  might  be  thought  that  if  the  Coptic 
Church  is  at  heart  healthy  and  sound,  as 
it  is  here  alleged  to  be,  it  could  only  profit 
and  gain  strength  from  the  more  natural 
conditions  which  are  now  promised  for  it ; 
and  that  freedom  from  persecution,  direct 
or  indirect,  must  mean  enlarged  opportu- 
nities for  growth  and  expansion. 

But  it  must  be  remembered  that  thc«ueh 
the  Coptic  Church  has  not  been  de- 
stroyed by  ages  of  persecution,  it  has 
been  wofully  cast  down  by  it.  At  present 
it  is  in  a  most  critical  condition.  The 
Church,  as  a  whole,  has  undoubtedly,  in 
the  course  of  centuries,  given  birth  to 
corruptions  and  to  theological  perversions 
which,  if  not  amounting  to  heresies,  .nev- 
ertheless cloud  the  purity  of  the  faith, 
and  form  so  many  obstacles  to  its  free 
course  as  an  organ  of  spiritual  advance- 
ment. There  have  been  individual  saints 
and  reforming  patriarchs,  but  there  has 
been  no  root  and  branch  reformation  from 
within  or  from  without.  The  wonder  is, 
not  that  the  Church  has  declined,  but  that 
it  has  stood  so  firm,  lost  so  little,  and  re- 
tained a  treasury  of  doctrine  so  true. 
Even  its  corruptions  and  misconceptions 
have  been  ratified  and  crystallized  by  no 
patriarch,  pope,  or  council,  and  the  Church 
could  renounce  them  all  without  being 
unfaithful  to  any  dogmatic  "standards.'* 

In  spite  of  all  these  hopeful  signs,  how- 
ever, the  miserable  and  afHicting  past  has 
left  its  impress,  and  the  Church  is  spirit- 
ually poor  and  weak.  It  almost  crouches 
before  enemies  on  all  sides,  and  the  ut- 
most it  asks  is  to  live  in  quiet.  The  older 
members,  indeed,  still  retain  pious  habits 
and  customs,  having,  no  doubt,  a  long 
traditional  history,  but  many  of  the  young- 
er men  are  acquiring  a  perilous  resem- 
blance to  some  of  the  youn^  Bengalees, 
who  claim  the  benefits  of  universal  toler- 
ation as  an  apology  for  indifference  to 
their  own  religion  as  well  as  to  that  of 
others.  The  young  Coptic  employes  in 
public  offices  are,  for  some  reason  or  oth- 
er, not  generally  popular  with  their  Euro- 
pean chiefs.    There  has  been  no  opening 


to  them  for  legitimate  and  honorable  am- 
bition, no  place  for  national  aspirations. 
They  are  exposed  to  the  temptations  of 
those  who  are  detached  from  the  sense  of 
national,  social,  and  family  obligations, 
and  are  too  much  set  upon  their  own  indi- 
vidual advancement.  If  the  common 
accusation  is  anything  more  than  that 
impatience  of  native  talent  which  has  not 
been  unknown  in  India,  there  are,  at  any 
rate,  splendid  exceptions  to  be  found 
among  the  rising  young  men.  But  the 
fact  that  a  worldly  spirit  is  largely  affect- 
ing young  Christian  Egypt  certainly 
furnishes  a  claim  on  England  that  the 
necessary  impartiality  and  religious  indif- 
ference of  the  British  government  be 
supplemented  by  private  zeal  on  behalf 
of  a  Christian  Church  which,  if  not  saved 
now,  might  one  day  become  extinct. 

The  one  crying  need  of  the  Coptic 
Church  at  the  present  moment  is  Chris- 
tian education,  especially  of  the  clergy. 
There  is  no  fear  of  the  best  secular  edu* 
cation  not  being  provided  sooner  or  later. 
In  fact,  the  number  of  Copts  who  speak 
and  read  English  and  French  almost  as 
well  as  their  mother  tongue  is  a  proof  of 
the  extent  to  which  it  nas  already  pro- 
gressed. But  if  a  thorough  Christian  and 
popular  education  is  not  provided,  the 
best  secular  education  will  not  free  the 
bulk  of  tlie  people  from  the  superstitions, 
the  half-Mohammedan  beliefs,  the  corrup- 
tions, and  the  foolish  credulity  as  to  myths 
which  so  ancient  a  Church  has  naturally 
drawn  along  with  it  in  its  troublous  cur- 
rent. 

But  if  Christian  education  is  needed 
for  all,  it  is  above  all  needed  for  the  clergy, 
and  of  this  want  the  Copts  are  deeply 
sensible  themselves.  I  have  found  among 
young  men  highly  educated  in  most  re- 
spects, and  of  the  class  from  which  the 
clergy  are  recruited,  the  most  startling 
ignorance  of  ecclesiastical  history  and  of 
the  condition  of  other  Churches.  I  have 
been  amazed  by  confusions  between  the 
Anglican  and  Roman  Churches,  between 
the  American  Presbyterians  and  the  Prot- 
estant  Churches  of  Europe,  and  with  re- 
spect to  all  the  chief  points  in  controversy 
between  the  reformed  and  the  unreformed 
Churches,  and  between  the  Churches  of 
the  West  and  of  the  East.  The  same 
students  will  show  a  rare  knowledge  of  the 
contents  of  the  Bible,  and  an  intelligent, 
though  not  an  erudite,  apprehension  of 
their  meaning  and  religious  significance. 
The  sermons  preached  in  the  churches 
exhibit  the  same  hi^h  standard  of  Biblical 


7H 


THE   COPTS. 


information.  They  are  also  well  trained 
in  the  tenets  of  their  own  faith,  and  pre- 
pared to  defend  them  by  reference  to 
Scripture.  Nothing  is  heard  of  €x  catht- 
drd  interpretations  of  Scripture,  or  of  the 
tyranny  of  sy nodical  bodies.  The  manner 
of  alluding  to  Scripture  is  always  rever- 
ent, without  savoring  in  the  slightest  de* 
gree  of  a  superstitious  handling  of  it  as 
if  it  were  a  charm. 

Some  well-meaning  persons  have  recom- 
mended the  sending  of  Coptic  students 
for  the  ministry  to  England.  There  are 
many  strong  objections  to  this.  The  char- 
acteristic temptations  to  a  clever  young 
Copt  at  home  are  to  vanity,  self-conceit, 
and  worldly  self-aggrandizement.  These 
temptations  would  not  be  less  felt  in  En- 
gland, while  the  correctives  to  them  sup- 
plied by  the  natural  incidents  of  his  own 
home  and  country  would  be  wholly  want- 
ing. Starting  from  the  point  of  education 
of  even  the  most  intelligent  young  Copt, 
he  would  be  in  no  position  to  understand 
the  claims  of  the  different  parties  within 
and  without  the  Church  of  England,  and 
he  must  needs  succumb  wholly  to  the 
personal  influences  nearest  to  him.  A 
further  objection  will  be  felt  by  some,  as 
it  is  by  me,  that  the  Reformed  Anglican 
Church  is  not  the  best  or  natural  teacher 
of  a  Coptic  Christian,  bound,  by  the  ritual 
and  antecedents  of  his  own  Church,  to 
the  Monophysite  aspects  of  Christian  doc- 
trine. 

The  American  mission  school  at  Cairo, 
under  its  eminent  and  learned  minister. 
Dr.  Lancing,  has  done  a  very  considerable 
work  among  the  Copts.  It  is  a  fashion, 
much  to  be  deprecated,  among  some  En- 
|;lish  Churchmen  visiting  Egypt  as  tour- 
ists, to  speak  lightly  of  the  great  work  of 
this  institution,  because  its  basis  is  Pres- 
byterian and  not  Episcopal.  To  m^  mind 
this  is  a  strong  recommendation ;  just  be- 
cause there  is  no  possibility  of  collision 
or  competition  between  the  elementary 
framework  of  a  Presbyterian  mission  ser- 
vice and  the  gorgeous  and  elaborate  ritual 
of  a  Coptic  Church.  There  will  and 
there  ought  to  be  conscientious  dissenters 
from  the  Coptic  Church,  —  those  to  whom 
an  elaborate  ritual  is  uncongenial,  and  for 
them  there  is  thus  at  hand  another  Chris- 
tian society  presenting  them  with  doc- 
trines identical  with  all  that  is  best  and 
purest  in  their  own  Church,  and  with  op- 
portunities for  public  worship  (including 
sermons  in  their  own  tongue),  and  as 
scriptural  as  they  themselves  in  their  best 
moments  could  demand.  If  the  young 
candidates  for  the  ministry  acquired  in- 


creasingly the  habit  of  frequenting  the 
theological  classes  in  this  school,  part  of 
the  problem  would  be  solved. 

But  it  is  not  merely  desirable  that  the 
Coptic  ministry  should  cease  to  be  igno- 
rant. They  ought  to  be  exceptionally 
learned.  The  historical  antecedents  of 
their  Church  have  specially  called  them 
to  the  task  of  vindicating  in  the  face  of 
the  Mohammedan  world  the  divine  glory 
of  the  Son.  Their  conflicts  with  the  Greek 
Church  at  Alexandria  should  have  trained 
them  to  contend  in  the  forefront  of  the 
hottest  battle  with  the  prophet  and  apos- 
tle of  Unitarianism.  All  the  best  learning 
and  energy  that  England  can  contribute 
would  be  well  spent  in  fortifying  this 
Christian  bulwark  in  the  presence  of  the 
latest  and  sternest  foe  with  whom  the 
Christian  Church  will  ever  have  to  grap- 
ple. The  Church  of  England  has  no 
claim  to  assume  the  pretensions  of  send- 
ing a  so-called  "  mission."  Nor  could  any 
but  nominal  good  be  done  by  any  formal 
** union"  with  a  Church  in  every  way  so 
differently  circumstanced  from  itself.  But 
England  can  give  of  the  fulness  of  itsowa 
theological  and  linguistic  science,  its  crit- 
ical sagacity,  its  historical  lore.  And  it 
is  bound  to  give  this  abundantly.  The 
Copts  are  crying  out,  **  Come  over  and 
help  us."  They  are  ready  to  co  operate 
with  any  scheme  by  which  the  best  fruits 
of  English  learning  can  be  appropriated 
by  themselves.  Among  the  ministry  there 
are  some  really  learned  men,  though  the 
opportunities  of  obtaining  a  broad  culture 
have  hitherto  been  lacking  to  them;  and 
there  are  no  universities  or  learned  socie- 
ties to  create  the  sort  of  atmosphere  of 
intellectual  and  critical  appreciation,  the 
want  of  which  is  one  of  those  most  keenly 
felt  by  the  Encrlish  student  who  has  the 
misfortune  to  be  expatriated  to  an  Aus- 
tralian colony. 

In  effecting  the  political  regeneration 
of  Egypt,  the  Copts  are  the  natural  mid- 
dle class,  of  which  the  statesman  and  leg- 
islator are  always  so  eagerly  in  search. 
The  electoral  arrangements  which  have 
been  made  have,  by  the  use  of  the  cumu- 
lative vote,  secured  that  wherever  any 
minority,  like  the  Copts,  is  strong  and 
compact  in  any  district,  it  can  make  its 
political  influence  tell  on  the  elections. 
In  many  ways  the  interests  of  the  Copts, 
as  a  class,  cannot  be  identical  with  the 
agricultural  fellahin,  or  the  unskilled  arti- 
sans in  the  towns,  or  the  hewers  of  wood 
and  drawers  of  water,  or  the  superior 
officials.    The  personal  law  which  governs 


THE   COPTS. 


715 


their  marriages,  their  successions,  and 
their  wills,  is  not  the  law  of  the  Koran  and 
its  commentators,  and  it  is  administered, 
at  least  in  the  first  resort,  by  domestic 
tribunals  of  their  own.  Some  of  the 
priests  have  a«great  reputation  for  knowl- 
edge of  the  law  peculiar  to  the  Copts,  and 
as  the  authorities  are  largely  in  manu- 
script the  study  is  no  light  one.  Thus,  in 
a  country  like  Egypt,  where  hitherto  the 
bulk  of  the  law  has  been  religious  in  its 
origin  and  application,  political  distinc- 
tions and  interests  follow  much  the  same 
lines  as  religious  beliefs.  This  is  likely 
to  be  less  so  in  the  future,  when  the  new 
codes,  covering  so  large  a  field,  are  ap- 
plied to  the  people  generallv.  Though 
marriage  and  testamentary  and  succession 
law  will  still  be  administered  by  the  reli- 
gious judge,  questions  arising  out  of  these 
branches  of  law  will  inevitably  be  involved 
in  causes  pending  before  the  secular 
courts,  and  the  rules  applicable  to  them 
will  have  to  be  applied  as  foreign  law  is  in 
England. 

It  m.iv  thus  be  expected  that  while  the 
effect  of  religious  differences  in  the  mat- 
ter of  law  as  betwen  Copts  and  Moham- 
medans will,  on  the  whole,  be  weakened 
by  the  institution  of  purely  secular  courts 
dealing  with  the  commercial,  criminal,  and 
land  law,  yet  the  protection  which  these 
courts  will  accord  to  the  different  bodies 
of  law  which  they  do  not  themselves 
directly  administer  will  tend  to  perpetuate 
those  bodies  of  law,  and  to  fix  more  deeply 
the  distinction  between  them.  There  will 
be  less  room  for  spontaneous  processes  of 
amalgamation  or  for  the  fusion  of  cus- 
toms. Sir  H.  Maine  pointed  out,  some 
years  ago,  that  this  was  one  of  the  least 
favorable  aspects  of  the  action  of  England 
in  India.  Customs  on  the  verge  of  disap- 
pearing by  a  natural  process  were  en- 
dowed with  a  new  and  artificial  vitality. 
For  the  time  the  same  effect  will  result 
from  the  new  legislation  in  Egypt.  Pe- 
culiar Mohammedan  and  Coptic  institu- 
tions will  be  severally  ascertained  and 
fortified  afresh,  and  arrested  in  their 
natural  decline.  A  time  may  hereafter 
come  when  fresh  codes  may  be  made, 
covering  the  whole  field  of  Mohammedan 
and  Christian  law,  while  leaving  space  for 
the  recognition  of  customs  (particularly 
those  of  marriage)  peculiar  to  special 
religious  bodies.  These  codes  might  be 
administered  by  the  secular  courts,  and 
the  result  would  be  favorable  to  the  high- 
est form  of  national  unity. 

In  a  country  in  which  the  supreme  di- 
rection of  the  State  is  in  the  hands  of 


Mohammedans,  it  is  impossible  to  secure, 
in  advance,  that  the  Copts  have  their  pro« 
portionate  share  in  the  higher  employ- 
ments and  appointments.  This  evil  mav 
be  abated  where  the  new  legislative  bod- 
ies are  in  effective  action,  as  the  minority 
vote  may  secure  proportionate  represen- 
tation to  the  Copts,  and  there  may  be 
opportunity  for  public  remonstrance  in 
the  case  of  persistent  one-sided  appoint- 
ments. 

Of  course  it  cannot  be  expected  that 
the  British  government,  in  the  exercise  of 
its  influence  in  Egypt,  should  show  any 
favor  to  the  Copts  on  the  sole  ground  of 
their  being  Christians.  Even  were  the 
British  government  in  supreme  command 
of  the  country,  as  it  is  in  India,  the  ut- 
most that  could  be  asked  of  it  would  be  to 
guarantee  all  religious  bodies.  Christian 
and  non-Christian,  against  all  civil  and 
political  disabilities  on  the  ground  of  reli- 
gious belief.  In  India,  indeed,  it  has 
been  in>puted  to  the  British  government 
that  it  has  gone  still  further  in  the  direc- 
tion of  religious  indifference,  and  that, 
while  patronizing  the  native  religions,  it 
has  weighted  the  course  of  Christian 
missions.  Whatever  may  have  been  the 
justification  of  this  policy  in  India,  all  the 
circumstances  are  different  in  Egypt. 
The  responsible  government  in  Egypt  is 
wholly  in  the  hands  of  the  Mohamme- 
dan majority,  and  the  Christian  minority 
are  not  an  alien  missionary  body,  but  part 
and  parcel  of  the  structure  of  the  Egyp- 
tian nation,  having  still  higher  claims,  on 
the  ground  of  uninterrupted  and  imme- 
morial prescription,  than  their  Moslem 
rivals.  Thus  it  is  as  much  the  duty  and 
political  interest  of  the  Mohammedan 
government  of  Egypt  to  guarantee  abso- 
lute political  and  civil  rights  to  Coptic 
Christians,  as  it  is  the  duty  and  interest 
of  the  British  government  to  protect  its 
non-Christian  subjects.  Mere  religious 
indifference  is  not  always  religious  impar- 
tiality. A  government  may  be  indifferent 
when  it  leaves  the  strong  to  trample  upon 
the  weak.  It  is  impartial  when  it  pro- 
tects the  weak  against  the  strong,  no  less 
than  when  it  lends  the  strong  its  organized 
aid  to  prevent  irregular  trespasses  on  the 
part  of  the  weak. 

Englishmen  and  Englishwomen  at 
home  cannot  but  feel  that  the  cause  of 
true  morality,  and  therefore  of  the  politi- 
cal elevation  of  Egypt,  is  more  bound  up 
with  the  progress  of  the  Coptic  Church 
than  with  aught  else  besides.  It  is  that 
Church  which  alone  can  make  an  effectual 
and  lasting  protest  in  favor  of  true  con« 


jo6 


A   NOCTURNE,   ETC, 


A  NOCTURNE. 
BY  WALTER  JERROLD. 


When  night's  dark  mantle  round  the  earth  is 
drawn 

And  all  the  world  lies  still, 
I  love  to  wander,  till  the  gray  of  dawn 

Breaks  over  yonder  hill. 

To  see  the  city  slumbering  in  the  plain, 

Where  all  is  calm  repose. 
Where  some  will  rise  to  pleasure  once  again. 

Some  rise  to  many  woes : 

Where  some  will  rise  to  happiness  and  wealth, 

Some,  poverty  and  pain  ; 
Some  rise    to  Nature's    greatest    blessing  — 
health ; 

Some  never  rise  again. 

I  see  a  meteor  flash  across  the  sky, 

I  catch  its  transient  gleams ; 
It  but  reminds  me  how  our  time  doth  fly, ' 

How  meteor-like  life  seems. 

I  see  a  changeful  cloud,  white  flecked, 

Pass  silently  overhead ; 
Our  lives  as  changeful  pass,  till  wrecked 

And  numbered  with  the  dead. 

When  Phcebus  gilds  the  morn  with  light. 

And  dusk  night  flees  away, 
It  tells  that  after  mortal  night 

Is  Heaven's  eternal  day. 


BALLADE  OF  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY. 
TO  C  H.  A. 

Let  them  boast  of  Arabia,  oppressed 

By  the  odor  of  mvrrh  on  the  breeze ; 
In  tne  isles  of  the  £ast  and  the  West 

That  are  sweet  with  the  cinnamon -trees 
Let  the  sandal-wood  perfume  the  seas ; 

Give  the  roses  to  Rhodes  and  to  Crete,  . 
We  are  more  than  content,  if  you  please, 

With  the  smell  of  bbg-myitle  and  peat ! 

Though  Dan  Virgil  enjoyed  himself  best 

With  the  scent  of  the  limes,  when  the  bees 
Hummed  low  round  the  doves  in  their  nest. 

While  the  vintagers  lay  at  their  ease. 
Had  he  sung  in  our  northern  degrees. 

He'd  have  sought  a  securer  retreat. 
He'd  have  dwelt,  where  the  heart  of  us  flees. 

With  the  smell  of  bog-myrtle  and  peat ! 

Oh,  the  broom  has  a  chivalrous  crest. 

And  the  daffodil's  fair  on  the  leas. 
And  the  soul  of  the  Southron  might  rest, 

And  be  perfectly  happy  with  these ; 
But  wft  that  were  nursed  on  the  knees 

Of  the  hills  of  the  North,  we  would  fleet 
Where  our  hearts  might  their  longing  appease 

With  the  smell  of  bog-myrtle  and  peat  1 


Envoy. 

Princess,  the  domain  of  our  quest 
It  is  far  from  the  sounds  of  the  street. 

Where  the  Kingdom  of  Galloway's  blest 
With  the  smell  of  bog-myrtle  and  peat ! 
Longman's  Magazine.  A.  LANCm 


The  following  poem,  considered  to  be  the  best  ever 
written  upon  Niagara  Falls,  wa« composed  by  John 
Gardiner  Calkins  Brainard,  the  editor  of  the  C*«- 
nectUut  Mirror  of  Hartford  from  iSaa  to  i8a& 
He  was  a  native  of  New  London,  was  educated  at 
Yale,  and  died  of  consumption  at  twenty-eight.  He 
is  said  to  have  *•  dashed  the  poem  off '|  in  the  print- 
ing-office while  the  compositor  was  waiting  for  copy. 
It  is  a  curious  fact  that  he  never  »!*•  Niagara,  and 
never  was  nearer  to  it  than  four  hundred  and  fifty 
miles. 

The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my 

brain 
While  I  look  upward  to  thee.    It  would  seem 
As  if  God  poured  thee  from  his  hollow  hand; 
Had  hung  his  bow  upon  thy  awful  front ; 
Had  spoke  in  that  loud  voice  which  seemed  to 

him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake. 
The  sound  of  many  waters ;  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  thy  ages  back. 
And  notch  his  centuries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 
Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime? 
O  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rang 
From  war's  vain  trumpet  by  thy  thundering 

side? 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make. 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar  ? 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  him 
Who  drowned  a  world,  and  heaped  the  waters 

far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  ?    A  light  wave 
That   breaks    and  whispers  of    its    Maker's 

might !  Old  Paper. 


SONG. 

A  BOUQUET  for  my  love  who  loves  me  not ! 

What  shall  I  gather  ?    Rich  dark  roses  set 
In  thorns,  ah  me,  like  love  ;  or  lilies  fair. 

Tall  bloodless  lily-blooms ;  or  violets  wet 
And  sweet  with  night's  dews;  or  carnations 

rare? 

And  yet  — 
White  poppy  buds  are  best,  that  teach  one  to 
torget 

A  song  for  my  dear  love  who  loves  me  not  I 

Sing,  blackbird,  thrilling  in  yon  leafy  brake; 
Coo,  cushat,  coo ;  chant,  thrush,  thy  sweetest 
strain ; 
Thou    nightingale  with    passionate    throb- 
bings  wake 
Pain  in  her  heart,  who  heeds  not  of  my  pain, 

And  make 
Her  pity  him,  who  dies  for  her  sweet  sake. 

AU  the  Year  RooxuL 


THE   COPTS. 


707 


From  The  Contemporary  Review. 
THE  COPTS. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  Copts  of 
Egypt  excite  in  many  quarters  an  interest 
which  the  more  general  aspects  of  the 
Egyptian  question  fail  to  stimulate.  Nor 
is  it,  perhaps,  more  surprising  that  the 
majority  of  those  who  are  intimately  con- 
cerned with  Egyptian  politics,  internal 
and  external,  treat  the  topic  of  the  Coptic 
Church  as  one  of  purely  religious  signifi- 
cance, and  as,  if  too  prominently  thrust 
forward,  likely  rather  to  confuse  than  to 
assist  the  due  estimate  of  purely  political 
elements  and  forces. 

The  complexion  of  the  classes  of  per- 
sons who  hitherto,  in  England,  have  alone 
interested  themselves  in  the  condition  of 
the  Copts  as  distinguished  from  the  rest 
of  the  inhabitants  of  Egypt,  has  served 
to  lend  a  color  to  this  prevalent  want  of 
broad  political  appreciation.  These  per- 
sons may  be  loosely  classified  as  the  re- 
ligious antiquarians;  the  High  Church- 
men who  hope  to  set  off  primitive  purity 
against  puritanical  reformation  ;  the  High 
Churchmen  who  are  scrutinizing  the  text- 
ure of  the  Eastern  Churches  in  order  to 
discover  materials  for  a  reunion  of  East 
and  West  by  way  of  protest  against  Ro- 
man assumptions  of  infallibility;  and, 
lastly,  the  more  intelligent  travellers  who, 
learning  from  their  guide-books  that  the 
Copts  form  some  tenth  part  of  the  popu- 
lation of  Egypt,  visit  their  churches,  at- 
tend long  night  as  well  as  early  morning 
services,  and  compete  with  each  other  for 
exclusive  scraps  of  information  as  to  their 
practices  and  beliefs. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  occasional 
labors  of  these  desultory  classes  of  in- 
quirers, it  is  extraordinary  how  minute  is 
the  interest,  and  how  unfathomable  the 
ignorance,  surrounding  the  whole  subject. 
Among  those  persons  in  England  who 
actively  concern  themselves  with  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  England  to  Egypt,  there 
are  found  grave  doubts  whether  Coptic  is 
or  is  not  a.spoken  language,  and  whether 
it  is  the  only  language  spoken  in  Egypt, 
or,  if  it  is  not,  what  language  has  taken 
its  place ;  whether  Coptic  Christians  be- 
lieve in  Christ;  whether  they  practise 
polygamy;  whether  they  believe  in  Mo- 


hammedanism ;  whether  their  ritual  is  or 
is  not  identical  with  that  of  the  Greek 
Church ;  how  far  the  Copts  are  at  all  dis- 
tinguishable from  the  rest  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Egypt ;  and  last,  but  not  least  as 
a  ground  of  profound  doubt,  who  on  earth 
the  Copts  are. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  in  this  paper  to 
attempt  to  give  a  compendious  history 
and  description  of  the  Coptic  Church. 
The  best  and  most  accessible  account  for 
English  readers  will  be  found  in  Mr. 
Fuller's  article  in  Smith's  'Dictionary  of 
Christian  Biography,  Literature,  Sects, 
and  Doctrines."  Lane's  "  Modern  Egyp- 
tians,"  and  Baedeker's  **  Guide-book  to 
Lower  Egypt,"  though  not  always  true  to 
the  conditions  of  the  present  moment, 
will  serve  to  correct  all  the  grave  miscon- 
ceptions and  baseless  conjectures.  I 
shall  confine  myself  to  bringing  into  prom- 
inence certain  facts,  tested  by  my  own 
investigations  conducted  in  every  availa- 
ble manner  during  the  past  three  years, 
and  to  drawing  what  I  hold  to  be  political 
conclusions  of  the  highest  significance. 

The  Copts  are,  strictly  speaking,  those 
of  the  primitive  inhabitants  of  Egypt 
who,  after  being  converted  to  Christianity, 
were  not  subsequently  converted  to  Mo- 
hammedanism. Of  course  when  such  a 
word  as  "  primitive  "  is  used  in  speaking 
of  the  inhabitants  of  a  small  country  pe- 
culiarly accessible  to,  and  repeatedly  over- 
run by,  foreigners,  it  is  a  relative  rather 
than  a  positive  term.  There  are  some 
persons,  indeed,  who  assert  that,  with- 
Greeks,  Romans,  Arabs,  and  Levantines 
interpenetrating  the  country,  it  is  impos- 
sible that  pre-Ptolemaic  Egypt  can  be 
represented  at  all  in  the  blood  of  any  of 
the  inhabitants  of  modern  Egypt.  But 
such  persons  do  not  allow  enough  for  the 
early  geographical  separation  of  the  Greek 
and  the  Roman  settlers,  for  the  want  of 
facilities  for,  and  of  disposition  to,  loco- 
motion throughout  the  villages  of  upper 
Egypt,  for  the  confining  and  secluding 
effect  of  religious  animosities  and  perse- 
cutions, and  for  the  separating  influences 
of  a  peculiar  language  and  of  race  sym- 
pathies. 

The  Coptic  language  is,  undoubtedly, 


7o8 

the  language  of  pre-Christian  or  ancient 
Egypt.  Its  Greek  characters  were  adopt- 
ed on  the  introduction  of  Christianity, 
because  of  the  inefiPaceable  association  of 
the  hieroglyphic,  and  even  of  the  hieratic, 
character  with  paganism.  But  the  use  of 
the  language  among  the  Copts,  and  espe- 
cially for  religious  purposes,  has  been 
retained  almost  up  to  the  present  century. 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  it  has  been 
spoken  in  some  of  the  remote  villages  of 
upper  Egypt  within  living  memory,  and 
':he  hieratic  alphabet,  for  purposes  of 
numeration,  has  hardly  yet  died  out  among 
the  older  Copts  in  Cairo  itself.  In  the 
churches  a  few  verses  of  the  Coptic  ver- 
sion of  the  Scriptures  are  read  at  every 
service,  but  the  Arabic  translation  is  add- 
ed, and  the  whole  chapter  is  read  through 
in  Arabic.  There  is  always  a  department 
in  the  chief  schools  for  teaching  Coptic, 
but  only  the  more  enterprising  candidates 
for  the  ministry  study  it  any  further  than 
is  necessary  for  performing  the  services 
in  church. 

It  is  usually  loosely  said  that  the  Copts 
are  a  heterodox  body  of  Christians,  who 
abandoned  the  orthodox  faith  by  rejecting 
the  decrees  of  the  Council  of  Chalcedon 
in  A.D.  451.  But,  if  any  one  will  study 
the  whole  historical  circumstances  of  that 
time,  he  will  find  that  this  is  a  most  un- 
fair and  misleading  account  of  the  trans- 
actions alluded  to.  The  result  of  the 
misrepresentation  has  been  most  perni- 
cious, as  it  has  chilled  the  sympathy  of 
many  in  England  who  might  otherwise 
have  held  out  the  right  hand  of  fellowship 
to  brother  Christians,  and  has  made  some 
people  talk  nonsense,  as  cruel  as  it  is 
ridiculous,  about  first  obliging  the  Coptic 
Church  to  be  "reconciled"  to  the  patri- 
arch of  Alexandria  before  moving  a  step 
in  the  direction  of  recognizing  and  help- 
ing it  as  a  Christian  body. 

The  real  truth  of  the  case  will  be  found, 
on  impartial  examination,  to  be  that  for 
years  before  the  date  of  the  Council  of 
Chalcedon,  the  Egyptian  Church,  as  rep- 
resented by  its  patriarch  at  Alexandria, 
was  engaged  in  a  conflict  —  conducted  on 
both  sides  with  all  the  vehemence  and 
brutality  peculiar  to  ecclesiastical  contro- 


THE   COPTS. 


versy  at  the  time  —  with  the  Church  of 
Constantinople,   on   the   subject   of   the 
mode  of  combination  of  the  Godhead  and 
the  manhood  in  Christ.    At  every  stage 
of  the  controversy,  and  with  various  com- 
promises as  to  terms  and  expressions,  the 
Egyptian  Church  had  attached  supreme 
importance  to  the  proposition  that** our 
Lord  Jesus   Christ*'  was  <*not  two,  but 
one  Christ :  one ;  not  by  conversion  of 
the  Godhead  into  flesh,  but  by  taking  of 
the  manhood  into  God."    The  two  oppos- 
ing varieties  of  opinion  of  the  day  were 
those  of  the  Eutychians,  who  insisted  on 
there  being  only  one  nature  —  the  divine 
—  in  Christ,  and  of  the  Nestorians,  who 
divided  Christ  into  two  persons,  or  rather 
two  natures,  the  divine  and  the  human, 
which  were  only  temporarily,  and,  as  it 
were  "occasionally,"  associated  together. 
The  assembling  of  the  Council  of  Chal- 
cedon was  an  attempt  to  obtain  an  author- 
itative condemnation  of  the  rival  errors; 
but,  in  fact,  its  proceedings  were  irreme- 
diably tinged  with   personal   bitterness, 
most  of  all  against  Eutyches,  who  exag- 
gerated that  aspect  of  the  truth  to  which 
the    Egyptian    Church    constitutionally 
leaned.    Consequently  the  sternest  resis- 
tance, not  to  the  doctrine  or  acts  of,  but  to 
the  assumption  of  authority  by,  the  Coun- 
cil, was  encountered  in  Egypt  generally. 
The  patriarch  of  Alexandria,  Dioscurus, 
had  been  banished  by  the  Council,  and 
not  long  afterwards  the  excited  populace  of 
Alexandria  murdered  Proterius,  the  suc- 
cessor of  Dioscurus.     In  482  the  emperor 
Zeno  propounded  what  is  known  as  the 
Henoticon^  as  a  formula  to  be  accepted  by 
the    contending    parties.     This  formula 
repeated  and  confirmed  all  that  had  been 
decreed  in  the  Councils  of  Nice,  Constan- 
tinople, Ephesus,  and  Chalcedon,  against 
the  Arians,  Nestorians,  and  Eutychians. 
It  fully  recognized  the  doctrines  of  the 
Council  of  Chalcedon  without  formally 
alluding  to  that  body^  and  anathematized 
**  every  person  who  has  thought  or  thinks 
otherwise  either  now  or  at  any  other  time, 
whether  at  Chalcedon  or    at  any  other 
synod  whatever,  but  more  especially  the 
aforesaid  persons,  Nestorius  and  Ftlgi^ 
ches,  and  such  as  embrace  their  senti. 
ments."    This    formula   of   accord    vras 


THE   COPTS, 


709 


extensively  embraced  in  Egypt  after,  be- 
ing subscribed  by  the  leaders  of  the  Mo- 
nophysite  (holders  of  one  paramount  na- 
ture in  Christ)  party,  Peter  Moggus, 
Bishop  of  Alexandria,  and  Peter  Fullo, 
Bishop  of  Antioch.  It  was  also  approved 
by  Acacius,  Bishop  of  Constantinople, 
and  by  all  the  moderate  of  both  parties. 
The  violent  on  both  sides  resisted  it,  and 
complained  that  this  Henoticon  did  injus- 
tice to  the  Council  of  Chalcedon. 

Now,  considering  that  the  Coptic 
Church  recites  the  Nicene  Creed  in  its 
services;  that  the  general  acceptance  of 
this  Henoticon  may  well  be  taken  as  an 
acceptance  of  the  doctrine,  in  spite  of  the 
repudiation  of  the  authority,  of  the  Coun- 
cil of  Chalcedon ;  that  a  Church  with  so 
distinct  a  theological  history  and  such 
marked  national  peculiarities  as  the 
Egyptian  might  well  be  entitled  to  fine 
shades  of  theological  preference  in  the 
enunciation  of  doctrine  which  only  the 
most  tyrannical  standards  would  restrict, 
—  we  may  be  disposed  gladly  to  accept 
Mosheim*s  conclusion  that  it  *'  is  no  rash 
opinion  of  some  very  learned  men  that 
the  Monophysites  differ  from  the  Greeks 
and  Latins  more  in  words  than  in  sub- 
stance,'* 

It  is  true  that  from  time  to  time,  as  one 
intolerant  faction  or  the  other  possessed 
themselves  of  imperial  influence  at  Con- 
stantinople, patriarchs  who  supported  the 
Council  of  Chalcedon  occupied  the  chair 
of  St.  Mark,  and  stigmatized  their  oppo- 
nents as  heterodox.  But  it  is  none  the 
less  true  that  the  genuine  Egyptian 
Church  which  had  repudiated  the  Council 
of  Chalcedon  maintained  its  integrity  and 
unity  throughout  the  country  in  the  face 
of  the  Greco-Roman  colony  at  Alexan- 
dria, which,  in  spite  of  imperial  favor,  had 
far  more  the  aspect  of  a  schismatic  body 
than  the  Egyptian  Church  of  a  heretical 
body  ;  and  that  at  the  time  of  the  Moslem 
invasion  the  so-called  orthodox  Church  at 
Alexandria  had  sunk  so  deep  in  corrup- 
tion and  depravity  that  the  true  Egyptian 
Church  at  Memphis  was  prepared  to  make 
terms  with  the  infidel  invaders,  rather 
than  endure  longer  the  vicious  intoler- 
ance which  reigned  at  Alexandria. 

So  preposterous    and   historically  un- 


meaning is  the  appeal  to  the  national 
Church  of  Egypt  to  reconcile  itself  with 
the  Greek  patriarch  of  Alexandria.  If 
Christianity  is  really  to  subdue  all  nations, 
national  proclivities  must  be  allowed  for, 
and  must  be  consulted  in  the  expression 
of  the  finer  logical  consequences  following 
from  the  tenets  of  the  Apostles*,  and  per- 
haps of  the  Nicene,  Creed.  There  are 
yet  to  be  founded  true  national  Churches 
in  such  ancient  countries  as  India,  China, 
and  Japan.  If  an  identity  of  opinion  and 
expression  is  to  be  sought  for  more  exact 
than  those  of  the  creeds  of  the  first  three 
Christian  centuries,  the  value  of  the  God- 
made  distinction  of  nation  and  nation 
would  be  annihilated. 

It  appears,  then,  that  the  Egyptian 
Church  is  not  at  heart  infected  with  any 
radical  misapprehension  of  Christian  doc- 
trine, albeit  its  province  has  been  to  pro- 
test rather  in  favor  of  the  truth  of  the 
Godhead  of  Christ,  and  against  the  di- 
vision of  his  substance,  than  against  the 
opposite  tendency  to  confound  his  person- 
ality. In  the  direction  of  its  province 
and  its  national  calling  would  no  doubt  be 
found  its  perplexities  and  its  characteris- 
tic errors.  In  cross-questioning  an  intel- 
ligent and  educated  Copt,  I  have  found 
that  in  the  prevalent  teaching  the  line  is 
not  drawn  so  sharply  as  in  the  English 
Church  between  the  perfect  manhood  and 
the  perfect  Godhead  co-existing  in  one 
Christ.  The  disposition  is  undoubtedly 
to  exalt  in  theological  statement  the  God- 
head to  the  disparagement  of  the  perfect 
manhood.  But  I  have  not  noticed  that 
effect  of  the  tendency  either  in  the  ritual 
or  in  the  popular  apprehension  of  the 
whole  scheme  of  Christianity.  I  have 
searched  for  a  peculiarity  of  view  which 
might  seem  traceable  to  Monophysite 
belief,  but  I  have  never  found  any.  I  am 
convinced  that  the  richness  of  Christian 
doctrme  with  which  the  Church  was  im- 
bued at  the  first,  the  ritual  and  ceremonial 
which  in  early  ages  crystallized  the  modes 
of  belief,  and  the  incessant  persecution 
which  the  Egyptian  Church  has  suffered, 
have  combined  to  keep  its  faith  on  essen- 
tial points  singularly  free  from  the  admix- 
ture of  error. 


7io 


THE   COPTS. 


There  is  no  doubt  present  at  this  day  fn 
the  Coptic  Church  a  belief  in  such  a 
change  of  the  elements  in  the  Eucharist 
as  amounts  to  consubstantiation,  if  not  to 
more.  I  have  stood  by  at  the  celebration 
of  the  Eucharist  and  been  addressed  by 
more  than  one  inquirer  as  to  my  own  views 
on  the  matter;  and  on  my  explaining,  as 
best  I  could,  what  I  took  to  be  the  posi- 
tion of  the  Church  of  England,  the  ex- 
press words,  "This  is  my  body,"  were 
referred  to  in  reply:  and  it  was  remarked 
by  one  teacher,  that  if  the  miraculous 
change  of  the  elements  was  disbelieved  in, 
there  was  no  firm  foothold  for  any  other 
supernatural  feature  of  their  religion.  Not- 
withstanding, however,  these  views,  which 
in  England  have  repulsive  associations  to 
many,  I  believe  much  of  the  actual  senti- 
ment and  teaching  which  attend  the 
celebration  of  the  Eucharist  to  be  what 
in  England  would  be  known  as  "scrip- 
tural *'  and  *'  evangelical."  I  have  heard 
an  earnest  sermon  on  the  subject  mainly 
devoted  to  inviting  to  repentance  and  to 
a  new  life,  and  among  portions  of  the 
Eucharistic  ritual  the  petition  of  the  cele- 
brating priest,  that  the  congregation  will 
forgive  him  his  offences  against  them, 
certainly  relieves  the  service  from  the 
incubus  of  undue  priestly  assumption.  In 
speaking  of  Coptic  perversions  and  cor- 
ruptions it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that 
the  Church  has  existed  on  the  same  soil 
for  some  eighteen  hundred  years;  that 
during  all  this  time  there  has  not  been 
a  single  opportunity  for  comprehensive 
reformation  ;  that  it  has  been  in  the  closest 
contact  not  only  with  the  Greek  and  Abys- 
sinian branches  of  the  Oriental  Church, 
but  with  the  Roman  Catholic  Church 
through  Franciscan  missionaries;  and 
that,  owing  to  its  conflict  with  Islam,  it 
has  been  bound  to  the  most  rigid  and 
jealous  conservatism  in  favor  even  of  its 
own  errors  and  corruptions.  When  all 
this  is  duly  considered  it  is  not  extraordi- 
nary that  the  Egyptian  Church  has  erred, 
as  other  great  Churches  have  erred,  but 
rather  it  is  strange  that  the  errors  are  so 
few,  so  slightly  adherent,  and  so  overlaid 
with  a  rich  volume  of  unmixed  Christian 
truth. 

One  source  of  health  and  purity  which 
impresses  a  visitor  to  Coptic  services  at 
the  present  day  is  the  familiar  and  popu- 
lar use  of  the  Bible  in  the  vulgar  tongue 
which  pervades  all  the  services  of  the 
Church.  Take,  for  instance,  the  Easter 
services,  which  I  have  carefullv  watched, 
in  company  with  a  highly  intelligent  Cop- 
tic friend,  more  than  once.    The  Wednes- 


day^ before  Easter  is  devoted  to  meditating 
on  the  sufEerhigs  of  Job,  and  the  whole 
Book  of  Job  is  read  through  in  the  course 
of  the  protracted  services.  The  practice 
is  for  a  few  lines  to  be  read  in  Coptic, 
and  then  for  a  whole  chapter  to  be  read 
clearly  and  intelligibly  in  Arabic,  —  not 
mumbled  or  hurried  through,  but  read  (of- 
ten by  a  layman),  with  an  oratorical  enun- 
ciation which  English  clergymen  might 
well  copy. 

The  Thursday  before  Easter  is  the  day 
on  which  the  symbolical  washing  of  the 
disciples'  feet  is  performed.  Every  pas- 
sage, from  the  beginning  of  the  Bible  to 
the  end,  which  touches  upon  washing  in 
its  typical  aspect  is  read  throughout,  first 
in  Coptic  shortly,  and  then  in  Arabic  at 
full  length.  The  service  ts  a  very  long 
one,  as  are  most  Coptic  services ;  but  the 
symbolism  is  natural  and  really  interest- 
ing. There  are  many  of  these  living 
symbolic  dramas  in  the  Coptic  ritual,  and 
they  seem  to  belong  to  a  very  early  Chris- 
tian era,  when  the  meaning  of  the  sym- 
bols was  fresh  in  people's  minds,  and  the 
representation  was  not  overwhelmed  and 
concealed  by  adventitious  trappings. 
Among  such  symbolic  dramas,  the  knock- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  sanctuary  and  the 
solemn  opening  of  the  door,  followed  b^- 
the  procession  round  the  Church  headed 
by  a  picture  of  our  Lord,  is  one  of  the 
most  impressive  and  affecting.  The  scene 
is  less  vivid  in  the  great  Coptic  cathedral, 
where  I  have  witnessed  it  among  a  dense 
crowd  of  visitors  of  all  religions,  at  twelve 
o'clock  on  Easter  Eve,  than  it  is  —  where 
I  have  also  witnessed  it  —  in  a  remote 
little  Coptic  church,  of  the  oldest  and  most 
strictly  "primitive"  fashion,  among  the 
poorest  and  humblest  of  congregations, 
and  yet  amid  a  blaze  of  midnight  candles 
exceeding  the  brightness  of  the  sun.  In 
a  word,  the  symbolism  is  universally  nat- 
ural, instructive,  strictly  scriptural,  and 
free  from  superstitious  features. 

A  word  may  be  here  interposed  as  to 
the  liberal  use  of  pictures  in  Coptic 
churches.  This  is  well  known  to  be  a  char- 
acteristic feature  of  the  Oriental  churches 
everywhere,  and  I  have  done  my  best  to 
ascertain  how  far  these  pictures  are  re- 
garded superstitiously  among  the  Copts. 
The  educated  Copts  are  fully  alive  to  their 
danger,  so  much  so  that  a  late  reforming 
patriarch  —  Cyril  —  removed  them  en- 
tirely from  one  church  at  least.  As  far 
as  I  can  find,  nothing  coming  under  the 
name  of  worship  is  recognized,  either  by 
the  ritual  or  by  the  ecclesiastical  author- 
ity, as  properly  owed  either  to  the  Virgin 


THE   COPTS, 


711 


Mary  or  to  samts,  though  they  are  both 
held  in  a  somewhat  higher  degree  of 
honor  than  in  the  English  Church.  Eut, 
in  fact,  the  supreme  place  occupied  by 
Christ  himself,  and  to  which  all  Coptic 
ritual  and  theological  expression  inces- 
santly recurs,  leaves  no  opening  for  the 
admission  of  rival  mediator  or  intercessor. 

One  of  the  most  important  aspects  of 
the  modern  Egyptian  Church  is  its  rela- 
tion to  Islam;  and  this  relation  will  be 
found,  on  examination,  to  contain  both 
good  and  bad  elements ;  while  the  whole 
of  this  part  of  the  subject  is,  looking  to 
the  future  of  Egypt,  of  the  highest  polit- 
ical as  well  as  religious  significance. 

The  potent  influence  of  Mohammedan- 
ism on  Egyptian  Christianity  has  been 
wrought  partly  by  direct  persecution,  part- 
ly by  the  unconscious  contagion  of  exam- 
ple or  servile  imitation,  partly  by  legiti- 
mate moral  suggestiveness,  and  partly  by 
considerations  of  practical  convenience. 

With  the  exception  of  the  non-recogni- 
tion of  polygamy  or  concubinage,  the 
whole  position  of  women  in  relation  to  men 
among  the  Copts  is  far  more  dictated  by 
Mohammedan  tradition  and  custom  than 
based  on  Christian  notions  of  the  rela- 
tions of  men  and  women,  and  of  husband 
and  wife.  Women  are  never  educated ; 
their  life  is,  from  childhood,  kept  jeal- 
ously apart  from  that  of  the  men,  even  in 
the  same  family ;  they  have  no  concern 
with  any  of  the  business  of  the  world; 
thev  are  married  while  little  more  than 
children,  without  being  consulted;  and 
they  are  never  allowed  to  be  seen  in  a 
place  of  worship  except  through  a  remote 
grating.  A  Coptic  friend  of  mine  told  me 
that  his  sister,  living  at  Cairo,  already  of 
an  age  to  receive  an  offer  of  marriage, 
would  have  no  notion  of  what  the  Pyra- 
mids were,  or  that  they  were  or  had  been 
aught  but  rubbish  heaps  of  stones,  and 
that,  so  far  as  he  knew,  she  had  never 
seen  them  even  from  a  distance.  Within 
two  years  of  this  conversation  the  same 
girl  has  been  married  to  a  rich  bey  in 
high  ofEce,  and  for  the  first  year  of  her 
marriage  is  prevented  from  so  much  as 
going  out  into  the  street. 

The  wedding  and  the  funeral  cere- 
monies of  the  Copts  have  much  in  com- 
mon with  those  of  the  Moslems,  and  this 
common  element  is  perhaps  rather  Ori- 
ental than  of  characteristic  religious  sig- 
nificance. The  Koran  is  much  valued  by 
the  Copls,  and  many  Copts  can  recite  it 
throughout  by  heart.  Indeed,  the  com- 
mon   salutations,    ejaculations,   impreca- 


tions, and  the  like,  which  are  largely 
culled  from  the  Koran,  are  used  alike  by 
Copts  and  Mohammedans;  and  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  in  the  intercourse 
of  the  market-place  and  the  social  table, 
or  rather  divan,  the  manners  of  the  **  Ara- 
bian Nights**  are  equally  reproduced  by 
Christians  and  infideKs,  or,  to  put  it  other- 
wise, by  infidels  and  Moslems. 

It  is  proper  to  notice,  however,  that  the 
reason  alleged  by  the  Copts  themselves 
for  this  meek  acceptance  of  Moslem  fash- 
ions is  the  persecution  to  which  they  have 
been  exposed  up  to  very  recent  days. 
They  were  (they  say)  obliged  to  keep  their 
women  secluded  in  their  houses,  in  order 
to  protect  them  against  insults,  just  as 
they  have  been  obliged  to  adopt  a  shabby 
dress,  and  even  dirty  habits  of  life  ex- 
ternally, in  order  to  propitiate  jealousy 
and  rapacity.  They  do  not  defend  these 
things.  They  hope  for  better  things  in 
the  future.  A  good  school  for  girls  is 
one  of  the  immediate  reforms  they  are 
contemplating,  and  the  closer  association 
with  Europeans  is  likely  to  stimulate 
cleanliness  and  banish  slovenliness. 

It  is  important  to  notice  that  at  this 
very  moment  an  agitation  of  an  unprece- 
dented character,  directed  against  the  ex- 
clusive financial  power  of  the  patriarch, 
has  resulted  in  the  nomination  of  an  inde- 
pendently and  freely  elected  council  to 
manage  the  funds  of  the  Church,  to  pro- 
vide for  education  of  all  sects,  to  build 
schools,  and,  in  fact,  to  perform,  in  the 
name  of  the  community,  all  those  func- 
tions which  are  not  of  a  strictly  spiritual 
kind,  and  which,  hitherto,  the  patriarch 
affected  to  perform  in  an  irresponsible 
way,  but  which  practically  he  wholly  neg- 
lected. The  authority  ot  the  khedive  — 
though  a  Mohammedan  —  was  invited  to 
bring  about  this  reform,  and  it  was  inter- 
posed —  not  unwillingly  on  the  part  of  the 
Egyptian  government  —  on  the  ground 
that  one  of  the  abuses  was  the  fraudulent 
exemption  from  the  conscription  of  in- 
numerable persons  properly  liable  on  the 
spurious  ground  of  their  holding  some 
subordinate  office  in  the  Coptic  Church. 

The  Copts,  throughout  the  country,  fill 
the  government  offices  and  all  posts  re- 
quiring accurate  account -keeping  and 
book-keeping;  and  in  towns  they  repre- 
sent the  trades  requiring  superior  skill 
and  trustworthiness,  —  such  as  those  of 
carpenters  and  goldsmiths.  In  the  towns 
they  are,  in  fact,  what  in  other  countries 
would  be  a  middle  class;  though  up  to 
the  present  time  they,  in  their  own  coun- 
try, have  suffered  from  much  the  same 


712 


THE   COPTS. 


social  disadvantages  as  the  Jews  in  coun- 
tries not  their  own.  They  have  been 
almost  invariably  regarded  by  their  Mo- 
hammedan fellow-citizens  with  the  utmost 
contumely  and  contempt.  Every  kind  of 
indirect  disability  and  ill-usage  has  been 
Imposed  upon  them  by  the  government. 
It  has  been  impossible  for  them  —  espe- 
cially in  Upper  Egypt  —  to  obtain  redress 
for  private  or  public  injuries.  When  they 
have  not  been  directly  persecuted,  as  they 
have  been  times  without  number,  they 
have  been  "afflicted  and  tormented,"  and 
the  words  "  massacre  of  Christians  "  have 
had  a  reality  of  meaning  for  them  which 
they  have  rarely  had  for  any  Christians 
but  themselves.  Before  the  British  army 
occupied  Cairo  last  year,  and  when  the 
rebel  hopes  were  still  being  kept  up,  the 
Copts  were  for  hours  and  days  together 
almost  incessantly  at  their  prayers,  public 
and  private.  It  is  well  established  that  a 
massacre  of  the  Christians  had  been  defi- 
nitely planned  and  announced  to  them. 
When  the  British  army  entered,  Copt  met 
Copt  with  the  Easter  salutation,  **  Christ 
is  risen  !  "  and  for  months  after  they  never 
passed  a  British  soldier  in  the  street  with- 
'  out  invoking  a  solemn  blessing  on  his 
head.  This  vindication  of  the  Egyptian 
Christian  from  Moslem  fanaticism  was, 
indeed,  a  rich  first-fruits  of  the  policy  of 
claiming  *' Egypt  for  the  Egyptians." 

It  appears  clearly,  then,  that  the  Copts, 
though  numerically  of  small  relative  ac- 
count, are  in  every  other  respect  of  the 
highest  importance,  from  a  political  point 
of  view.  They  are  the  most  educated, 
and,  it  must  be  added,  in  deference  to 
their  true  Christian  training  and  customs, 
the  most  civilized  portion  of  the  popula- 
tion ;  at  the  same  time  by  language  and 
physical  propinquity,  as  well  as  by  com- 
munity of  purely  Oriental  sympathies,  they 
are  far  closer  to  the  Moslem  inhabitants 
of  Egypt  than  any  'European  race  ever 
will  be.  Hitherto  persecution  and  con- 
tumely have  done  much  to  weld  Ihe  Copts 
together,  and  keep  their  religion  uncon- 
taminated  by  the  admixture  of  foreign 
ingredients,  or  by  concessions  to  foreign 
assumptions.  Neither  Alexandrian  pa- 
triarch nor  Bagdad  khalif  succeeded  in 
doing  more  than  cleansing  the  ranks  of 
Egyptian  Christianity,  and  reducing  its 
scattered,  though  necessarily  guerilla, 
forces  to  a  stern  and  compact  garrison,  — 
forced  times  without  number  to  fight  to 
the  death  for  their  existence  and  their 
faith.  But  already  liberal  influences  even 
in  the  Oriental  world  are  telling,  not  alto- 


gether favorably,  on  the  position  of  the 
Copts.  The  broad  line  between  Copt 
and  Moslem  is  being  slowly  effaced,  not 
by  Christian  sentiments  ana  usages  sub- 
duing those  which  are  Moslem,  but  by 
Moslem  sentiments  and  usages  encroach- 
ing on  those  which  are  Christian.  There 
is  no  longer  the  same  repugnance  that 
there  was  among  the  Copts  to  attend 
Moslem  religious  shows.  The  European 
dress  largely  in  use  among  the  official 
Copts  is  calculated  to  efface  all  distinct- 
ness in  religion ;  while  the  urgent  demand 
among  the  more  ambitious  of  the  young 
Copts  themselves  for  purely  secular 
schools,  is  likely,  if  gratified,  to  foster 
religious  indifference,  and  thereby  to  as- 
similate them  to  the  majority  around  — 
that  is,  to  Moslems. 

It  is  a  serious  but  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  the  British  intervention,  and  o£ 
the  attempt  which  is  being  made  to  secure 
impartial  justice  and  fair  political  repre- 
sentation throughout  the  country,  that  the 
assimilation  of  Copt  and  Moslem  must 
needs  proceed  at  a  more  rapid  pace  than 
before.  Political  and  social  separation 
have  hitherto  helped  much  to  keep  up 
religious  separation,  and  so  far  as  the  one 
kind  of  separating  forces  has  at  any  time 
or  anywhere  been  weakened,  the  other 
kind  has  relaxed  proportionately.  Of 
course  the  promotion  of  real  unity  of  all 
sorts  is  always  a  political  object  of  the 
first  importance,  and  so  far  as  a  strong 
and  just  government  tends  by  its  action 
—  direct  and  indirect  —  to  obliterate  re- 
ligious antipathies  and  race  animosities, 
it  confers  benefits  of  supreme  value.  But 
where,  as  in  the  present  case,  the  direct 
and  immediate  effect  of  liberalizing  insti- 
tutions is  to  sweep  away  barriers  which 
have  protected  a  weak  minority  profess- 
ing a  particular  faith  against  the  over- 
whelming pressure  of  a  majority  profess- 
ing a  faith  of  a  different  and  opposite 
kind,  it  is  the  bounden  duty  of  all  persons 
who  regard  the  faith  of  the  minority  as 
true,  and  that  of  the  majority  as  relatively 
false,  to  step  in  and  do  what  in  them  lies 
in  their  private  capacity  to  supply  to  their 
fellow-religionists  the  helps  and  correc- 
tives necessary  to  save  their  faith  from 
slow  extermination. 

The  Coptic  Christians,  standing  as  they 
do  between  Europeans  and  Mohamme- 
dans—  allied  to  the  one  by  their  faith, 
and  to  the  other  by  their  Oriental  extrac- 
tion and  language  —  ought  to  be  the  most 
direct  medium  by  which  an  honest  West- 
ern government  in  command  of  Egypt 
can  impress  ideas  and  aspirations  on  the 


THE   COPTS. 


713 


inhabitants  of  the  country.  But  then  the 
Coptic  Christians  must  not  cease  to  be 
Christians.  Their  Christianity  must  not 
be  diluted  away  so  as  to  be  indistinguish- 
able from  the  Mohammedanism  around 
them.  On  the  contrary,  it  must  be 
strengthened  and  purified,  so  as  to  re- 
spond to  the  new  claims  made  upon  it, 
and  it  is  the  clear  duty  of  England  and  of 
English  men  and  English  women,  above 
all  other  nations  and  people,  to  bring  this 
about. 

It  might  be  thought  that  if  the  Coptic 
Church  is  at  heart  healthy  and  sound,  as 
it  is  here  alleged  to  be,  it  could  only  profit 
and  gain  strength  from  the  more  natural 
conditions  which  are  now  promised  for  it ; 
and  that  freedom  from  persecution,  direct 
or  indirect,  must  mean  enlarged  opportu- 
nities for  growth  and  expansion. 

But  it  must  be  remembered  that  thc«ugh 
the  Coptic  Church  has  not  been  de- 
stroyed by  ages  of  persecution,  it  has 
been  wofully  cast  down  by  it.  At  present 
it  is  in  a  most  critical  condition.  The 
Church,  as  a  whole,  has  undoubtedly,  in 
the  course  of  centuries,  given  birth  to 
corruptions  and  to  theological  perversions 
which,  if  not  amounting  to  heresies,  nev- 
ertheless cloud  the  purity  of  the  faith, 
and  form  so  many  obstacles  to  its  free 
course  as  an  organ  of  spiritual  advance- 
ment. There  have  been  individual  saints 
and  reforming  patriarchs,  but  there  has 
been  no  root  and  branch  reformation  from 
within  or  from  without.  The  wonder  is, 
not  that  the  Church  has  declined,  but  that 
It  has  stood  so  firm,  lost  so  little,  and  re- 
tained a  treasury  of  doctrine  so  true. 
Even  its  corruptions  and  misconceptions 
have  been  ratified  and  crystallized  by  no 
patriarch,  pope,  or  council,  and  the  Church 
could  renounce  them  all  without  being 
unfaithful  to  any  dogmatic  **  standards." 

In  spite  of  all  these  hopeful  signs,  how- 
ever, the  miserable  and  afHicting  past  has 
left  its  impress,  and  the  Church  is  spirit- 
ually poor  and  weak.  It  almost  crouches 
before  enemies  on  all  sides,  and  the  ut- 
most it  asks  is  to  live  in  quiet.  The  older 
members,  indeed,  still  retain  pious  habits 
and  customs,  having,  no  doubt,  a  long 
traditional  history,  but  many  of  the  young- 
er men  are  acquiring  a  perilous  resem- 
blance to  some  of  the  youn^  Bengalees, 
who  claim  the  benefits  of  universal  toler- 
ation as  an  apology  for  indifference  to 
their  own  religion  as  well  as  to  that  of 
others.  The  young  Coptic  employes  in 
public  offices  are,  for  some  reason  or  oth- 
er, not  generally  popular  with  their  Euro- 
pean chiefs.    There  has  been  no  opening 


to  them  for  legitimate  and  honorable  am- 
bition, no  place  for  national  aspirations. 
They  are  exposed  to  the  temptations  of 
those  who  are  detached  from  the  sense  of 
national,  social,  and  family  obligations, 
and  are  too  much  set  upon  their  own  indi- 
vidual advancement.  If  the  common 
accusation  is  anything  more  than  that 
impatience  of  native  talent  which  has  not 
been  unknown  in  India,  there  are,  at  any 
rate,  splendid  exceptions  to  be  found 
among  the  rising  young  men.  But  the 
fact  that  a  worldly  spirit  is  largely  affect- 
ing young  Christian  Egypt  certainly 
furnishes  a  claim  on  England  that  the 
necessary  impartiality  and  religious  indif- 
ference of  the  British  government  be 
supplemented  by  private  zeal  on  behalf 
of  a  Christian  Church  which,  if  not  saved 
now,  might  one  day  become  extinct. 

The  one  crying  need  of  the  Coptic 
Church  at  the  present  moment  is  Chris- 
tian education,  especially  of  the  clergy. 
There  is  no  fear  of  the  best  secular  edu- 
cation not  being  provided  sooner  or  later. 
In  fact,  the  number  of  Copts  who  speak 
and  read  English  and  French  almost  as 
well  as  their  mother  tongue  is  a  proof  of 
the  extent  to  which  it  nas  already  pro- 
gressed. But  if  a  thorough  Christian  and 
popular  education  is  not  provided,  the 
best  secular  education  will  not  free  the 
bulk  of  the  people  from  the  superstitions, 
the  half-Mohammedan  beliefs,  the  corrup- 
tions, and  the  foolish  credulity  as  to  myths 
which  so  ancient  a  Church  has  naturally 
drawn  along  with  it  in  its  troublous  cur- 
rent. 

But  if  Christian  education  is  needed 
for  all,  it  is  above  all  needed  for  the  clergy, 
and  of  this  want  the  Copts  are  deeply 
sensible  themselves.  I  have  found  among 
young  men  highly  educated  in  most  re- 
spects, and  of  the  class  from  which  the 
clergy  are  recruited,  the  most  startling 
ignorance  of  ecclesiastical  history  and  o£ 
the  condition  of  other  Churches.  I  have 
been  amazed  by  confusions  between  the 
Anglican  and  Roman  Churches,  between 
the  American  Presbyterians  and  the  Prot- 
estant Churches  of  Europe,  and  with  re- 
spect to  all  the  chief  points  in  controversy 
between  the  reformed  and  the  unreformed 
Churches,  and  between  the  Churches  of 
the  West  and  of  the  East.  The  same 
students  will  show  a  rare  knowledge  of  the 
contents  of  the  Bible,  and  an  intelligent, 
though  not  an  erudite,  apprehension  of 
their  meaning  and  religious  significance. 
The  sermons  preached  in  the  churches 
exhibit  the  same  high  standard  of  Biblical 


714 


THE   COPTS. 


information.  They  are  also  well  trained 
in  the  tenets  of  their  own  faith,  and  pre- 
pared to  defend  them  by  reference  to 
Scripture.  Nothing  is  heard  of  ex  cathg- 
drd  interpretations  of  Scripture,  or  of  the 
tyranny  of  synodical  bodies.  The  manner 
of  alluding  to  Scripture  is  always  rever- 
ent, without  savoring  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree of  a  superstitious  handling  of  it  as 
if  it  were  a  charm. 

Some  well-meaning  persons  have  recom- 
mended the  sending  of  Coptic  students 
for  the  ministr)^  to  England.  There  are 
many  strong  objections  to  this.  The  char- 
acteristic temptations  to  a  clever  young 
Copt  at  home  are  to  vanity,  self-conceit, 
and  worldly  self-aggrandizement.  These 
temptations  would  not  be  less  felt  in  En- 
gland, while  the  correctives  to  them  sup- 
plied by  the  natural  incidents  of  his  own 
home  and  country  would  be  wholly  want- 
ing. Starting  from  the  point  of  education 
of  even  the  most  intelligent  young  Copt, 
he  would  be  in  no  position  to  understand 
the  claims  of  the  different  parties  within 
and  without  the  Church  of  England,  and 
he  must  needs  succumb  wholly  to  the 
personal  influences  nearest  to  him.  A 
further  objection  will  be  felt  by  some,  as 
it  is  by  me,  that  the  Reformecf  Anglican 
Church  is  not  the  best  or  natural  teacher 
of  a  Coptic  Christian,  bound,  by  the  ritual 
and  antecedents  of  his  own  Church,  to 
the  Monophysite  aspects  of  Christian  doc- 
trine. 

The  American  mission  school  at  Cairo, 
under  its  eminent  and  learned  minister. 
Dr.  Lancing,  has  done  a  very  considerable 
work  among  the  Copts.  It  is  a  fashion, 
much  to  be  deprecated,  among  some  En- 
glish Churchmen  visiting  Egypt  as  tour- 
ists, to  speak  lightly  of  the  great  work  of 
this  institution,  because  its  basis  is  Pres- 
byterian and  not  Episcopal.  To  my  mind 
this  is  a  strong  recommendation;  just  be- 
cause there  is  no  possibility  of  collision 
or  competition  between  the  elementary 
framework  of  a  Presbyterian  mission  ser- 
vice and  the  gorgeous  and  elaborate  ritual 
of  a  Coptic  Church.  There  will  and 
there  ought  to  be  conscientious  dissenters 
from  the  Coptic  Church,  —  those  to  whom 
an  elaborate  ritual  is  uncongenial,  and  for 
them  there  is  thus  at  hand  another  Chris- 
tian society  presenting  them  with  doc- 
trines identical  with  all  that  is  best  and 
purest  in  their  own  Church,  and  with  op- 
portunities for  public  worship  (including 
sermons  in  their  own  tongue),  and  as 
scriptural  as  they  themselves  in  their  best 
moments  could  demand.  If  the  young 
candidates  for  the  ministry  acquired  in- 


creasingly the  habit  of  frequenting  the 
theological  classes  in  this  school,  part  of 
the  problem  would  be  solved. 

But  it  is  not  merely  desirable  that  the 
Coptic  ministry  should  cease  to  be  igno- 
rant. 1*hey  ought  to  be  exceptionally 
learned.  The  historical  antecedents  of 
their  Church  have  specially  called  them 
to  the  task  of  vindicating  in  the  face  of 
the  Mohammedan  world  the  divine  glory 
of  the  Son.  Their  conflicts  with  the  Greek 
Church  at  Alexandria  should  have  trained 
them  to  contend  in  the  forefront  of  the 
hottest  battle  with  the  prophet  and  apos- 
tle of  Unitarianism.  All  the  best  learning 
and  energy  that  England  can  contribute 
would  be  well  spent  in  fortifying  this 
Christian  bulwark  in  the  presence  of  the 
latest  and  sternest  foe  with  whom  the 
Christian  Church  will  ever  have  to  grap- 
ple. The  Church  of  England  has  no 
claim  to  assume  the  pretensions  of  send- 
ing a  so-called  "  mission.*'  Nor  could  any 
but  nominal  good  be  done  by  any  formal 
"union"  with  a  Church  in  every  way  so 
differently  circumstanced  from  itself.  But 
England  can  give  of  the  fulness  of  its  owa 
theological  and  linguistic  science,  its  crit- 
ical sagacity,  its  historical  lore.  And  it 
is  bound  to  give  this  abundantly.  The 
Copts  are  crying  out,  "  Come  over  and 
help  us."  They  are  ready  to  co  operate 
with  anv  scheme  by  which  the  best  fruits 
of  English  learning  can  be  appropriated 
by  themselves.  Among  the  ministry  there 
are  some  really  learned  men,  though  the 
opportunities  of  obtaining  a  broad  culture 
have  hitherto  been  lacking  to  them;  and 
there  are  no  universities  or  learned  socie- 
ties to  create  the  sort  of  atmosphere  of 
intellectual  and  critical  appreciation,  the 
want  of  which  is  one  of  those  most  keenly 
felt  by  the  English  student  who  has  the 
misfortune  to  be  expatriated  to  an  Aus- 
tralian colony. 

In  effecting  the  political  regeneration 
of  Egypt,  the  Copts  are  the  natural  mid- 
dle class,  of  which  the  statesman  and  leg- 
islator are  always  so  eagerly  in  search. 
The  electoral  arrangements  which  have 
been  made  have,  by  the  use  of  the  cumu- 
lative vote,  secured  that  wherever  any 
minority,  like  the  Copts,  is  strong  and 
compact  in  any  district,  it  can  make  its 
political  influence  tell  on  the  elections. 
In  many  ways  the  interests  of  the  Copts, 
as  a  class,  cannot  be  identical  with  the 
agricultural  fellahin,  or  the  unskilled  arti- 
sans in  the  towns,  or  the  hewers  of  wood 
and  drawers  of  water,  or  the  superior 
officials.    The  personal  law  which  governs 


si 


THE   COPTS. 


71S 


their  marriages,  their  successions,  and 
their  wills,  is  not  the  law  of  the  Koran  and 
its  commentators,  and  it  is  administered, 
at  least  in  the  first  resort,  by  domestic 
tribunals  of  their  own.  Some  of  the 
priests  have  a«great  reputation  for  knowl- 
edge of  the  law  peculiar  to  the  Copts,  and 
as  the  authorities  are  largely  in  manu- 
script the  study  is  no  light  one.  Thus,  in 
a  country  like  Egypt,  where  hitherto  the 
bulk  of  the  law  has  been  religious  in  its 
origin  and  application,  political  distinc- 
tions and  interests  follow  much  the  same 
lines  as  religious  beliefs.  This  Is  likely 
to  be  less  so  in  the  future,  when  the  new 
codes,  covering  so  large  a  field,  are  ap- 
plied to  the  people  generallv.  Though 
marriage  and  testamentary  and  succession 
law  will  still  be  administered  by  the  reli- 
gious judge,  questions  arising  out  of  these 
branches  of  law  will  inevitably  be  involved 
in  causes  pending  before  the  secular 
courts,  and  the  rules  applicable  to  them 
will  have  to  be  applied  as  foreign  law  is  in 
England. 

It  m.iv  thus  be  expected  that  while  the 
effect  of  religious  differences  in  the  mat- 
ter of  law  as  betwen  Copts  and  Moham- 
medans will,  on  the  whole,  be  weakened 
by  the  institution  of  purely  secular  courts 
dealing  with  the  commercial,  criminal,  and 
land  law,  yet  the  protection  which  these 
courts  will  accord  to  the  different  bodies 
of  law  which  they  do  not  themselves 
directly  administer  will  tend  to  perpetuate 
those  bodies  of  law,  and  to  fix  more  deeply 
the  distinction  between  them.  There  will 
be  less  room  for  spontaneous  processes  of 
amalgamation  or  for  the  fusion  of  cus- 
toms. Sir  H.  Maine  pointed  out,  some 
years  ago,  that  this  was  one  of  the  least 
favorable  aspects  of  the  action  of  England 
in  India.  Customs  on  the  verge  of  disap- 
pearing by  a  natural  process  were  en- 
dowed with  a  new  and  artificial  vitality. 
For  the  time  the  same  effect  will  result 
from  the  new  legislation  in  Egypt.  Pe- 
culiar Mohammedan  and  Coptic  institu- 
tions will  be  severally  ascertained  and 
fortified  afresh,  and  arrested  in  their 
natural  decline.  A  time  may  hereafter 
come  when  fresh  codes  may  be  made, 
covering  the  whole  field  of  Mohammedan 
and  Christian  law,  while  leaving  space  for 
the  recognition  of  customs  (particularly 
those  of  marriage)  peculiar  to  special 
religious  bodies.  These  codes  might  be 
administered  by  the  secular  courts,  and 
the  result  would  be  favorable  to  the  high- 
est form  of  national  unity. 

In  a  country  in  which  the  supreme  di- 
rection of  the  State  is  in  the  bands  of 


Mohammedans,  it  is  impossible  to  secure, 
in  advance,  that  the  Copts  have  their  pro- 
portionate share  in  the  higher  employ- 
ments and  appointments.  This  evil  mav 
be  abated  where  the  new  legislative  bocl- 
ies  are  in  effective  action,  as  the  minority 
vote  may  secure  proportionate  represen- 
tation to  the  Copts,  and  there  may  be 
opportunity  for  public  remonstrance  in 
the  case  of  persistent  one-sided  appoint- 
ments. 

Of  course  it  cannot  be  expected  that 
the  British  government,  in  the  exercise  of 
its  influence  in  Egypt,  should  show  any 
favor  to  the  Copts  on  the  sole  ground  of 
their  being  Christians.  Even  were  the 
British  government  in  supreme  command 
of  the  country,  as  it  is  in  India,  the  ut- 
most that  could  be  asked  of  it  would  be  to 
guarantee  all  religious  bodies.  Christian 
and  non-Christian,  against  all  civil  and 
political  disabilities  on  the  ground  of  reli- 
gious belief.  In  India,  indeed,  it  has 
been  in>puted  to  the  British  government 
that  it  has  gone  still  further  in  the  direc- 
tion of  religious  indifference,  and  that, 
while  patronizing  the  native  religions,  it 
has  weighted  the  course  of  Christian 
missions.  Whatever  may  have  been  the 
justification  of  this  policy  in  India,  all  the 
circumstances  are  different  in  Egypt. 
The  responsible  government  in  Egypt  is 
wholly  in  the  hands  of  the  Mohamme- 
dan majority,  and  the  Christian  minority 
are  not  an  alien  missionary  body,  but  part 
and  parcel  of  the  structure  of  the  Egyp- 
tian nation,  having  still  higher  claims,  on 
the  ground  of  uninterrupted  and  imme- 
morial prescription,  than  their  Moslem 
rivals.  Thus  it  is  as  much  the  duty  and 
political  interest  of  the  Mohammedan 
government  of  Egypt  to  guarantee  abso- 
lute political  and  civil  rights  to  Coptic 
Christians,  as  it  is  the  duty  and  interest 
of  the  British  government  to  protect  its 
non-Christian  subjects.  Mere  religious 
indifference  is  not  always  religious  impar- 
tiality. A  government  may  be  indifferent 
when  it  leaves  the  strong  to  trample  upon 
the  weak.  It  is  impartial  when  it  pro- 
tects the  weak  against  the  strong,  no  less 
than  when  it  lends  the  strong  its  organized 
aid  to  prevent  irregular  trespasses  on  the 
part  of  the  weak. 

Englishmen  and  Englishwomen  at 
home  cannot  but  feel  that  the  cause  of 
true  morality,  and  therefore  of  the  politi- 
cal elevation  of  Egypt,  is  more  bound  up 
with  the  progress  of  the  Coptic  Church 
than  with  aught  else  besides.  It  is  that 
Church  which  alone  can  make  an  effectual 
and  lasting  protest  in  favor  of  true  con* 


7i6 

i'ugal  relations,  and  o£  al]  that  Is  meant 
»y  family  and  home.  It  is  that  Church 
which  alone  can  communicate  ta  the 
world  lyincr  in  darkness  around  it  the 
moral  lessons  of  truthfulness,  philanthro- 
py, and  patriotism,  which  the  followers  of 
Mohammed  have  neither  learned  nor 
taught.  If  Mohammedanism  itself  is 
ever  to  be  vitalized  and  recreated  on  a 
monogamic  basis  —  a  by  no  means  im- 
possible supposition  —  the  Egyptian 
Arabic-speaking  Church,  which  pene- 
trates all  parts  of  the  country,  will  be  for 
some  the  only  shelter  from  intellectual 
anarchy,  and  for  the  rest  an  immovable 
warning  and  protest  against  the  special 
solicitations  of  a  new  epoch.  In  fact,  the 
Coptic  Church,  if  enlightened  and  in- 
structed, is  capable  of  becoming  for  Egypt 
the  rallyingpoint  of  the  forces,  both  of 
order  and  of  progress,  of  conservatism 
and  of  reform:  **In  that  day  shall  there 
be  an  altar  to  the  Lord  in  the  midst  of  the 
land  of  Egypt,  and  a  pillar  at  the  border 
thereof  to  the  Lord.  And  it  shall  be  for 
a  sign  and  for  a  witness  unto  the  Lord  of 
Hosts  in  the  land  of  Egypt,  for  they  shall 
cry  unto  the  Lord  because  of  the  oppres- 
sor. And  he  shall  send  them  a  Saviour, 
and  a  great  one,  and  he  shall  deliver  them. 
And  the  Lord  shall  be  known  to  Egypt, 
and  the  Egyptians  shall  know  the  Lord  in 
that  day."  '  Sheldon  Amos. 


BETWEEN   TWO   STOOLS. 


From  Temple  Bar. 
BETWEEN  TWO  STOOLS. 

From  Miss  Nora  Wycherley,  Pembridge 
Square^  IV.,  to  Miss  Agnes  Crewe,  Newn- 
nam  College^  Cambridge, 

June  4th. 

My  dear  Agnes, — 

What  a  relief,  to  be  quiet  and  alone  in 
one's  room ;  to  lock  the  door ;  to  take  up 
one*s  pen  and  have  a  little  peaceful  talk 
with  one's  best  friend  I 

Since  we  parted  at  the  station  (is  it 
really  only  two  days  ago  ?),  life  has  been 
all  hurry  and  bustle;  all  dressmakers, 
bootmakers,  and  milliners ;  and  perhaps, 
under  the  circumstances,  that  is  the  best 
state-of  affairs  possible.  Like  the  young 
ladies  in  the  novels,  one  can  pretend  to 
•*  forget.V  Forget  I  Agnes,  I  believe  the 
Fates  have  cursed  me  with  the  boon  — 
terrible  in  any  case,  twice  terrible  in  the 
case  of  a  woman  —  the  boon  of  constancy  I 

Mamma  was  very  shocked  at  my  dress 
when  I  got  home,  and  insisted  on  my 
going  off   to  the  dressmaker's  directly 


after  lunch.  I  was  wearing,  as  j^ou  know, 
the  beautiful  sage  green  which  our  Hall 
so  admires.  The  absence  of  stays  aod 
crinolette  almost  wrung  tears  from  the 
various  members  of  my  family.  If  it  had 
been  worth  while,  I  should  have  pro- 
tested ;  but  is  anything  worth  while  }  So 
I  allowed  myself  to  be  borne  off  to  Ma- 
dame Stephanie's  like  a  lamb  to  the  sac- 
rifice. What  does  it  matter?  With  the 
new  dress  I  suppose  I  put  on  the  new 
life,  unwholesome,  artificial,  violating  all 
laws  of  beauty ;  the  sordid  London  streets, 
the  sordid  London  faces,  these  I  shall 
have  to  endure  all  my  life  long.  And  it  is 
only  a  few  days  ago  since  we  walked 
down  the  lime -avenue  together,  and 
watched  the  sun  set  behind  the  elm-trees 
in  the  "Backs;"  since  we  puzzled  over 
Plato  on  the  lawn,  and  read  Swinburne 
on  the  roof  in  the  evenings.  Only  a  few 
days !     Is  it  not  rather  a  hundred  years  ? 

Agnes,  I  have  never  had  any  conceal- 
ments from  you,  and  I  know  you  to  be 
fully  aware  even  of  what  I  have  not  told 
you  in  so  many  words.  With  regard  to  a 
certain  person,  you  will  tell  me —  will  you 
not  ?  —  all  you  see  and  hear  of  him.  Re- 
member, it  is  all  I  shall  have  in  the  way 
of  pleasure  till  I. die;  the  few  scraps  you 
can  collect  for  me,  the  few  scraps  I  have 
myself  collected  for  memory  to  hug. 

To-night  I  went  to  a  big  dance  in  West- 
bourne  Terrace.  I  did  not  wish  to  go, 
reflecting  that  skeletons  are  apt  to  be  out 
of  place  at  feasts,  but  I  yielded  finally  to 
mamma's  request,  and  submitted  to  the 
ordeal.  As  I  was  standing  at  the  window 
after  dinner,  before  going  up  to -dress, 
somebody  passed  in  a  hansom.  At  first 
I  did  not  recognize  him,  and  stared  vague- 
ly, till  he  bowed,  and  then  —  oh,  Agnes  ! 

—  I  saw  it  was  Mr.  Talbot !  I  think  it  was 
the  sight  of  him  made  me  so  desperate 
afterwards.  The  music,  the  lights,  the 
crowd,  and  that  terrible  pain  at  my  heart, 
all  these  combined  to  make  me  a  little 
mad.  I  am  not  quite  sure  what  I  said 
and  did ;  I  believe  it  was  nothing  to  of- 
fend Philistine  sensibilities,  but  person- 
ally I  feel  rather  debased  and  degraded. 
I  know  my  sister  "  rallied  "  me  —  as  our 
dear  Sir  Charles  Grandison  hath  it; 
"  chaffed  "  she  calls  it  —  all  the  way  home. 
Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  did  dance  a 
great  many  times  with  some  impossible 
man  —  his  name  I  believe  was  Mr.  Broke 

—  who  assumed  rather  the  manners  of  a 
grand  Turk,  and  paid  roe  some  quite 
coarse  compliments. 

Oh,  what  a  relief  to  get  back  to  solitude, 
even  when  solitude  means  the  old  terrible 


BETWEEN  TWO   STOOLS. 


717 


pain,  the  old  awful  longing !  Yet  is  it  not 
something  to  have  "  known  the  best  and 
loved  it  "r  —  to  have  seen  what  is  noblest, 
highest,  and  purest  in  the  world,  and  to 
have  felt  it  to  the  depth  of  one*s  being? 

[Here  follow  several  pa^es  which,  for 
the  reader's  sake^  we  have  thought  best  to 
omttJ] 

I  am  glad  to  say  we  leave  London  for 
Switzerland  next  week.  Please  excuse 
these  outpourings  of 

Your  very  sorrowful 

Nora. 

P9wtirie^[t  Sfuartf  October  i6th. 

Dear  Agnes, — 

Is  it  possible  that  four  months  have 
elapsed  since  I  wrote  to  vou  ?  And  if  I 
remember  rightly,  my  last  letter  was 
neither  very  sane  nor  very  dignified.  I 
must  confess  that  Switzerland  is  a  disap- 
pointment; it  is  all  so  obvious;  one  has 
seen  the  whole  thing  so  often  on  work- 
boxes,  in  albums,  and  at  the  theatre.  The 
scenery  wants  restraint,  reserve;  the 
green  trees,  the  conical  mountains,  the 
blue-green  lakes ;  they  are  crude,  talari ng, 
wanting  in  subtlety.  Give  me  Thames  in 
October,  or  Cam  in  May,  and  I  will  not 
ask  you  for  the  Alps.  But  this  is  by  the 
way.  After  thoroughly  "  doing  '*  Switzer- 
land in  true  barbarian,  British'tourist 
fashion,  we  went  to  Brighton,  and  now  at 
last  behold  us  under  our  own  rooftree. 

Yes,  my  dear  Agnes,  I  have  perforce 
permanently  taken  up  my  abode  among 
the  Philistines !  I  do  not  pretend  to  like 
it;  but  perhaps,  like  most  other  things,  it 
has  its  consolations. .  Do  you  not  admire 
the  philosophic,  not  to  say  chastened,  atti- 
tude of  your  friend?  1  sav,  perhaps  it 
has  its  consolations,  but  I  have  not  yet 
discovered  them. 

I  have  gathered  together  my  Lares  and 
Penates  in  a  little  room  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  where  I  mean  to  work  every  day. 
It  is  nothing  like  the  dear  old  den  at 
Cambridge,  out  I  have  hung  up  your 
*'  Melencolia  "  and  the  Burne-Jones  head ; 
have  ranged  my  Greek  books  and  poets  — 
my  sister  nearly  fainted  when  she  saw 
some  of  them  —  along  the  shelves;  and 
have  no  doubt  that  in  time  I  shall  grow 
very  fond  of  it.  Yes,  a  refuge,  a  place  to 
be  alone  in,  is  most  of  all  what  I  need.  I 
am  in  the  very  heart  and  centre  of  Philis- 
tia  —  I  make  no  pretence  of  concealment 
about  it.  Everybody  is  quite  respectable, 
rather  dull,  and  just  a  little  vulgar.  We 
do  not  go  in  for  noble  ideals  and  high 
notions  ;  but  on  the  other  band  we  eschew 


large  vices,  leaving  them  for  our  better- 
born  townsfolk  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Park.  No,  we  are  not  wicked;  we  are 
only  on  a  rather  low  level  of  moral  and 
intellectual  culture,  and  present,  perhaps, 
to  the  thoughtful  observer  a  more  depress- 
ing spectacle  than  a  den  of  thieves.  Ob- 
serve the  fine  satire  of  the  **  we ; ''  I  am, 
as  you  see,  developing  a  prety  turn  for 
cynicism.  Who  would  not  under  the  cir- 
cumstances ? 

Personally  I  find  myself  rather  deso- 
late. 1  am  willing  enough  to  smoke  the 
pipe  of  peace  with  the  Philistines,  but  the 
Philistines  will  have  none  of  me.  They 
distrust  me:  the  girls  think  I  want  to 
"come  it  over"  them;  and  the  young 
men  are  continually  on  the  look  out  for 
covert  snubbing.  One  is  afraid  to  call  a 
thing  by  its  right  name  for  fear  of  being 
thought  pedantic ;  it  is  not  young-ladylike 
to  have  one*s  facts  right  or  one's  sentences 
logical.  A  pretty  haziness,  a  charming 
inconse(juence — these  are  the  qualities 
the  Philistine  male  would  fain  see  in  his 
womankind. 

I  went  last  night  to  a  dinner-party  in 
Cleveland  Square,  where  I  was  subjected 
to  a  quite  unreserved  cross-examination 
on  the  subject  of  myself,  my  plans,  Newn- 
ham,  etc.  One  cannot  accuse  these  peo- 
ple of  a  shrinking  delicacy;  if  they  want 
to  know  anything,  why,  they  ask  it ! 
There  is  a  beautiful  frankness  in  the  way 
they  make  known  their  likes  and  dislikes, 
their  wants  and  objections.  A  ball-room 
is  like  a  battle-field,  where  it  is  vce  victis  / 
indeed  ;  no  quarter  is  given,  and  the  weak- 
est goes,  very  literally,  to  the  wall.  I  find 
myself  getting  quite  interested  in  the 
struggle  sometimes. 

There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  I  suppose, 
but  '*  to  put  one's  soul  in  a  place  out  of 
sight,"  and  go  on  one's  way  to  the  end. 
Perhaps  I  shall  get  educated  up  to  the 
whole  concern,  one  day.  Meanwhile  I 
have  given  up  one  hope,  that  I  shall  ever 
forget.  The  gods  —  it  was  a  cruel  whim 
—  have  given  me  a  constant  heart.  The 
thought  of  a  certain  person  is  with  me 
night  and  day  — a  strong  undercurrent 
flowing  perpetually  in  the  depths  of  ray 
being.  It  is  something  in  this  sordid 
world,  to  have  such  a  pure  and  noble  im- 
age enshrined  in  one's  heart,  even  if  it  be 
only  a  source  of  pain. 

How  I  envy  you  up  there  I  Cambridge 
looks  her  best,  I  think,  in  October,  when 
the  leaves  are  red.  Pray  write  soon  and 
tell  me  all  the  news. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Nora. 


That  Mr.  Broke  I  told  yoa  about  (and 
who  took  me  in  to  dinner  yesterday),  has 
just  sent  me  a  great  bouquet  of  hot-bouse 
flowers. 

Ptmbridgt  Square,  November  lath. 

My  Dear  Agnes, — 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  rejoiced  to  re- 
ceive your  letter,  redolent  as  it  was  of  the 
most  Deautiful  place  in  the  world  1  Let 
me  congratulate  you,  dear,  on  your  bril- 
liant suggestion  for  a  new  reading  of  that 
terrible  passage  in  the  '*  Agamemnon." 
No  wonder  Mr.  Dalrymple  is  proud  of  his 
pupil ! 

I  am  sorry,  how  sorry  you  can  perhaps 
faintly  conceive,  to  hear  of  the  continued 
ill-health  of  Mr.  Talbot.  Can  nothing  be 
done  ?  Can  I  do  nothing  ?  Oh,  it  is  cruel- 
est  of  all  to  sit  here  quietly  and  feel  that 
I  may  not  even  stretch  out  a  hand  to  help 
him.  Euripides  was  right  when  he  made 
Medea  say  that  we  women  are  the  roost 
wretched  of  living  things. 

Your  expressions  of  pity  and  sympathy 
for  and  with  myself  are  very  soothing, 
though  they  make  me  feel  that  perhaps  I 
have  a  little  overstated  my  case.  The 
people  about  me,  generally  speaking,  are 
dull  and  in  a  certain  sense  vulgar,  but  of 
course  there  are  exceptions.  Some  of 
them  are  clever  and  amusing.  That  Mr. 
Broke,  for  instance,  he  is  very  clever  — 
in  his  own  way  quite  remarkably  clever. 
And  his  society  is  agreeable  —  sympa- 
thetic even,  to  a  certain  extent.  Of  course 
I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  his  soul  pos- 
sesses the  delicate  bloom,  his  mind  the 
subtle  percept) veness,  his  feelings  the 
wonderful  fineness  of  another  person  we 
know  of.  The  nature  of  Stephen  Broke 
is  not,  indeed,  to  be  compared  to  that  of 
Reginald  Talbot;  and  I  do  not  fancy  the 
atmosphere  of  professional  and  commer- 
cial London  to  be  exactly  conducive  to 
the  preservation  of  psychic  bloom.  There 
is  a  push,  a  coarseness,  a  hurry  and  bustle 
in  this  land  of  Philistia  that  necessarily 
knock  off  the  finer  edges  of  character. 
But  why  am  I  running  on  like  this  about 
souls  and  feelings,  and  instituting  impos- 
sible comparisons?  Mr.  Broke  is  a  very 
pleasant  person  to  pass  an  hour  or  two 
with;  that  is  all  that  concerns  me ;  all  that 
can  henceforward  concern  me  about  any 
man  alive  — except  one.  And  he  is  nice- 
looking;  yes,  I  think  so,  though  he  does 
not  at  all  come  up  to  one's  idea  of  a  **  young 
god.''  But  in  a  general,  rough  sort  of 
man's  way,  his  appearance  is  distinctly 
pleasing:  I  mean,  he  is  big  and  straight, 
has  a  pleasant,  intelligent  face,  with  good 


BETWEEN   TWO  STOOLS. 


eyes,  and  wears  his  clothes  the  right  way 
—  and  they  are  the  right  sort  of  clothes. 
Perhaps  you  would  think  him  coarse. 
He  certain Iv  marks  his  preferences  very 
broadly,  and  has  a  tendency  to  give  a  per- 
sonal turn  to  the  conversation.  I  wish, 
too,  there  were  not  quite  so  much  of  the 
Turk  in  his  attitude  towards  our  sex,  both 
individually  and  collectively;  but  I  know 
the  highest  form  of  chivalry  is  only  pos- 
sible to  the  highest  nature;  and  besides, 
one  must  allow  for  a  man's  associations. 
Chivalry,  indeed,  is  very  little  understood 
in  my  part  of  the  world.  A  woman  is 
held  to  have  no  absolute  value ;  it  is  rela« 
tive,  and  depends  on  the  extent  of  the 
demand  for  her  among  members  of  the 
other  sex.  The  way  the  women  them- 
selves acquiesce  in  this  view  is  quite  hor- 
rible. I  need  not  say  that,  personally,  I 
am  in  very  little  request;  that  I  am  ca- 
viare to  the  general  is  perhaps  the  most 
delicate  way  of  stating  it.  I  am  neither 
a  beauty,  an  heiress,  nor  a  crack  dancer, 
nor  do  I  possess  the  peculiar  mixture  of 
skill  and  daring  which  go  towards  making 
a  successful  flirt.  Nobody  wants  a  girl 
for  her  soul  and  a  rather  fine  critical  per- 
ception. 

Mr.  Broke  and  I  talk  to  one  another  a 
good  deal,  and  dance  together  sometimes^ 
though  he  says  his  dancing  days  are  com- 
ing to  an  end  next  year,  when  he  will  be 
thirty-five.  Have  you  ever  tried  sitting 
on  the  stairs?  We  never  used  to  sit  on 
the  stairs  at  perpendiculars.  It  is  some- 
thing of  an  experience,  a  new  phase, 
almost,  of  existence.  There  is  a  great 
clatter  and  pushing  and  moving  all  about ; 
everybody  is  in  gala  dress  and  ^ala  spir- 
its ;  the  air  is  alive  with  music,  heavy 
with  the  scent  of  flowers,  bright  with  the 
light  of  many  candles.  You  are  alone  in 
a  crowd  —  you,  and  another  person.  Yoa 
go  and  sit  down  in  a  little  corner  among 
pink  lights  and  ferns,  or  on  some  dim-lit 
landing,  and  talk  about  everytliiog  under 
the  sun  —  the  weather,  the  last  engage- 
ment, your  soul  if  you  like  —  all  the  time 
conscious  that  it  is  not  quite  real,  that 
either  may  go  off  at  a  tangent  should  the 
conversation  grow  too  serious.  It  is  really 
a  very  interesting  experience,  even  for 
those  who,  like  myself,  regard  life  solely 
from  the  spectator's  point  of  view. 

I  am  afraid  you  must  think  roe  sadly 
degenerate;  but  it  is  no  good  to  sit  in  a 
corner  all  day  and  weep  for  what. one  has 
not  got.  Perhaps,  Agnes,  you  think  I  am 
beginning  to  forget.  But  no  ;  on  second 
thoughts,  I  believe  you  to  know  me  too 
well.    Only  write  me  better  news  of  a 


BETWEEN  TWO   STOOLS. 


719 


certaio  persoD,  and  I  shall  be  happy  — 
comparatively. 

Yours  afEectionately, 

Nora. 

Ptmbridgt  Sfuartt  January  aoth. 

Dear  Agnes, — 

I  was  very  disappointed  at  not  seeing 
you  this  vacation.  I  had  hoped  to  be 
able  to  ask  j'ou  to  stay  with  me,  but  my 
sister's  friend,  Sybil  Juniper,  occupied  the 
spare  room  through  the  whole  five  weeks. 
Sybil  is  a  most  exasperating  little  person, 
very  pretty  in  a  heterodox  manner,  with 
fluffy,  fair  hair,  pink  and  white  skin,  and 
quite  abnormally  small  waist  and  feet,  at 
which  last-mentioned  members  my  whole 
family  is  pleased  to  sit  adoringly,  I  can- 
not }oin  in  the  general  worship,  and  am 
in  consequence  considered  sinister  and  a 
little  spiteful.  But  what  rational  person 
could  bring  themselves  to  accept  this 
charming,  empty-headed,  rattling  creature 
as  "  legal  tender  for  a  human  oeing "  — 
to  quote  George  Eliot  ? 

I  may  indeed  be  wrong  in  my  judgment 
of  her,  for  one  often  strikes  suddenly 
upon  a  human  soul  after  groping  hope- 
lessly about  in  the  deposit  of  worthless 
stuff  which  time  and  the  world  have  con- 
trived to  keep  above  and  around  it.  Such 
a  soul,  for  instance,  I  have  found  in  Ste- 
phen Broke.  Under  the  crust  of  worldli- 
ness,  under  all  the  little  coarsenesses<and 
cynicisms,  there  beats  a  very  human  heart 
with  blood  of  the  right  degree  of  redness. 
I  do  not  mean  that  he  is  great  and  noble, 
I  mean  that  he  is  more  than  a  painted 
image,  ingeniously  constructed  as  to  brain, 
with  a  spring  which  onlv  the  touch  of 
self-interest  can  move.  I  mean  that  he 
is  a  real  human  being,  more  or  less  faulty 
certainly,  but  good  in  the  main;  and  the 
discovery  gives  me  a  more  than  mere 
aesthetic  pleasure.  I  am  beginning  to 
regain  something  of  my  lost  faith  in  the 
great  mass  of  humanity;  perhaps  I  was  a 
little  hasty  in  my  first  judgments ;  perhaps 
there  are  various  ways  of  excellence,  or 
perhaps  it  is  I  myself  who  am  grown 
coarser  and  less  sensitive  to  fine  moral 
differences. 

But  is  it  not  possible  that  what  seems 
like  change  and  infidelity  to  old  ideals,  is 
development  and  increased  width?  Be- 
cause we  perceive  the  beauties  of  the  val- 
ley, have  we  of  necessity  less  admiration 
for  the  snow-capped  mountain  ?  But  why 
do  I  run  off  into  such  nonsense  ?  When 
a  lady  plunges  into  metaphor,  there  is  no 
knowing  what  may  happen  to  her  and  her 
coherency.    Here  is  my  maid  come  to 


tell  me  to  dress  for  the  dance  to-night,  so 
good-bye  for  the  present.  .  .  • 

Two  A.M.  —  I  have  just  come  back  from 
the  dance,  and  though  it  is  very  late,  I 
find  it  quite  impossible  to  make  up  my 
mind  to  go  to  bed.  I  have  been  very 
much  disturbed,  verv  much  shocked,  alto- 
gether more  moved  than  I  thought  was 
possible  under  any  circumstances  save 
one.  When  I  got  into  the  room  to-night, 
almost  the  first  person  I  saw  was  Mr. 
Broke.  I  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  glad 
when  he  asked  me  to  dance,  because  he 
is  bright  and  genial  and  interesting.  He 
knows  so  much,  has  seen  so  much,  is  so 
exceedingly  vital  and  **all  round,*'  that 
one  can  excuse  a  great  raanv  things  for 
the  sake  of  the  pleasantness  ot  his  society. 
But  to-night  he  did  not  seem  at  all  inclined 
to  be  amusing.  He  was  quite  serious, 
rather  surly  in  fact,  and  led  me  ofif  to  the 
conservatory  in  a  sort  of  right-is-might 
fashion  that  was  almost  brutal.  I  began 
to  feel  frightened,  strangely  moved  and 
agitated.  In  the  conservatory  a  very 
wonderful  thing  happened.  Agnes,  in 
justice  to  him  I  cannot  tell  you  what  he 
said  to  me,  indeed  I  have  a  very  confused 
remembrance  of  the  whole  affair;  I  only 
know  this,  that  he  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife  I  Oh,  but  it  was  terrible  —  I  could 
never  have  imagined  beforehand  how  ter- 
rible !  I  was  suddenly  conscious  of  being 
acted  upon,  conscious  that  here  was  a 
force  to  which,  if  I  were  not  careful,  I 
should  yield  myself.  I  told  him  that  what 
he  asked  was  impossible.  At  first  he 
simply  did  not  believe  me;  then  he  grew 
very  white,  and  his  eyes  —  they  are  such 
beautiful  eyes! — fastened  on  my  face 
with  a  searching  gaze  that  filled  me  with 
a  strange  emotion :  terror,  but  not  wholly 
terror,  whose  very  vagueness  made  it  no 
less  powerful.  *•  Will  you  re-consider," 
he  said  at  length,  **and  give  me  your  an- 
swer  another  time?" 

And  then  I  told  him  that  I  was  very 
sorry  if  1  had  made  a  mistake ;  that  I  had 
grown  to  regard  myself  as  a  mere  looker- 
on  at  life ;  that  my  own  personal  history 
was  long  ago  at  an  end.  He  laughed  a 
little  at  this.  **  Let  me  take  you  to  the 
dancing-room,"  he  said ;  and  when  we 
reached  it  he  made  me  a  deep  bow,  with 
the  remark :  **  1  have  labored  under  a 
misconception.  I  beg  your  pardon,"  and 
disappeared  among  the  crowd  of  dancers. 

Oh,  I  was  so  miserable,  I  could  have 
cried  there  and  then,  but  there  was  noth- 
ing for  me  to  do  but  to  go  on  dancing  till 
the  carriage  came. 

Mr.  Broke  stayed  for  about  half  aa 


720 


BETWEEN  TWO  STOOLS. 


hour ;  once  my  partner  and  I  knocked  ap 
against  him  in  a  doorway,  when  he  bowed 
very  deeply  and  apologized  for  being  in 
the  way. 

Am  I  not  pursued  by  a  cruel  fate?  If 
it  had  not  been  for  a  previous  occurrence 
I  believe  I  could  have  liked  this  person. 
It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  deliberately  turn 
away  from  love  — from  the  love  of  a  good 
man ;  and  Stephen  Broke  is  good  and 
clever  and  handsome,  and  I  have  unwit- 
tingly done  Him  a  wrong — possibly  earned 
his  contempt  in  the  bargain.  Oh,  Agnes, 
my  heart  aches  as  I  thought  it  could  never 
ache  again.  All  this  is,  of  course,  strictly 
confiden.tial.  I  suppose  it  would  be  more 
discreet  to  lock  it  up  in  one*s  own  breast, 
but  I  should  die  if  I  could  not  tell  some 
one.         Your  sad  and  afiEectionate 

Nora. 

Ptmhridgt  Sfuartt  January  30th. 

My  dear  Agnes,— 

This  letter  reaches  you  from  a  very  sad 
and  unhappy  person,  from  a  person  who 
would  hesitate  before  she  swore  that 
square  was  not  round,  and  that  black  was 
not  white.  Thank  you  for  your  reply  to 
my  letter,  and  for  the  information  respect- 
ing Mr.  Talbot.  My  sorrow  for  the  dis- 
tressing incident  I  confided  to  you  seems 
to  strike  you  as  excessive.  The  fact  is, 
even  you,  dear  Agnes,  do  not  understand 
—  not,  however,  through  any  want  of  per- 
ception on  your  part  —  it  is  I  who  have 
never  done  justice  to  Mr.  Broke  in  my 
letters  to  you. 

And  now  prepare  yourself  for  a  shock. 
Prepare  to  be  surprised,  disgusted,  disap- 
pointed. Perhaps  after  the  confession  I 
am  about  to  make  I  shall  forever  have 
lost  my  place  in  your  esteem;  neverthe- 
less, I  am  irresistibly  compelled  to  make 
it.  Last  night  I  went  to  dinner  at  the 
Cunliffes'  in  Cavendish  Square.  The 
Cunliffes  are  not  quite  in  our  own  set, 
being,  to  tell  the  truth,  in  a  rather  better 
one,  but  we  occasionally  dance  and  dine 
at  one  another's  houses  on  the  strength 
of  an  old  friendship  between  mamma  and 
Mrs.  Cunliffe. 

I  was  very  glad  to  go  out.  I  had  been 
miserable,  so  strangely  miserable  all  the 
week,  not  even  daring  to  confide  myVoes 
to  those  about  me ;  mamma  and  my  sister 
would  have  been  verv  shocked  to  hear  of 
the  "good  chance"  1  had  thrown  away. 

To  return  to  the  events  of  last  night, 
for  that  it  was  an  eventful  evening  I  think 
you  will  own. 

**  You  are  late,  dear,**  said  Mrs.  Cunliffe, 
rustling  forward  as  I  came  in  in  my  wil- 


low-green dinner-dress,  which  I  know 
goes  well  with  my  hair  and  complexion, 
although  my  people  do  think  it  hideous. 
I  was  beginning  some  explanation  about 
mamma  and  the  carriage  when  suddenly  I 
felt  my  face  flush  violently,  and  my  words 
began  to  tumble  over  one  another's  heels. 
Fortunately  for  me,  Sybil  Juniper  came 
in  at  the  moment,  and  my  hostess  went 
on  to  her,  without,  I  think,  noticing  my 
confusion.     Do  you  know  what  I  saw  ? 

I  saw  two  men  talking  together  by  the 
mantelpiece,  of  whom  one  was  Stephen 
Broke,  and  the  other  Reginald  Talbot ! 

For  the  next  few  minutes  life  was  a 
dream.  In  a  dream  I  shook  hands  with 
Mr.  Talbot  and  returned  Mr.  Broke's  icy 
bow.  (What  right  —  what  right  has  he 
to  be  so  cruel,  so  intolerant,  so  unjust?) 
I  found  myself  contemplating  the  two 
sharply  contrasted  figures  as  though  they 
had  been  those  of  a  picture  or  a  drama. 
(Let  me  sav,  in  justice  to  my  own  breed- 
ing, that  I  had  taken  a  chair  at  a  respect- 
ful distance  from  the  mantelpiece,  and 
was  exchanging  dream  syllables  with 
Sybil  Juniper.) 

Reginald  Talbot  —  tall,  graceful,  unut- 
terably refined,  with  that  half-dreamy, 
half-critical  air  which  you  know  so  well  — 
confronted  me  as  an  image  from  my  past, 
nay,  from  the  depths  01  my  own  being. 
He  was  so  familiar  and  yet  so  strange. 
Stephen  Broke,  with  his  air  of  bun-itre^ 
his  wide-awake  face  (a  little  pale  and  stern 
to-night),  his  whole  presence  breathing  as 
unmistakably  of  London  and  a  full,  active 
life,  as  did  the  other's  of  academic  clois- 
ters and  refined  seclusion  —  Stephen 
Broke,  I  suppose,  cut  a  very  sorry  figure  I 
Oh,  Agnes,  Agnes,  how  shall  I  tell  you  ? 
Very  soon  the  shape  of  the  dream  shifted 
a  little,  and  I  found  myself  walking  in  to 
dinner  on  Mr.  Talbot's  arm,  mechanically 
exchanging  polite  commonplaces  witn 
him.  We  took  our  seats  at  the  long, 
flower-covered  table  opposite  Sybil  and 
Mr.  Broke,  who  were  almost  invisible  be- 
hind the  leaves  of  a  great  green  plant.  I 
tried  to  wake  up  from  the  dream.  I  told 
myself  that  this  was  the  moment  for  which 
I  had  been  longing  with  all  my  being; 
that  here  beside  roe  was  the  man  whose 
image  had  never  left  my  heart  through 
many  weary  months  of  absence ;  on  whose 
lightest  word,  on  whose  smile  or  frown, 
my  whole  existence  hung  ;  for  whose  sake 
I  had  thrust  away  something  unutterably 
great  and  precious !  Ob,  Agnes,  how  can 
I  go  on  ? 

I  listened  to  his  words,  and  found  them 
courteous  and  intelligent ;  I  looked  at  his 


< 


BETWEEN  TWO   STOOLS, 


721 


face,  and  saw  that  it  was  refiDed  and  hand- 
some ;  but  the  spell  was  broken,  he  was 
no  longer  a /^w<?«^^ but  ^person,  I  can 
tell  you  exactly  the  shape  of  his  head,  the 
color  ot  his  eyes,  and  I  may  remark  that 
his  nose  is  not  so  g:ood  as  I  had  believed. 
J  was  sitting  next  to  Reginalc)  Talbot, 
talking  to  him  with  the  greatest  ease  in 
the  world,  meeting  his  frank  glances  with 
glances  no  less  frank,  and  all  the  time  I 
was  hardly  conscious  of  it !  Was  vividly 
conscious,  indeed,  of  nothing  save  the 
presence  of  Stephen  Broke  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table;  of  the  words  that  he 
was  saying,  of  the  rapid  glances  that  he 
shot  at  me  from  time  to  time  through  the 
big  plant. 

An  awful  sense  of  humiliation,  of  terror, 
rushed  across  me.  What  had  I  done  ? 
And  then  it  flashed  through  my  mind  that 
here  again  was  the  old,  old  story  of  sub- 
stance and  shadow !  .  .  . 

1  wonder  how  I  got  through  that  din- 
ner—  I  really  do.  I  know  I  became 
suddenly  very  animated,  and  quite  sur- 
prisingly brilliant  —  a.  sort  of  amateur 
Sydney  Smith  or  Theodore  Hook,  or  any 
of  those  people  whose  friends  collect  their 
**  table-talk  "  into  big  books.  Mr.  Talbot 
seemed  quite  pleasantly  surprised ;  indeed 
it  is  rather  my  impression  that  I  made 
passionate  love  to  Mr.  Talbot ! 

He  told  me  what  I  already  knew,  that 
he  had  given  up  Cambridge  for  a  term  or 
two  on  account  of  his  health.  We  talked 
of  you,  and  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that 
Mr.  Dalrymple  confided  to  him  that  you 
were  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  come 
across  who  understood  the  meaning  of 
line  scholarship.  (Don't  blush  and  push 
up  your  spectacles  in  that  delighted  way, 
my  dear !) 

Oh,  I  wish  1  cared  about  fine  scholar- 
ship! But  I  don't;  1  can*t;  it's  no  use 
to  pretend  I  do ;  and  what  is  worse,  I  do 
not  think  I  ever  did.  Is  not  this  the  sad- 
dest thing  of  all  ?  to  wake  up  and  find 
oneself  a  sham  ? 

Agnes,  whatever  may  be  your  scorn  for 
me,  it  cannot  exceed  my  own. 

All  through  that  wretched  evening  the 
mif^rabte  farce  went  on.  Mr.  Droke  de- 
voted himself  to  Sybil  Juniper  (what  can 
such  a  man  find  to  say  to  such  a  girl,  1 
wonder?),  and  Mr.  Talbot,  establishing 
himself  at  my  side,  displayed  an  appre- 
ciation of  my  society  that  would  have 
driven  me  mad  with  delight  only  a  few 
short  months  ago.  But  what  is  Mr.  Tal- 
bot to  me?  Nothing  —  absolutely  noth- 
ing; a  polite  nonentity,  having  no  connec- 
tion with  the  shadowy  creation  of  my  own 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2282 


brain  before  which  I  was  once  pleased  to 
fall  down  and  worship.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  he  is  admirable,  all,  more  than  we 
used  to  think  him ;  but  he  is  nothing  to 
me.  Perhaps  I  have  grown  coarser,  have 
fallen  away  from  my  own  ideals  ;  perhaps 
I  never  was  so  superfine  as  I  once  be- 
lieved. *•  Coarse,"  **  brutal,"  are  not  those 
the  words  1  have  frequently  thought  fit  to 
make  use  of  with  regard  to  a  certain  per- 
son ? 

I  ought  to  be  whipped  for  a  miserable 
prig;  but  indeed  my  punishment  is  a 
harder  one  than  whipping. 

Oh,  Agnes,  why  did  1  not  see  it  before? 
Why  did  you  not  see  it  ?  You  must  have 
understood  !  But  it  is  too  late,  too  late ; 
I  have  thrown  away  the  most  precious 
treasure  a  woman  can  have,  and  there 
is  no  getting  it  back.  If  only  he  would 
have  a  little  pity  on  me,  only  shake  hands 
and  be  friends !  I  held  out  my  hand  in 
the  hall  tonight  on  my  way  to  the  door, 
but  he  would  not  see  it,  and  gave  me  a 
deep  bow,  with  his  eyes  very  wide  open. 

Do  you  remember  poor  GuinevereV 
words  ?  — 

That  passionless  i>erfection,  my  good  lord  I 
I  wanted  life  and  color,  which  I  found 
In  Lancelot.  •  .  • 

Oh,  Lancelot,  Lancelot,  you  are  very 
cruel !  Excuse  these  egotistic  outpour- 
ings.    My  heart  is  very  full. 

Your  miserable  and  ashamed 

Nora. 

Pembridgt  Square^  April  6th. 

My  dear  Agnes,— 

Accept  my  very  warmest  congratula- 
tions on  your  engagement  to  Mr.  Dal- 
rymple, and  my  best  wishes  for  that  joint 
edition  of  Plato,  which  I  fully  expect 
will  set  the  whole  world  of  learning  on 
fire.  You  cannot,  dear,  imagine  how  re- 
freshing it  is  to  hear  of  happy  people  ;  to 
reflect  that  after  all  there  is  sometimes 
such  a  thing  as  happiness  in  the  world. 
1  have  not  written  before  because  I  have 
not  had  the  heart;  I  have  been  very  mis- 
erable. After  that  unhappy  evening  at 
the  Cunliffes',  things  got  worse  and  worse. 
I  was  continually  meeting  Mr.  Broke,  and 
each  time  we  met  only  served  to  confirm 
to  me  the  discovery  1  had  made  too  late. 
There  may  be  better  men  (personally  I 
don't  think  there  are),  but  Stephen  Broke 
is  the  one  man  in  the  world  tor  me.  Is 
love  blindness  or  increased  vision,  I  won- 
der? 

As  for  Mr.  Broke,  I  think  he  has  alto- 
gether ceased  to  regret  the  answer  I  gave 


722 


BETWEEN   TWO   STOOLS. 


him  that  night  in  the  conservatory.  I 
cannot  help  believing  that  he  was  sorry 

—  yes,  really  sorry  —  at  first,  and  that  his 
very  pronounced  delight  in  the  society  of 
Syoil  Juniper  was  not  quite  genuine.  It 
is  genuine  enough  now.  He  is  always 
with  her,  is  always  to  be  found  where  she 
goes. 

Is  constancy  confined  to  the  dull  peo- 
ple, to  the  Dobbins  of  this  great  Vanity 
Fair,  I  wonder?  But  who  am  I  to  talk  of 
constancy? 

As  chance  would  have  it,  I  saw  a  great 
deal  of  Reginald  Talbot  during  his  stay 
in  London.  The  Fates,  who  are  vulgar 
enough  to  enjoy  a  practical  joke,  decreed 
that  I,  of  whose  presence  he  had  formerly 
seemed  supremely  unconscious,  should 
suddenly  become  to  him  an  object  of 
some  interest. 

He  is  not  in  our  set,  but  I  saw  him 
continually  in  Cavendish  Square  (Mrs. 
Cunliffe  suddenly  acquired  a  sort  of 
^rande  passion  for  me!),  and  when  the 
Cunliffes  went  to  Torquay  last  month 
they  invited  me  to  accompany  them.  Reg- 
inald Talbot,  who  is  some  connection  and 
a  great  favorite,  was  also  one  of  the  party. 

Oh,  Agnes,  we  have  often  and  often 
talked  about  the  irony  of  fate,  but  never 
before  had  I  realized  it  to  its  full  extent. 
Here  was  1  walking  with,  talking  with, 
passing  my  whole  days  in  the  society  of 
a  person,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  whose 
unresponsive  face  I  would  once  have 
walked  from  China  to  Peru.  And  now 
that  he  was  here,  continually  beside  roe 

—  now  that  his  face  was  by  no  means 
unresponsive  —  I  could  have  seen  him 
depart  forever  without  a  pang;  nay,  I 
could  have  hailed  his  departure  with  de- 
light, if  it  had  been  followed  by  the  ar- 
rival of  another  person,  on  whom,  at  one 
time,  I  was  wont,  forsooth,  to  look  down ; 
whom  I  was  fond  of  reproaching  with  a 
want  of  superfineness.  And  yet,  even 
viewed  dispassionately,  Mr.  Talbot  is  un- 
doubtedly a  pleasant  and  worthy  person. 
He  is  cultivated,  generous,  kindly,  intelli- 
gent^ nevertheless,  I  was  always  con- 
scious of  a  certain  want  in  him. 

Perhaps  it  is  that  his  atmosphere  is  too 
rarefied  for  me,  but  do  you  know  that  he 
struck  me  at  times  as  crude,  colorless,  a 
little  cramped  and  academic?  He  is  alto- 
gether too  much  in  one*s  own  notation,  as 
vou  would  phrase  it,  A  woman  likes  to 
be  deferred  to,  to  have  her  ideas  treated 
respectfully;  but  on  the  other  hand  she 
likes  to  be  taken  possession  of,  regulated, 
magnificently  and  tenderly  scorned,  even, 
at  times..    We  have  been  slaves  so  long 


that  we  rather  enjoy,  metaphorically  speaV* 
ing,  the  application  of  a  little  brute  force 
on  the  part  of  our  lords  and  masters. 

Don't  faint,  Agoes !  and  pray  have  a 
little  mercy  on  Mr.  Dalrymple.  When 
there  is  a  dispute  about  the  Plato  com* 
raentaries,  whose  version  will  be  adopted  ? 
Do  you  not  perceive  that  I  am  growing 
very  sportive — quite  ••gamesome,'*  as 
Orlando  puts  it  ?  — 

But  if  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing, 
'Tis  that  I  may  not  weep.  •  .  . 

Ha,  ha!  I  wax  Byronic!  Take  my 
merriment  for  what  it  is  worth,  and  let 
me  proceed. 

In  spite,  then,  of  the  kindness  of  the 
Cunliftes  and  the  very  real  pleasure  I  had 
in  the  society  of  Mr.  Talbot,  1  was  very 
miserable  down  at  Torquay.  I  used  to 
read  **F^lise"  almost  every  night,  and 
cry  over  it  about  as  often,  especially  over 
one  verse :  — 

Let  this  be  said  between  us  here : 

One  love  grows  green  when  one  turns  grey ; 
This  year  knows  nothing  of  last  year ; 

To-morrow  has  no  more  to  say 
To  yesterday. 

Is  it  not  a  terrible  poem?  and  yet  I 
think  it  is  the  story  of  many  womeo's 
lives. 

The  day  after  I  got  home,  a  sad  and 
surprising  event  happened.  I  received  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Talbot  asking  me  to  be 
his  wife.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  it  dis- 
tressed and  disturbed  me.  Perhaps  my 
first  feeling  was  one  of  profound  irrita- 
tion at  the  sorry  trick  the  Fates  had  been 
playing  me.  Last  year,  if  it  were  only 
last  year!  I  thought  and  re-read  the  let- 
ter, which  was  indeed  a  model  of  fine 
feeling  and  delicate  taste.  Was  I  to  send 
away  love  for  the  second  time  ?  —  the  love 
of  a  good  and  upright  man  ?  Who  knows 
how  one's  feelings  may  change  ? 

Women  generally  do  get  to  love  their 
husbands  more  or  less  after  a  time,  pro- 
vided only  the  absence  of  certain  positive 
evil  qualities.  This,  as  you  know,  is  a 
doctrine  I  have  always  hated  as  unworthy 
of  people  with  minds  and  souls,  but  now 
I  found  myself  seriously  considering  it. 

I  had  lost  all  faith  in  myself,  my  feeW 
ings,  and  even  my  "soul."  Mr.  Talbot 
will  never  know  the  narrow  escape  he  had 
of  being  accepted.  Finally  I  put  the  let- 
ter  in  my  pocket  and  deferred  answering 
it.  I  was  going  to  a  musical  party  that 
evening,  and  would  give  myself  lime  to 
consider  it.  The  musical  party  decided 
me. 

Stephen  Broke  was  there,  and  for  the 


Saint  teresa. 


723 


first  time  since  Ihat  night,  he  came  tip 
and  shook  hands  with  me.  I  saw  at  a 
glance  that  Richard  was  himself  again; 
he  was  politely  cordial,  though  if  any- 
thing a  shade  quieter  than  usual,  but  per- 
haps that  was  from  an  instinctive  impulse 
not  to  indecently  flaunt  his  newly  found 
freedom  in  my  face.  And  it  i^s  only  two 
months  ago  since  —  But  we  move  very 
rapidly  in  London. 

But  however  that  may  be,  I  knew  from 
the  moment  I  touched  his  hand  and 
looked  into  his  face,  that  Reginald  Tal- 
bot's fate  was  decided.  If,  after  what 
has  happened,  I  did  not  shrink  from  mak- 
ing any  positive  assertion  about  myself,  I 
should  say  that  Stephen  Broke  is  not  only 
the  one  man  that  I  can,  but  also  the  one 
man  that  I  have  ever  loved.  One  cannot 
love  a  shadow,  you  must  acknowledge.  I 
did  not  speak  to  Mr.  Broke  again  that 
night  —  he  was  on  the  stairs  with  Sybil 
Juniper  the  whole  time  —  but  when  I 
reached  home  I  sat  down  and  wrote  off  my 
letter  unhesitatingly.  I  am  sorry  if  I  have 
given  pain  to  any  one  so  good  and  noble 
as  Mr.  Talbot;  but  the  pain  cannot,  I 
think,  be  of  long  duration.  He  will  see 
that  he  has  made  a  mistake,  that  I  was 
never  worthy  of  him. 

Oh,  Agnes,  do  you  smile  at  my  pitiable 
plight  ?  I  confess  myself  that  I  cannot 
help  smiling  a  little  sometimes,  though  the 
situation  is  tragic  enough. 

In  plain  English,  I  have  played  the 
fool,  and  I  am  suffering  for  it.  Between 
my  two  stools  I  have  fallen  most  wofully 
to  the  ground.  I  dare  say  I  shall  get  up 
again  one  day,  and  that  even  all  trace  of 
the  bruises  will  have  vanished,  but  that 
sort  of  reflection  does  not  console  one 
very  much  at  the  time. 

Meanwhile  I  am  left  stranded.  Every 
one  is  talking  of  the  approaching  engage- 
ment of  Mr.  Broke  to  Sybil  Juniper;  and 
Mr.  Talbot  has  started  for  Rome. 

You  have  had  my  full  and  free  confes- 
sion, and  doubtless  hold  your  own  opin- 
ions, have  come  to  your  own  conclusions 
on  the  subject.  But  I  should  not  like  you 
to  think  that  I  am  broken-hearted ;  by  no 
means ;  I  am  onlv  disgusted,  sorry,  and 
just  a  little  sick  01  everything. 

My  best  regards  and  best  wishes  to 
Mr.  Dairy mple. 

Your  humbled  and  saddened 

Nora. 

P.S.  —  Oh,  how  my  heart  does  ache  in 
spite  of  the  philosophic  views  1  Heart- 
ache is  worse  than  toothache  even,  and 
you  know  what  Shakespeare  says  about 
that.  —  N.  W, 


From  The  Quarterly  Review. 
SAINT  TERESA.* 


On  the  western  slope  of  the  Guadar- 
rama  mountains,  midway  between  Medina 
del  Campo  and  the  Escurial,  stands  the 
ancient  town  of  Avila.  From  the  win- 
dows of  the  railway  carriage  can  be  seen 
the  massive  walls  and  flanking  towers, 
raised  in  the  eleventh  century  in  the  first 
heat  of  the  Spanish  crusade.  The  forti- 
fications themselves  tell  the  story  of  their 
origin.  The  garrison  of  Avila  were  sol- 
diers of  Christ,  and  the  cathedral  was 
built  into  the  bastions,  in  the  front  line 
of  defence,  as  an  emblem  of  the  genius 
of  the  age.  Time  has  scarcely  touched 
the  solid  masonry.  Ruy  Diaz  and  his 
contemporaries  have  vanished  into  leg- 
end; but  these  silent  monuments  of  the 
old  Castilian  character  survive  to  remind 
us  what  manner  of  men  they  were.  Rev- 
olutions on  revolutions  overflow  the  Span- 
ish peninsula,  condemn  the  peasantry  to 
poverty,  and  the  soil  to  barrenness;  but 
they  have  not  unearthed  in  the  process  a 
single  man  like  those  whose  names  are 
part  of  European  history.  They  have 
produced  military  adventurers,  and  ora- 
tors like  Castelar,  of  "transcendent  elo- 
quence;" but  no  Grand  Captain,  no  Alva, 
not  even  a  Cortez  or  a  Pizarro.  The 
Progresista  has  a  long  ascent  before  him 
if  he  is  to  rise  to  the  old  level. 

The  situation  of  Avila  is  extremely 
picturesque,  standing  in  the  midst  of  grey 
granite  sierras,  covered  with  pine  forests, 
and  intersected  with  clear  mountain  rivu* 
lets.  It  is  now  thinly  populated,  and,  like 
most  towns  in  Spain,  has  fallen  into  decay 
and  neglect ;  but  the  large  solid  mansions, 
the  cathedral,  the  churches,  the  public 
buildings,  the  many  convents  and  monas- 
teries, though  mostly  gone  to  waste  and 
ruin,  show  that  once  it  was  full  of  busy, 
active  life,  of  men  and  women  playing 
their  parts  there  in  the  general  drama  of 
their  country. 

In  the  Spain  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella 
there  were  two  peculiarities:  first,  that 
there  was  no  recognized  capital,  for  the 
provinces  which  formed  the  monarchy 
were  still  imperfectly  cemented;  and  sec- 
ondly, that  the  nobles  and  gentry,  the 
sefiores  and  the  hidalgos,  had  their  chief 
residences  in  the  towns,  and  not  on  their 
estates.    The  causes  and  consequences 

•  I.  Acin  S.  Teresia  a  JtSHy  Carmelitarum  stric^ 
tiorit  Observant  if»  parentis.  II  lust  rat  a  a  Josepho 
Vandermoere,  Societal  is  Jesu  Presbytero  Tlieologo. 
Bruxellis,  184c. 

3.  Obras  at  Santa   Teresa  de  JisHs,    Barcelona, 

1844. 


724 


SAINT  TERESA. 


of  this  practice  of  theirs  it  would  be  in- 
teresting to  trace,  were  the  present  the 
occasion  for  it,  but  of  the  fact  itself  there 
is  no  doubt  at  all.  Of  feudal  chdteaux 
and  manor-houses,  so  numerous  in  France 
and  England,  there  were  few  in  any  part 
of  Spain,  and  next  to  none  in  the  Cas- 
tiles.  The  landed  aristocracy  congre- 
gated within  the  walls  of  the  provincial 
cities.  Their  palaces  are  still  to  be  seen 
in  grand  and  gaunt  neglect,  with  their 
splendid  staircases,  their  quadrangles, 
their  columned  verandahs,  the  coat  of 
arms  carved  over  the  portals.  In  the 
cities  also  were  the  learned  professions : 
the  lawyers,  the  doctors,  the  secular  cler- 
gy, the  religious  orders.  The  court 
moved  from  place  to  place,  and  there  was 
no  central  focus  to  draw  away  men  of  su- 
perior rank  or  superior  talents.  The  com- 
munications were  difficult;  the  roads  were 
horse-tracks ;  the  rivers,  save  where  some 
enterprising  municipalitv  had  built  a 
bridge,  were  crossed  only  by  fords  and 
pontoons.  Thus  each  important  town 
was  the  heart  of  a  separate  locality,  a 
complete  epitome  of  Spanish  life,  with  all 
its  varied  circles.  An  aristocracy  was  in 
each,  proud  and  exclusive.  A  religious 
world  was  in  each ;  a  world  of  art  and 
literature,  of  commerce  and  adventure. 
Every  family  had  some  member  pushing 
his  fortunes  in  the  army  or  in  the  new 
hemisphere.  The  minds  of  men  were  in 
full  activity.  They  were  enterprising  and 
daring.  Their  manners  were  polished, 
and  their  habits  splendid  ;  for  into  Spain 
first  had  poured  the  fruits  of  the  discover- 
ies of  Columbus,  and  the  stream  of  gold 
was  continually  growing  with  fresh  con- 
quests. Perhaps  nowhere  on  the  earth 
was  there  a  finer  average  of  distinguished 
and  cultivated  society  than  in  the  provin- 
cial Castilian  cities,  as  it  is  described  in 
Cervantes*  novels.  The  Castilians  were 
a  nation  of  gentlemen,  high-bred,  courte- 
ous, chivalrous.  In  arms  they  had  no 
rivals.  In  art  and  literature  Italy  alone 
was  in  advance  of  them,  and  Italy  led  by 
no  great  interval ;  while  the  finwt  charac- 
teristics were  to  be  met  with  equally  in 
every  part  of  the  country. 

They  were  a  sincere  people  too;  Cath- 
olic in  belief,  and  earnestly  meaning  what 
they  professed.  In  the  presence  of  the 
Moors,  Christianity  had  remained  a  pas- 
sion with  them.  Of  Christianity  itself 
they  knew  no  form,  and  could  conceive  of 
none,  save  that  for  which  they  had  fought 
against  the  Moslem  ;  and  the  cause  of  the 
Church  was  the  cause  of  patriotism. 
Therefore,  when  the  Reformation  began  in 


Germany,  the  Spaniard  naturally  regarded 
its  adherents  as  the  old  enemy  in  another 
dress.  An  Italian  priest  could  mutter  at 
the  altar, "  Bread  thou  art,  and  bread  thou 
wilt  remain,"  No  such  monster  could 
have  been  found  in  the  Spanish  penin- 
sula. Leo  X.  called  Christianity  a  profit- 
able fable.  To  the  subjects  of  Isabella  it 
was  a  trutlf,  which  devils  only  could  deny. 

The  northern  nations  revolted  from  the 
Church  in  the  name  of  liberty.  The 
Spaniards  loved  liberty,  but  it  was  the 
liberty  of  their  country,  for  which  they  had 
been  fighting  for  centuries  against  the  in- 
fidel. As  aristocrats,  they  were  instioc- 
tively  on  the  side  of  authority.  United 
among  themselves,  they  believed  in  the 
union  of  Christendom ;  and  they  threw 
themselves  into  the  struggle  against  her- 
esy with  the  same  enthusiasm  with  which 
they  contended  with  the  Crescent  in  the 
Mediterranean.  They  sent  their  chivalry 
to  the  Low  Countries  as  if  to  a  crusade. 
Two  Spaniards,  Ignatius  Loyola  and 
Francis  Xavier,  created  the  spiritual  army 
of  the  Jesuits.  Engaged  with  the  enemy 
abroad,  the  finer  spirits  among  them  un- 
dertook the  task  of  setting  in  order  their 
own  house  at  home ;  they,  too,  required  a 
Reformation,  if  they  were  to  be  fit  cham- 
pions of  a  holy  cause ;  and  the  instrument 
was  a  woman,  with  as  few  natural  advan- 
tages as  Ignatius  himself,  distinguished 
only  in  representing,  as  he  did,  the  vigor- 
ous instincts  of  the  Spanish  character. 

The  Church  of  Rome,  it  has  been  said, 
does  not,  like  the  Church  of  England, 
drive  her  enthusiasts  into  rebellion,  but 
preserves  and  wisely  employs  them.  She 
may  employ  them  wisely  while  they  are 
alive,  but  when  they  are  dead  she  decks 
them  out  in  paint  and  tinsel,  to  be  wor- 
shipped as  divinities.  Their  history  be- 
comes a  legend.  They  are  surrounded 
with  an  envelope  of  lies.  Teresa  of  Avila 
has  fared  no  better  than  other  saints  in 
the  calendar.  She  has  been  the  favorite 
idol  of  modern  Spain,  and  she  deserved 
more  modest  treatment. 

The  idolatry  may  merit  all  that  Mr. 
Ford  has  said  about  it,  but  the  account 
which  he  has  given  of  herself  is  so  wide 
of  the  original,  that  it  is  not  even  a  car- 
icature. Ford,  doubtless,  did  not  like 
Catholic  saints,  and  the  absurdities  told 
about  them  amused  him;  but  the  materi- 
als lay  before  him  for  a  real  portrait  of 
Teresa,  had  he  cared  to  read  them  ;  and 
it  is  a  pity  that  he  did  not,  for  no  one 
could  have  done  better  justice  to  his  sub- 
ject. 

Teresa  de  Cepeda  was  born  at  Avila  on 


SAINT  TERESA. 


725 


the  28th  of  March,  15 15  —  a  time,  accord- 
ing to  her  biographer,  **  when  Luther  was 
secreting  the  poison  which  he  vomited 
out  two  years  later/'  She  was  one  of  a 
large  family,  eleven  childreu  in  all,  eight 
sons  and  three  daughters.  Her  father, 
Don  Alfonso,  was  twice  married.  Tere- 
sa's mother  was  the  second  wife,  Beatrice 
de  Ahumada,  a  beautiful,  imaginative 
woman,  whom  bad  health  confined  chiefly 
to  a  sofa.  The  Cepedas  were  of  honora- 
ble descent ;  Don  Alfonso  was  a  gentle- 
man of  leisure  and  moderate  fortune.  He 
spent  his  time,  when  not  engaged  with 
works  of  charity,  in  reading  Spanish  liter- 
ture  —  chiefly  Church  history  and  lives  of 
the  saints,  but  his  library,  if  the  same 
inquisitors  had  sat  upon  it,  would  have 
been  sifted  as  ruthlessly  as  the  shelves 
of  the  ingenious  knight  of  La  Mancha, 
for  half  of  it  was  composed  of  books  of 
knight-crrantrv  —  the  same  volumes  prob- 
ably which  the  niece  and  housekeeper 
condemned  to  the  flames.  These  were 
devoured  as  eagerly  by  the  delicate  Bea- 
trice as  the  graver  pages  by  her  husband, 
and  her  example  was  naturally  imitated 
by  her  children.  They  sate  up  at  nights 
JD  their  nursery  over  Rolando  and  Don 
Belianis  and  Amadis  of  Gaul.  Teresa 
composed  odes  to  imaginarv  cavaliers, 
who  figured  in  adventures  of  which  she 
was  herself  the  heroine.  They  had  to 
conceal  their  tastes  from  their  father,  who 
would  not  have  approved  them.  He  was 
^  very  good  man,  exceptionally  good.  He 
treated  his  servants  as  if  they  were  his 
sons  and  daughters.  He  was  never  heard 
to  swear,  or  to  speak  ill  of  any  one.  He 
was  the  constant  friend  of  the  Avila  poor. 
If  too  indulgent,  he  had  sense  and  infor- 
mation, and  when  he  discerned  what  was 
going  on,  he  diverted  Teresa*s  tastes  in  a 
safer  direction.  By  nature,  she  says,  she 
was  the  least  religious  of  her  family,  but 
her  imagination  was  impressible,  and  she 
delighted  in  all  forms  of  human  heroism. 
She  forgot  her  knights,  and  devoted  her- 
self to  martyrs;  and  here,  being  concrete 
and  practical,  she  thought  she  would  turn 
her  new  enthusiasm  to  account.  If  to  be 
in  heaven  was  to  be  eternally  happy,  and 
martyrs  went  to  heaven  straight,  without 
passing  through  Purgatory,  they  had 
made  a  good  bargain  for  themselves. 
Why  should  not  she  be  a  martyr  too  —  a 
real  one?  When  she  was  seven  years 
old,  she  and  her  little  brother  Antonio 
actually  started  off  to  go  to  the  Moors, 
who  they  expected  would  kill  them.  They 
had  reached  the  bridge  on  the  stream 
which  runs  through  the  town,  when  an 


uncle  met  them  and  brought  them  back. 
As  they  could  not  be  martyrs,  they  thought, 
as  next  best,  that  they  would  be  hermits. 
They  gave  away  their  pocket-money  to 
beggars.  They  made  themselves  cells  in 
the  garden.  Teresa's  ambition  grew. 
When  other  girls  came  to  see  her,  they 
played  at  nunneries,  when  she  was  per- 
haps herself  the  abbess.  Amidst  these 
fancies  her  childish  years  passed  away. 
She  does  not  seem  to  have  had  much  reg- 
ular teaching.  Nothing  is  said  about  it ; 
and  when  she  grew  up  she  had  difficulty 
in  reading  her  Latin  Breviary. 

The  knight-errantry  books,  however, 
had  left  their  traces.  Her  mother  died 
while  she  was  still  very  young,  and  she 
was  much  affected.  But  natural  children 
do  not  long  continue  miserable.  As  she 
passed  into  girlhood,  her  glass  told  her 
that  she  was  pretty,  and  she  was  pleased 
to  hear  it.  She  was  moderately  tall,  well- 
shaped,  with  a  fine  complexion,  round 
brilliant  black  eyes,  black  hair,  crisp  and 
curly,  good  teeth,  and  firmly  chiselled  lips 
and  nose.  So  fair  a  figure  deserved  that 
pains  should  be  taken  with  it.  She  was 
particular  about  her  dress;  she  liked  per- 
fumes; her  small  dainty  hands  were  kept 
scrupulously  white.  Cousins  male  and 
female  went  and  came ;  and  there  were 
small  flirtations  with  the  boys,  and  with 
the  girls  not  very  wise  confidences.  One 
girl  cousin  there  was  especially,  whom  the 
mother,  while  she  lived,  would  not  allow 
to  visit  at  the  house,  and  whom  an  elder 
sister  would  still  have  kept  at  a  distance. 
But  Teresa  was  wilful,  and  chose  this 
especial  young  lady  as  her  principal  com- 
panion. There  were  also  silly  servants, 
too  ready  to  encourage  folly,  and  Teresa 
says  that  at  this  time  nothing  but  regard 
for  her  honor  kept  her  clear  of  serious 
scrapes. 

Don  Alfonso  grew  uneasy;  the  elder 
sister  married  and  went  away;  so,  feeling 
unequal  himself  to  the  task  of  managing 
a  dinicult  subject,  he  sent  her  to  be  edu- 
cated in  an  Augustinian  convent  in  the 
town.  Neither  her  father  nor  she  had 
any  thoughts  of  her  adopting  a  religious 
life.  He  never  wished  it  at  any  time. 
She  did  not  wish  it  then,  and  had  unde- 
fined notions  of  marrying  as  her  sister 
had  done.  The  convent  to  her  was  merely 
a  school,  where  there  were  many  other 
girls  of  her  own  age,  nor  did  she  wholly 
like  it.  She  made  friends  among  the 
elder  nuns,  especially  with  one,  a  simple, 
pious  woman,  who  slept  in  the  same  room 
with  her.  But  the  younger  sisters  were 
restless.    They  bad  friends  in  the  town, 


726 

and  were  occupied  with  other  things  be- 
side religious  vows.  Within  the  convent 
itself  all  was  not  as  it  should  have  been. 
The  vicar  of  the  order  had  the  whole 
spiritual  management  both  of  the  nuns 
and  of  their  pupils.  No  one  but  himself 
might  hear  their  confessions,  and  the 
prioress  could  not  interfere  with  him, 
since  by  his  position  he  was  her  superior. 
Teresa  does  not  hint  that  there  was  any- 
thing positively  wrong,  but  when  she 
came  to  lay  down  rules  in  later  life  for 
such  matters,  she  refers  to  her  recollec- 
tions of  what  went  on  in  language  curi- 
ously frank. 

The  confessor  in  a  convent  [she  says]  ought 
not  to  be  the  vicar  or  the  visitor.  He  may 
take  a  special  interest  in  some  sister.  The 
Prioress  will  be  unable  to  prevent  him  from 
talking  to  her,  and  a  thousand  mischiefs  may 
follow.  .  .  .  The  sisters  should  have  no  inter- 
course  with  the  confessor  except  at  the  confes- 
sional. .  .  •  The  very  existence  of  the  institu- 
tion depends  on  preventing  these  black  cUvotees 
from  destroying  the  spouses  of  Christ  The 
devil  enters  that  way  unperceived  * 

The  vicar  confessor  encouraged  Teresa 
in  her  views  for  marriage,  but  her  fancies 
and  her  friendship  were  suddenly  broken 
off  by  an  attack  of  iilness.  She  required 
change  of  air;  she  was  sent  on  a  visit  to 
her  sister;  and  on  her  way  home  she 
spent  a  few  days  with  an  uncle,  a  man  of 
secluded  and  saintly  habits,  who  after- 
wards withdrew  into  a  monastery.  The 
uncle  advised  his  niece  to  take  the  same 
step  that  he  was  himself  meditating;  and 
she  discussed  the  question  with  herself  in 
the  same  spirit  with  which  she  had  de- 
signed throwing  herself  among  the  Moors. 
She  reflected  that  convent  discipline  might 
be  painful,  but  it  could  not  be  as  painful 
as  Purgatory,  while  if  she  remained  in 
the  world  she  might  come  to  something 
worse  than  Purgatory.  She  read  St. 
Jerome's  epistles ;  she  then  consulted  her 
father,  and  was  distressed  to  meet  with 
strong  objections.  Don  Alfonso  was  at- 
tached to  his  children,  and  Teresa  was 
his  especial  favorite.  The  utmost  that 
she  could  obtain  was  a  permission  to  do 
as  she  pleased  after  his  own  death.  But 
** a  vocation"  was  held  to  dispense  with 
duties  to  parents.  She  made  up  her  own 
mind,  and,  like  Luther,  she  decided  to  act 
for  herself,  and  to  take  a  step  which,  when 

*  "Va  nos,  todo  nuestro  Ser,  en  qaitar  la  ocasion 
pAra  que  no  haya  estos  negros  devr»tos  destruidores  de 
las  csposas  de  Christo,  que  es  menester  pensar  siempre 
en  lo  peor  que  puede  aiiceder,  para  ouitar  esta  ocasion, 
que  se  entra  sin  sentirlo  por  aqui  ei  demouio."  (Car- 
tas de  la  Sauia  Madre,  vol.  vi.,  p.  aja.) 


SAINT  TERESA. 


once  accomplished,  could  not  be  recalled. 
One  morning  she  left  her  home  with  her 
brother,  and  applied  for  admission  at  the 
Carmelite  Convent  of  the  Incarnation. 
She  was  then  eighteen.  She  had  been 
disappointed  with  the  Augustinians ;  but 
the  Carmelites  had  a  reputation  for  supe- 
rior holiness,  and  she  threw  herself  among 
thera  with  the  passionate  enthusiasm  of 
an  ardent  girl,  who  believed  that  she  was 
securing  her  peace  in  this  world,  and  hap- 
piness in  the  next.  Again  she  was  to  be 
undeceived.  The  order  of  Mount  Car- 
mel  had  been  founded  by  Albert,  patri- 
arch of  Jerusalem,  in  the  second  Crusade. 
The  rule  had  been  austere  —  austere  as 
the  rule  of  the  Carthusians  —  with  strict 
seclusion,  silence,  solitude,  the  plainest 
dress,  the  most  ascetic  diet.  But  by  the 
beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century  time 
and  custom  had  relaxed  the  primitive 
severity,  and  Carmelite  convents  had  be- 
come a  part  of  general  society  ;  the  nuns 
within  the  cloisters  living  and  occupying 
themselves  in  a  manner^not  very  different 
from  their  friends  outside,  with  whom  they 
were  in  constant  communication.  Auster- 
ity was  still  possible,  but  it  was  not  insisted 
on,  and  was  a  sign  of  presumption  and  sin- 
gularity. In  the  Incarnation  there  were 
a  hundred  and  ninety  sisters,  and  the  disci- 
pline among  them  was  scarcely  more  than 
a  name.  They  went  in  and  out  as  they 
pleased ;  they  received  visits  and  returned 
them;  they  could  be  absent  from  the 
cloister  for  months  at  a  time.  Catholics 
accuse  Protestants  of  having  libelled  the 
monastic  life  of  Europe  as  it  existed  be- 
fore the  Reformation.  Luther  himself 
has  said  nothing  harsher  of  it  than  the 
saint  of  Avila.  She  followed  the  stream, 
she  said ;  she  abandoned  herself  to  vanity 
and  amusement,  and  neither  custom  nor 
the  authority  of  her  superiors  laid  the 
slightest  check  upon  her.  She  had  as 
much  liberty  as  she  liked  to  ask  for,  and 
liberty  in  a  convent  meant  free  opportuni- 
ties of  evil.  She  does  not  assert  that 
there  was  gross  licentiousness ;  but  she 
does  assert  that  to  "ill-disposed  women  ^ 
convent  life  "  was  rather  a  road  to  hell 
than  an  aid  to  weakness ; "  and  that  **  par- 
ents would  do  better  to  marry  their  daugh- 
ters honestly  than  to  place  them  in  relaxed 
houses  of  religion." 

The  girls  themselves  [she  says]  are  not  so 
much  to  blame,  fur  they  do  no  w'orse  than  they 
see  others  do.  They  enter  convents  to  serve 
the  Lord  and  escape  the  dangers  of  the  world, 
and  they  are  flung  into  ten  worlds  all  together, 
with  youth,  sensuality,  and  the  devil,  tempting 
them  to  evil.  ...  In  the  same  house  are  two 


SAINT  TERESA. 


7*7 


roads,  one  leading  to  virtue  and  piety,  another 
leading  azmy  trom  y'lrtxic  and  piety;  and  the 
road  of  religion  is  so  little  travelled,  that  a 
sister  who  wishes  to  follow  it  has  more  to  fear 
from  her  companions  than  from  all  the  devils. 
She  finds  it  easier  far  to  make  intimacies  with 
the  devil's  instruments  than  to  seek  friendship 
with  God 

How  dangerous  this  lax  temper  might 
have  been  to  herself  Teresa  tells  us  in 
an  instructive  incident.  Her  health  was 
never  strong,  and  the  convent  bad  disa- 
greed with  her.  She  was  sick  every  morn- 
ing, and  could  touch  no  food  till  noon. 
She  often  fainted,  and  there  were  symp- 
toms of  heart  disorder.  Nor  was  she 
happy  in  herself.  She  had  tried  to  be 
good,  and  had  only  made  enemies  by  her 
efforts.  She  found  herself  rebuked  for 
small  offences  of  which  she  was  wholly 
innocent.  She  lived  much  alone,  and  the 
sisters  thought  she  was  discontented. 
Her  father  became  alarmed  for  her,  and 
again  sent  her  away  into  the  country,  with 
a  single  nun  for  a  companion.  At  the 
place  where  she  went  to  reside  there  was 
an  attractive  priest,  a  man  of  intellect  and 
culture.  Teresa  was  fond  of  cultivated 
men.  She  took  the  priest  for  her  confes- 
sor, and  found  him  more  and  more  agree- 
able.  He  flattered  her  conscience  by 
telling  her  that  she  could  never  wish  to 
do  wrong.  He  said  it  was  his  own  case 
also,  and  they  became  extremely  intimate. 
She  was  informed  after  a  time  that  this 
charmingly  innocent  person  had  been  liv-i 
ing  for  some  years  with  a  female  compan-  j 
ion,  while  he  continued  to  say  mass  as  if  I 
nothing  were  the  matter.  She  was  at 
first  incredulous.  She  made  inquiries, 
but  the  scandal  was  notorious.  Every 
one  was  aware  of  it,  but  the  offender^ad 
influence,  and  it  was  unsafe  to  interfere 
with  him.  Even  so,  however,  Teresa 
would  not  abandon  her  friend,  and  looked 
for  excuses  for  him.  The  woman,  she 
found,  had  given  him  an  amulet,  and  while 
he  wore  it  he  was  under  a  spell.  He  told 
her  this  himself,  and  her  interest  was  now 
increased  by  pity  and  anxiety.  She  ad- 
mits that  she  was  unwise,  that  she  ought 
at  once  to  have  ended  the  acquaintance. 
She  preferred  to  endeavor  to  save  a  per- 
ishing soul.  She  was  but  twenty;  she 
was  very  beautiful.  She  spoke  to  the 
attractive  sinner  of  God;  and  of  course 
to  a  lesson  from  such  lips  he  was  delight- 
ed to  listen.  She  perceived  the  cause, 
but  was  not  discouraged.  She  pressed 
him  to  give  her  the  amulet,  and  equally  of 
course  he  consented.  She  threw  it  into 
the  river,  and  he  at  once  broke  off  his 


guilty  connection,  and  devoted  himself  to 
spiritual  communion  with  herself.  She 
flattered  herself  that  he  was  penitent, 
though  it  was  equally  clear  to  her  that  he 
was  in  love  with  herself;  and  he  aban- 
doned himself  to  his  affection  with  the 
less  reserve,  because  she  says  he  had 
confidence  in  her  virtue,  and  supposed 
that  he  could  do  so  without  danger.  The 
danger  was  as  great  as  it  usually  is  under 
such  circumstances.  They  had  **  oppor- 
tunities of  sin,*'  she  said,  and  though  she 
believed  that  they  would  not  have  fallen 
mortally,  she  admits  that  they  might  have 
gone  seriously  wrong  if  they  had  not  kept 
God  before  their  eyes.  The  priest  died  a 
year  after,  and,  as  Teresa  observes  na'ive- 
Ij',  was  delivered  from  further  temptation. 
She  long  retained  some  tenderness  for 
him;  twenty  years  later,  when  she  wrote 
the  story,  she  expressed  a  conviction  that 
he  was  saved :  but  the  experience  must 
have  helped  her  to  the  opinion,  which  she 
afterwards  so  strongly  insisted  on,  that 
confessors  were  the  most  unsafe  of  friends. 

After  this  adventure,  which  she  relates 
with  perfect  simplicity,  she  returned  to 
the  convent.  Her  health  was  not  im- 
proved. She  was  still  constantly  sick ; 
she  had  paroxysms  of  pain ;  her  nervous 
system  was  shattered,  and  the  physicians 
were  afraid  of  madness.  In  this  state 
she  remained  for  three  years.  At  the  end 
of  them  it  occurred  to  her  to  pray  for  help 
to  San  Josef.  From  some  cause  she  be- 
came comparatively  better;  and  to  San 
Josef  she  supposed  that  she  owed  her 
recovery.  **  God,"  she  says, "  has  allowed 
other  saints  to  help  us  on  some  occasions ; 
my  experience  of  this  glorious  saint  is 
that  he  helps  us  in  all:  as  if  the  Lord 
would  teach  us  that,  as  he  was  subject  to 
San  Josef  on  earth,  and  San  Josef  was 
called  his  father  though  only  his  guardian, 
so  San  Josef,  though  in  heaven,  has  still 
authority  with  him.'' 

The  illness  had  become  less  acute ;  but, 
as  the  pain  of  body  grew  less,  Teresa 
became  conscious  of  spiritual  maladies 
that  were  left  uncured.  **  She  loved  God 
with  half  her  mind,  but  she  loved  the 
world  with  the  other."  Her  prayers  trou- 
bled her,  she  says,  for  she  could  not  fix 
her  mind  on  them.  Meditation  was  yet 
more  difficult.  **She  had  a  slow  intellect 
and  a  torpid  imagination."  She  required 
a  book  to  help  her,  for  the  right  reflec- 
tions and  emotions  would  not  occur  to 
herself;  other  thoughts  persisted  in  in- 
truding themselves ;  and  at  length,  being, 
as  she  f^as,  a  veracious  woman,  she  aban- 
doned prayer  altogether.    Among  all  her 


728 

faults,  she  says  she  was  never  a  hypocrite, 
and  prayer  when  it  was  no  more  than  a 
form  of  words  seemed  an  indecent  mock- 
ery. 

Her  confessor,  when  she  explained  her 
troubles,  only  thought  her  morbid.  In 
the  convent  she  was  regarded  as  excep- 
tionally good,  and  wide  as  was  the  gen- 
eral liberty,  with  her  every  rule  was  dis- 
pensed with.  She  spent  her  time  in  the 
society  of  Avila  with  more  enjoyment 
than  she  was  herself  aware  of,  and  when 
a  pious  old  nun  told  her  that  she  was 
causing  scandal,  she  would  not  under- 
stand it,  and  was  only  angry. 

Unless  God  had  brought  me  to  the  truth 
[she  says]  I  should  moat  assuredly  have  gone 
at  last  to  hell.  I  had  many  friends  to  help 
me  to  fall,  while,  as  to  risins  again,  I  was 
utterly  alone.  My  confessor  did  nothing  for 
me.  For  twenty  years  I  was  tossed  about  on 
a  stormy  sea  in  a  wretched  condition,  for  if  I 
had  small  content  in  the  world,  in  God  I  had 
no  pleasure.  There  were  months,  once  there 
was  an  entire  year,  when  I  was  careful  not  to 
offend ;  but  of  all  those  years  eighteen  were 
years  of  battle.  At  prayer  time  I  watched  for 
the  clock  to  strike  the  end  of  the  hour.  To 
go  to  the  oratory  was  a  vexation  to  me,  and 
prayer  itself  a  constant  effort. 

Such  was  Teresa's  conventual  experi- 
ence, as  described  by  herself.  She  began 
her  novitiate  in  1534.  The  twenty  years, 
therefore,  extended  to  1554,  the  vear  in 
which  Philip  went  to  England  to  be  mar- 
ried to  our  Queen  Mari\  She  was  then 
nearly  forty,  and  her  efforts  so  far  in  the 
direction  of  religion  had  consisted  rather 
in  helping  others  (which  she  says  she  was 
always  eager  to  do)  than  in  framing  any 
steaay  resolutions  for  herself.  Her  con- 
version, as  it  is  called,  her  first  attempt  to 
think  with  real  seriousness,  was  occa- 
sioned by  the  death  of  her  father.  She 
had  watched  by  him  in  his  last  illness. 
She  saw  his  spirit  take  flight,  and  heard 
the  assurance  of  his  Dominican  confessor 
that  it  had  gone  straight  to  heaven.  She 
had  been  deeply  attached  to  him.  She 
woke  up  out  of  her  irresolutions,  and  de- 
termined to  use  the  rest  of  her  life  to 
better  purpose  than  the  beginning. 

She  was  not  a  person  to  do  anything 
by  halves.  She  thought  of  Mary  Magda- 
lene. She  read  the  "  Confessions  "  of  St. 
Augustine,  and  saw  an  image  there  of  her 
own  state  of  mind.  One  dav,  as  she  was 
entering  the  oratory,  she  was  struck  by 
the  sight  of  an  image  which  had  been 
brought  thither  for  an  approaching  festi- 
val. It  was  a  wounded  Christ,  the  statue 
colored  with  the  painful  realism  which 


SAINT  TERESA. 


suited  the  Spanish  taste,  the  blood  stream- 
ing over  the  face  from  the  thorns,  and 
running  from  the  side  and  the  hands  and 
feet.  Protestants  and  Catholics  expe- 
rience an  identical  emotion  when  the 
meaning  of  Christianity  is  brought  home 
to  them.  Each  poor  sinner  recognizes, 
as  by  a  flash  of  lightning,  that  these  tor- 
tures were  endured  for  him  or  her  —  that 
he  or  she  was  actually  present  in  the 
Saviour*s  mind  when  he  was  sufiferingoQ 
the  cross.  The  thought  when  it  comes  is 
overpowering.  Teresa  felt  as  if  her  heart 
was  wrenched  in  two.  She  fell  in  tears 
at  the  feet  of  the  figure.  She  did  not 
seek  for  sentimental  emotions.  She  sur- 
rendered herself  wholly  and  forever  to  the 
being  whose  form  was  fastened  on  her 
soul,  and  from  that  moment  every  worldly 
feeling  was  gone,  never  to  return.  Her 
spiritual  life  had  begun.  She  explains 
the  condition  in  which  she  found  herself 
by  an  image  familiar  to  every  one  who 
has  seen  the  environs  of  a  Spanish  vil- 
lage. She  apologizes  for  its  simplicity, 
but  it  is  as  true  and  pregnant  as  a  Gospel 
parable. 

A  man  is  directed  to  make  a  garden  in  a  bad 
soil  overrun  with  sour  grasses.  The  lord  of 
the  land  roots  out  the  weeds,  sows  seeds,  and 
plants  herbs  and  fruit-trees.  The  gardener 
must  then  care  for  them  and  water  them,  that 
they  may  thrive  and  blossom,  and  that  **  the 
Lord"  may  find  pleasure  in  his  garden  and 
come  to  visit  it.  There  are  four  ways  in  which 
the  watering  may  be  done.  There  is  water 
which  is  drawn  wearily  by  hand  from  the  well. 
There  is  water  drawn  by  the  ox- wheel,  more 
abundantly  and  with  lighter  labor.  There  is 
water  brought  in  from  the  river,  which  will 
saturate  the  whole  ground ;  and,  last  and  best, 
there  is  rain  from  heaven.  Four  sorts  of 
prayer  correspond  to  these.  The  fir-it  is  a 
weary  effort  with  small  returns ;  the  well  may 
run  ary ;  the  gardener  then  must  weep.  The 
second  is  internal  prayer  and  meditation  upon 
God ;  the  trees  will  then  show  leaves  and 
flower-buds.  The  third  is  love  uf  God.  The 
virtues  then  become  vigorous.  We  converse 
with  God  face  to  face.  The  flowers  open  and 
give  out  fragrance.  The  fourth  kind  cannot 
be  described  in  words.  Then  there  is  no  more 
toil,  and  the  seasons  no  longer  change ;  tiowers 
are  always  blowing,  and  fruit  ripens  peren- 
nially. The  soul  enjoys  undoubting  certitude ; 
the  faculties  work  without  effort  and  without 
consciousness ;  the  heart  loves  and  does  not 
know  that  it  loves;  the  mind  perceives  yet 
does  not  know  that  it  perceives.  If  the  but- 
terfly pauses  to  say  to  itself  how  prettily  it  is 
flying,  the  shining  win<;s  fall  ott,  and  it  drops 
and  dies.  The  life  of  the  spirit  is  not  our  life, 
but  the  life  of  God  within  us. 

This  is  very  beautiful.    It  is  the  same, 


SAINT   TERESA. 


729 


In  fact,  as  what  Bishop  Butler  says,  in 
less  ornamented  prose,  of  the  formation 
of  moral  habits.  We  first  learn  to  do 
right  with  effort.  The  habit  grows  till  it 
pervades  the  nature,  and  then  and  there 
we  act  as  we  ought  spontaneously,  With 
no  more  consciousness  than  animals  have, 
which  do  what  they  do  by  instinct. 

But  we  are  now  on  the  edge  of  the  ab- 
normal features  of  Teresa*s  history,  and 
before  we  enter  on  the  subject  we  must 
explain  briefly  how  we  ourselves  regard 
the  aberrations  which  will  have  to  be  re- 
lated. All  physicians,  all  psychologists 
of  reputation,  agree  that  besides  sleeping 
and  waking  there  are  other  conditions  — 
trances,  ecstasies,  catalepsies,  and  such 
like  —  into  which  the  body  is  liable  to 
fall;  and  as  in  sleep  images  present  them- 
selves, more  vivid  than  can  be  called  up 
by  waking  memorv  or  waking  fancy,  so  in 
these  exceptional  states  of  the  svstem 
peculiar  phenomena  appear,  whicn  are 
none  the  less  real  because  fools  or  impos- 
tors have  built  chftteaux  in  the  air  upon 
them.  The  muscles  sometimes  become 
rigid,  the  senses  become  unnaturally  sus- 
ceptible. The  dreaming  power  is  ex- 
traordinarily intensified,  and  visions  are 
seen  (we  say  **seen*'  for  want  of  a  more 
scientific  expression)  palpable  as  sense  it- 
self. Such  conditions  are  usually  brought 
about  by  ordinary  causes.  Perhaps  they 
may  be  created  artificially.  They  are  not 
supernatural,  for  they  have  an  exact  anal- 
ogy in  the  universal  experience  of  steep. 
They  are  considered  supernatural  only 
because  they  are  exceptional,  and  the  ob- 
jects perceived  are  always  supplied  out  of 
the  stores  with  which  memory  is  fur- 
nished. Teresa's  health  was  peculiar. 
For  twenty  years  she  had  beeq  liable  to 
violent  nervous  attacks  —  those,  too,  an 
imperfectly  understood  form  of  disorder. 
She  was  full-blooded,  constantly  sick,  con- 
stantly subject  to  fainting-fits  and  weak- 
ness of  the  heart.  Her  intellect  and 
moral  sense,  on  the  other  hand,  were  re- 
markably strong.  She  was  not  given  to 
idle  imaginations.  She  was  true  and  sim- 
ple, was  never  known  to  tell  a  lie  or  act 
one.  But  her  mental  constitution  was 
peculiar.  Objects  that  interested  her,  she 
says,  never  ran  into  words,  but  fastened 
themselves  as  pictures  upon  her  brain. 
Meadows,  trees,  and  rivers,  effects  of  sky, 
all  materials  of  landscape  beauty,  gave 
her  intense  emotions,  but  emotions  which 
she  was  unable  to  describe.  She  was  a 
painter,  but  without  the  faculty  of  convey- 
ing her  impressions  to  canvas.  She  per- 
ceived with  extreme  vividness,  but  the 


perception  ended  in  itself.  If  she  wanted 
phrases  she  had  to  look  for  them  in  books, 
and  what  she  found  in  books  did  not  sat- 
isfy her  because  it  did  not  correspond  to 
her  own  experience. 

This  was  her  general  temperament,  on 
which  powerful  religious  emotion  was  now 
to  work.  The  ficrure  of  Christ  had  first 
awakened  her.  The  shock  threw  her  into 
a  trance.  The  trances  repeated  them- 
selves whenever  she  was  unusually  as[i. 
tated.  Such  a  person  would  inevitably 
see  *•  visions,"  which  she  would  be  unable 
to  distinguish  from  reality;  and  if  she 
believed  herself  subject  to  demoniac  or 
angelic  visitations,  she  was  not  on  that 
account  either  a  fool  or  an  impostor. 

In  the  life  of  every  one  who  has  really 
tried  to  make  a  worthy  use  of  existence, 
there  is  always  a  point  —  a  point  never 
afterwards  forgotten  ~  when  the  road  has 
ceased  to  be  downhill,  and  the  climb  up- 
ward has  commenced.  There  has  been 
some  accident  perhaps ;  or  some  one  has 
died,  or  one  has  been  disappointed  in 
something  on  which  the  heart  had  been 
fixed,  or  some  earnest  words  have  arrested 
attention;  at  any  rate,  some  seed  has 
fallen  into  a  soil  prepared  to  receive  it. 
This  is  called  in  religious  language  con- 
version; the  turning  away  from  sin  and 
folly  to  duty  and  righteousness.  Begin- 
nings are  always  hard.  Persons  who  have 
hitherto  acted  in  one  particular  way,  and 
suddenly  change  to  another  way,  are  nat- 
urally suspected  of  having  motives,  and 
those  motives  not  the  best.  They  have 
lived  so  far  for  themselves.  They  cannot 
be  credited  at  once  with  having  ceased  to 
live  for  themselves.  They  must  still  be 
selfish.  They  must  have  some  personal 
object  in  view. 

Teresa  in  her  convent  had  resolved  to 
be  thenceforward  a  good  woman,  and  to 
use  to  better  purpose  the  means  which 
the  Church  offered  to  her.  She  found  at 
once  that  she  was  misunderstood  and  dis- 
liked. She  wished  to  be  peculiar,  it  was 
said;  she  wished  to  be  thought  a  saint; 
she  was  setting  herself  up  to  be  better 
than  other  people.  Her  trances  and  fits 
of  unconsciousness  were  attributed  to  the 
most  obvious  cause.  She  was  said  to  be 
** possessed"  by  a  devil.  She  had  been 
humbled  in  herowneyes;  and  she  herself 
thought  that  perhaps  it  was  a  devil.  She 
could  not  tell,  and  her  spiritual  adviser 
could  not  tell  any  better.  The  Jesuits 
were  then  rising  into  fame.  Francisco 
Borgia,  ex-Duke  of  Gandia,  had  joined 
them,  and  had  been  made  provincial  gen- 
eral for  Spain.    He  came  to  AviU,  beard 


730 


SAINT  TERESA. 


of  Teresa,  aod  took  charge  of  her  case. 
He  put  her  under  a  course  of  discipline. 
He  told  her  to  flog  herself  with  a  whip  of 
nettles,  to  wear  a  haircloth  plaited  with 
broken  wires,  the  points  of  which  would 
tear  her  skin.  Had  her  understanding 
been  less  robust,  he  would  have  driven 
her  nnad ;  as  it  was,  he  only  intensified 
her  nervous  agitation.  He  bade  her  med- 
itate daily  on  the  details  of  Christ's  pas- 
sion. One  day,  while  thus  occupied,  she 
became  unconscious  ;  her  limbs  stiffened, 
and  she  heard  a  voice  say,  **  Thou  shalt 
no  more  converse  with  men,  but  with  an- 
gels.'* After  this  the  fits  always  returned 
when  she  was  at  prayers.  She  saw  no 
distinct  form,  but  she  telt  that  Christ  was 
close  to  her.  She  told  her  confessor  what 
she  had  experienced.  He  asked  her  how 
she  knew  that  it  was  Christ.  She  could 
not  explain.  A  few  days  after,  she  was 
able  to  tell  him  that  she  had  actually  seen 
Christ.  She  had  seen  him,  she  said 
(without  being  aware  that  she  was  ex- 
plaining from  whence  the  figure  had  been 
derived),  exactly  as  he  was  painted  rising 
from  the  sepulchre.  The  story  went 
abroad.  The  ill-natured  sisters  made 
spiteful  remarks ;  the  wisest  shook  their 
heads.  Teresa  had  not  been  noted  for 
special  holiness  in  the  many  years  that 
she  had  been  among  them.  Others,  much 
more  like  saints  than  she,  had  never  seen 
anything  wonderful ;  why  should  God  se- 
lect her  to  visit  with  such  special  favor? 
They  were  more  clear  than  ever  that  she 
was  possessed.  She  was  preached  at 
from  the  pulpit;  she  was  prayed  for  in 
chapel  as  bewitched.  She  could  not  tell 
how  to  behave:  if  she  was  silent  about 
her  visions,  it  was  deceit ;  if  she  spoke  of 
them,  it  was  vanity.  She  preserved  her 
balance  in  this  strange  trial  remarkably 
well.  Her  confessor  had  been  warned 
against  her,  and  was  as  bard  as  the  rest. 
She  continued  to  tell  him  whatever  she 
supposed  herself  to  see  and  hear,  and 
absolutely  submitted  to  his  judgment.  He 
confidently  assured  her  it  was  the  devil, 
and  directed  her  when  Christ  appeared 
next  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  and 
point  her  thumb  at  him.  God  would  then 
deliver  her.  She  obeyed,  though  with  in- 
finite pain.  Christ's  figure,  whoever  made 
it,  ought,  she  thought,  to \be  reverenced; 
and  to  point  her  thumb  was  to  mock  like 
the  Jews.  As  her  trances  recurred  al- 
ways at  her  devotions,  she  was  next  for- 
bidden to  pray.  Under  these  trials  Christ 
himself  interposed  to  comfort  her.  He 
told  her  that  she  was  right  in  obeying  her 
confessor,  though  the  confessor  was  mis- 


taken. The  inhibition  to  pray,  he  said, 
was  tyranny,  and,  in  fact,  it  was  not  long 
maintained.  The  apparitions  grew  more 
frequent  and  more  vivid.  One  day  the 
cross  attached  to  her  rosary  was  snatched 
out  of  her  hands,  and  when  it  was  given 
back  to  her  it  was  made  of  jewels  more 
brilliant  than  diamonds.  A  voice  said 
that  she  would  always  see  it  so,  though  to 
others  it  would  seem  as  before.  She  had 
often  an  acute  pain  in  her  side;  she  fan- 
cied once  that  an  angel  came  to  her  with 
a  lance  tipped  with  fire,  which  he  struck 
into  her  heart.  In  after  years,  when  she 
became  legendary,  it  was  gravely  declared 
that  the  heart  had  been  examined,  and 
had  been  found  actually  pierced.  A  large 
drawing  of  it  forms  the  frontispiece  o£ 
th^biography  provided  for  the  use  of  pious 
Catholics. 

This  condition  continued  for  several 
years,  and  became  the  talk  of  Avila. 
Some  held  to  the  possession  theory ;  oth- 
ers s;iid  it  was  imposture;  others,  espe- 
cially as  there  was  no  further  harm  in  poor 
Teresa,  began  to  fancy  that  perhaps  the 
visions  were  real.  She  herself  knew  not 
what  to  think.  Excellent  people  were 
satisfied  that  they  were  a  deception,  and 
the  excellent  people,  she  thought,  might 
very  likely  be  right,  for  the  apparitions 
were  not  all  of  a  consoling  kind.  She  had 
seen  Christ  and  the  angels,  but  also  -she 
had  seen  the  devil.  **  Once,"  she  says, 
**the  devil  appeared  to  me  in  the  oratory; 
he  spoke  to  me;  his  face  was  awful,  and 
his  body  was  of  fiame  without  smoke. 
He  said  that  I  had  escaped  him  for  the 
present,  but  he  would  have  me  yet.  I 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross ;  he  went,  but 
returned  ;  I  threw  holy  water  at  him,  aod 
then  he  vanished.*'  At  another  time  she 
was  taken  into  hell;  the  entrance  was  by 
a  gloomy  passage,  at  the  end  of  which  was 
a  pool  of  putrid  water  alive  with  writhing 
snakes.  She  fancied  that  she  was  thrust 
into  a  hole  in  the  wall  where  she  could 
neither  sit  nor  lie,  and  in  that  positioo 
was  tortured  with  cramps.  Other  horrors 
she  witnessed,  but  did  not  herself  experi- 
ence: she  was  shown  only  what  would 
have  been  her  own  condition  if  she  had 
not  been  rescued. 

One  act  she  records,  exceedingly  char- 
acteristic. Avila  was  not  wholly  unbe- 
lieving. Afflicted  persons  r^ometimes 
came  to  her  for  advice.  Among  the  rest 
a  priest  came,  who  was  living  in  mortal 
sin,  miserable,  yet  unable  to  confess  in 
the  proper  form,  and  so  made  fast  in  the 
bonds  of  Satan.  Teresa  prayed  for  him; 
and  then  he  managed  to  contess,  and  for 


J 


SAINT  TERESA. 


731 


a  time  did  not  sin  any  more ;  but  he  told 
Teresa  that  the  devil  tortured  him  dread- 
fully, and  he  could  not  bear  it.  She  then 
prayed  that  the  tortures  might  be  laid  on 
her,  and  that  the  priest  might  be  spared. 
For  a  month  after  the  devil  was  allowed 
to  work  his  will  upon  her.  He  would  sit 
upon  her  breviary  when  she  was  reading, 
and  her  cell  would  fill  with  legions  of  imps. 

An  understanding  of  less  than  usual 
strength  would  have  broken  down  under 
so  severe  a  trial.  Teresa  knew  nothing 
of  the  natural  capacities  of  a  disordered 
animal  system.  She  had  been  taught 
theologically  that  angels  and  devils  were 
everywhere  busy,  and  it  was  inevitable 
that  she  should  regard  herself  as  under  a 
preternatural  dispensation  of  some  kind ; 
but,  as  long  as  she  was  uncertain  of  what 
kind,  she  kept  her  judgment  undisturbed, 
and  she  thought  and  reasoned  on  the  com- 
mon subjects  of  the  day  like  a  superior 
person  of  ordinary  faculty. 

Society  at  Avila,  as  throughout  Spain, 
was  being  stormily  agitated  at  the  advance 
of  the  Reformation.  From  Germany  it 
was  passing  to  the  Low  Countries  and 
into  France.  England,  after  a  short-lived 
recovery,  had  relapsed  into  heresy,  and 
dreadful  stories  were  told  of  religious 
houses  suppressed,  and  monks  and  nuns 
breaking  their  vows  and  defying  heaven 
by  marrying.  Antichrist  was  triumphing, 
and  millions  of  souls  wece  rushing  head* 
long  into  the  pit.  Other  millions  too  of 
ignorant  Indians,  missionaries  told  her, 
were  perishing  also  for  want  of  vigor  in 
the  Church  to  save  them.  Teresa,  since 
she  had  seen  hell,  had  a  very  real  horror 
of  it.  Torment  without  endl  What 
heart  could  bear  the  thought  of  it  ?  To 
rescue  any  single  soul  from  so  terrible  a 
fate,  she  felt  ready  herself  to  die  a  thou- 
sand deaths ;  but  what  could  one  poor 
woman  do  at  such  a  time  —  a  single  unit 
in  a  Spanish  country  town  ?  Something 
was  wrong  when  such  catastrophes  could 
happen.  What  the  wrong  was,  she 
thought  she  saw  within  the  limits  of  her 
own  experience.  The  religious  orders 
were  the  Church's  regular  soldiers.  Their- 
manual  was  their  rule;  their  weapons 
were  penance,  prayer,  and  self-denial ;  and 
as  long  as  they  were  diligent  in  the  use  of 
them,  God's  favor  was  secured,  and  evil 
could  not  prevail.  But  the  rules  had  been 
neglected,  penance  laughed  at,  and  prayer 
become  half-hearted.  Cloister  discipline 
had  been  accommodated  to  the  manners 
of  a  more  enlightened  age. 

Hoc  fonte  derivata  clades 
In  patriam  populumque  fluzit 


Here  was  the  secret  of  the  great  revolt 
of  the  Church,  in  the  opinion  of  Teresa, 
and  it  was  at  least  part  of  the  truth  ;  for 
the  cynical  profligacy  of  the  religious 
houses  had  provoked  Germany  and  En- 
gland more  than  any  other  cause.  Teresa 
herself  had  learned  how  little  convent  life 
in  Spain  could  assist  a  soul  in  search  of 
perfection.  At  the  Incarnation  she  could 
not  keep  her  vows  if  she  wished  to  keep 
them ;  for  the  cloister  gates  were  open, 
and  the  most  earnest  desire  for  seclusion 
could  not  ensure  it.  Friends  who  wanted 
a  nun  to  visit  them  had  only  to  apply  to 
the  provincial,  and  the  provincial  would 
give  a  dispensation,  not  as  a  permission, 
but  as  a  mandate  which  was  not  to  be  dis* 
obeyed. 

Puzzled  with  what  she  found,  Teresa 
had  studied  the  ancient  rule  of  the  Car- 
melite order  before  it  was  relaxed  by 
Eugenius  IV.  If  a  house  could  be  found- 
ed where  that  rule  could  be  again  kept,  she 
considered,  how  much  easier  her  own 
burden  would  be ;  how  much  better  God 
would  be  served ;  and  then,  perhaps,  the 
Church  would  regain  her  strength.  No 
improvement  could  be  looked  for  in  the 
Convent  of  the  Incarnation  itself.  Two 
hundred  women,  accustomed  to  indul- 
gence which  a  pope  had  sanctioned,  were 
not  likely  to  be  induced  to  part  with  it. 
She  talked  of  her  scheme  with  her  friends 
in  the  town.  The  difficulties  seemed  enor« 
mous;  she  had  no  money  to  begin  with, 
and  her  friends  had  little.  If  this  obsta-* 
cle  could  be  overcome,  the  government  of 
the  order  was  despotic;  she  could  do 
nothing  without  the  consent  of  the  pro- 
vincial, and  for  such  a  consent  she  knew 
that  it  would  be  idle  to  ask.  She  was 
thinking  the  matter  over  one  day  after 
communion,  when  she  fell  into  her  usual 
trance.  **  The  Lord ''  appeared  and  told 
her  that  her  design  was  to  be  carried  out. 
A  house  was  to  be  founded,  and  was  to 
be  dedicated  to  her  old  patron  San  Josef. 
It  would  become  a  star  which  would  shine 
over  the  earth.  She  was  to  tell  her  con- 
fessor what  he  bad  said,  and  to  require 
him  to  make  no  opposition. 

The  apparition  was  a  natural  creation 
of  her  own  previous  musings,  but  it  fell 
in  so  completely  with  her  wishes  that  she 
would  not  and  could  not  doubt.  It  ap- 
peared again  and  again.  She  wrote  an 
account  of  it  by  her  confessor's  orders, 
and  it  was  submitted  to  the  provincial  and 
the  bishop.  If  they  hesitated,  it  was  but 
for  a  moment;  they  naturally  consulted 
Teresa's  prioress,  and  at  once  the  tempest 
was  let  loose.    ''This  then,"  exclaimed 


73« 


SAINT  TERESA; 


the  incensed  mother  and  the  rest  of  the 
sisierhood,  "this  is  the  meaning  of  the 
visions  we  have  heard  so  much  of.  Sis- 
ter Teresa  thinks  herself  too  good  for  us. 
We  are  not  holy  enough  for  her.  Pretty 
presumption  I  Let  her  keep  the  rule  as 
it  stands  before  she  talks  of  mending  it." 
From  the  convent  the  disturbance  passed 
to  the  town.  The  Spaniards  had  no  love 
for  novelties;  they  believed  in  use,  and 
wont,  and  the  quiet  maintenance  of  estab- 
lished things.  They  looked  on  ecstasies 
and  trances  as  signs  rather  of  insanity 
than  sanctity;  they  thought  that  people 
should  do  their  duty  in  the  state  of  life  to 
which  they  had  been  called,  and  duty  was 
hard  enough  without  artificial  additions. 
Teresa's  relations  told  the  provincial  she 
was  out  of  her  mind.  Some  thought  a 
prison  would  be  the  best  place  for  her; 
others  hinted  at  the  Inquisition  and  a 
possible  trial  for  witchcraft.  Her  confes- 
sor called  her  scheme  a  woman's  non- 
sense, and  insisted  that  she  should  think 
no  more  of  it. 

"The  Lord  "said  that  she  was  not  to 
be  disturbed  by  all  this  outcry;  good 
things  were  always  opposed  wheft  first 
suggested ;  she  must  wait  quietly,  and  all 
would  go  well.  Though  Avila  seemed 
unanimous  in  its  condemnation,  there 
were  two  priests  there  of  some  conse- 
quence—  one  a  Dominican,  the  other  a 
Franciscan  —  who  were  more  on  a  level 
with  the  times.  They  saw  that  something 
might  be  made  of  Teresa,  and  they  wrote 
to  their  friends  in  Rome  about  her.     Her 

{esuit  confessor  held  to  his  own  opinion, 
lut  a  new  rector  came  to  the  college  at 
Avila,  with  whom  they  also  communi- 
cated. The  rector,  after  a  conversation 
with  her,  removed  the  confessor  and  ap- 
pointed another.  The  provincial  remained 
obstinate,  but  the  bishop,  Alvarez  de  Men- 
doza,  was  privately  encouraging.  Teresa 
was  made  to  feel  that  she  was  not  desert- 
ed, and,  with  a  new  spiritual  director  to 
comfort  her,  she  took  up  her  project  again. 
She  was  in  a  difficulty,  for  she  was 
bound  by  her  vow.h  to  obey  the  provincial ; 
he  had  already  refused  his  permission, 
and  she  dared  not  apply  to  him  again. 
But  she  probably  knew  that  an  appeal 
had  been  made  to  the  pope,  and,  pending 
the  results  of  this,  she  thought  that  she 
might  begin  her  preparations.  She  had 
to  be  secret  —  almost  deceitful ;  and  might 
have  doubted  if  she  was  keeping  within 
even  the  letter  of  her  duty  if  her  visions 
had  been  less  inspiriting.  A  widow  friend 
in  the  town  bought  a  house  as  if  for  her 
own  private  occupation.    Alterations  were 


wanted  to  make  it  suitable  for  a  small 
convent,  and  Teresa  had  no  money  to  pay 
for  them ;  but  San  Josef  told  her  to  en- 
gage workmen,  and  that  the  money  should 
be  found;  and  in  fact  at  that  moment  a 
remittance  came  unexpectedly  from  a 
brother  in  Lima.  She  was  afraid  of  the 
Carmelite  authorities.  The  house,  Christ 
told  her,  should  be  under  the  bishop,  and 
not  under  the  order ;  she  was  herself  to 
be  the  superior,  and  she  saw  herself  robed 
for  office  by  San  Josef  and  the  Virgin  ia 
person. 

Careful  as  she  was,  she  still  feared  that 
the  provincial  would  hear  what  she  was 
doing,  and  would  send  her  an  inhibition, 
to  which,  if  it  came,  she  had  resolved  to 
submit.  It  became  expedient  for  her  to 
leave  Avila  till  the  answer  from  Rome 
could  arrive.  At  that  moment,  most  con- 
veniently, Dofia  Aloysia  de  la  Cerda,  sis- 
ter of  the  Duke  of  Medina  Celi,  wrote  to 
the  provincial  to  say  that  she  wished  Te- 
resa to  pay  her  a  visit  at  her  house  at 
Toledo.  Do&a  Aloysia  was  a  great  lady, 
whose  requests  were  commands.  The 
order  came  to  her  to  go;  she  was  in- 
formed by  the  usual  channel  that  the  invi- 
tation had  been  divinely  arranged.  She 
was  absent  for  six  months,  and  became 
acquainted  with  the  nature  and  habits  of 
Spanish  grandees.  Dofia  Aloysia  treated 
her  with  high  distinction  ;  she  met  other 
great  people,  and  was  impressed  with 
their  breeding  and  manners.  But  the 
splendor  was  disagreeable.  She  observed 
shrewdly,  that  between  persons  of  rank 
and  their  attendants  there  was  a  distance 
which  forbad  familiarity;  if  one  servant 
was  treated  with  confidence,  the  others 
were  jealous.  She  was  herself  an  object 
of  ill-will  through  Dofia  Aloysia's  friend- 
ship; and  she  concluded  that  it  was  a 
popular  error  to  speak  of  "lords  and 
ladies,*'  who  were  slaves  in  a  thousand 
ways.  Her  chief  comfort  at  Toledo  was 
the  Jesuit  College,  where  she  studied  at 
leisure  the  details  of  monastic  rule.  Her 
visit  was  unexpectedly  ended  by  a  let- 
ter from  her  provincial.  The  feeling  in 
the  Incarnation  convent  had  suddenly 
changed ;  a  party  had  formed  in  her  favor, 
who  wished  to  choose  her  as  prioress. 
The  provincial,  who  disliked  her  as  much 
as  ever,  desired  Dofta  Aloysia  privately  to 
prevent  her  from  going  home;  but  "a 
vision  "  told  her  that  she  had  prayed  for 
a  cross,  and  a  cross  she  should  have.  She 
concluded  that  it  was  to  be  the  threatened 
promotion,  and  after  a  stormy  scene  with 
her  hostess  she  went  her  way. 

She  was  mistaken  about  the  cross.    On 


SAINT  TERESA. 


733 


reachiDg  Avila,  she  found  that  she  had 
not  been  elected,  bat  that  the  ball  had  ar- 
rived privately  from  Rome  for  her  new 
convent.  The  pope  had  placed  it  under 
the  bishop,  as  "  the  Lord  *'  had  foretold, 
and  the  bishop  had  undertaken  the  charge. 
The  secret  had  been  profoundly  kept ;  the 
house  was  ready,  and  nothing  remained 
but  to  take  possession  of  it.  It  was  to 
be  a  house  of  Descahos  (Barefoots),  the 
name  by  which  the  reformed  order  was  in 
future  to  be  known,  in  opposition  to  the 
Relaxed,  the  Calzados,  The  sisters  were 
not  to  be  literally  ** shoeless;"  "a  bare- 
foot,'' as  Teresa  said,  "  makes  a  bad  beast 
of  burden."  They  were  to  wear  sandals 
of  rope,  and,  for  the  rest,  they  were  to  be 
confined  to  the  cloister  strictly,  to  eat  no 
meat,  to  sleep  on  straw,  to  fast  on  reduced 
allowance  from  September  till  Easter; 
they  were  to  do  needlework  for  the  benefit 
of  the  poor,  and  they  were  to  live  on  alms 
without  regular  endowment.  Teresa  had 
been  careful  for  their  health;  the  hard- 
ships would  not  be  fi;reater  than  those 
borne  without  complaint  by  ordinary 
Spanish  peasants.  The  dress  was  to  be 
of  thick,  undyed  woollen  cloth,  with  no 
ornament  but  cleanliness.  Dirt,  which 
most  saints  regarded  as  a  sign  of  holi- 
ness, Teresa  always  hated.  The  number 
of  sisters  was  to  be  thirteen ;  more,  she 
thought,  could  not  live  together  consis- 
tently with  discipline. 

Notwithstanding  the  pope's  bull,  diffi- 
culty was  anticipated.  If  the  purpose 
were  known,  the  Carmelites  would  find 
means  of  preventing  the  dreaded  innova- 
tion; an  accomplished  fact,  however, 
would  probably  be  allowed  to  stand. 
Teresa  selected  four  poor  women  as  the 
first  to  take  the  habit,  and  quietly  intro- 
duced them  into  the  house.  She  had 
gone  out  on  leave  from  her  own  cloister, 
as  if  to  attend  a  sick  relative,  and  was 
thus  unobserved.  On  the  24tb  of  August, 
1562,  ten  years  exactly  before  the  Mas- 
sacre of  St.  Bartholomew,  the  sacrament 
was  brought  into  the  tiny  chapel  of  San 
Josef's,  a  bell  was  hung,  mass  was  said, 
and  the  new  order  had  begun  to  exist. 

Teresa  was  still  bound  by  her  vows  to 
her  convent :  when  the  ceremony  was 
over,  she  returned  to  the  Incarnation,  half 
frightened  at  what  she  had  done.  She 
had  stirred  a  hornet's  nest,  as  she  was 
immediately  to  find.  The  devil  attacked 
her  first ;  be  told  her  that  she  had  broken 
obedience,  she  had  acted  without  the  pro- 
vincial's leave,  and  had  not  asked  for  it 
because  she  knew  it  would  be  refused ; 
her  nuns  would  starve ;  she  herself  would 


soon  tire  of  a  wretched  life  in  such  a 
wretched  place,  and  would  pine  for  her 
lost  comforts.  She  lay  down  to  rest,  but 
was  soon  roused  by  a  storm.  The  towns- 
people were  the  first  to  discover  what  had 
happened.  It  was  easy  to  foresee  the 
anger  of  the  Carmelites  ;  why  the  towns* 
people  should  have  been  angry  is  less 
obviousi  Perhaps  they  objected  to  the 
establishment  of  a  colony  of  professed 
beggars  among  them  ;  perhaps  they  were 
lea  by  the  chiefs  of  the  other  religious 
orders.  A  riot  broke  out ;  the  prioress 
sent  for  Teresa;  the  provincial  arrived, 
hot  and  indignant.  She  was  rebuked,  ad- 
monished, informed  that  she  had  given 
scandal,  and  required  to  make  instant 
submission  before  the  assembled  convent. 
The  alcalde  meanwhile  had  called  a  meet- 
ing of  the  citizens;  the  provincials  of  the 
Dominicans,  Franciscans,  and  Augus- 
tinians  attended.  A  resolution  was  first 
passed  for  the  instant  dissolution  of  the 
new  house  and  the  removal  of  the  sacra- 
ment ;  on  second  thoughts,  it  was  decided 
to  refer  the  matter,  being  of  such  high 
importance,  to  the  Council  of  State  at 
Madrid.  Teresa  had  but  one  friend  to 
go  to.  ''My  Lord,"  she  said,  on  her 
knees,  "this  house  is  not  mine,  it  is 
yours ;  all  that  I  could  do  is  done.  You 
must  see  to  it."  She  was  not  to  be  disap- 
pointed. 

The  bishop  prevented  immediate  vio- 
lence, and  Avila  waited  for  the  action  of 
the  council.  The  council  was  in  no  hurry 
with  an  answer.  Certain  persons  wrote 
to  Philip:  Philip  referred  to  the  pope, 
and  there  were  six  months  of  suspense, 
the  four  poor  sisters  living  as  they  could, 
and  Teresa  remaining  in  disgrace.  The 
town  authorities  cooled ;  they  said  the 
house  might  stand  if  any  one  would  endow 
it.  Afterwards,  finding  that  they  were 
not  likely  to  be  supported  from  Madrid, 
they  were  ready  to  dispense  with  endow- 
ment On  the  arrival  of  a  fresh  bull  from 
Pius  V.  all  remains  of  opposition  van- 
ished, except  among  the  Carmelites,  and 
the  Carmelites  found  it  prudent  to  sup- 
{)ress  their  objections.  Public  opinion 
veered  round ;  the  foundation  was  de- 
clared to  be  a  work  of  God,  and  Teresa  to 
be  his  special  servant,  instead  of  a  rest- 
less visionary.  The  provincial  gave  her 
leave  to  remove  and  take  charge  of  her 
flock.  The  luggage  which  she  took  with 
her  from  the  Incarnation  was  a  straw 
mattress,  a  patched  woollen  gown,  a  whip, 
and  a  haircloth ;  that  was  all. 

Thus  furnished,  she  entered  on  the  five 
happiest  years  of  her  life.    Other  sisters 


734 


SAINT  TERESA. 


joined,  bringing  small  dowries  with  them, 
and  the  number  of  thirteen  was  soon  filled 
up.  Her  girls,  she  says,  were  angels, 
perfect  especially  in  the  virtue  of  obedi- 
ence. She  would  try  them  by  orders 
contradictory  or  absurd;  they  did  their 
best  without  a  question.  One  sister  was 
told  to  plant  a  rotten  cucumber  in  (he 
garden  ;  she  merely  asked  if  it  was  to  be 
planted  upright  or  lengthways. 

The  visions  were  without  intermission. 
She  was  taken  up  to  heaven  and  saw  her 
father  and  mother  there.  The  Virgin  gave 
her  a  cope,  invisible  to  all  eyes  but  her 
own,  which  would  protect  her  from  mortal 
sin.  Once  at  **  hours "  she  had  a  very 
cprious  experience.  She  fancied  that  she 
was  a  mirror  without  frame,  without  di- 
mensions, with  Christ  shining  in  the  cen- 
tre of  it,  and  the  mirror  itself,  she  knew 
not  how,  was  in  Christ.  He  told  her  that 
when  a  soul  was  in  mortal  sin  the  glass 
was  clouded,  and  though  he  was  present, 
it  could  not  reflect  him.  With  heretics 
the  glass  was  broken,  and  could  never  be 
repaired. 

Heretics  and  the  growth  of  them  still 
occupied  her,  and  the  more  keenly  as  the 
civil  war  grew  more  envenomed  in  France. 
They  were  too  strong,  she  thought,  to  be 
overcome  by  princes  and  soldiers.  In 
such  a  contest  the  spiritual  arm  only 
could  prevail.  In  a  trance  she  saw  seven 
Carmelite  monks,  of  the  pristine  type,  re- 
formed like  her  own  sisterhood,  with 
swords  in  their  hands  on  a  battle-field. 
Their  faces  were  flushed  with  fighting. 
The  ground  was  strewn  with  the  slain,  and 
they  were  smiting  still,  and  the  flying  en- 
emy were  the  hosts  of  Luther  and  Calvin. 
These  air-drawn  pictures,  lately  illusions 
of  Satan,  were  now  regarded  as  communi- 
cations direct  from  heaven.  They  were 
too  important  to  be  lost.  Her  superior 
ordered  her  to  write  them  down,  and  the 
result  was  the  singular  autobiography 
which  has  hitherto  been  our  guide  to  her 
history. 

She  wrote  it  unwillingly ;  for  it  is  evi- 
dent that,  deeply  as  these  communications 
had  affected  her,  and  definitely  as  her 
spiritual  advisers  had  at  length  assured 
her  of  their  supernatural  orio;in,  she  was 
herself  still  uncertain  of  their  nature. 
Many  of  her  visions,  she  was  confident, 
had  been  the  creation  of  her  own  brain. 
If  any  had  come  from  another  source  she 
did  not  regard  them  as  of  particular  im- 
portance, or  as  symptoms  of  a  high  state 
of  grace.  This  is  certain,  from  a  passage 
on  the  subject  in  one  of  her  writings. 
Hysterical  nuns  often  fancied  that  they 


had  received  revelations,  and  their  con- 
fessors were  too  apt  to  encourage  them. 
She  says :  — 

Of  "revelations'*  no    account   should    be 
made ;  for  though  some  may  be  authentic, 
many  are  certainly  false,  and  it  is  foolish  to 
look  for  one  truth  amidst  a  hundred  lies.     It 
is  dangerous  also,  for  **  revelations  "  are  apt 
to  stray  from  the  right  faith,  and  the  right 
faith  is  of  immeasurably  greater  consequence. 
People  fancy  that  to  have  "revelations"  im- 
plies exceptional  holiness.     It  implies  nothing 
of  the  kind.     Holiness  can  be  arrived  at  only 
by  acts  of  virtue  and  by  keeping  the  com- 
mandments.    We  women  are  easily  led  away 
by  our  imagination ;  we  have  less  strength 
and  less  knowledge  than  men  have,  and  can- 
not keep  things  in  their  proper  places.    There- 
fore I  will  not  have  my  sisters  read  my  own 
books,  especially  not  my  autobiography,  lest 
they  look  for  revelations  for  themselves  in 
fancying  that  they  are  imitatmg  me.    The  best 
things  that  I  know  came  to  me  by  obedience* 
not    by  revelation.      Sisters    may  have  real 
visions,  but  they  must  be  taught  to  make  light 
of  them.    There  is  a  subtle  deceit  in  these  ex- 
periences.   The  devil  may  lead  souls  to  evil 
on  a  spiritual  road. 

The  priest  editor  of  Teresa's  works 
makes  an  honest  observation  on  this  re- 
markable acknowledgment.  "  I  know  not 
how  it  is,"  he  saj's,  "but  the  revelations 
received  by  women  seem  of  consequence 
to  men,  and  those  received  by  men  of  con* 
sequence  to  women.''  Though  he  pretends 
that  he  did  not  know,  he  knew  very  well, 
for  he  goes  on  :  "  It  must  arise  from  those 
accursed  sexual  inclinations  •—  each  sex 
believes  most  where  it  loves  most.'*  He 
should  have  drawn  one  more  inference  — 
that  young  men  were  the  worst  possible 
spiritual  advisers  for  young  women. 

Teresa  was  not  to  be  left  to  enjoy  her 
quiet.  A  single  convent  had  hitherto 
sufficed  for  her  ambition;  but  she  had 
been  told  that  it  was  to  be  a  star  which^ 
was  to  shine  over  the  earth,  and  at  that' 
solitary  taper  other  flames  were  now  to  be 
kindled.  The  Church  of  Rome  was  rally- 
ing from  its  confusion,  and  was  setting  its 
house  in  order.  The  clergy  were  clearing 
themselves  of  the  scandals  which  had 
brought  such  tremendous  consequences 
on  them.  The  Catholic  powers  were  put- 
ting out  their  strength,  and  Teresa's  ener- 
getic spirit  would  not  allow  her  to  rest. 
The  Carmelites  themselves  now  partially 
recognized  her  value.  The  general  came 
to  Spain,  and  visited  her  at  Avila.  He 
reported  what  he  had  seen  to  Philip,  and« 
with  Philip's  sanction,  he  sent  her  powers 
to  found  other  houses  of  Descalzos,  for- 
bidding the  provincials  to  interfere  with 


5AINT  TERESA. 


iss 


ber.  The  champions  whom  she  had  seen 
on  the  battlefield  in  .a  vision  had  been 
brothers  of  her  reformed  order.  The  pjen- 
eral  empowered  her  to  establish  institu- 
tions of  men  as  well  as  women,  if  she 
could  find  recruits  who  were  willing.  In 
other  respects  she  was  left  to  herself,  and 
she  was  to  show  what  a  single  woman, 
with  no  resources  but  her  own  internal 
force,  was  able  to  accomplish.  She  was 
now  fifty-two,  with  bad  health,  which  was 
growing  worse  by  age.  The  feaders  of 
the  Church  were  awake ;  princes  and 
statesmen  were  awake ;  but  the  body  of 
the  Spanish  people  was  still  unstirred. 
She  had  to  contend  with  official  pedantry, 
with  the  narrow  pride  of  bishops,  with 
dislike  of  change,  and  the  jealousies  of 
rival  jurisdictions.  As  to  barefoot  monks, 
it  was  long  before  she  could  find  one  man 
in  flesh  and  blood  whom  she  could  tempt 
to  join  with  her. 

Her  adventures  in  the  fifteen  years  of 
her  pilgrimage  would  fill  a  long  volume. 
We  must  content  ourselves  with  fragmen- 
tary incidents  of  her  wanderings,  a  few 
pictures  of  persons  with  whom  she  came 
in  contact,  a  few  glimpses  of  Peninsular 
fife  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  the  hu- 
man features  of  a  remarkable  person  still 
traceable  behind  the  paint  and  tinsel  of 
miracle  with  which  her  biographers  have 
disfigured  Teresa  de  Cepeda. 

Her  first  enterprise  was  at  Medina  del 
Campo,  a  large  town  fifty  miles  from 
Avila,  on  the  road  to  Valladolid,and  lately 
the  residence  of  Isabella's  court.  A  lady 
of  Medina,  of  small  property,  had  applied 
for  admission  into  San  Josef's,  and  could 
not  be  received  for  want  of  room.  She 
purchased  a  house,  at  Teresa's  sugges- 
tion, which  could  be  turned  into  a  second 
convent.  Difficulties  were  to  be  antici- 
pated, of  the  same  kind  which  had  been 
encountered  at  Avila,  and  promptitude 
and  secrecy  were  again  necessary.  A 
house  itself  was  not  enough.  Medina 
could  not  provide  the  first  sisters,  and  a 
colony  had  to  be  introduced  from  the  par- 
ent stock.  Teresa  set  out  with  two  nuns 
from  San  Josef's,  and  four  from  the  In- 
carnation, of  whom  two  went  with  sinking 
hearts.  Julian  of  Avila,  the  chaplain,  was 
their  single  male  escort  and  companion. 
They  travelled  in  a  cart,  with  a  picture  or 
two,  some  candlesticks  for  the  altar-* 
probably  of  tin,  for  they  were  utterly  poor 
—  a  bell,  and  the  sacrament.  To  a  stran- 
ger who  met  them  they  must  have  ap- 
peared like  a  set  of  strolling  mountebanks. 
In  Avila  itself  they  were  thought  mad, 
and  the  bishop  had  much  the  same  opin- 


ion, though  he  would  not  interfere.  It 
was  hot  August  weather  —  the  eve  of  the 
Feast  of  the  Assumption  —  and  the  roads 
were  parched  and  dusty.  On  the  way 
they  were  met  by  the  news  that  the  Au- 
gustinians,  whose  wall  adjoined  the  build- 
ing which  the  lady  had  bought,  intended 
to  prevent  them  from  settling  there. 
They  went  on,  nothing  daunted,  and 
reached  Medina  at  nightfall.  On  the  road 
they  had  been  in  danger  of  being  arrested 
as  vagrants  by  the  police.  Within  the 
gates  they  were  in  worse  peril ;  for  the 
next  day  there  was  to  be  a  bull-fight,  and 
the  bulls  were  being  driven  in  through 
the  streets.  But  nothing  could  stop 
Teresa.  She  had  resolved  to  take  pos« 
session  at  once,  before  she  could  be  inter- 
rupted, and  she  went  straight  to  her 
point.  The  party  arrived  at  midnight, 
and  never  did  intending  settlers  in  an 
American  forest  look  round  upon  a  less 
promising  scene.  The  courtyard  walls 
were  in  ruins,  the  doors  were  off  their 
hinges,  the  windows  shutterless,  the  roof 
fallen  in,  the  single  room  which  would 
serve  for  a  chapel  half  open  to  the  air, 
and  littered  with  dirt  and  rubbish.  The 
group  and  the  surroundings  would  have 
made  a  subject  for  Murillo  —  seven  poor 
women  and  their  priest,  with  the  sacra- 
ment, for  which  they  were  more  alarmed 
than  for  themselves,  the  desolate  wreck 
of  a  place,  ghastly  in  the  moonlight,  to 
which  they  had  come  expecting  to  find  a 
home.  Four  hours  of  night  remained, 
and  then  daylight  would  be  on  them. 
Teresa's  energy  was  equal  to  the  occa- 
sion. Not  a  thought  was  wasted  on  their 
own  accommodation.  The  sisters  were 
set  to  clear  the  dirt  from  the  chapel.  In 
a  garret,  the  one  spot  that  was  weather- 
proof, were  some  tapestries  and  .  bed- 
hangings.  These  would  protect  the  altar. 
They  had  no  nails,  and  at  that  hour  the 
shops  were  closed ;  but  they  picked  as 
manv  as  they  wanted  out  of  the  walls. 
By  cfawn  the  altar  was  furnished,  the  bell 
was  hung,  mass  was  said,  and  the  convent 
was  an  instituted  fact. 

Sleepless  and  breakfastless,  the  unfor- 
tunate creatures  then  looked  about  them, 
and  their  hearts  sank  at  their  prospects. 
They  crept  disconsolate  into  their  garret, 
and  sat  watching  the  sacrament  through  a 
window,  lest  rude  hands  might  injure  it. 
In  the  evening  a  Jesuit  father  came. 
Teresa  begged  him  to  find  lodgings  for 
them  till  the  house  could  be  put  in  order; 
but  the  town  was  full,  and  for  a  week  no 
suitable  rooms  could  be  found.  Medina, 
naturally,  was  excited  at  the  strange  invar 


736 

sion,  and  was  not  inclined  to  be  hospi- 
table. At  length  a  charitable  merchant 
took  compassion.  An  upper  floor  was 
provided,  where  they  could  live  secluded, 
with  a  hall  for  a  chapel.  A  Seflora  de 
Quiroga,  a  relation  perhaps  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Toledo,  undertook  the  repairs 
of  the  convent.  The  citizens  relented  and 
gave  alms ;  and  in  two  months  the  second 
house  of  the  reformed  Descalzos  was 
safely  established. 

This  was  in  1567.  In  the  next  year  a 
third  convent  was  founded  at  Nlalaga, 
with  the  help  of  another  sister  of  the  Dulce 
of  Medina  Cell.  From  Malaga  Teresa 
was  "sent  by  the  spirit"  to  Valladolid, 
where  a  young  nobleman  offered  a  villa 
and  garden.  While  she  was  considering 
the  youth  died ;  he  had  led  a  wild  life, 
and  she  was  made  to  know  that  he  was  in 
purgatory,  from  which  he  was  to  be  re- 
leased only  when  the  first  mass  was  said 
at  the  spot.  She  flew  instantly  across 
Spain  with  her  faithful  Julian.  The  villa 
did  not  please  her;  for  it  was  outside  the 
town,  near  the  river,  and  was  reported  to 
be  unhealthy.  But  the  gardens  were 
beautiful.  Valladolid,  stern  and  sterile  in 
winter,  grows  in  spring;  bright  with  flowers 
and  musical  with  nightingales.  Objec- 
tions melted  before  the  thought  of  a  soul 
in  penal  fire.  She  took  possession;  the 
mass  was  said;  and,  as  the  host  was 
raised,  the  pardoned  benefactor  appeared 
in  glory  at  Julian's  side  on  his  way  to 
paradise.  Another  incident  occurred  be- 
fore she  left  the  neighborhood.  Heresy 
had  stolen  into  Castile:  a  batch  of  Lu- 
therans were  to  be  burnt  in  the  great 
square  at  Valladolid  ;  and  she  beard  that 
they  meant  to  die  impenitent.  That  it 
could  be  anything  but  right  to  burn  human 
beings  for  errors  of  belief  could  not  occur 
to  her;  but  she  prayed  that  the  Lord 
would  turn  their  hearts,  and  save  their 
souls,  and  inflict  on  her  as  much  as  she 
could  bear  of  their  purgatorial  pains. 
She  supposed  that  she  had  been  taken  at 
her  word  —  the  heretics  recanted  at  the 
stake  —  she  herself  never  after  knew  a 
day  without  suffering. 

Toledo  came  next.  She  was  invited 
thither  by  li£r  Jesuit  friends.  She  was 
now  famous.  On  her  way  she  passed 
through  Madrid.  Curious  people  came 
about  her,  prying  and  asking  questions. 
**What  fine  streets  Madrid- has!''  was 
her  answer  on  one  such  occasion.  She 
would  not  stay  there.  Philip  wished  to 
see  her,  but  she  had  already  flown.  She 
bad  two  sisters  with  her  to  start  the. colo- 
ny ;  of  other  property  she  had  four  ducats, 


SAINT  TERESA. 


two  pictures,  two  straw  pallets,  and  notb* 
ing  besides.  She  had  gone  in  faith,  and 
faith  as  usual  works  miracles.  DofU 
Aloysia  had  not  forgiven  her  desertion, 
and  from  that  quarter  there  was  no  assis- 
tance ;  but  a  house  was  obtained  by  some 
means,  and  the  sisters  and  she,  with  their 
possessions,  were  introduced  into  it.  Of 
further  provision  no  care  had  been  taken. 
It  was  winter,  and  they  had  not  firewood 
enough  to  "boil  a  herring."  They  were 
without  blankets,  and  shivered  with  cold ; 
but  they  were  never  more  happy,  and 
were  almost  sorry  when  fresh  recruits 
came  in  and  brought  money  and  ordinary 
conveniences. 

The  recruits  were  generally  of  middle 
rank.  "  The  Lord  "  had  said  that  he  did 
not  want  members  of  high  families ;  and 
Teresa's  own  experience  was  not  calcu- 
lated to  diminish  her  dislike  of  such  great 
persons.  Ruy  Gomez,  Prince  of  Eboli 
and  Duke  of  PastrafLa,  was  Philip's  favor- 
ite minister.  His  wife  was  the  famous 
Afia  de  Mendoza,  whom  history  has  deter- 
mined to  have  been  Philip's  mistress. 
The  chief  evidence  for  this  piece  of  scan- 
dal is  the  presumption  that  kings  must 
have  had  mistresses  of  some  kind.  The 
single  fact  that  points  to  the  Princess  of 
Eboli  is  a  passage  in  a  letter  of  Antonio 
Perez,  who  says  that  the  king  was  jealous 
of  her  intimacy  with  her.  It  is  a  pity  that 
people  will  not  remember  that  jealousy 
has  more  meanings  than  one.  Perez  was 
Philip's  secretary.  The  princess  was  a 
proud,  intriguing,  imperious  woman,  with 
whom  Philip  had  many  difficulties;  and 
he  was  jealous  of  the  influence  which  she 
was  able  to  use  in  his  cabinet.  More 
absurd  story  never  fastened  itself  into 
human  annals,  or  which  more  signally 
illustrates  the  appetite  of  mankind  for 
garbage.  For  a  short  period  Teresa  was 
brought  in  contact  with  this  high  lady« 
and  we  catch  an  authentic  glimpse  of  her. 
She  wanted  some  new  excitement,  as 
ladies  of  rank  occasionally  do.  She  pro- 
posed to  found  a  nunnery  of  a  distin* 
guished  kind.  She  had  heard  of  the  nun 
of  Avila  as  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  day, 
and  she  sent  for  her  to.  Pastrafia.  Teresa 
had  not  liked  the  princess's  letters;  but 
Ruy  Gomez  was  too  great  a  man  to  be 
affronted,  and  her  confessor  told  her  that 
she  must  go.  A  further  inducement  was 
a  proposal  held  out  to  her  of  a  house  for 
monks,  also  of  the  reformed  rule,  for 
which  she  had  been  trying  hitherto  in 
vain.  The  princess  had  a  young  Carmel- 
ite about  her,  a  Father  Mariano,  who  was 
ready  to  take  charge  of  it. 


SAINT  TERESA. 


737 


Teresa  was  received  at  Pastrafia  with 
all  distinction.  A  casa  was  ready  to  re- 
ceive sisters,  but  she  found  that  the  prin- 
cess had  already  chosen  a  prioress,  and 
that  in  fact  the  convent  was  to  be  a  reli- 
gious plaything  of  a  fashionable  Lidy. 
Three  months  were  wasted  in  discussion ; 
and  in  the  course  of  them  Teresa  was 
questioned  about  her  history.  The  prin- 
cess had  heard  of  her  autobiography,  and 
begged  to  see  it.  She  was  not  vain  of 
her  visions,  and  consented  only  when  the 
princess  promised  that  the  book  should 
be  read  by  no  one  but  herself  and  her 
husband.  To  her  extreme  disgust  she 
found  that  it  became  the  common  talk  of 
the  household,  a  subject  of  Madrid  gossip, 
and  of  vulgar  impertinence.  Dofia  Alia 
herself  said  scornfully  that  Teresa  was 
but  another  Magdalen  de  la  Cruz,  an 
hysterical  dreamer,  who  had  been  con- 
demned by  the  Inouisition. 

Ruy  Gomez  hact  more  sense  than  his 
wife,  and  better  feeling.  The  obnoxious 
prioress  was  withdrawn,  and  the  convent 
was  started  on  the  usual  conditions.  The 
barefoot  friars  became  a  reality  under 
Father  Mariano,  whom  Teresa  liked  per- 
haps better  than  he  deserved.  As  long 
as  Ruy  Gomez  lived,  the  princess  did  not 
interfere.  Unfortunately  he  survived  only 
a  few  months,  and  nothing  would  satisfy 
Dofla  Afia  in  her  first  grief  but  that  she 
must  enter  the  sisterhood  herself.  She 
took  the  habit,  Mariano  having  provided 
her  with  a  special  dress  of  rich  materials 
for  the  occasion.  In  leaving  the  world, 
she  had  left  behind  her  neither  her  pride 
nor  her  self-indulgence.  She  brought  her 
favorite  maid  with  her.  She  had  a  sepa- 
rate suite  of  rooms,  and  the  other  sisters 
waited  upon  her  as  servants.  Teresa  had 
gone  back  to  Toledo.*  She  quarrelled 
with  the  prioress,  whose  appointment  she 
had  disliked ;  and  finally  left  the  convent, 
returned  to  the  castle,  and  stopped  the 
allowance  on  which  the  sisters  depended. 

Teresa,  when  she  heard  what  had 
passed,  ordered  the  removal  of  the  estab- 
lishment to  Segovia.  Two  years  later,  we 
find  her  on  the  road  to  Salamanca.  It  was 
late  in  autumn,  with  heavy  snow,  the  roads 
almost  impassable,  and  herself  suffering 
from  cough  and  fever.  This  time  she  had 
but  one  companion  with  her,  a  nun  older 
and  scarcely  less  infirm  than  herself.  **  Oh 
these  journeys !  "  she  exclaims.    She  was 


•« 


*  The  princess  sent  her  back  in  her  own  carriaxe. 

Pretty  saint  vou,  to  be  travelling  in  such  style  as 
that  I"  said  a  tool  to  her  as  she  drove  into  Toledo. 
**  Is  there  no  one  but  this  to  remind  me  of  my  faults?  '* 
•be  said,  and  she  never  entered  a  carriage  again. 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2283 


sustained  only  by  the  recollection  of  the 
many  convents  which  the  "  Lutherans  " 
had  destroyed,  and  the  loss  of  which  she 
was  trying  to  repair.  It  was  All  Saints' 
eve  when  they  reached  Salamanca.  The 
church  bells  were  tolling  dismally  for  the 
departed  souls.  The  Jesuits  had  promised 
that  she  should  find  a  habitation  re.idy,  but 
they  found  it  occupied  by  students,  who 
at  first  refused  to  move.  The  students 
were  with  difficulty  ejected.  It  was  a 
great  straggling  place,  full  of  garrets  and 
passages,  all  filthily  dirty.  The  two  wom- 
en entered  worn  and  weary,  and  locked 
themselves  in.  The  sister  was  terrified 
lest  some  loose  youth  might  be  left  hid- 
den in  a  corner.  Teresa  found  a  straw- 
loft,  where  they  laid  themselves  down,  but 
the  sister  could  not  rest,  and  shivered 
with  alarm.  Teresa  asked  her  what  was 
the  matter.  **  I  was  thinking,*'  she  said, 
'*  what  would  become  of  you,  dear  mother, 
if  1  was  to  die."  "  Pish,"  said  Teresa, 
who  did  not  like  nonsense,  *Mt  will  be 
time  to  think  of  that  when  it  really  hap- 
pens.    Let  me  go  to  sleep." 

Two  houses  were  founded  at  Alva  with 
the  help  of  the  duke  and  duchess;  and 
the  terrible  Ferdinand  of  Toledo,  just 
returned  from  the  Low  Countries,  appears 
here  with  a  gentler  aspect.  Teresa's 
"  Life  "  was  his  favorite  study ;  he  would 
travel  many  leagues,  he  said,  only  to  look 
upon  her.  In  one  of  her  trances  she  had 
seen  the  three  persons  of  the  Trinity. 
They  were  painted  in  miniature  under  her 
direction,  and  she  made  the  likenesses 
exact  with  her  own  hand.  These  pictures 
had  fallen  into  the  duchess's  hands,  and 
the  miniature  of  Christ  was  worn  by  the 
duke  when  he  went  on  his  expeditioa  into 
Portugal. 

After  this  Teresa  had  a  rest.  In  her 
own  town  she  was  now  looked  on  as  a 
saint,  and  the  sisters  of  the  Incarnation 
were  able  to  have  their  way  at  last  and  to 
elect  her  prioress.  There  she  was  left 
quiet  for  three  years.  She  had  much 
suffering  seemingly  from  neuralgia,  but 
her  spirit  was  high  as  ever.  Though  she 
could  not  introduce  her  reformed  rule,  she 
coul.d  insist  on  the  proper  observance  of 
the  rule  as  it  stood.  She  locked  up  the 
locutoria,  the  parlors  where  visitors  were 
received,  keeping  the  keys  herself^  and 
allowing  no  one  to  be  admitted  without 
her  knowledge.  A  youth,  who  was  in  love 
with  one  of  the  nuns,  and  was  not  allowed 
a  sight  of  her,  insisted  once  on  seeing 
Teresa  and  remonstrating.  Teresa  heard 
his  lamentations,  and  told  him  then,  that 
if  he  came  near  the  house  again  she  would 


7^8 

report  him  to  the  king.  He  found,  as  he 
said,  **that  there  was  no  jesting  with  that 
woman."  One  curious  anecdote  is  told  ol 
her  reign  in  the  Incarnation,  which  has 
the  merit  of  being  authentic.  Spain  was 
the  land  of  chivalry,  knights  challenged 
each  other  to  tilt  in  the  lists,  enthusiastic 
saints  challenged  one  another  to  feats  of 
penance,  and  some  young  monks  sent  a 
cartel  of  defiance  to  Teresa  and  her  con- 
vent. Teresa  replied  for  herself  and  the 
sisters,  touching  humorously  the  weak- 
nesses of  each  of  her  own  party :  — 

Sister  Anne  of  Burgos  says  that  if  any  knight 
will  pray  the  Lord  to  erant  her  humility,  and 
the  prayer  is  answered,  she  will  give  him  all 
the  merits  which  she  may  hereafter  earn. 

Sister  Beatrice  Juarez  says  that  she  will  give 
to  any  knight,  who  will  pray  the  Lord  to  give 
her  grace  to  hold  her  tongue  till  she  has  con- 
sidered what  she  has  to  say,  two  years  of  the 
merits  which  she  has  gained  in  tending  the 
sick. 

Isabel  de  la  Cruz  will  give  two  years*  merits 
to  any  knight  who  will  induce  the  ix>rd  to  take 
away  her  self-will. 

Teresa  de  J^sus  says  that,  if  any  knight  will 
resolve  firmly  to  obey  a  superior  for  all  his 
life  who  may  be  a  fool  and  a  glutton,  she  will 
give  him  on  the  day  on  which  he  forms  such 
a  resolution  half  her  own  merits  for  that  day 
—  or,  indeed,  the  whole  of  them — for  the 
whole  will  be  very  little. 

The  best  satire  of  Cervantes  is  not 
more  dainty. 

The  sisters  of  the  Incarnation  would 
have  re-elected  their  prioress  when  the 
three  years  were  over ;  but  the  provincial 
interfered,  and  she  and  her  cart  were 
soon  again  upon  the  road.  She  had  worse 
storms  waiting  for  her  than  any  which  she 
had  yet  encountered. 

.  At  Pastrafia,  besides  Mariano,  she  had 
become  acquainted  with  another  Carmel- 
ite, a  Father  Gratian,  who  had  also  be- 
come a  member  of  the  Descalzos.  Gra- 
tian was  then  about  thirty,  an  eloquent 
preacher,  ambitious,  passionate,  eager  to 
rule  and  not  so  eager  to  obey,  and  there- 
fore no  favorite  with  his  superiors.  On 
Teresa  this  man  was  to  exert  an  influence 
beyond  his  merits,  for  his  mind  was  of  a 
lower  type  than  hers.  Such  importance 
as  he  possessed  he  derived*  from  her  re- 
gard; and  after  her  death  he  sank  into 
insignificance.  He  still  tried  to  assume 
consequence,  but  his  pretensions  were 
mortified.  In  a  few  years  he  was  stripped 
of  his  habit,  and  reduced  to  a  secular 
priest.  He  wandered  about  complaining 
till  he  was  taken  by  the  Moors,  and  was 


SAINT  TERESA. 


set  to  work  in  a  slave-yard  at  Tunis. 
Ransomed  at  last,  he  became  confessor 
to  the  infanta  Isabella  in  Flanders,  and 
there  died.  But  it  was  his  fate  and  Te- 
resa's, that  before  these  misfortunes  fell 
upon  him  he  was  to  play  a  notable  part  in 
connection  with  her.  He  had  friends  in 
Andalusia,  and  he  persuaded  Teresa  that 
she  must  found  a  convent  at  Seville.  It 
was  a  vast  adventure,  for  her  diploma 
extended  only  to  the  Castiles.  She  set 
out  with  six  sisters  and  the  inseparable 
Julian.  The  weather  was  hot,  the  cart 
was  like  purgatory,  and  the  roadside  po- 
sadas^  with  their  windowless  garrets  at 
oven  heat,  were,  she  said,  "like  hell." 
"The  beds  were  as  if  stuffed  with  peb- 
bles." Teresa  fell  into  a  fever,  and  her 
helpless  companions  could  only  pray  for 
her.  When  they  were  crossing  the  Gua- 
dalquivir in  a  pontoon,  the  rope  broke. 
The  ferryman  was  thrown  down  and  hurt; 
the  boat  was  swept  away  by  the  current. 
They  were  only  rescued  by  a  gentleman 
who  had  seen  the  accident  from  his  ter- 
race. Cordova,  when  they  passed  through 
it,  was  crowded  for  a  fete.  The  mob, 
attracted  by  their  strange  appearance, 
"came  about  them  like  mad  bulls."  At 
Seville,  where  Gratian  professed  to  have 
prepared  for  their  reception,  they  w^ere 
met  by  a  flat  refusal  from  the  archbishop 
to  allow  the  establishment  of  an  unen- 
dowed foundation,  and  to  live  on  alms 
only  was  an  essential  of  their  rule.  Te- 
resa was  forced  to  submit. 

God  [she  wrote]  has  never  permitted  any 
foundation  of  mine  to  be  set  on  its  feet  with- 
out a  world  of  worry.  I  had  not  heard  of  the 
objection  till  I  arrived.  I  was  most  unwilling 
to  yield,  for  in  a  town  so  rich  as  Seville  alms 
could  have  been  collected  without  the  least 
difficulty.  I  would  have  gone  back  upon  the 
spot,  but  I  was  penniless,  all  my  money  having 
been  spent  upon  the  way.  Neither  the  sisters 
nor  I  possessed  anything  but  the  clothes  on 
our  backs  and  the  veils  which  we  had  worn  in 
the  cart  But  we  could  not  have  a  mass  with- 
out the  archbishop^s  leave,  and  leave  he  would 
not  give  till  we  consented. 

But  sharper  consequences  were  to  fol- 
low. In  overstepping  the  boundaries 
of  her  province,  Teresa  had  rashly  com- 
mitted herself.  From  the  first  the  great 
body  of  the  Carmelites  had  resented  her 
proceedings.  Circumstances  and  the 
pope's  protection  had  hitherto  shielded 
her.  But  Pius  V.  was  gone.  Gregory 
XI 1 1,  reigned  in  his  stead,  and  a  chapter- 
general  of  the  order  held  at  Piacenza  in 
1575  obtained  an  injunction  from  him  pro- 
hibiting the  further  extension  of  the  re- 


SAINT  TERESA. 


739 


formed  houses.  The  foundation  of  the 
Seville  convent  was  treated  as  an  act  of 
defiance.  The  general  ordered  its  instant 
suppression.  Teresa's  other  foundations 
had  been  hitherto  auasi-independent :  Fa- 
ther Jerome  Tostado  was  despatched  from 
Italy  as  commissioner  to  Spain,  to  reduce 
them  all  under  the  general's  authority; 
and  a  new  nuncio  was  appointed  for  the 
special  purpose  of  sriving  Tostado  his  sup- 
port. If  Philip  objected,  he  was  to  be 
told  that  the  violation  of  order  had  caused 
a  scandal  to  the  whole  Church. 

Little  dreaming  of  what  was  before  her, 
Teresa  had  been  nourishing  a  secret  am- 
bition of  recovering  the  entire  Carmelite 
body  to  their  old  austerities.  The  late 
nuncio  had  been  a  hearty  friend  to  her. 
She  had  written  to  the  king  to  ask  that 
Gratian  might  be  appointed  visitor-gen- 
eral of  her  own  houses  for  the  whole  pen- 
insula. The  king  had  not  only  consented 
to  this  request,  but  with  the  nuncio's  con- 
sent, irregular  as  it  must  have  seemed, 
Gratian's  jurisdiction  was  extended  to  all 
the  Carmelite  convents  in  Spain.  Philip 
could  not  have  taken  such  a  step  without 
Teresa's  knowledge,  or  at  least  without 
Gratian's;  and  in  this  perhaps  lies  the 
explanation  of  the  agitations  in  Italy  and 
of  Tostado's  mission.  Evidently  things 
could  not  continue  as  thev  were.  Tere- 
sa's reforms  had  been  mzAc  in  the  teeth 
of  the  chiefs  of  the  order,  and  her  houses, 
so  far  as  can  be  seen,  had  been  as  yet 
under  no  organized  government  at  all. 
She  might  legitimately  have  asked  the 
nuncio  to  appoint  a  visitor  to  these;  for 
it  was  through  the  pope's  interference 
that  she  had  established  them;  but  she 
was  making  too  bold  a  venture  in  grasp- 
ing at  the  sovereignty  of  a  vast  and  pow- 
erful foundation,  and  she  very  nearly 
ruined  herself.  Gratian  was  refused  en- 
trance to  the  first  convent  which  he  at- 
tempted to  visit.  The  new  briefs  arrived 
from  Rome.  Teresa  received  a  formal 
inhibition  against  founding  any  more 
houses.  She  was  ordered  to  select  some 
one  convent  and  to  remain  there;  while 
two  prioresses  whom  she  had  instituted 
were  removed,  and  superiors  in  whom 
Tostado  had  confidence  were  put  in  their 
places.  Teresa's  own  writings,  on  which 
suspicion  had  hung  since  they  had  been 
read  by  the  princess,  were  submitted  to 
the  Inquisition.  She  herself  chose  To- 
ledo for  a  residence,  and  was  kept  there 
under  arrest  for  two  years.  The  Inquisi- 
tors could  find  no  heresy  in  her  books; 
and,  her  pen  not  being  under  restriction, 
she    composed  while  in    confinement  a 


history  of  her  foundations  as  a  continua- 
tion of  her  autobiography.  Her  corre- 
spondence besides  was  voluminous.  She 
wrote  letters  (the  handwriting  bold,  clear, 
and  vigorous  as  a  man's)  to  princes  and 
prelates,  to  her  suffering  sisters,  to  her 
friends  among  the  Jesuits  and  Domini- 
cans. 

The  sequel  is  exceedingly  curious. 
There  is  a  belief  that  the  administration 
of  the  Roman  Church  is  one  and  indivis- 
ible. In  this  instance  it  proved  very 
divisible  indeed.  The  new  nuncio  and  the 
general  of  the  Carmelites  intended  to  crush 
Teresa's  movement.  The  king  and  the 
Archbishop  of  Toledo  were  determined 
that  she  should  be  supported.  The  Span- 
ish government  were  as  little  inclined  as 
Henry  VIII.  to  submit  to  the  dictation  of 
Italian  priests;  and  when  the  nuncio  be- 
gan his  operations,  Philip  at  once  insisted 
that  he  should  not  act  by  himself,  but 
should  have  four  assessors,  of  whom  the 
Archbishop  of  Toledo  should  be  one.  It 
was  less  easy  to  deal  with  Tostado.  Each' 
religious  order  had  its  own  separate  or- 
ganization. Teresa  had  sworn  obedience, 
and  Tostado  was  her  lawful  superior;  she 
acted  herself  as  she  had  taught  others  to 
act,  and  at  first  refused  Philip's  help  in 
actively  resisting  him.  The  nuncio  had 
described  her  as  **  a  restless  woman,  unset- 
tled, disobedient,  contumacious,  an  in- 
ventor of  new  doctrines  under  pretence 
of  piety,  a  breaker  of  the  rule  of  cloister 
residence,  a  despiser  of  the  apostolic  pre- 
cept which  forbids  a  woman  to  teach." 
Restless  she  had  certainly  been,  and  her 
respect  for  residence  had  been  chiefly 
shown  in  her  anxiety  to  enforce  it  on  oth- 
ers —  but  disobedient  she  was  not,  as  she 
had  an  opportunity  of  showing.  In  mak- 
ing the  change  in  the  government  of  her^ 
houses,  Tostado  had  found  a  difficulty  at' 
San  Josef's,  because  it  was  under  the 
bishop's  jurisdiction.  The  alteration  could 
not  be  made  without  her  presence  at 
Avila.  He  sent  for  her  from  Toledo. 
She  went  at  his  order,  she  gave  him  the 
necessary  assistance,  and  the  house  was 
reclaimed  under  his  jurisdiction. 

By  this  time  temper  was  running  high 
on  all  sides.  Tostado  was  not  softened 
by  Teresa's  acquiescence.  The  nuncio 
was  exasperated  at  the  king's  interference 
with  him.  He  regarded  Teresa  herself 
as  the  cause  of  the  schism,  and  refused  to 
forgive  her  till  it  was  healed.  She  was 
now  at  Avila.  The  office  of  prioress  was 
again  vacant  at  the  Incarnation.  The 
persecution  had  endeared  her  to  the  sis- 
ters, and  a  clear  majority  of  them  were 


740 


SAINT  TERESA. 


resolved  to  re-elect  her.  Tostado  con- 
strued their  action  into  defiance ;  he  came 
in  person  to  hold  the  election ;  he  informed 
the  sisters,  of  whom  there  were  now  a 
hundred,  that  he  would  excommunicate 
every  one  of  them  who  dared  to  vote  for  a 
person  of  whom  he  disapproved.  The 
nuns  knew  that  they  had  the  right  with 
them,  for  the  Council  of  Trent  had  de- 
cided that  the  elections  were  to  be  free. 
Fifty-five  of  them  defied  Tostado's  threats 
and  gave  their  votes  for  Teresa.  As 
each  sister  handed  in  her  paper,  Tostado 
crushed  it  under  his  feet,  stamped  upon 
it,  cursed  her,  and  boxed  her  ears.  The 
minority  chose  a  prioress  who  was  agree- 
able to  him;  he  declared  this  nun  duly 
elected,  ordered  Teresa  into  imprison- 
ment again,  and  left  her  supporters  cut 
ofl  from  mass  and  confession  till  they 
submitted.  The  brave  women  would- not 
submit  They  refused  to  obey  the  supe- 
rior who  had  been  forced  on  them,  except 
as  Teresa*s  substitute.  The  theologians 
of  Avila  declared  unanimously  that  the 
excommunication  was  invalid.  Tostado 
was  only  the  more  peremptory.  He 
flogged  two  of  the  confessors  of  the  con- 
vent, who  had  been  appointed  by  the  late 
nuncio,  and  he  sent  them  away  under  a 
guard.  "  I  wish  they  were  out  of  the 
power  of  these  people,"  Teresa  wrote. 
"  I  would  rather  see  them  in  the  hands  of 
the  Moors." 

One  violence  was  followed  by  another. 
Father  Gratian  was  next  suspended,  and 
withdrew  into  a  hermitage  at  Pastrafia. 
The  nuncio,  caring  nothing  about  the  as- 
sessors, required  him  to  surrender  the 
commission  as  visitor  which  he  had  re- 
ceived from  his  predecessor.  Gratian 
consulted  the  Archbishop  of  Toledo,  who 
told  him  that  he  had  no  more  spirit  than 
a  fly,  and  advised  him  to  appeal  to  Philip. 
The  nuncio,  without  waiting  for  his  an- 
swer, declared  his  commission  cancelled. 
He  cancelled  also  Teresa's  regulations, 
and  replaced  her  convents  under  the  old 
relaxed  rule.  The  Bishop  of  Avila.  was 
of  opinion  that  the  nuncio  had  exceeded 
his  authority,  and  had  no  right  to  make 
such  a  change.  Teresa  told  Gratian  that 
he  would  be  safe  in  doing  whatever  the 
bishop  advised ;  and  she  recommended  an 
appeal  to  the  pope  and  the  king  for  a 
formal  division  of  the  Carmelite  order. 
Tostado  had  put  himself  in  the  wrong  so 
completely  in  his  treatment  of  the  sisters 
of  the  Incarnation,  that  she  overcame  her 
dislike  of  calling  in  the  secular  arm  and 
wrote  a  detailed  account  of  his  actions  to 
Philip.     Gratian  himself  lost  his  head  and 


was  only  foolish.  One  day  he  wrote  to 
the  nuncio  and  made  his  submission. 
The  next,  he  called  a  chapter  of  the  Des- 
calzos  and  elected  a  separate  provincial. 
The  nuncio  replied  by  sending  Teresa 
back  as  a  prisoner  to  Toledo,  and  Gratian 
to  confinement  in  a  monastery. 

But  the  Spanish  temper  was  now  thor- 
oughly roused.  Philip  and  the  Archbishop 
of  Toledo  had  both  privately  communi- 
cated with  the  pope  on  the  imprudence  of 
the  nuncio's  proceedings;  and  the  king 
on  his  own  account  had  forbidden  the 
magistrates  everywhere  to  support  either 
Tostado  or  his  agents.  The  Duke  of 
Infantado,  the  proudest  of  the  Spanish 
grandees,  insulted  the  nuncio  at  court; 
and  the  nuncio,  when  he  appealed  to 
Philip  for  redress,  was  told  coldly  that  he 
had  brought  the  insult  upon  himself.  The 
pope,  in  fact,  being  better  informed,  and 
feeling  that  he  would  gain  little  by  irritat- 
ing the  Castilians  for  the  sake  of  the 
relaxed  Carmelites,  had  repented  of  hav- 
ing been  misled,  and  was  only  eager  to 
repair  his  mistake.  Teresa*s  apprehen- 
sions were  relieved  by  a  vision.  Christ 
appeared  to  her,  attended  by  his  mother 
and  San  Josef.  San  Josef  and  the  Virgin 
prayed  to  him.  Christ  said  "  that  the 
infernal  powers  had  been  in  league  to 
ruin  the  Descalzos ;  but  they  had  been 
instituted  by  himself,  and  the  kiag  ia 
future  would  be  their  friend  and  patron. 
The  Virgin  told  Teresa  that  in  twenty 
days  her  imprisonment  would  be  over." 
Not  her  imprisonment  only,  but  the  strug- 
gle itself  was  over.  The  nuncio  and 
Tostado  were  recalled  to  Italy.  Spain 
was  to  keep  her  "barefoot"  nuns  and 
friars.  We  need  not  follow  the  details  of 
the  arrangement.  It  is  enough  to  say 
that  the  Carmelites  were  divided  into  two 
bodies,  as  Teresa  had  desired.  The  Des- 
calzos became  a  new  province,  and  were 
left  free  to  choose  their  own'officers.  We 
have  told  the  story  at  so  much  length, 
because  it  illustrates  remarkably  the  in- 
ternal character  of  the  Spanish  Church, 
and  the  inability  of  the  Italian  organiza- 
tion to  resist  a  national  impulse. 

All  was  now  well,  or  would  have  been 
well  but  for  mortal  infirmity.  Gratian 
went  to  Rome  to  settle  legal  technicalities. 
Teresa  resumed  her  wandering  life  of 
founding  convents.  Times  were  changed 
since  her  hard  fight  for  San  Josef.  Town 
Councils  met  her  now  in  procession.  Te 
Deums  were  sung  in  the  churches,  and 
eager  crowds  waited  for  her  at  the  road- 
side inns.  But  so  far  as  she  herself  was 
concerned,  it  is  a  question  whether  sue- 


SAINT  TERESA. 


741 


cess  added  to  ber  happiness.  So  lon<(  as 
an  object  is  unattained,  we  may  clothe  it 
ID  such  ethereal  colors  as  we  please ;  when 
it  is  achieved,  the  ideal  has  become  ma- 
terial ;  it  is  as  good  perhaps  as  what  we 
ought  to  have  expected,  but  is  not  what 
we  did  expect.  Teresa  was  now  sixty- 
four  years  old,  with  health  irrevocably 
broken.  Her  houses  having  assumed  a 
respectable  legal  character,  many  of  them 
had  after  all  to  be  endowed,  ana  she  was 
encumbered  with  business.  **The  Lord,*' 
as  she  said,  continued  to  help  her.  When 
she  was  opposed  in  anything,  the  Lord 
intimated  that  he  was  displeased.  If  she 
doubted,  he  would  reply,  **  E^o  sum  "and 
her  confessor,  if  not  herself,  was  satisfied. 
But  she  had  much  to  do,  and  disheartening 
difficulties  to  overcome.  She  had  been 
working  with  human  beings  for  instru- 
ments, and  human  beings  will  only  walk 
straight  when  the  master's  eye  is  on  them. 
In  the  preliminary  period  the  separate 
sisterhoods  had  been  left  very  much  to 
themselves.  Some  had  grown  lax.  Some 
bad  been  extravagantly  ascetic.  In  San 
Josef,  the  first-fruits  of  her  travail,  the 
sisters  had  mutinied  for  a  meat  diet.  A 
fixed  code  of  laws  had  to  be  enforced,  and 
it  was  received  with  murmurs,  even  by 
friends  on  whom  she  had  relied.*  She 
addressed  a  circular  to  them  all,  which 
was  characteristically  graceful :  — 

Now  then  we  are  all  at  peace — Calzados 
and  Descalzados.  Each  of  us  may  serve  God 
in  our  own  way,  and  none  can  say  us  nay. 
Therefore,  my  brothers  and  sisters,  as  he  has 
heard  your  prayer,  do  you  obey  him  with  all 
your  hearts.  Let  it  not  be  said  of  us  as  of 
some  Orders,  that  only  the  beginnings  were 
creditable.  We  have  begun.  I^t  those  who 
come  after  us  go  on  from  good  to  better.  The 
devil  is  always  busy  looking  for  means  to  hurt 
us ;  but  the  struggle  will  be  only  for  a  time ; 
the  end  will  be  eternal. 

Three  years  were  spent  in  organization 
—  years  of  outward  honor,  but  years  of 
sufiering  —  and  then  the  close  came.  In 
the  autumn  of  158 1  Gratian  had  arranged 
that  a  convent  was  to  be  opened  at  Burgos. 
Teresa  was  to  be  present  in  person,  and 
Gratian  accompanied  her.  They  seem  to 
have  travelled  in  the  old  way  —  a  party  of 
eight  in  a  covered  cart.  The  weather  was 
wretched  ;  the  floods  were  out ;  the  roads 

*  One  of  the  rules  referred  to  prayers  for  the  king, 
which  were  to  be  attended  by  weekly  whippings,  such 
as  Merlin  ordered  for  the  disenchantment  ot  Dulcinea 
**  Statutum  fuit  ut  perpetuis  temporibus  una  quotidie 
Mi»sa,  preces  item  continue,  et  una  per  singulas  heb- 
domadas  cor^ris  flageliatio  pro  Rege  Hispanic  ejus- 
que  famili&  in  universis  convencibus  Carmelitarum 
atriusque  sexus  excalceatorum  Deo  offeratum." 


mere  tracks  of  mud,  the  inns  like  Don 
Quixote's  castle.  Teresa  was  shattered 
with  cough  ;  she  could  eat  nothing ;  the 
journey  was  the  worst  to  which  she  had 
been  exposed.  On  arriving  at  Bura:os 
she  was  taken  to  a  friend's  house ;  a  great 
fire  had  been  lighted,  where  she  was  to 
dry  her  clothes.  The  damp  and  steam 
brought  on  fever,  and  she  was  unable  to 
leave  her  bed. 

The  business  part  of  her  visit  had  been 
mismanaged.  Gratian  had  been  as  care- 
less as  at  Seville,  and  the  same  difficulties 
repeated  themselves.  The  Council  of 
Trent  had  insisted  that  ajl  new  convents 
should  be  endowed.  Th'e  Archbishop  of 
Burgos  stood  by  the  condition,  and  no 
endowment  had  been  provided.  Teresa 
was  too  ill  to  return.  Month  after  month 
passed  by.  A  wet  autumn  was  followed 
by  a  wetter  winter.  Terms  were  arranged 
at  last  with  the  archbishop.  A  building 
was  found  which  it  was  thought  would 
answer  for  the  convent,  and  Teresa  re- 
moved to  it ;  but  it  was  close  to  the  water- 
side, and  half  in  ruins.  The  stars  shone 
and  the  rain  poured  through  the  rents  of 
the  roof  in  the  garret  where  she  lay.  The 
river  rose.  The  lower  story  of  the  house 
was  flooded.  The  sisters,  who  watched 
day  and  night  by  her  bed,  had  to  dive  into 
the  kitchen  for  the  soaked  crusts  of  bread 
for  their  own  food  and  hers.  The  com- 
munication with  the  town  being  cut  off, 
they  were  nearly  starved.  Friends  at  last 
swam  across  and  brought  relief.  When 
the  river  went  back,  the  ground  floors 
were  deep  in  stones  and  gravel. 

Sister  Anne  of  St.  Bartholomew,  who 
was  herself  afterwards  canonized,  tells  the 
rest  of  the  story.  When  spring  came  the 
weather  mended.  Teresa  was  slightly 
stronger,  and  as  her  own  part  of  the  work 
at  Burgos  was  finished,  she  was  able  to 
move,  and  was  taken  to  Valladolid.  *But 
it  was  only  to  find  herself  in  fresh  trou- 
ble. One  of  her  brothers  had  left  his 
property  to  San  Josefs.  The  relations 
disputed  the  will,  and  an  angry  lawyer 
forced  his  way  into  her  room  and  was  rude 
to  her.  She  was  in  one  of  her  own 
houses,  where  at  any  rate  she  might  have 
looked  for  kindness.  But  the  prioress 
had  "gone  over  to  her  enemies,"  showed 
her  little  love  or  reverence,  and  at  last 
bade  her  "go  away  and  never  return." 

She  went  on  to  Medina.  She  found  the 
convent  in  disorder;  she  was  naturally 
displeased,  and  found  fault.  Since  the 
legal  establishment  of  the  Descalzos,  she 
had  no  formal  authority,  and  perhaps  she 
was    too    imperious.    The   prioress    an* 


742 


SAINT  TERESA. 


swered  iropertineDtlVf  and  Teresa  was  too 
feeble  to  contend  with  her.  Twenty  years 
had  passed  since  that  fi;ipsy  drive  from 
Avila,  the  ruined  courtyard,  the  extempo- 
rized altar,  and  the  moonlight  watch  of 
the  sacrament.  It  had  ended  in  this.  She 
was  now  a  broken  old  woman,  and  her 
own  children  had  turned  against  her. 
She  ate  nothing.  She  lay  all  night  sleep- 
less, and  the  next  morning  she  left  Me- 
dina. She  had  meant  to  go  to  Avila,  but 
she  was  wanted  for  some  reason  at  Alva, 
and  thither,  in  spile  of  her  extreme  weak- 
ness, she  was  obliged  to  go.  She  set  out 
before  breakfast.  They  travelled  all  day 
without  food,  save  a  few  dried  figs.  They 
arrived  at  night  at  a  small  pueblo^  all  ex- 
hausted, and  Teresa  fainting;  they  tried 
to  buy  an  ^%%  or  two,  but  eggs  were  not 
to  be  had  at  the  most  extravagant  price. 
Teresa  swallowed  a  fig,  but  could  touch 
nothing  more.  She  seemed  to  be  dying. 
Sister  Anne  knelt  sobbing  at  her  side. 
"  Do  not  cry,'*  she  said ;  **  it  is  the  Lord's 
will.*'  More  dead  than  alive,  she  was 
carried  the  next  day  to  Alva.  She  was 
just  conscious,  but  that  was  all.  She  lay 
quietly  breathing,  and  only  seemed  un- 
easy when  Sister  Anne  left  her  for  a  mo- 
ment. After  a  few  hours  she  laid  her 
head  on  Sister  Anne's  breast,  sighed 
lightly,  and  was  gone.  It  was  St.  Mi- 
chael's day,  1582. 

Nothing  extraordinary  was  supposed  to 
have  happened  at  the  time.  A  weak, 
worn-out  woman  had  died  of  sufferings 
which  would  have  destroyed  a  stronger 
frame.  That  was  all.  Common  mortals 
die  thus  every  day.  They  are  buried; 
they  are  mourned  tor  by  those  who  had 
cause  to  love  them  :  they  are  then  forgot- 
ten, and  the  world  goes  on  with  its  ordi- 
nary business.  Catholic  saints  are  not 
left  to  rest  so  peacefully,  and  something 
has  still  to  be  told  o(  the  fortunes  of 
Teresa  of  Avila.  But  we  must  first  touch 
for  a  moment  on  aspects  of  her  character 
which  we  have  passed  over  in  the  rapid 
sketch  of  her  life.  It  is  the  more  neces- 
sary, since  she  has  been  deified  into  an 
idol,  and  the  tenderness,  the  humor,  the 
truth  and  simplicity,  of  her  human  nature, 
have  been  lost  in  her  diviner  glories. 
Many  volumes  of  her  letters,  essays, 
treatises,  memoranda  of  various  kinds, 
survive  in  addition  to  her  biography. 
With  the  help  of  these  we  can  fill  in  the 
lines. 

She  was  not  learned.  She  read  Latin 
with  difficulty,  and  knew  nothing  of  any 
other  language,  except  her  own.  She  was 
a  Spaniard  to  the  heart,  generous,  chiv- 


alrous, and  brave.  In  conversation  she 
was  quick  and  bright.  Like  her  father, 
she  was  never  heard  to  speak  ill  of  any 
one.  But  she  hated  lies,  hated  all  manner 
of  insincerity,  either  in  word  or  action. 
In  youth  she  had  been  tried  by  the  usual 
temptations ;  her  life  had  been  spotless ; 
but  those  whose  conduct  has  been  the 
purest  are  most  conscious  of  their  smaller 
faults,  and  she  had  the  worst  opinion  of 
her  own  merits.  The  rule  which  she  es- 
tablished for  her  sisterhoods  was  severe, 
but  it  was  not  enough  for  her  own  neces- 
sities. She  scourged  herself  habitually, 
and  she  wore  a  peculiarly  painful  hair- 
cloth ;  but  these  were  for  herself  alone, 
and  she  did  not  prescribe  them  to  others. 
She  sent  a  haircloth  to  her  brother,  but 
she  bade  him  be  careful  how  he  used  it. 
**  Obedience,"  she  said,  "  was  better  than 
sacrifice,  and  health  than  penance.*'  One 
of  her  greatest  difficulties  was  to  check 
the  zeal  of  young  people  who  wished  to 
make  saints  of  themselves  by  force.  A 
prioress  at  Malaga  had  ordered  the  sis- 
ters to  strike  one  another,  with  a  view  to 
teaching  them  humility.  Teresa  said  it 
was  a  suggestion  of  the  devil.  "The 
sisters  are  not  slaves,"  she  wrote ;  "  mor- 
tifications are  of  no  use  in  themselves ; 
obedience  is  the  first  of  virtues,  but  it  is 
not  to  be  abused."  The  prioress  of  To- 
ledo again  drew  a  sharp  rebuke  upon  her- 
self. She  had  told  a  sister  who  had 
troubled  her  with  some  question  to  go 
and  walk  in  the  garden.  The  sister  went, 
and  walked  and  walked.  She  was  missed 
the  next  morning  at  matins.  She  was 
still  walking.  Another  prioress  gave  the 
penitential  Psalms  for  a  general  disci- 
pline, and  kept  the  sisters  repeating  them 
at  irregular  hours.  "The  poor  things 
ought  to  have  been  in  bed,"  Teresa  wrote. 
"They  do  what  they  are  told,  but  it  is  all 
wrong.  Mortification  is  not  a  thing  of 
obligation." 

Gratian  himself  had  to  be  lectured. 
He  had  been  inventing  new  ceremonies. 
"  Sister  Antonia,"  she  wrote, "  has  brought 
your  orders,  and  they  have  scandalized 
us.  Believe  me,  father,  we  are  well  as  we 
are,  and  want  no  unnecessary  forms.  For 
charity's  sake,  remember  this.  Insist  on 
the  rules,  and  let  that  suffice."  Gratian 
had  given  injunctions  in  detail  about  dress 
and  food.  "Do  as  you  like,"  she  said, 
"only  do  not  define  what  our  shoes  are 
to  be  made  of.  Say  simply,  we  may  wear 
shoes,  to  avoid  scruples.  You  say  our 
caps  are  to  be  of  hemp  —  why  not  of 
flax?  As  to  our  eating  eggs,  or  eating 
preserves  on  our  bread,  leave  it  to  con- 


SAINT  TERESA. 


743 


science.  To  much  precision  only  does 
harm." 

Her  own  undergarments,  though  scru- 
pulously kept  clean,  were  of  horse-cloth. 
She  slept  always  on  a  sack  of  straw.  A 
biscuit  or  two,  an  egg,  a  few  peas  and 
beans,  made  her  daily  food,  varied,  per- 
haps, on  feast>days,  with  an  egg  and  a 
slice  of  fish,  with  grapes  or  raisins. 

Her  constant  trances  were  more  a  trial 
than  a  pleasure  to  her.  She  writes  to  her 
brother :  "  Buen  anda  Nuestro  Sefior.  —  I 
have  been  in  a  sad  state  for  this  week 
past.  The  fits  have  returned.  They  come 
on  me  sometimes  in  public,  and  I  can 
neither  resist  nor  hide  them.  God  spare 
roe  these  exhibitions  of  myself.  I  feel 
half  drunk.  Pray  for  me,  for  such  things 
do  roe  harm.  They  have  nothing  to  do 
with  religion." 

Nothing  can  be  wiser  than  her  general 
directions  for  the  management  of  the  sis- 
terhoods. To  the  sisters  themselves  she 
says : — 

Do  not  be  curious  about  matters  which  do 
not  concern  you.  Say  no  evil  of  any  one  but 
yourself,  and  do  not  listen  to  any.  Never 
ridicule  any  one.  Do  not  contend  in  words 
about  things  of  no  consequence.  Do  not  ex- 
aggerate. Assert  nothing  as  a  fact  of  which 
you  are  not  sure.  Give  no  hasty  opinions. 
Avoid  empty  tattle.  Do  not  draw  compari- 
sons. Be  not  singular  in  food  or  dress ;  and 
be  not  loud  in  your  laughter.  Be  gentle  to 
others  and  severe  to  yourself.  Speak  courte- 
ously to  servants.  Do  not  note  other  people's 
(  faults.  Note  your  own  faults,  and  their  good 
points.  Never  boast  Never  make  excuses. 
Never  do  anything  when  alone  which  you 
would  not  do  before  others. 

Her  greatest  difficulty  was  with  the 
convent  confessors.  Teresa  had  a  poor 
opinion  of  men^s  capacities  for  under- 
standing women.  "  We  women,"  she  said, 
**  are  not  so  easily  read.  Priests  may 
hear  our  confessions  for  years  and  may 
know  nothing  about  us.  Women  cannot 
describe  their  faults  accurately,  and  the 
confessor  judges  by  what  they  tell  him." 
She  had  a  particular  dislike  of  melan- 
choly women,  who  fancied  that  they  had 
fine,  sensibilities  which  were  not  under- 
stood or  appreciated.  She  found  that 
confessors  became  foolishly  interested  in 
such  women,  and  confidences  came,  and 
spiritual  communications  of  mutual  feel- 
ings, which  were  nonsense  in  themselves 
and  a  certain  road  to  mischief.  Teresa 
perhaps  remembered  some  of  her  own 
experiences  in  her  excessive  alarm  on 
this  point.  She  insisted  that  the  confes- 
sor should  have  no  intercourse  with  any 


sister,  except  ofHcially,  and  in  the  confes- 
sional itself.  At  the  direction  of  her 
superiors,  she  wrote  further  a  paper  of 
general  reflections  on  the  visitation  of 
convents,  which  show  the  same  insight 
and  good  sense. 

The  visitor  was  the  provincial  or  the 
provinciaPs  vicar,  and  his  business  was 
to  inspect  each  convent  once  a  year. 

The  visitor  [she  said]  must  have  no  partial* 
ity,  and,  above  all,  no  weakness  or  sentimen- 
tality. A  superior  must  inspire  fear.  If  he 
allows  himself  to  be  treated  as  an  equal,  espe- 
cially by  women,  his  power  (or  good  is  gone. 
Once  let  a  woman  see  that  he  will  pass  over 
her  faults  out  of  tenderness,  she  will  become 
ungovernable.  If  he  is  to  err,  let  it  be  on  the 
side  of  severity.  He  visits  'once  only  in  a 
twelvemonth,  and,  unless  the  sisters  know  that 
at  the  end  of  each  they  will  be  called  to  a  sharp 
reckoning,  discipline  will  be  impossible.  Pri- 
oresses found  unfit  for  office  must  be  removed 
instantly.  They  may  be  saints  in  their  per- 
sonal conduct,  but  they  may  want  the  qualities 
essential  to  a  ruler,  and  the  visitor  must  not 
hesitate. 

He  must  look  strictly  into  the  accounts. 
Debt  of  any  kind  is  fatal.  He  must  see  into 
the  work  which  each  sister  has  done,  and  how 
much  she  has  earned  by  it.  This  will  en- 
courage industry.  Each  room  in  the  house 
must  oe  examined,  the  parlor  gratings  espe- 
cially, that  no  one  may  enter  unobserved. 
The  visitor  must  be  careful  too  with  the  chap- 
lains, learn  to  whom  each  sister  confesses,  and 
what  degree  of  communication  exists  between 
them.  The  prioress,  as  long  as  she  retains 
office,  must  always  be  supported.  There  can 
be  no  peace  without  authority,  and  sisters 
sometimes  think  they  are  wiser  than  their 
superiors.  No  respect  must  be  shown  for 
morbid  feelings.  The  visitor  must  make  such 
women  understand  that,  if  they  do  wrong,  they 
will  be  punished,  and  that  he  is  not  to  be  im- 
posed upon. 

As  to  the  prioress,  he  must 'learn  first  if  she 
has  favorites  ;  and  he  must  be  careful  in  this, 
for  it  is  her  duty  to  consult  most  with  the  most 
discreet  of  the  sisters ;  but  it  is  the  nature  of 
us  to  overvalue  our  own  selves.  When  pref- 
erence is  shown,  there  will  be  jealousy.  The 
favorite  will  be  supposed  to  rule  the  Holy 
Mother :  the  rest  will  think  that  they  have  a 
right  to  resist.  Sisters  who  may  be  far  from 
perfect  themselves  will  be  ready  enough  to  find 
fault  They  will  tell  the  visitor  that  the  pri- 
oress does  ihis  and  that.  He  will  be  perplexed 
what  to  think  ;  yet  he  will  do  infinite  harm  if 
he  orders  changes  which  are  not  needed.  His 
guide  must  be  the  Rule  of  the  Order.  If  he 
finds  that  the  prioress  dispenses  with  the  rule 
on  insufficient  grounds,  thinking  this  a  small 
thing  and  that  a  small  thing,  he  may  be  sure 
that  she  is  doing  no  good.  She  holds  office 
to  maintain  the  rule,  not  to  dispense  with  iu 

A  prioress  is  obviously  unfit  who  has  any- 
thing to  conceal.    The  sisters  must  be  made 


744 


SAINT  TERESA. 


to  tell  the  truth ;  they  will  not  directly  lie  per- 
haps, but  they  will  often  keep  back  what  ought 
to  be  known. 

Prioresses  often  overload  the  sisters  with 
prayers  and  penances,  so  as  to  hurt  their 
health.  The  sisters  are  afraid  to  complain, 
lest  thev  be  thought  wanting  in  devotion  ;;nor 
ought  they  to  complain  except  to  the  visitor. 
.  .  ,  The  visitor, -therefore,  must  be  careful 
about  this.  Especially  let  him  be  on  his  guard 
against  saintly  prioresses.  The  first  and  last 
principle  in  managing  women  is  to  make  them 
feel  that  they  have  a  head  over  them  who  will 
not  be  moved  by  any  earthly  consideration ; 
that  they  are  to  observe  their  vows,  and  will 
be  punished  if  thev  break  them ;  that  his  visit 
is  not  an  annual  ceremony,  but  that  he  keeps 
his  eye  on  the  daily  life  of  the  whole  establish- 
ment. Women  generally  are  honorable  and 
timid ;  they  will  think  it  wrong  sometimes  to 
report  the  prioress's  faults.  He  will  want  all 
his  discretion. 

He  should  enquire  about  the  singing  in  the 
choir;  it  ought  not  to  be  loud  or  ambitious. 
Fine  singing  disturbs  devotion,  and  the  singers 
will  like  to  l^e  admired.  He  should  notice  the 
dresses  too  ;  if  he  observe  any  ornament  on  a 
sister's  dress,  he  should  burn  it  publicly.  This 
will  be  a  lesson  to  her.  He  should  make  his 
inspection  in  the  morning,  and  never  stay  to 
dinner,  though  he  be  pressed  ;  he  comes  to  do 
business,  not  to  talk.  If  he  does  stay,  there 
must  only  be  a  modest  entertainment.  I  know 
not  how  to  prevent  excess  in  this  respect,  for 
our  present  chief  never  notices  what  is  put  be- 
fore  him  —  whether  it  is  good  or  bad,  much  or 
little.*     I  doubt  whether  he  even  understands. 

Finally,  the  visitor  must  be  careful  how  he 
shows  by  any  outward  sign  that  he  has  a  spe- 
cial regard  for  the  prioress.  If  he  does,  the 
sisters  will  not  tell  him  what  she  really  is. 
Each  of  them  knows  that  she  is  heard  but 
once,  while  the  prioress  has  as  much  time  as 
she  likes  for  explanations  and  excuses.  The 
prioress  may  not  mean  to  deceive,  but  self-love 
blinds  us  all.  I  have  been  myself  taken  in  re- 
peatedly by  mother  superiors,  who  were  such 
servants  of  God  that  I  could  not  help  believing 
them.  After  a  few  days'  residence,  I  have 
been  astonished  to  find  how  misled  I  had  been. 
The  devil,  having  few  opportunities  of  tempt- 
ing the  sisters,  attacks  the  superiors  instead. 
I  trust  none  of  them  till  I  have  examined  with 
my  own  eyes. 

Shrewder  eyes  were  not  perhaps  in 
Spain.  "  You  deceived  me  in  saying  she 
was  a  woman,'*  wrote  one  of  Teresa^s 
confessors.     **  She  is  a  bearded  man." 

To  return  to  her  story.  She  died,  as 
has  been  said,  at  Alva,  and  there  was 
nothin<^  at  first  to  distinguish  her  depar- 
ture from  that  of  ordinary  persons.  She 
had  fought  a  long  battle.    She  had  won 

*  This  was  meant  as  a  hint  to  Gratian,  who  was  mach 
too  fond  of  dining  uith  the  sisterhoods.  Perhaps  much 
of  the  rest  was  also  intended  for  him. 


the  victory ;  but  the  'dust  of  the  conflict 
was  still  flying;  detraction  was  still  busy; 
and  honor  with  the  best  deserving  is  sel- 
dom immediately  bestowed.  The  air  has 
to  clear,  the  passions  to  cool,  and  the 
spoils  of  the  campaign  to  be  a:athered, 
before  either  the  thing  accomplished  or 
the  doer's  merits  can  be  properly  recog- 
nized. Teresa's  work  was  finished ;  but 
she  had  enemies  who  hated  her;  half 
friends  who  were  envious  and  jealous; 
and  a  world  of  people  besides,  to  say  that 
the  work  was  nothing  very  wonderful,  and 
that  they  could  have  done  as  well  them- 
selves ii  they  thought  it  worth  while. 

It  is  always  thus  when  persons  of  genu- 
ine merit  first  leave  the  earth.  As  long 
as  they  are  alive  and  active  they  make 
their  power  felt.  When  they  are  looked 
back  upon  from  a  distance  they  can  be 
seen  towering  high  above  their  contempo- 
raries. Their  contemporaries  themseU-es, 
however,  less  easily  admit  the  diflfcrencc; 
and  when  the  overmastering  presence  is 
first  removed,  and  they  no  longer  feel  the 
weight  of  it,  they  deny  that  any  difference 
exists. 

Teresa   was    buried   where    she   died. 
Spanish  tombs  are   usually   longitudinal 
holes   perforated  in   blocks   of  masonry. 
The  coffin  is  introduced  ;  the  opening  is 
walled  up,  and  a  tablet  with  an  inscription 
indicates  and  protects  the  spot.     In  one 
of  these  apertures  attached  to  the  Alva 
convent  Teresa  was  placed.     The  wooden 
coffin,  hastily  nailed  together,  was  covered 
with  quicklime  and  earth.    Massive  stones 
were  built  in  after  it,  and  were  faced  with 
solid   masonry.     There   she   was   left   to 
rest;  to  be  regarded,  as  it  seemed,  with 
passionate  affection  by  the  sisters   who 
survived   her,  and   then  to  fade   into  a 
shadow,  and  be  remembered  no  more  for- 
ever.    But  the  love  of  those  sisters  was 
too    intense,  and    their  faith   too  deep. 
"Calumny,"  says  Sir  Arthur  Helps,  "can 
make  a  cloud  seem  a  mountain ;  can  even 
make  a  cloud  become  a  mountain."     Love 
and  faith  are  no  less  powerful  enchanters, 
and  can  convert  into  facts  the  airy  phan- 
toms of  the  brain.     The  sisters  when  they 
passed  her  resting-place  paused  to  think 
of  her,  and  her  figure  as  it  came  back  to 
them  breathed  fragrance  sweet  as  violets. 
Father  Gratian,  who  had  been  absent  from 
the  death-bed,  came  on  a  visitation  to  the 
convent  nine  months  after.     His  imagina- 
tion was  as  active  as  that  of  the  sister- 
hood :  he  perceived,  not  the  violet  odor 
only,  but  a  fragrant  oil  oozing  between 
the  stones.    The  tomb  was  opened,  the 
lid  of  the  coffin  was  found  broken,  and 


SAINT  TERESA. 


745 


the  earth  had  fallen  through.  The  face 
was  discolored,  but  the  flesh  was  uncor- 
rupted,  and  the  cause  of  the  odor  was  at 
once  apparent  in  the  inefiEable  sweetness 
which  distilled  from  it.  The  body  was 
taken  out  and  washed.  Gratian  cut  off 
the  left  hand,  and  secured  it  for  himself. 
Thus  mutilated,  the  body  itself  was  re- 
placed, and  Gratian  carried  off  his  prize, 
which  instantly  worked  miracles.  The 
Jesuit  Ribera,  who  was  afterwards  Tere- 
sa's biographer,  and  had  been  present  at 
the  opening,  saved  part  of  the  earth.  He 
found  it  **  sweet  as  the  bone  of  St.  Law- 
rence which  was  preserved  at  Avila.*' 
The  story  flew  from  lip  to  lip.  Gratian, 
zealous  for  the  honor  of  the  reformed 
branch  of  the  Carmelites,  called  a  chap- 
ter, and  brought  his  evidence  before  it 
that  their  founder  was  a  saint.  Teresa's 
communications  with  the  other  world  at 
once  assumed  a  more  awful  aspect.  The 
chapter  decided  that,  as  at  Avila  she  was 
born,  as  at  Avila  she  was  first  admitted  to 
converse  with  Christ,  and  as  there  was 
her  first  foundation,  to  Avila  her  remains 
must  be  removed,  and  be  laid  in  the 
chapel  of  San  Josef.  The  sisters  at  Alva 
wept,  but  submitted.  They  were  allowed 
to  keep  the  remnant  of  the  arm  from 
which  Gratian  had  taken  off  the  hand. 
Other  small  portions  were  furtively  ab- 
stracted. The  rest  was  solemnly  trans- 
ferred. 

This  was  in  1585,  three  years  after  her 
death.  But  it  was  not  to  be  the  end. 
The  Alva  family  had  the  deepest  rever- 
ence for  Teresa.  The  great  duke  was 
gone,  but  his  son  who  succeeded  him,  and 
his  brother,  the  Prince  of  St.  John's,  in- 
herited his  feelings.  They  were  absent  at 
the  removal,  and  had  not  been  consulted. 
When  they  heard  of  it,  they  held  their 
town  to  have  been  injured  and  their  per- 
sonal honor  to  have  been  outraged.  They 
were  powerful.  They  appealed  to  Rome, 
and  were  successful.  Sixtus  V.,  in  1586, 
Bent  an  order  to  give  them  back  their 
precious  possession,  and  Teresa,  who  had 
been  a  wanderer  so  long,  was  sent  again 
upon  her  travels.  A  splendid  tomb  had 
been  prepared  in  the  convent  chapel  at 
Alva,  and  the  body,  brought  back  again 
from  Avila,  lay  in  state  in  the  choir  before 
it  was  deposited  there.  The  chapel  was 
crowded  with  spectators:  the  duke  and 
duchess  were  present  with  a  train  of  no- 
bles, the  provincial  Gratian,  and  a  throng 
of  dignitaries,  lay  and  ecclesiastic.  The 
features  were  still  earth-stained,  but  were 
otherwise  unaltered.  The  miraculous 
perfume  was  overpowering.    Ribera  con- 


trived to  kiss  the  sacred  foot,  and  to  touch 
the  remaining  arm.  He  feared  to  wash 
his  hands  afterwards,  lest  he  should  wash 
away  the  fragrance;  but  he  found,  to  his 
delight,  that  no  washing  affected  it.  Gra- 
tian took  another  finger  for  himself;  a 
nun  in  an  ecstasy  bit  out  a  portion  of 
skin;  and  for  this  time  the  obsequies 
were  ended.  Yet,  again,  there  was  an- 
other disentombment,  that  Teresa  might 
be  more  magnificently  coffined,  and  the 
general  of  the  Carmelites  came  from  It- 
aly that  he  might  see  her.  This  time,  the 
pope  had  enjoined  that  there  should  be 
no  more  mutilation;  but  nothing  could 
restrain  the  hunger  of  affection.  Illustri- 
ous persons  who  were  present,  in  spite  of 
pope  and  decency,  required  relics,  and 
were  not  to  be  denied.  The  general  dis- 
tributed portions  among  the  Alva  sister- 
hood. The  eye-witness  who  describes  the 
scene  was  made  happy  by  a  single  finger- 
joint.  The  general  himself  shocked  the 
feelings  or  roused  the  envy  of  the  by- 
standers by  tearing  out  an  entire  rio. 
Then  it  was  over,  and  all  that  remained 
of  Teresa  was  left  to  the  worms. 

But  the  last  act  had  still  to  be  performed. 
Spanish  opinion  had  declared  Teresa  to 
be  a  saint;  the  Church  had  to  ratify  the 
verdict.  Time  had  first  to  elapse  for  the 
relics  to  work  miracles  in  sufficient  quan- 
tity, and  promotion  to  the  highest  spirit- 
ual rank  could  only  be  gradual  and  delib- 
erate. Teresa  was  admitted  to  the  lower 
degree  of  beatification  by  Paul  V.  in 
1614.  She  was  canonized  (rciata  inter 
Deos)  eight  years  later  by  Gregory  XV., 
in  the  company  of  St.  Isidore,  Ignatius 
Loyola,  Francis  Xavier,  and  Philip  Neri. 
If  a  life  of  singular  self-devotion  in  the 
cause  of  Catholic  Christianity  could  merit 
so  lofty  a  distinction,  no  one  will  chal- 
lenge Teresa's  claim  to  it.  She  had  been 
an  admirable  woman,  and  as  such  de- 
served to  be  remembered.  But  she  was 
to  be  made  into  an  object  of  popular  wor- 
ship, and  evidence  of  mere  human  excel- 
lence was  not.  sufficient.  A  string  of 
miracles  were  proved  to  have  been  worked 
by  her  in  her  lifetime,  the  witnesses  to 
the  facts  being  duly  summoned  and  exam- 
ined. Her  sad,  pathetic  death-scene  was 
turned  into  a  phantasmagoria.  Old  peo- 
ple were  brought  to  swear  that  the  con- 
vent Church  had  been  mysteriously  illu- 
minated; Christ  and  a  company  of  angels 
had  stood  at  the  bedside  to  receive  the 
parting  soul ;  and  the  room  had  been  full 
of  white,  floating  figures,  presumed  to  be 
the  eleven  thousand  virgins.  Others  said 
that  a  white  dove  bad  flown  out  of  ber 


U6 

mouth  when  she  died,  and  had  vanished 
through  the  window;  while  a  dead  tree 
in  the  garden  was  found  next  morning 
covered  with  white  blossom. 

The  action  of  the  relics  had  been  still 
more  wonderful.  If' cut  or  punctured 
they  bled.  They  had  continued  uncor- 
rupted.  They  were  still  fragrant.  A 
cripple  at  Avila  had  been  restored  to 
strength  by  touching  a  fragment;  a  sister 
at  Malaga  with  three  cancers  on  her 
breast  had  been  perfectly  cured;  with 
much  more  of  the  same  kind. 

Next  the  solemn  doctors  examined 
Teresa's  character,  her  virtues  of  the 
first  degree,  her  virtues  of  the  second  de- 

free,  the  essentials  of  sanciitas  in  specie* 
aith,  hope,  charity,  love  of  Christ,  were 
found  all  satisfactory.  Her  tears  at  the 
death  of  Pius  V.  proved  her  loyalty  to 
the  Church.  The  exceptional  features 
followed,  her  struggles  with  the  cacodae- 
mon,  her  stainless  chastity,  her  voluntary 
poverty,  her  penance,  her  whip,  her  hair- 
cloth, her  obedience,  her  respect  for 
priests,  her  daily  communion,  her  endur- 
ance of  the  deviTs  torments,  and,  as  the 
crown  of  the  whole,  her  intercourse  with 
San  Josef,  the  Virgin,  and  her  son. 

Her  advocate  made  a  splendid  oration 
to  the  pope.  The  pope  referred  judgment 
to  the  cardinals,  archbishops,  and  bish- 
ops, whose  voices  were  unanimous,  and 
Teresa  was  declared  a  member  of  the  al- 
ready glorified  company  to  whom  prayers 
might  lawfully  be  uttered. 

Teresa's  image  still  stands  in  the  Cas- 
tilian  churches.  The  faithful  crowd  about 
her  with  their  ofiEerings,  and  dream  that 
they  leave  behind  them  their  aches  and 
pains ;  but  her  words  were  forgotten,  and 
her  rules  sank  again  into  neglect.  The 
Church  of  Rome  would  have  done  better 
in  keeping  alive  Teresa's  spirit  than  in 
converting  her  into  a  goddess.  Yet  the 
Church  of  Rome  is  not  peculiarly  guilty, 
and  we  all  do  the  same  thing  in  our  own 
way.  When  a  great  teacher  dies  who 
has  told  us  truths  which  it  would  be  dis- 
agreeable to  act  upon,  we  write  adoring 
lives  of  him,  we  place  him  in  the  intellec- 
tual pantheon;  but  we  go  on  as  if  he  had 
never  lived  at  all.  We  put  up  statues  to 
him  as  if  that  would  do  as  well,  and  the 
prophet  who  has  denounced  idols  is  made 
an  idol  himself.  Yet  good  seed  scattered 
broadcast  is  never  wholly  wasted.  Though 
dying  out  in  Spain  and  Italy,  the  Car- 
melite sisterhoods  are  reviving  in  north- 
ern Europe,  and  they  owe  such  life  as 
they  now  possess  to  Teresa  of  Avila. 
The  nuns  of    Compi^gne,  who  in   1794 


A  MAIDEN   FAIR. 


fell  under  the  displeasure  of  Robespierre^ 
were  Carmelites  of  Teresa's  order.  Ver- 
gniaud  and  his  twenty-two  companions 
sang  the  Marseillaise,  at  the  scaffold,  the 
surviving  voices  keeping  up  the  chorus, 
as  their  heads  fell  one  by  one  till  all  were 
gone.  Teresa's  thirteen  sisters  at  Com* 
pi^gne  sang  the  "Veni  Creator"  as  the 
knife  of  the  Convention  made  an  end  of 
them,  the  prioress  singing  the  last  verse 
alone  amidst  the  bodies  of  her  murdered 
flock. 


From  Good  Cheer* 
A   MAIDEN  FAIR. 

BY  CHARLES  GIBBON. 

CHAPTER  I.    . 
A  FRESH  BREEZE. 

A  GREY  day  that  would  have  been  dull 
anywhere  but  by  the  sea.  A  strong  breeze 
blowing  and  the  grey  and  blue  waters 
leaping  into  white  combs  and  points.  A 
landsman  would  have  called  it  a  gale,  but 
to  fisherfolk  it  was  only  **a  wee  thing 
fresh."  The  grey  old  houses,  with  their 
red  and  brown  roofs,  looking  out  on  the 
harbor,  would  also  have  appeared  dull  and 
dirty  but  for  their  picturesquely  irregular 
gables  and  heights.  Then  the  busy  fig- 
ures of  the  fishwives  in  their  bright-colored 
petticoats  and  '*  short  gowns  "  (long  jack- 
ets); the  lounging  groups  of  the  fisher- 
men, and,  above  all,  the  bustle  in  the  har- 
bor and  on  its  walls  which  projected  out 
into  the  Forth,  gave  life  to  the  scene  in 
harmony  with  the  strong  breeze  and  the 
leaping  waters. 

Out  on  the  farthest  point  of  the  grey 
walls  a  group  of  men  and  women,  with 
the  spray  flashing  over  them  and  the  keen 
wind  biting  their  cheek,  stood  watching  a 
smack  which  was  tacking  to  make  the 
port* 

"Will  she  win  in,  think  you?"  aaks 
one. 

•*  Safe  enough  —  Bob  Ross  is  steering,'* 
confidently  answers  a  little  weather-wiz- 
ened-faced old  man,  by  name  Dick  Bax- 
ter. 

Bob  Ross  had  seen  a  smack  capsize,  and 
with  five  trusty  comrades  had  put  off  to 
the  rescue. 

*'  It  was  a  daftlike  thing  for  Bob  to 
think  he  could  be  out  in  time  to  help 
them." 

**It  was  worth  trying,"  said  Baxter 
dryly. 

Suddenly  the  prow  of  the  boat  is  turned 


A  MAIDEN   FAIR. 


747 


towards  the  opening  in  the  walls  and 
comes  straight  and  swiftlv  along,  crosses 
the  bar,  down  goes  the  sail,  and  boat  and 
men  are  safe  in  the  haven. 

There  was  no  cheer  although  brave 
work  had  been  done ;  but  an  eager  inspec- 
tion of  the  boat  to  see  who  was  in  it. 

"They  hae  gotten  them  a'  but  Jock 
Tamson,''  said  Bs^xter  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone,  the  circumstance  being  of  too  ordi- 
nary a  nature  to  call  for  much  feeling ; 
"puir  sowl,  he*s  gaen.*' 

**  My  man,  my  man,"  cried  a  woman, 
rushing  down  the  steps  to  the  boat, 
"wharfs  he?" 

There  was  no  answer  and  the  woman 
understood.  She.  bowed  her  head,  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands  and  was  si- 
lent.  Then  a  couple  of  burly  women, 
with  broad  shoulders  and  muscular  hands, 
took  each  an  arm  of  the  mourner. 

"  Come  awa  bame,  Jeanie,"  said  one 
quietly,  and  the  voice  was  tender  although 
the  notes  were  harsh  —  "ye'U  be  better 
there." 

And  they  led  the  widow  home. 

Bob  Ross  was  the  first  out  of  the  boat, 
helping  one  of  the  three  men  who  had 
been  saved  to  land.  The  others  followed, 
and  were  first  assisted  to  a  much-needed 
dram  and  then  to  their  homes.  The  crew 
proceeded  to  the  inn,  accompanied  by  a 
number  of  friends  eager  to  obtain  more  de- 
tails of  the  rescue  than  had  been  given  in 
the  hurried  answers  to  the  crowd  in  the 
haven. 

Ross  did  not  accompany  them.  He 
gave  his  stalwart  frame  a  shake,  like  a 
huge  Newfoundland  dog  after  coming  out 
of  the  water,  and  that  contented  him.  He 
was  a  man  of  about  thirty,  a  handsome 
fellow,  tall  and  sinewy,  dressed  in  a  pilot 
jacket,  and  boots  over  his  trousers. 

His  face  was  tanned  by  exposure  to  the 
weather,  the  features  good,  and  the  clear 
grey  eyes  which  looked  straight  at  any 
roan  bespoke  an  honest,  open,  and  fearless 
nature.  He  had  begun  life  in  his  father's 
fishing  smack;  but  whilst  always  ready  to 
do  his  duty  in  the  boat,  he  had  continued 
to  attend  school  more  than  the  other  lads 
of  the  village,  and  to  make  more  of  what 
he  learned  there.  The  dominie  took  an 
interest  in  him,  and  helped  him  to  learn 
navigation  as  far  as  it  was  in  that  worthy 
man*s  power  to  do  it.  But  his  real  knowl- 
edge was  gained  by  practical  experience 
in  his  father*s  smack.  So  by  the  time  he 
was  twenty-two  he  was  said  to  know  the 
road  from  Newhaven  to  John  o*  Groat*s 
—  ay,  or  from  Newhaven  to  Yarmouth  — 
l>etter  than  any  pilot  in   Leith.    He  ob- 


tained his  license  and  became  a  recog- 
nized pilot.  He  soon  earned  a  hish  repu- 
tation as  a  trusty,  steady,  and  skilTul  man. 
But  he  still  retained  his  interest  in  the 
smack,  and  when  occasion  permitted  went 
out  to  the  fishing  with  as  much  glee  as  of 
old. 

After  he  had  seen  the  rescued  men  safe 
in  their  homes,  he  turned  on  the  way  to 
his  own.  Dick  Baxter  met  him.  He  was 
a  favorite  of  Dick*s,  and  that  was  an  hon- 
or ;  for  Dick  was  a  person  of  importance  in 
the  village.  .  An  accident  thirty  years  ago 
had  disabled  him  from  following  his  craft 
as  a  fisherman ;  but  he  eked  out  a  living 
by  doing  odd  jobs  at  the  harbor,  and  by  the 
tips  he  obtained  from  sightseers  for  infor- 
mation about  the  place  and  people.  This 
he  gave  with  the  air  of  a  proprietor  show- 
ing his  place  to  his  guests.  Amongst 
fisherfolk  he  obtained  the  reputation  of 
being  a  wise  man.  He  was  a  pawky  one, 
giving  advice  in  a  slow,  learned  way  that 
impressed  the  simple  although  clever  peo- 
ple. He  pronounced  as  authoritatively  on 
the  position  of  current  politics  as  on  reli- 
gious affairs  and  the  weather.  In  short 
he  was  an  authority  in  the  land  notwith- 
standing the  chaft  which  he  had  some- 
times to  endure  from  the  younger  men. 

In  his  scaly  old  blue  jersey  and  cordu- 
roy trousers,  and  with  his  thin  brown 
wizened  face,  he  was  always  at  bis  post 
and  knew  everybody's  affairs. 

**  I  was  on  the  look-oot  for  you.  Bob. 
Hoo  did  vou  manage?  It  was  weel  done 
onyway." 

**  We  were  just  in  time  —  poor  Thom- 
son had  gone  and  the  other  three  were 
just  dropping  off  the  keel.  But  you  see 
we  got  them,  and  that's  all." 

**  Ay,  but  it  was  weel  done,  and  there'll 
be  a  paragraph  in  the  Scotsman  about  you 
the-morn." 

**  Well,  it'll  do  nae  harm,"  answered 
Ross,  laughing. 

*<Is  that  a'  you  think  o't?  Man,  I'd 
gie  onything  to  hae  them  speak  about  me 
in  print  1  But  be  that  as't  may,  wha  do 
you  think  is  here?" 

"  A  lot  o'  folk." 

"Jist  that,  jist  that;  but  I  was  thinking 
you  would  like  to  ken  that  Jeems  "  (pro- 
nounced with  the  s  short)  **  is  here." 

**To  see  his  mother,  I  suppose,  and  get 
some  more  of  her  siller." 

**Jist  that,' an'  speaking  that  fine  £n- 

flish  I  could  hardly  understan'  him.     But 
thought  you  would  like  to  ken,  for  he's 
come  to  see  some  ane  forbye  his  mither." 
That  was  what  Dick  Baxter  had  been 
waiting  to  tell,  and  he  enjoyed  the  look  on 


748 

Bob  Ross*8  face  —  a  comical  attempt  to 
hide  the  fact  that  the  news  disturbed  hira. 

"  But  what  can  that  matter  to  me,  Dick  ? 
I  suppose  he  is  free  to  go  wherever  he  is 
welcome  like  other  folk.*' 

«•  Nae  doot,  and  it's  jist  as  you  tak*  it 
But  if  I  was  in  your  place,  Va  be  there 
afore  hira.'* 

••Where,  roan,  where?*' 

••  As  though  you  didna  ken  I "  exclaimed 
Dick  slyly.  *•  Howsoever,  you'll  ken  fine 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  saw  her  yestreen 
and  she  was  speerin'  for  you,  and  there 
was  a  bra^v  laugh  on  her  face  when  I  said 
you  was  to  be  here  the-day." 

••Thank  you,  Dick,"  said  Ross  with 
evident  annoyance;  ''but  I  wisb  you 
wouldna'  meddle." 

••  I  didna'  ken  .afore  that  it  was  ony  harm 
to  do  a  frien'  a  guid  turn,"  answered  Dick 
Baxter  in  his  most  dignified  way. 

••No  harm  —  I  hope." 

••  I  didna  say  onythingbyordinar,"said 
Dick  a  little  sulkily,  and  yet  with  a  desire 
to  reassure  Ross,  seeing  him  so  much  put 
out.  But  the  •'by  ordinar"  must  have 
had  an  extensive  range  indeed  in  his  mind, 
since  he  had  been  praising  his  j-oung 
friend  without  stint  to  Annie  Murray,  the 
only  child  of  Captain  Duncan  Murray, 
who  was  sole  owner  of  Anchor  Cottage 
and  the  **  Mermaid  "  steamer.  ••  And  she 
didna  take  it  that  ill,"  added  Dickpawkily. 

••Then  it's  all  right." 

And  Ross  laughed  again  as  he  went  his 
way,  and  that  way  was  to  Anchor  Cottage. 
He  had  been  sent  for  by  Captain  Duncan 
on  a  matter  of  business.  But  the  busi* 
ness  was  not  in  Bob  Ross's  mind  as  he 
walked  rapidly  along  with  head  bowed 
against  the  wind,  the  spray  dashing  over 
the  parapet,  and  the  sun  slowly  beginning 
to  make  its  way  throuj^h  the  mist. 

••I  wonder  can  it  be  true!  Was  she 
thinking  o'  me  ?  Maybe,  maybe,  for  she's 
no  upsetting  like  other  lassies  I  ken  o'  — 
but  what  havers  is  this  ?  The  captain  is 
friendly  and  kindly;  but  he  is  proud  o' 
his  daughter,  proud  o'  his  steamer,  and 
proud  o'  his  siller  —  he  would  never  hear 
o't  when  there's  a  chiel  like  Cargili  hang- 
ing about  waiting  for  her." 

At  this  thought  he  stopped,  teeth  closed 
and  feet  went  down  harder  and  faster  on 
the  ground.    Again  — 

••But  why  should  he  not  think  of  his 
own  early  days  and  count  my  chances  as 
guid  as  his  were?" 

Here  a  faint  smile  of  hope  crossed  his 
face ;  but  the  smile  faded  into  a  troubled 
look. 

**Vm  thinkiog  be  would  do  it,  too,  if 


A  MAIDEN   FAIR. 


Cargill  werena  here  with  his  fineries  and 
his  siller  that  he  had  no  hand  in  making. 
Puir  auld  Bell  Cargill — it  was  a  pity 

Sou  spent  your  life  in  hoarding  up  your 
awbees  for  a  loon  that's  more  than  half 
ashamed  to  call  you  bis  mother  before  his 
fine  friends  —  ugh!  Lord  forgie  me  for 
thae  hard  thoughts.  If  Annie  likes  him 
let  him  hae  her." 

The  healthy  nature  of  the  man  rose 
against  this  envious  spirit  which  had  for 
a  moment  taken  possession  of  him.  He 
lifted  his  head  and  looked  fate  steadily  in 
the  face.  She  should  take  him  for  his 
own  sake,  or  he  would  ••e'en  let  the  bonnie 
lass  gang." 

It  was  a  relief  to  the  man  to  feel  this 
better  mood  upon  him  before  he  reached 
the  cottage,  for  he  knew  that  ugly  thoughts 
make  ugly  faces.  It  was  a  relief,  too,  that 
the  sun  had  scattered  the  mist  and  bright* 
ened  everything. 

CHAPTER  II. 
ANCHOR  COTTAGE. 

The  cottage  stood  on  the  high  ground 
overlooking  the  Firth.  It  was  a  square, 
comfortable-looking  building  of  one  story, 
built  of  brown  stone  and  slated.  The 
only  piece  of  ornamentation  about  the 
building  was  a  porch.  It  stood  in  a  piece 
of  ground  which  was  also  square  and 
planted  with  things  useful — vegetables, 
fruit-trees,  and  berry-bushes.  There  were 
a  few  plots  of  flowers  and  some  rose- 
bushes, but  these  things  being  merely 
beautiful  were  kept  well  within  bounds. 
Nevertheless  the  place  had  a  cosy  appear- 
ance and  was  attractive  on  that  account. 

The  captain  had  been  brought  up  to 
regard  utility  as  the  first  consideration  in 
life ;  and  the  only  bit  of  fancy  he  had 
permitted  himself  when  the  grounds  were 
laid  out,  was  to  place  an  old  anchor  in  the 
centre  of  the  patch  of  grass,  called  the 
green.  This  anchor  had  one  of  its  points 
stuck  firmly  in  the  ground  as  if  it  were 
holding  the  whole  place  steady. 

••That  auld  anchor,  sir,"  the  captain 
would    say  to    any  visitor,  ••  saved  the 

•  Mermaid '  once  when  she  was  being 
blown  out  of  the  roads  by  one  of  the 
clartiest  storms  I  have  ever  been  in.   The 

*  Mermaid'  of  that  time  was  a  bit  cutter, 
you  maun  ken.  And  when  I  sold  the 
cutter  and  got  the  steamer  I  brought  that 
anchor  here  and  I'm  proud  o'  it  —  rael 
proud  —  and  so  I  named  the  house  after 
it." 

1     As  8000  as  Ross  passed  through  the 


A  MAIDEN   FAIR. 


749 


gate  he  halted,  hesitatiog  whether  to  go 
straight  to  the  door  or  to  cross  the  green 
towards  the  lass  he  saw  amongst  the 
berry-bushes  busy  gathering  fruit.  His 
heart's  impulse  bad  its  way,  and  he  went 
towards  her. 

As  the  gate  closed  behind  him  with  a 
clang  a  frank,  sun-browned  face  looked 
up  from  amongst  the  bushes  and  recog- 
nized him  with  a  pleasant  smile.  He 
thought  that  smile  as  bright  as  the  sun* 
shine  itself. 

"  Gla4  to  see  you,  Mr.  Ross,**  she  said 
in  a  rich,  cheery  voice.  '*  Father  has 
been  expecting  you,  but  there  is  some- 
body with  him  just  now." 

How  cordially  Bob  Ross  thanked  that 
"somebody/' and  how  earnestly  he  prayed 
that  the  "somebody"  might  stay  long. 

*^  I  could  not  come  so  early  as  I  was 
meaning  to  do,  and  Tm  no  exactly  sorry." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  You  are  here." 

She  looked  as  if  she  enjoyed,  or  at  any 
rate  did  not  dislike,  this  very  direct  com- 
pliment.    She  said  banteringly, — 

"  ril  hae  to  take  care  of  you,  Mr.  Ross.** 

"  That's  just  what  I  would  like  you  to 
do,"  he  rejoined  sincerely. 

^*  Keek  into  the  berry -bush  and  say 
what  you  see  there,"  she  replied,  laugh- 
ingly quoting  an  old  play-rhyme  of  child- 
hood. 

"  Vm  doubting  vou  would  not  let  me 
tell  you  what  /  see. 

.  '*  Oh,  but  I  would,  for  I'm  no  the 
gowk ! " 

"  I'm  sure  of  that,  for  what  I  see  is  the 
bonniest  lass  in  all  the  world  ! " 

"£h,  Mr.  Ross!"  she  cried,  laughing 
again,  "  Tm  thinking  I  had  better  go  and 
tell  my  father  you  are  here." 

That  was  a  check,  otherwise  he  might 
have  found  an  opportunity  to  turn  this 
banter  to  serious  account.  She  was  con- 
scious of  that,  and  wished  to  avoid  the 
possible  turn  the  conversation  might  take 
—  and  he  was  aware  of  it. 

But  he  tried  to  detain  her  by  the  assur- 
ance that  he  was  in  no  hurry  and  would 
rather  wait  until  the  captain  was  quite 
free.  With  a  smiling  shake  of  the  head, 
she  took  up  her  basket  of  fruit  and  went 
towards  the  house.  A  tall,  winsome 
figure,  in  neat,  simple  dress;  and  as  she 
crossed  the  green  her  rich,  fair  hair  glis- 
tened in  the  sunlight  like  gold. 

The  wistful  lover,  following,  felt  that 
there  was  no  use  in  following,  for  such  a 
prize  could  never  be  his  —  not  because 
there  was  any  inseparable  gulf  between 
their  positions;  but  because  she  in  her- 


self appeared  to  be  so  much  above  him 
or  any  ordinary  mortal.  Alas,  poor  lov- 
er I 

But  Annie  was  a  bright  specimen  of 
woman  nature  —  kind  and  generous,  bon- 
nie  and  brave.  The  man  who  won  her 
would  be  fortunate  indeed,  for  he  would 
possess  that  greatest  of  all  blessings,  a 
faithful  helpmate  in  all  that  concerns  daily 
life  —  tender  in  his  sorrow,  blithe  In  his 
gladness,  and  patient  of  his  errors. 

All  this  and  more  Ross  thought,  and 
it  rendered  the  possibility  of  her  becom- 
ing the  prize  of  James  Cargill  the  more 
bitter.  He  tried  to  make  allowance  for 
his  own  feelings  in  regard  to  Annie  and 
the  influence  they  had  upon  his  opinion 
of  the  man.  But  when  all  allowance  was 
made  he  could  not  believe  that  Cargill 
was  likely  to  make  her  or  any  woman 
happy. 

The  captain's  daughter  was  as  famous 
as  the  captain  himself;  tor  a//^oyo^A  she 
could  play  the  "  pianny,"  and  was  reported 
to  be  able  to  speak  French  "  as  well  as 
the  French  themselves  "  (such  a  smatter- 
ing of  the  language  as  any  schoolgirl 
might  possess  would  suflice  for  this  re- 
port), she  was  her  father's  clerk  and 
purser,  besides  being  his  housekeeper. 
She  accompanied  him  on  all  his  voyages, 
and  in  the  wildest  storm  was  as  cool  as 
the  oldest  seaman  on  board. 

When  the  "  Mermaid  "  was  in  straits 
she  would  stand  by  her  father's  side  — 
her  sailor  hat  and  the  pea-jacket  over  her 
ordinary  dress  giving  her  tall  figure  a 
somewhat  manly  appearance  —  ready  to 
obey  him  in  anything  he  might  commandt 

And  throughout  this  rough  life  she 
preserved  the  gentlest  characteristics  of 
womanhood.  When  at  home  in  the  cot- 
tage no  stranger  would  have  suspected 
that  the  quiet-looking  lass  with  the  merry 
smile  was  accustomed  to  such  stern  expe* 
rlences. 

The  '*  Mermaid  "  was  a  small  steamer 
which  Duncan  Murray  had  purchased  a 
bargain.  Then,  having  sold  his  cutter,  he 
employed  the  steamer  to  considerable  ad- 
vantage in  carrying  goods  along  the  coast, 
or  to  wherever  he  might  obtain  a  cargo. 
Bv  this  means  he  had  made  a  good  deal 
of  monev  —  a  big  fortune  his  friends  con- 
sidered It  —  some  of  which  was  prudently 
Invested  in  house  property. 

He  might  have  retired  and  lived  com- 
fortably on  his  income.  But  he  would 
not  do  that ;  he  only  became  more  partic- 
ular about  his  cargoes  and  about  his  rates 
of  freight.  Likewise,  he  would  now  em- 
ploy a  pilot  more  frequently  than  had  been 


750 


A   MAIDEN   FAIR. 


his  custom,  in  order  to  give  himself  more 
ease  on  board. 

Often  he  had  been  heard  to  declare 
with  an  emphatic  oath  that  he  would  never 
part  with  the  **  Mermaid  "  or  his-daughter 
"  as  lang  as  they  could  haud  thegither.** 

In  spite  of  this  well-known  declaration 
there  were  men  who  would  have  been 
glad  to  make  him  forego  his  vow  so  far  as 
the  lady  was  concerned ;  only  she  seemed 
to  be  as  much  disposed  to  observe  it  as 
her  father.  At  any  rate,  no  one  had  }-et 
obtained  her  favor;  and  there  seemed 
no  likelihood  of  that  favor  being  easily 
won. 

To  herself  there  was  the. simple  fact 
that  her  life  was  a  happy  one  and  there 
was  no  need  of  change.  Even  if  one 
should  appear  possessed  of  that  strange 
power  which  draws  a  maiden  away  from 
father,  mother,  and  kindred  to  trust  her 
whole  life  to  him,  she  believed  that  she 
could  resist  it,  until  her  father  said,  "  Go, 
and  take  my  blessing  with  you." 

"  Here  is  Mr.  Ross,  father,"  said  An- 
nie, as  she  entered  the  room,  and  added 
with  some  surprise,  *'  Mr.  Cargill  has 
gone  ?  " 

**  Ay ;  did  you  no  see  him  ?  —  he  wanted 
to  see  you.  How  are  you,  Bob?  Tm 
wantin'  you  to  come  wi'  us  as  far  as  Peter- 
head.    Can  you  manage  it  ?  " 

The  captain  was  a  burly  little  man  with 
a  very  ruddy  face  —  shrewd,  sharp,  and 
yet  not  ill-natured. 

"  When  ?  "  was  the  prompt  query. 

"Next  week,  on  Tuesday  maybe,  but 
oTi  Wednesday  sure." 

Ross  lookea  at  Annie  —  his  eyes  turned 
to  her  involuntarily,  asking  the  question, 
was  she  going  too  r  But  she  looked  down 
at  the  table  examining  some  forms  which 
her  father  had  thrust  towards  her  whilst 
he  was  speaking. 

"  Tm  no  sure.  But  what  should  you 
need  me  for  ?  —  you  know  the  roads  better 
than  me." 

The  captain's  quick,  pale  eyes  looked 
up  at  him  sharply,  and  he  said  good-na- 
turedly,— 

"  l*m  perfectly  aware  o'  that,  Bob,  but 
next  to  myser  I  think  you  ken  them 
best." 

**  Thank  you,  captain." 

**  And  as  I  am  to  have  a  friend  wi'  me, 
I  dinna  want  to  hae  mair  fash  myser  nor 
is  just  necessary.  That's  the  reason  why 
I  want  you  wi'  us,  though  what  you  are 
sae  particular  about  kenning  for,  I  canna 
make  out.  What's  wrang  wi'  ye  ?  " 
.  That  was    a  question    not  easily  an- 


swered, for  the  man  himself  did  not  know 
precisely.  He  felt  that  there  was  a  great 
deal  wrong  with  him;  but  as  he  found  it 
difficult  to  discover  an  explanation  for  it 
in  his  own  mind,  it  was  impossible  to 
translate  it  in  words  to  the  understanding 
of  another.     So  he  answered  vaguely,  — 

**  Nothing,  captain,  except  that  I  would 
like  a  bit  rest." 

"  Rest !  —  you  that  fetched  aff  they 
three  billies  frae  the  smack  this  morn- 
ing, and  was  able  to  walk  out  here  as  if 
naething  had  happened  —  you  talk  about 
rest  when  you  are  gaun  aboard  the 
*  Mermaid  * !  —  hoots  man,  that's  no  your 
reason." 

"What  is  that  about  the  smack,  fa- 
ther?" broke  in  Annie,  with  eyes  bright- 
ening, as  she  remembered  the  explanation 
Ross  had  giyen  for  being  late. 

"A  daft  thing  —  that  fool-fellow  gaed 
out  in  the  teeth  o'  a  gale  because  he  saw 
a  smack  capseezed " 

"Did  you  save  them?"  she  asked  of 
Ross ;  but  the  father  replied, — 

"  Oo,  ay,  he  brought  hame  three  o* 
them  —  but  he  might  hae  made  the  loss  o* 
his  ain  crew  as  weel  as  that  o'  the  smack. 
It  was  cleverly  done  as  I  am  told,  all  the 
same ;  but  you  should  mind  that  a  life  in 
the  hand  is  worth  twa  in  the  wrack.  But 
that's  no  the  question :  are  you  to  come 
wi*  me  or  no?    Cargill  is  coming." 

Annie,  by  a  flush  of  the  cheeks  and  a 
movement  of  the  hand  —  instantly  checked 
—  as  if  she  would  take  that  of  Ross,  ap- 
peared to  think  that  the  saving  of  the  men 
was  very  much  the  question. 

The  father  did  not  observe  the  move- 
ment, and  Ross  was  entirely  occupied 
with  the  announcement  that  Cargill  was 
going  to  Peterhead  on  board  the  "  Mer- 
maid." 

"  I'll  go  wi'  you,  captain,"  he  said  quiet- 
ly ;  and  any  one  hearing  him  speak  would 
have  thought  t'hat  he  was  merely  closing 
an  ordinary  bargain.  But  through  his 
mind  was  passing;  the  panorama  of  Car- 
gill, all  the  way  along  the  coast  courting 
Annie. 

"  That's  a  plain  word,  and  I  think  you 
ought  to  hae  spoken  it  sooner,  for  it's  an 
easy  job  to  you,  and  you'll  be  among 
frien's.    Take  a  dram  on  the  head  o't." 

CHAPTER    III. 
AT    THE    GATE. 

He  had  been  in  a  dream  during  the  last 
ten  minutes  of  his  stay  in  the  captain's 
room.  He  was  in  a  dream  now  that  he 
got  out  into  the  fresh  air.    Cargill  going 


A  MAIDEN   FAIR; 


ny 


with  them  —  Cargill  had  been  at  the  cot- 
tage just  before  him  —  why  then  it  was  all 
settled  and  there  was  no  hope  for  him. 

.  What  fiend,  then,  had  prompted  him  to 
say  he  would  be  pilot  of  the  "  Mermaid  " 
on  this  voyage?  Why  should  he  be  with 
them  when  it  would  be  only  to  intensify 
his  sense  of  loss  into  hate,  and  —  maybe, 
crime? 

He  should  have  said,  no,  no,  no  I  -^  and 
he  had  said  yes  for  the  very  reason  which 
should  have  compelled  him  to  say  no. 

It  was  not  yet  too  late.  He  could  find 
some  excuse  :  he  could  feign  illness  —  he 
could  drown  himself.  Anything  rather 
than  go  on  board  that  vessel  and  see  them 
together,  knowing  the  man  to  be  so  un- 
worthy. He  did  believe  that  if  he  had 
thought  Cargill  an  honest  man  he  could 
have  said  good-bye  in  sad  resignation  to 
the  inevitable ;  he  could  have  steered  them 
safely  into  port  with  no  chagrin,  but  only 
sorrow  in  his  heart. 

As  it  was — he  must  escape  from  the 
engagement.  He  could  not  answer  for 
himself  if  he  fulfilled  it. 

As  he  was  mechanically  opening  the 
gate  his  arm  was  grasped  by  a  friendly 
hand. 

**  Stop  a  minute,  Mr.  Ross,  I  have  been 
noticing  that  you  are  not  well,  can  we  do 
anything  for  you  ?" 

"  Not  well !  What  a  poor  thing  was 
it.  then,  that  the  wreck  of  hope  and  future 
should  come  to  be  a  mere  question  of 
"Can  we  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  So  much 
medicine  —  so  much  fresh  air  —  and  lo, 
hope  is  restored  and  the  future  is  as  bright 
as  ever.  That  is  the  current  mood  -^  and 
a  happy  one  —  but  to  the  homely  nature 
of  a  man  like  Ross  it  brought  no  balm. 
He  had  ventured  his  all  in  a  single  boat 
and  it  had  sunk. 

,  He  turned  and  saw  Annie,  the  bright, 
sympathetic  eyes  full  upon  him.  Like 
roost  men  deeply  in  love  he  was  most  shy 
of  the  being  he  most  loved.  So  he  an- 
swered somewhat  ungraciously,  — 

**That  is  true  —  I  am  not  well;  but 
tbank  vou  for  coming  to  say  a  kind  word 
to  me." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  have  given  you  any 
comfort.  I  doubt  you  have  been  overtax- 
ing yourself  to-day." 

He  rested  on  the  gate.  The  sweet 
voice  was  echoing  in  his  brain  and  he 
listened.  Then  speaking  to  the  voice  be 
breathed  the  name,  **  Annie." 

She  did  not  draw  away  from  him.  She 
stood  breathless. 

"Will  you  let  me  speak  to  you?"  he 
said,  so  quietly  now  that  he  could  scarcely 


realize  himself  that  he  had  been  for  a 
moment  in  dreamland. 

"  H  it  will  do  you  any  good,  to  be  sure 
I  will,"  she  answered  with  an  endeavor  to 
speak  quite  frankly  and  easily;  but  the 
voice  faltered  a  little. 

"Onything  I  like?" 

**  Of  course." 

The  permission  granted  he  appeared  to 
find  difficulty  in  taking  advantage  of  it. 
So  there  was  a  pause,  and  the  outcome  of 
it  was,  — 

"  I'm  a  stupid  gowk." 

But  ridiculous  as  the  expression  might 
be  to  other  ears  they  were  not  so  to  those 
of  Annie  Murray,  and  she  asked  tremu- 
lously, — 

"  What  for  ? »» 

"  Because  I  care  more  for  you  than  for 
anybody  or  anything  else,  and — I  have 
been  aye  feared  to  tell  you.  Now  it  is 
useless  telling  you." 

He  spoke  almost  fiercely  as  in  the 
throes  of  a  strong  man's  agony ;  but  with 
the  evident  effort  to  restrain  his  passion. 

"  You  are  not  to  speak  any  more,"  she 
said,  drawing  a  long  breath  ;  "  you  are  to 
listen  to  me.  You  are  young,  and  you 
can  go  where  you  will  find  friends  to  com- 
fort and  cheer  you " 

"So  it  is  said  of  all  men,"  he  muttered. 

"  My  father  is  an  old  man,"  she  went 
on,  "and  has  only  me  as  his  constant 
friend  and  companion.  Well,  can  you 
think  of  it?  I  said  to  myself  long  ago 
that  I  would  never  leave  him  until  he  sent 
me  away.  Well,  can  you  think  of  it? 
The  only  time  that  I  ever  wished  I  might 
leave  him  was  — "  * 

But  there  the  blood  came  rushing  to 
her  face  and  a  startled  expression  ap- 
peared in  her  eyes  as  if  she  had  caught 
herself  in  the  commission  of  some  crime, 
and  she  became  silent.  She,  who  had 
been  calm  in  the  midst  of  storm,  trembled. 

"  Well  ? "  he  asked,  surprised  by  her 
sudden  stop  and  looking  into  her  face  for 
an  explanation. 

"Well,"  she  said  softly  —  an  entire 
change  of  tone  and  manner  —  "there's 
nothing  more  to  say  except  that  I  am  glad 
you  are  to  be  the  pilot  of  the  '  Mermaid  * 
on  her  next  trip," 

He  took  her  hand  gently,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment each  looked  into  the  other's  eyes. 
Then  — 

"  Now  it  is  mv  turn  to  ask  you  to  listen 
to  me,"  he  saicf  slowly.  "  Whilst  I  was 
coming  down  the  path,  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  would  not  go.  You  shall  de- 
cide me.     Is  Cargill  going  by  your  wish  ?  " 

"  No." 


7Sa 


A   MAIDEN   FAIR. 


"  Do  yoa  wish  rae  to  go  ?  " 
'*  I  do  —  because  father  wishes  it.*' 
She  added  the  latter  words  quickly,  as 
if  fearing  that  he  should  misunderstand 
the  import  of  her  wish;  and  again  they 
looked  into  each  other*s  eyes  in  silence. 
"  Very  well,"  he  said,  ••  I  will  go." 
And  then  they  said  good-bye.    The  un- 
derstanding  between  them  was  complete, 
although  no  word  of  compact  had  been 
spoken.    She  was  to  be  faithful  to  her 
father,  and  be  was  to  wait  until  the  father 
spoke. 

Wait!  —  ay,  he  would  wait  all  his  life. 
And  he  had  no  doubt  that  after  this  trip 
of  the  "  Mermaid,'*  a  little  conversation 
with  Captain  Duncan  would  enable  him 
to  arrange  matters  satisfactorily.  With 
that  conviction  he  went  merrily  on  his 
way. 

CHAPTER  IV. 
A  DUTIFUL  SON. 

The  original  part  of  the  village  con- 
sists of  two  rows  of  buildings  forming  a 
narrow  street.  The  buildings  have  two 
fiats :  the  upper  one  is  approached  by  a 
staircase  with  a  thick  wooden  railing  out- 
side the  wall;  and  the  landings  of  these 
**  outside  stairs "  form  the  rostrums  of 
the  fishwives  from  which  they  harangue 
their  gossips.  Poles  jut  out  from  win- 
dows carrying  ropes  to  form  a  triangle, 
and  on  these  hang  men  and  women's 
clothes  to  dry.  On  the  stairs  are  broad- 
haunched  women  gossiping  to  others  be- 
low, on  either  side,  or  across  the  way. 
Beneath  the  stairs  are  others  preparing 
bait,  mending  nets  or  clothes,  and  also 
gossiping. 

At  the  foot  of  one  of  these  stairs  is 
Dick  Baxter.  To  him  approaches  a  big, 
lumpish  man,  jauntily.  He  is  dressed  in 
the  latest  fashion  of  tailordom,  has  a 
large  signet  ring  on  the  third  finger  of  his 
left  hand,  and  carries  a  slim  umbrella  in 
bis  right,  which  makes  his  own  figure  the 
more  conspicuous.  He  is  evidently  con- 
scious that  such  a  dandy  is  out  of  his 
element  in  this  place.  He  is  rendered 
still  more  conscious  of  it  by  the  saluta* 
tion  of  Dick  Baxter. 

**  Weel,  Jeems,  you  are  a  g^and  sight, 
but  you  might  hae  come  sooner,  for  your 
mither*s  in  a  great  way  about  you.** 

*•  Thank  you,  Mister  Baxter." 

**  That's  as  muckle  as  to  say  that  I 
ought  to  call  you  Mister  Cargill,**  said 
Dick  pityingly.  "  Na,  oa,  laddie,  I  canna 
do  that.  1  hae  kent  ye  since  you  were  a 
bairn  running  barefoot  here  in  the  Row, 


and  you  maun  just  thole  me  saying  Jeems 
to  the  end.*' 

Before  Dick  had  finished  his  observa- 
tion, the  gentleman  had  ascended  the 
staircase  and  entered  the  dwelling  at  the 
top.  There  he  was  saluted  by  an  eldritch 
cry,— 

*'Ye  hae  come  at  last,  ye  deevil's 
buckie.  What's  keepit  ye?  Wait  or  I 
get  up  and  I'll  learn  ye  manners.  Did  I 
no  say  that  ye  was  to  be  here  at  twa 
o'clock  and  noo  it's  four  ?  *' 

This  came  from  an  old  woman  who  was 
seated  in  an  old-fashioned  armchair.  She 
wore  a  high  white  "mutch,"  which  ren- 
dered her  shrivelled  features  and  shrunken 
eyes  the  more  marked ;  and  the  passion 
on  the  face  at  this  moment  made  it  appear 
more  haggard  than  it  naturally  was. 

The  lumpish  dandy  was  not  at  all  dis- 
turbed. His  mother,  Bell  Cargill,  had 
been  paralyzed  in  her  lower  limbs  for  ten 
years  past ;  and  although  she  was  always 
expecting  to  recover  and  making  her  ar- 
rangements for  that  event,  it  had  not  yet 
come  to  pass.  She  was  constantly  telling 
her  neighbors  what  she  would  do  when 
she** got  up,**  and  they  kindly  humored 
her  hope,  and  the  hope  sustained  her. 
She  had  been  one  of  the  briskest  and 
strongest  of  the  fishwives,  and  by  a  sin- 
gular business  tact  had  been  successful 
to  a  degree  almost  beyond  precedent. 
Although  living  in  this  poor  dwelling, 
surrounded  by  her  creels  and  fishing- 
tackle —  it  was  her  humor  to  have  all  the 
relics  of  her  trade  about  her  —  she  pos- 
sessed a  considerable  fortune,  the  result 
of  her  own  energy  and  industry.  Baw- 
bees had  grown  to  shillings  in  her  hands, 
and  shillings  to  pounds.  Then,  whilst 
she  still  carried  her  creel,  she  hadL  started 
a  small  fish-shop  in  the  High  Street,  Ed- 
inburgh, and  out  of  that  had  grown  two 
large  fishmongery  establishments,  one  at 
the  West  End,  and  the  other  in  the  main 
thoroughfare  leading  to  Newington.  She 
had  been  careful  in  the  selection  of  her 
managers,  and  she  had  prospered. 

She  had  once  said  —  but  she  never  re- 
peated it  —  that  the  only  mistake  she  ever 
made  was  in  getting  married;  and  the 
only  good  her  man  had  ever  done  her  was 
in  "deeing  sune.'*  But  he  had  left  her 
with  a  son  as  useless  as  himself. 

Notwithstanding  all  her  prosperity,  she 
clung  to  the  abode  in  which  she  haa  been 
brought  up,  and  out  of  which  she  had 
reaped  everything.  Her  son^  however, 
had  dififerent  ideas. 

**You  see,  mother,  I  was  detained 
by- 


n 


A   MAIDEN   FAIR. 


753 


"Can  ye  no  speak  your  native  tong:ue, 
you  idiot?  What's  the  use  o' puttin' on 
your  fine  airs  wi'  me?"  cried  Bell  irately. 

"I  really  thought  that  I  was  speaking 
my  native  tongue  as  far  as  I  knew  it, 
mother;  but  if  there  is  any  other  form 
which  will  please  you  better  I  shall  be 
happy  to  adopt  it,"  he  answered,  taking  a 
chair  and  seating  himself  on  it  carefully, 
as  if  he  feared  that  it  might  break  under 
him. 

The  old  woman  eyed  him  all  over,  and 
the  twinkling  of  her  eyes  showed  that  she 
had  a  secret  pleasure  in  his  grand  appear- 
ance, although  she  maintained  her  queru- 
lous manner. 

•♦  VVeel,  you  hae  a  guid  Scotch  tongue 
in  your  head  if  you  would  only  mak'  use 
o'  it ;  but  you'll  do  naething  usefu'.  You 
just  spend,  and  spend,  and  spend." 

**  If  you  would  allow  me,"  he  said  in  a 
lazy  way,  '*  I  am  quite  willing  to  take  the 
management  of  the  business  —  " 

**  Catch  me  lettin*  ye  do  that.  I  gied 
ye  a  tether  o*  three  months,  and  if  I  had 
gien  ye  three  mair  there  wouldnahae  been 
ae  penny  to  clink  agin  anither  left  us." 

•*  Very  well,"  he  said,  shrugging  his 
heavy  shoulders,  **  I  am  consent.  Only 
don't  blame  me." 

*'No  blame  you,  ve  lazy  loon!  Oh, 
wait  till  I  get  up ;  ana  it'll  no  be  lang  noo 
or  that.  No  blame  you!  If  ye  had  been 
half  a  man  ye  would  hae  been  the  great- 
est fish-merchant  in  the  kintry  by  this 
time." 

**  But  I  don*t  want  to  be  a  fishmonger," 
he  said  as  before,  and  folding  his  hands 
on  his  paunch. 

**  Fish-merchant,  I  said,  and  mair  shame 
to  ye  !  Is  it  no  the  grandest  trade  and 
the  bravest  trade  in  the  world?  Can  ye 
no  think  o*  what  it  means  —  men's  lives 
gien  to  feed  the  livin'?  And  can  ye  no 
think  what  it  has  been  to  you?  Whaur 
would  your  bonnie  claes  come  frae,  and 
vour  rings,  and  your  watches,  and  your 
breastpins,  if  it  hadna  been  for  the  fish  ?" 

**  1  am  quite  ready  to  make  my  acknowl- 
edgment to  each  particular  fish  if  you'll 
only  tell  me  their  names,"  he  answered 
coolly,  as  he  readjusted  a  horseshoe  pearl 
breastpin. 

She  was  exasperated  by  his  coolness 
and  made  a  movement  as  if  she  would 
rise,  but  fell  back  on  her  chair  with  the 
old  cry,  — 

'*Wait  till  I  get  up  and  I'll  set  yea 
bonnie  dance,  my  braw  lad  —  you  that 
canna  come  to  see  me  ance  in  a  month, 
cause  ye're  shamed  to  be  seen  amang  the 
folks  that  ken  whaur  your  braw  duds  cam 

LIVING  AGE.  VOL.  XLIV.  2284 


frae.     But  bide  ye.     I'm  gaun  to  hae  the 
lawyer  here  and  I'll  settle  ye.     And  Tm 

gaun  to  hae  Bob  Ross  as  a  witness " 

"  Bob  Ross  !"  muttered  Cargill,  for  the 
first  time  roused  from  his  lethargy  ;  **  he's 
eternally  taming  up  where  he  isn't  want- 

v(l. 

"Ay,  it's  like  you  to  misca'  folk  that 
are  better  than  yoursel'.  He  looks  after 
them  that  belangs  to  him  whiles  ye  gang 
afif  to  your  grand  chambers  in  Edinbro' 
and  London,  and  are  feart  folks  should 
ken  you  got  your  siller  frae  the  puir  auld 
fishwife  that  ye  leave  here." 

His  lethargic  nature  was  not  capable 
of  burning  into  a  flame;  but  the  spark 
which  she  had  thrown  into  it  by  the  men- 
tion of  Bob  Ross  had  stirred  the  embers 
into  a  glow,  and  this  last  shaft  elicited  a 
spark. 

"You  know  quite  well,  mother,  I  have 
pressed  you  often  enough  to  leave  this 
place  —  " 

"  Leave  this  place  1 "  she  cried  angrily^ 
•*  where  everything  was  won  —  no  likely." 

"  Very  well.  I  don't  try  to  force  you, 
and  I  don't  think  it  is  fair  that  you  should 
grumble  at  me  because  you  are  here." 

"It's  because  of  you  that  1  am  here. 
But  wait  till  I  get  up  and  I'll  settle  ye." 

"  Well,  well,  let  that  be.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about  this  arrangement  with  the 
captain." 

"Ay, ay,"  muttered  the  old  woman  with 
greedy  eyes,  her  whole  manner  to  him 
suddenly  changing  as  if  she  were  about 
to  make  a  bargain  with  him.  "What 
aboot  that  ?    What  aboot  that  ?  " 

"  He  has  no  objection  to'  the  match 
provided  we  can  show  money  enough  to 
start  with,  and  he  will  settle  everything 
upon  his  daughter." 

"  That's  capital,"  cried  the  old  woman 
gleefully  and  quite  reconciled  to  her  son, 
forgiving  in  that  moment  all  his  extrava- 
gances. "But  the  lass  —  what  did  the 
lass  say  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  asked  her  yet." 

Bell  Cargill  leaned  t>ack  in  her  chair 
and  stared  at  her  son,  gasping. 

"Ye  idiot  —  do  you  no  ken  that  was  the 
first  thing  ye  should  hae  dune?" 

"I  shall  have  plenty  of  time  for  that," 
was  the  placid  answer.  "  Murray  has  got 
a  cargo  for  Peterhead  and  I  am  going 
with  him;  and  she  will  be  there  of  course. 
But  in  anv  case  she  would  not  say  no 
hen  her  father  said  yes  —  she  is  accus- 


w 


tomed  to  the  word  of  command." 

The  mother  looked  at  her  son  admir- 
ingly, almost  for  the  first  time. 

"Weel,"  she  said  chuckling,  "there's 


754 


A  MAIDEN   FAIR. 


some  o*  my  bluid  in  ye  after  a*.  That's 
just  fine.  You'll  hae  her  a*  to  yoursel', 
and  a  lad  o*  ony  mettle  can  mak'  a  lass 
agree  to  onything  when  that's  the  case,  if 
he  Just  speaks  pretty  enough.'* 

Old  Dick  Baxter  put  his  head  io  at  the 
door. 

'•Here's  Bob  Ross  noo,  Bell.  Do  ye 
want  him  to  come  up  ?  "  he  said. 

CHAPTER  V. 
MISCHIEF  IN  THE  WIND. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  Ross 
would  never  have  thought  of  waiting  at 
the  foot  of  the  stair  until  he  learned 
whether  or  not  Bell  wanted  him.  He 
would  have  walked  up  and  entered  the 
room  with  no  other  ceremony  than  the 
unnecessary  question, — 

•*  Are  ye  at  hame,  mistress  ?  " 

On  the  present  occasion,  however,  hear- 
ing that  her  son  was  with  her  he  shrank 
back,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  escape 
from  his  promised  visit  altogether.  Car- 
gill  and  he  had  never  been  friendly,  al- 
though there  was  no  open  enmity  between 
them.  But  now  he  felt  an  almost  uncon- 
querable dislike  to  meet  the  man.  At  any 
rate  there  was  no  need  to  meet  him  except 
when  necessary,  and  that  necessity  was  to 
arise  soon  enough. 

Their  relations  to  each  other  were  now 
clearly  defined ;  they  were  both  fighting 
for  the  same  prize  — the  one  with  his 
money,  the  other  with  his  love.  Cargill, 
the  dandy  elephant,  regarded  Bob  Ross, 
the  pilot,  with  contempt,  that  might  easily 
develop  into  hatred  —  if  it  had  not  al- 
ready done  so;  Ross  regarded  him  with 
simple  dislike  and  a  desire  to  avoid  him. 

There  could  be  no  pleasant  encounters 
between  two  men  holding  such  a  position 
towards  each  other. 

That  was  why  Ross  seat  Dick  to  ask  if 
he  were  wanted,  much  to  the  surprise  of 
Bell,  who  was  unaccustomed  to  such  cere- 
monies. 

"  Cry  to  hJm  to  come  up,"  was  her  quick 
answer  to  Dick ;  *'  he  could  hae  come  him- 
seV  to  spcer.'* 

Cargill  for  a  moment  hesitated  whether 
or  not  he  should  leave;  but,  desirous  of 
discovenng  what  his  mother  had  wanted 
with  Ross,  decided  to  remain. 

He  nodded  with  lymphatic  placidity  to 
the  visitor  as  he  entered. 

**  How  are  you  to-day,  Mistress  Car- 
gill ?  "  asked  Ross  —  he  was  the  only  one 
who  called  her  Mistress  Cargill ;  to  every- 
body else  about  the  place  she  was  still 
Bell,  or  Bell  Cargill. 


"  Brawlys,  brawlys,  thank  ye  for  speer- 
ing.  rU  sune  be  up  and  aboot  noo.  But 
I'm  no  gaun  to  fash  you  this  afternoon, 
Bob,  nor  the  lawyers  either.  I'm  gaun  to 
tak'  your  counsel,  and  let  the  thing  be." 

**Vm  real  glad  to  hear  that,  Mrs.  Car- 
gill. You  would  have  been  sorry  for  it 
afterwards," 

"  I'm  no  sure  o*  that  yet.  Hows'ever, 
Jeems  has  done  something  at  last ;  he's 
to  marry  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher,  and  that's 
satisfeein'  in  a  kind  o'  way.  But  when  I 
get  about  my'sel'  I'll  ken  better  what  to 
dae.  For  the  time  being  there's  nae  need 
to  fash  oursel's.  I'm  obleeged  to  you,  a* 
the  same,  and  you  were  right  enough  to 
say  that  he  would  satisfee  me  yet." 

•*VVhat  is  all  this  about,  mother?'* 
broke  in  Cargill,  who  very  much  disliked 
being  called  ** Jeems"  at  all  times,  and 
especially  now. 

•*  Never  you  heed,  Jeems.  You  may 
thank  your  frien'  Bob,  that  you  didna  ken 
a'  aboot  it  afore  noo." 

'*  I  am  sure  I  am  extremely  obliged  to 
Mr.  Ross  for  any  kindness  he  has  been 
good  enough  to  cfo  me,  but " 

**  Will  ye  drap  that,  ye  fool,  and  speak 
like  an  ord'nar  body?"  almost  screamed 
Bell. 

**  But  I  should  like  you  to  explain,"  he 
went  on  stolidly. 

**Then  Til  no  explain  naething  till  I'm 
up.  You  marry  Skipper  Duncan's  doch- 
ter,  and  there'll  be  nae  need  to  explain. 
What  are  ye  gaun  to  be  after  next.  Bob  ?  " 

*M  am  to  take  the  'Mermaid'  to 
Peterhead  next,"  was  the  quiet  answer, 
but  not  without  a  secret  feeling  of  satis- 
faction that  he  could  give  this  rub  to  Car- 
gill. 

It  was  more  than  a  rub  —  it  was  a  blow. 
Cargill's  pluffy  cheeks  and  small,  protrud- 
ing, dark  eyes —  fish's  eyes  —  were  inca- 
pable of  expression  ;  but  they  could  show 
the  signs  of  biliousness,  and  at  this  mo- 
ment they  looked  very  bilious.  His  voice, 
however,  expressed  neither  passion  nor 
surprise  as  he  said  — 

'*0h,  you  are  to  take  the  'Mermaid' 
on  her  next  trip?" 

*'Ay,  I  believe  so.  But  I  have  to  go 
now,  mistress,  as  you  are  no  needing  me. 
Good-day,  mistress — good  day,  Mr.  Car* 

gill." 
Glad  to  escape,  he  sprang  down  the 

stair.    But  he  had  not  gone  many  steps 

when  he  heard  a  plethoric  voice  behind 

him. 
"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Ross." 
It  was  Cargill  who  had  followed  him 

instantly. 


THE    MODERN   NEBUCHADNEZZAR. 


755 


"  Tm  in  rather  a  hurry,  Mr.  Cargill,  as 
I  ought  to  have  been  home  two  hours 
ago.'* 

*'  I  can  walk  with  you.  The  matter  is 
one  of  great  importance  to  you." 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  Ross,  slack- 
ening his  pace,  so  that  the  other  might 
with  more  ease  and  dignity  keep  up  with 
him. 

'*  That  is  to  say,  I  think  it  of  great  im- 
portance to  you;  possibly  you  may  think 
otherwise." 

"  What  is't  ?  " 

'*  I  have  a  friend  who  is  the  head  of  a 
firm  of  shipowners,  and  he  told  me  that 
they  are  in  want  of  a  man  who  should  be 
himself  a  pilot,  to  take  general  charge  of 
all  the  arrangements  with  the  pilots  for 
their  ships.  He  would  have  a  permanent 
engagement  at  a  good'  salary,  and  it  struck 
me  that  you  were  the  very  man  for  the 
post." 

**  I  might  be,"  was  the  reply  with  a  sub- 
dued smile,  which  Cargill  did  not  ob- 
serve. 

**You  would  be.  Why  should  you 
waste  your  time  in  such  ferry-boats  as 
the  *  Mermaid'  when  you  have  such  a 
chance  as  this  ?  For  you  have  only  to 
say  the  word  and  I  can  almost  promise 
that  you  shall  be  the  man  chosen." 

"And  when  would  I  be  wanted?" 

"  Well,  as  I  understand,  you  would 
have  to  be  at  the  office  in  two  or  three 
days." 

*'  I  doubt  it  cannot  come  my  way." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  1  have  to  go  with  the  *  Mer- 
maid.' " 

"  Oh,  you  can  easily  get  out  of  that  en- 
gagement. I  will  undertake  to  arrange  it 
for  you." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  promised  to  go  and 
I  am  going.  Moreover,  I  like  to  manage 
my  own  business." 

"Then  you  refuse?" 

"  I  am  not  clear  that  there  is  anything 
to  refuse  except  to  break  my  word,  and  I 
do  refuse  to  do  that." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Cargill  loftily, 
"  as  you  please.  I  thought  to  render  you 
a  service,  and  I  can  assure  you  such  a 
chance  is  not  likely  to  fall  in  your  way 


again. 


If 


Then  I  must  just  try  to  do  what  is  in 
my  power  to  get  on  without  it." 

Ross  gave  a  parting  nod  and  went  on. 
Cargill  halted  abruptly  and  stood  looking 
atier  him  as  long  as  he  was  in  sight. 

What  was  the  man  thinking  about? 
The  drooping  of  the  heavy  brows  over 
the  small,  dark  eyes  suggested  that  his 


thoughts  were  unpleasant  ones.  He  had 
tried  a  harmless  expedient  for  preventing 
Ross  going  with  the  "  Mermaid  "  and  had 
failed.  He  believed  that  he  could  have 
secured  for  him  the  engagement  he  had 
spoken  about,  but  he  had  somewhat  meta- 
morphosed its  real  nature  in  order  to  suit 
his  purpose.  Well,  there  were  other  ways 
of  keeping  him  out  of  the  "  Mermaid,"  at 
least  for  this  trip. 

He  would  see  old  Murray  (that  was  the 
irreverent  way  in  which  he  thought  of  the 
great  Captain  Duncan  \\  and  get  him  to 
cancel  the  engagement.  Yes,  he  would 
see  him  before  the  night  was  out.  What 
a  fool  the  old  skipper  must  be  not  to  see 
that  this  fellow  was  after  his  money  and 
his  daughter  I 

But  he  would  see  him  and  put  that  little 
matter  right.  After  all,  it  was  the  easiest 
way,  and  he  had  been  only  wasting  time 
in  trying  another. 


THE 


From  Longman's  Magazine. 
MODERN  NEBUCHADNEZZAR. 


Some  years  ago,  while  travelling  in  a 
remote  part  of  Italy,  I  made  the  acquain- 
tance of  a  singular  character.  He  was  a 
middle-aged  Englishman,  who  had  almost 
become  an  Italian,  and  who  might  have 
attracted  little  attention,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  horse  on  whose  back  he  travelled 
—  a  most  beautiful  Arab,  which  he  treated 
with  an  affectionate  gentleness  which  I 
have  never  seen  equalled  in  Europe.  In 
fact,  the  Confidential  friendship  between 
the  man  and  his  horse  was  similar  to  that 
which  we  sometimes  observe  in  the  case 
of  a  favorite  dog. 

It  happened  that  we  were  both  detained 
for  a  couple  of  days  at  a  wayside  inn  on 
account  of  a  bridge  having  been  broken 
down  by  the  sudden  swelling  of  a  moun- 
tain torrent,  and  thus  we  became  more 
intimate  than  might  have  been  expected 
at  first,  especially  as  the  usual  English 
reserve  had  been  intensified  in  the  case 
of  my  companion  by  long  habits  of  lone- 
liness. 

When  we  were  at  last*  enabled  to  re- 
sume our  respective  journeys,  he  invited 
me  to  spend  a  few  days  with  him  at  his 
home,  a  beautiful  little  nook  on  the  coast 
of  the  Adriatic.  There  he  had  now  been 
established  for  some  years,  employing 
himself  in  the  cultivation  of  a  few  acres 
of  ground  and  in  the  study  of  a  few  books, 
and  avoiding  all  society  except  that  of  an 
Italian  gardener  and  his  wife,  of  the  beau- 


756 

tiful  borse  which  I  have  already  men- 
tiooed,  and  of  a  scarcely  less  intelligent 
door. 

There  are  some  persons  who  have  a 
gift  of  unconsciously  inspiring  confidence 
in  others,  and  who  therefore  find  them- 
selves obliored  to  receive  confessions,  and 
accept  trusts,  often  of  a  somewhat  embar- 
rassing nature.  And  thus  it  happened 
that  my  new  friend,  who  had  not  for  some 
years  spoken  to  any  countryman  of  his 
own,  poured  into  my  ears,  before  I  left 
his  remote  cottage,  a  story  so  strange  that 
I  can  hardly  expect  my  readers  to  credit 
it,  as  I  scarcely  know  whether  to  believe 
it  myself.  All  I  can  say  is  that  it  was  told 
to  me  in  a  manner  perfectly  free  from 
wildness  or  exaggeration,  anci  that  I  could 
trace  no  symptom  of  delusion  or  halluci- 
nation in  the  conduct  of  the  solitary. 

Further,  he  entrusted  to  my  care  a 
manuscript  in  which  he  had  recorded  the 
principal  points  of  his  story,  and  left  it  to 
my  discretion  to  publish  it  if  I  thought  fit. 
For  himself,  he  was  persuaded  that  every 
tie  that  had  bound  him  to  England  had 
been  so  effectually  severed,  that  bis  iden- 
tification was  impossible.  He  was  of 
opinion,  too,  that  the  publication  might  be 
desirable,  as  experiences  similar  to  his 
own  have  been  the  lot  of  many  human 
beings,  though  very  few  have  survived 
them,  and  scarcely  any  have  been  able  or 
willing  to  record  them.  I  think,  there- 
fore, that  it  will  be  best  to  allow  him  to 
tell  his  story  almost  in  his  own  words. 

I  was  the  only  son  of  a  gentleman  of 
moderate  fortune,  and,  though  I  had  one 
sister,  I  was  always  spoilt,  especially  by 
my  mother.  From  my  earliest  years  I 
was  fond  of  animals,  in  the  sense  of  kill- 
ing or  using  them  for  my  amusement, 
beginning  by  tormenting  flies  and  teasing 
cats.  I  was  sent  to  a  good  private  school, 
where  I  learned  something,  and  acquired 
a  certain  taste  for  Latin  and  English 
poetry,  which  never  entirely  deserted  me, 
and  which  has  revived  more  strongly  than 
ever  during  the  loneliness  of  my  later 
years.  Thence  I  went  to  a  public  school, 
"where  I  forgot  a  good  deal  of  what  I 
knew,  and  acqivrecT  considerable  knowl- 
edge of  a  different  kind.  1  was  bullied 
while  I  was  a  small  boy,  and  became  a 
most  decided  bully  myself  as  soon  as  I 
grew  into  a  big  boy.  My  taste  for  cruelty 
became  rapidly  developed,  not  only  at  the 
expense  of  my  schoolfellows,  but  also  at 
that  of  birds,  cats,  rats,  frogs,  or  any  other 
unfortunate  creatures  that  came  into  my 
power.     In   the   holidays  the  same  taste 


THE   MODERN    NEBUCHADNEZZAR. 


found  a  more  legitimate  expression  in 
hunting,  shooting,  and  Ashing. 

Soon  after  I  had  attained  the  age  of 
eighteen,  and  when  I  was  just  about  to 
leave  school,  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose 
my  father.  From  that  time  I  broke  loose 
from  all  control.  He  had  always  been  too 
indulgent  to  me,  but  I  had  a  certain  re- 
spect for  him,  and,  had  he  lived,  I  should 
no  doubt  have  complied  with  his  wish  that 
I  should  go  to  the  university  and  perhaps 
have  entered  a  profession.  But  now  I 
was  my  own  master.  My  mother  was  in 
feeble  health,  and  too  broken  in  spirit  to 
direct  my  course,  or  to  refuse  me  anything 
that  I  wanted.  My  other  guardian  tried 
for  some  time  to  save  me  from  myself,  but 
the  insolence  with  which  1  met  his  pro- 
posals soon  convinced  him  that  it  was  use- 
less for  him  to  interfere.  So  I  had  my 
own  way,  surrounded  myself  with  horses 
and  dogs,  hunted,  shot,  attended  races, 
began  to  bet,  and  was  proud  to  make  ac- 
quaintance with  some  sporting  characters. 
I  soon  became  known  as  a  hard  rider,  and 
astonished  even  my  new  friends  by  the 
savage  way  in  which  I  rode  a  l)eauttful 
little  chestnut  mare  to  death  in  a  steeple- 
chase. I  did  not  think  much  of  it  at  the 
time,  but  the  sad  look  in  her  expressive 
eyes  came  back  to  me  long  afterwards, 
and  haunts  me  even  now.  Just  as  I  at- 
tained twenty  one  my  mother  died,  and  I 
came  into  a  fortune  of  about  8o,ooo/. 
From  that  time  my  pace  grew  faster  and 
faster.  It  is  astonishing  how  easy  it  is 
to  go  downhill.  I  took  to  gambling  in 
other  ways  besides  racing:,  got  into  worse 
and  worse  company,  tried  to  cheat  others, 
got  cheated  myself,  and  before  I  was 
twenty-five  was  utterly  ruined,  and  nar- 
rowly escaped  a  criminal  prosecution. 

So  far  my  story  is  a  commonplace  one 
enough.  I  often  think  now  how  precisely 
Horace's  description  of  a  young  Roman, 

Gaudet  equis  canibusque,  et  aprici   graiziine 

campi, 
Cereus  in  vitium  fiecti,  monitoribus  asper, 

and  the  rest  of  it,  suits  a  young  English- 
man of  the  present  day. 

I  soon  exhausted  the  patience  and  the 
pity  of  my  father's  friends,  and  from  my 
own  companions  I  had  nothing  to  hope. 
It  became  necessary  to  do  something  to 
keep  myself  from  starving.  The  only 
thing  I  could  flatter  myself  I  knew  any- 
thing about  was  the  management  of  horses. 
So  I  did  what  I  had  often  heard  of  a  gen- 
tleman doing.  I  obtained  employment  a^ 
a  cabd river. 

At  the  same  time  I  took  to  drinkin*'.    I 


THE    MODERN    NEBUCHADNEZZAR. 


757 


had  already,  in  the  days  of  my  luxury, 
acquired  the  habit  of  swallowing  more 
than  was  good  for  me.  But  I  now  took 
to  it  not  for  pleasure,  but  to  stupefy  my- 
self. And  partly  from  that  cause,  and 
partly  from  my  losses  and  vexations,  my 
temper  became  more  openly  savage  than 
it  had  ever  been  before,  and  I  vented  all 
my  brutality  on  my  wretched  horse.  And 
then  I  got  pulled  up  and  fined  for  cruelty. 
And  then  no  decent  cabmaster  would 
trust  me  with  a  horse  and  cab,  and  I  had 
to  get  employment  from  a  man  who  was, 
if  possible,  a  greater  blackguard  than  1 
had  myself  become.  And  so  I  got  more 
and  more  degraded,  and  ^nto  worse  and 
worse  company,  and  my  temper  became 
more  and  more  brutal,  and  I  was  ^Iways 
getting  drunk,  and  fighting,  and  being 
taken  up  by  the  police.  So  it  was  no 
great  fall  when  I  made  acquaintance  with 
a  gang  of  thieves,  and  was  persuaded  to 
join  them  in  a  burglary.  I  had  to  wait 
outside  with  a  horse  and  trap  while  they 
went  in  for  the  plate.  And,  as  it  turned 
out,  they  half  murdered  an  old  gentleman, 
and  I  got  caught,  and  was  tried  before  a 
judge,  and,  being  *'  well  known  to  the 
police,**  I  was  sentenced  to  seven  years' 
penal  servitude. 

After  a  short  stay  in  gaol  I  was  sent 
with  others  to  the  convict  prison  on  Dart- 
moor. I  can^t  describe  the  misery  with 
which  this  part  of  my  existence  struck 
me,  though  I  have  suffered  worse  things 
since.  The  cold  gloomy  granite  building, 
with  its  inscription  ^^Parcere  sudjectis^^ 
(it  had  better  have  been  ^'Lasciate  ogni 
speranza ''),  the  constant  wet,  the  hard 
work,  to  which  I  had  never  been  accus- 
tomed, and  which  blistered  my  hands  and 
made  all  my  bones  ache,  the  absence  of 
every  kind  of  comfort,  the  society  of  the 
most  foul-minded  and  foul-tongued  repro- 
bates, the  absolute  privation  of  all  news 
from  the  outer  world,  all  these  things  must 
strike  hard  on  any  one,  but  struck  with 
tenfold  effect  on  one  who  had  not  long  be- 
fore been  accustomed  to  the  soft  life  of  a 
gentleman.  I  had  been  used  to  every 
species  of  indulgence,  and  even  in  my 
cabdriving  period  I  had  found  comfort  in 
my  gin  and  my  pipe.  Now  everything  of 
this  kind  was  prohibited,  and  though  the 
rule  might  sometimes  be  evaded  by  those 
convicts  who  were  able  to  bribe  a  warder, 
any  such  infraction  of  regulation  was  most 
severely  punished. 

I  was  mad  with  rage  and  fury,  and  re- 
solved to  try  to  escape,  even  though  I 
might  be  hanged  for  it. 

One  dark  winter*s  day  a  party  of  us  was 


working  on  the  moor  as  usual.  A  thick 
bank  of  fog  came  sweeping  up,  and  the 
warder,  who  well  knew  the  danger  of  it, 
ordered  us  to  fall  in  at  once,  in  order  to 
march  back  to  the  prison.  I  watched  my 
opportunity  when  he  was  looking  another 
way,  and,  swinging  my  spade  round, 
felled  him  by  a  tremendous  blow  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  and  then  ran  for  my 
life. 

Not  far  from  the  place  where  we  had 
been  working  there  was  a  bank  built  up  of 
earth  and  turf,  after  the  manner  of  Devon- 
shire, and  for  this  I  made.  Just  as  I  was 
scrambling  up  it  I  heard  the  crack  of  a 
rifle,  and  a  bullet  grazed  my  leg,  and 
dropped  with  a  thud  into  the  bank.  I  got 
safely  over,  tumbled  into  a  deep  dry  ditch 
on  the  other  side,  and  doubled  along  it  as 
fast  as  my  legs  could  carry  me.  I  was 
dimly  conscious  of  two  warders  clearing 
the  bank  and  plunging  straight  on  into  the 
fog  beyond,  which  grew  thicker  every  mo* 
ment.  Of  them  I  saw  no  more.  I  fled  on 
at  my  best  pace  until  I  was  utterly  ex- 
hausted, and  dropped  down  in  a  hollow 
sheltered  by  a  scanty  growth  of  heather. 
Hungry,  thirsty,  wet,  faint,  and  miserable, 
I  yet  felt  a  satisfaction  in  the  hope  that  I 
had  regained  my  liberty,  and  I  fell  asleep 
more  soundly  than  1  had  ever  slept  on  a 
prison  bed. 

I  actually  slept  till  sunrise.  When  I 
opened  my  eyes,  a  fresh  breeze  was  blow- 
ing away  the  fog  of  the  night  before,  and 
the  moor  was  looking  beautiful,  as  it  can 
look  on  one  of  those  few  fine  days  that 
visit  the  English  Siberia.  I  stretched  my 
stiff  limbs,  and  tried  to  rub  my  eyes. 
Strange  to  say,  I  •  found  that  my  hand 
could  not  reach  my  head.  However,  I 
found  no  difficulty  in  stretching  my  head 
down  to  meet  my  hand.  But  my  hand 
felt  strangely  hara  and  rough.  It  had,  in 
fact,  become  a  horse*s  hoof. 

I  started  up.  I  was  broad  awake  now. 
I  found  myself  standing  on  four  legs.  I 
stretched  out  my  neck,  turned  my  head 
round,  and  took  a  general  survey  of  my 
legs  and  my  body.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  about  it.  They  were  the  legs  and  • 
body  of  a  horse. 

Though  I  retained  a  clear  recollection 
of  what  I  had  been,  I  must  somehow  have 
acquired  the  mind  of  a  horse  as  well  as 
that  of  a  man.  I  did  not  feel  so  much 
astonished  as  might  be  expected.  The 
first  idea  that  occurred  to  me  was  to  find 
out  what  my  face  was  like.  I  fancied  that 
the  old  stories  of  Centaurs  might  perhaps 
be  true,  and  that  I  might  possibly  have 
become  half  man  and  half  horse. 


7S8 

Not  far  off  there  was  a  small  pool  of 
water.  I  trotted  over  to  it,  and  looked  at 
my  reflection.  The  notion  of  the  Centaur 
vanished.  I  found  myself  in  all  respecis 
a  horse.  I  was  a  bright  chestnut  horse, 
3*oun^  and  strongf,  broad-chested,  clean- 
limbed, with  brilliant  eves  and  flowing 
mane.  I  took  a  deep  draught  of  water, 
and  felt  fresh  and  well. 

Strange  to  say,  my  6rst  sensations  were 
by  no  means  unpleasant.  In  the  6rst 
place,  I  had  regained  my  liberty.  Then  I 
had  accustomed  myself  to  look  for  pleas- 
ure in  the  animal  senses,  not  in  the  intel 
lect,  and  that  kind  of  pleasure  was  by  no 
means  wanting.  I  felt  conscious  of  ex- 
traordinary strength  and  swiftness.  My 
powers  of  sight  and  hearing  were  devel- 
oped to  an  extent  unknown  to  human  be- 
ings. I  had  no  fingers,  but  my  fore  feet 
merely  felt  like  clenched  fists,  and  to  that 
I  was  accustomed.  My  hind  feet  felt 
more  comfortable  than  when  encased  in 
the  prison  boots. 

I  flung  up  my  head  and  tail,  and  bound- 
ed over  the  moor  in  a  stretching  gallop. 

A  man  on  horseback  is  twice  a  man. 
He  feels,  if  his  horse  be  worth  anvihing, 
far  stronger,  swifter,  nobler  than  before. 
I  believe  this  is  recognized  throughout 
the  world,  and  in  all  languages  the  eques^ 
or  cavalier,  is  the  higher  type  of  gentle- 
man. At  any  rate,  I  felt  this  very  strongly 
when  I  found  myself  not  figuratively,  but 
actually,  identified  with  my  horse.  Never 
have  I  enjoyed  a  gallop  on  a  horse*s  back 
as  I  enjoyed  my  first  gallop  on  my  own 
four  legs. 

The  keen  air  of  the  moor  soon  made 
me  feel  hungry,  and  I  set  to  work  to  crop 
the  herbage.  And  here  I  found  a  new 
pleasure.  My  sense  of  taste  and  smell 
had  become  exquisitely  delicate.  I  do  not 
know  whether  this  delicacy  is  possible  to 
mankind,  as  I  cannot  remember  the  time 
when  my  taste  was  uncorrupted  by  meat, 
and  alcohol,  and  tobacco. 

But  on  Dartmoor  the  supply  of  grass 
and  herbs  fit  for  a  horse  is  rather  scanty, 
and  it  was  the  occupation  of  the  whole 
day  to  satisfy  my  appetite. 

Towards  evening  the  weather  again 
became  cold  and  foggy,  and  the  next  day 
was  very  wet  and  miserable.  As  a  gre- 
garious animal,  I  began  to  feel  the  want 
of  society,  and  I  wandered  about  the 
moor  in  search  of  companions. 

At  last  I  discovered,  under  .the  lee  of 
some  large  boulders  of  granite,  a  gipsy 
encampment,  and  two  or  three  horses 
straying  about  near  it.  I  approached 
them  cautiously,  and  was  received  in  a 


THE   MODERN    NEBUCHADNEZZAR. 


friendly  way.  We  rubbed  our  ooses  to- 
gether, and  I  was  even  allowed  to  pick  at 
an  armful  of  hay  that  had  been  provided 
for  them. 

Soon,  however,  I  found  myself  an  o1> 
ject  of  attention  on  the  part  of  the  gifh 
sies.  With  the  usual  treachery  which 
man  employs  in  his  dealings  with  what 
he  is  pleased  to  call  the  lower  animals, 
one  of  them  approached  me  with  a  meas- 
ure of  oats  and  the  softest  words  he  could 
muster,  while  another  followed  close  be- 
hind him  with  a  halter.  The  dry  food 
looked  verv  tempting  after  the  wet  and 
scanty  herbage  of  the  moor,  and  I  was 
almost  inclined  to  sell  my  liberty  for  a 
feed  of  oats.  However,  1  was  not  quite 
so  foolish^  and,  with  a  snort  and  a  toss  of 
the  head,  I  turned  round,  flung  up  my 
heels,  and  was  soon  out  of  their  reach. 
But  the  craving  for  company  still  kept  me 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  encampment, 
and  I  could  hear  the  gipsies  express  their 
admiration  of  me  as  a  ''proper  beauty," 
mingled  with  less  polite  language. 

It  was  not  long  before  they  determined 
on  another  course  of  action.  They  caught 
two  of  their  own  horses,  saddled,  bridled, 
and  mounted  them,  and  started  to  circum- 
vent me,  taking  care  to  approach  me  from 
opposite  sides.  I  laughed  inwardly  at 
such  an  attempt,  feeling  conscious  of 
strength  and  swiftness  that  would  not  be 
matched  by  any  horse  with  the  weight  of 
a  rider  on  his  back.  So  I  easily  shot 
away  from  them,  and  then  stopped  and 
looked  round,  letting  them  approach  me, 
and  then  starting  off  again,  and  in  fact 
amusing  myself  by  luring  them  on  towards 
the  middle  of  the  moor. 

However,  they  were  more  cunning  than 
I.  Gradually  we  reached  a  part  of  the 
moor  where  the  ground  was  even  rougher 
than  the  rest  and  more  encumbered  with 
boulders.  Seeing  a  smooth  piece  of 
bright  green  turf,  I  naturally  made  for  it. 
It  gave  way  beneath  my  feet,  and  I  found 
myself  plunged  deep  into  a  Dartmoor 
bog. 

Notwithstanding  his  great  size  and 
strength,  a  horse  is  essentially  a  timid 
animal.  His  organization  is  as  delicate 
as  that  of  a  young  lady.  •  Any  one  can 
understand  this  who  observes  the  extreme 
sensitiveness  of  his  ear  and  eye.  Though 
I  still  retained  the  memory  of  my  human 
condition,  I  was  now  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  a  horse.  I  was  surprised  at  my 
own  nervousness  and  want  ot  presence  of 
mind. 

While  I  was  struggling  in  the  bog,  the 
gipsies  rapidly  passed  a  baker  over  m^ 


-J 


THE   MODERN   NEBUCHADNEZZAR. 


7S9 


head,  and  then  fetched  some  ropes  and 
planks,  by  means  of  which,  aided  by  my 
own  struggles,  I  was  at  last  brought  to 
ierrafirma,  I  was  so  exhausted  and  so 
dirty,  that  I  was  only  too  glad  to  submit 
to  be  groomed  and  cleaned,  which  opera- 
tions took  place  amid  many  expressions 
<ii  admiration  on  the  part  of  the  gipsies. 

I  was  now  tied  up,  and  had  a  bucket 
of  water  and  a  good  feed  of  oats.  My 
spirits  revived,  and  I  resolved  to  make  an 
attempt  to  regain  my  liberty  at  the  first 
opportunity. 

In  the  afternoon  my  masters  proceeded 
to  try  their  new  horse.  A  saddle  was 
placed  on  my  back,  a  bit  was  forced  into 
my  mouth,  and  a  young  gipsy  jumped  into 
the  pigskin.  I  reared,  plunged,  kicked, 
buck-jumped,  and  did  all  I  could  to  un- 
seat him.  He  was  a  good  rider,  though  a 
brutal  one,  and  I  suffered  severely  from 
his  whip  and  spurs,  as  well  as  from  the 
horrible  bit  in  my  mouth.  Half  mad  with 
rage  and  pain,  I  at  last  reared  higher  than 
ever,  overbalanced  myself,  and  fell  back 
on  my  rider.  He  was  a  good  deal  hurt, 
but  did  not  let  go  the  bridle,  and  the  other 
gipsies  came  up  and  secured  me. 

I  now  heard  them  call  me  a  vicious 
brute,  and  decide  to  break  me  in  regu- 
larly. So  now  I  had  indeed  a  period  of 
*' penal  servitude,*'  such  as  was  never 
contemplated  by  the  judge  who  sentenced 
me.  They  *Munged''  me,  put  a  dumb 
jockey  on  me,  tied  up  on.e  of  my  feet  and 
kept  me  standing  on  three  legs,  brought 
me  on  my  knees,  and  adopted  all  the  de- 
vices by  which  men  convince  horses  of 
their  inferiority. 

Meanwhile,  I  had  full  time  to  reflect  on 
my  position,  and  to  make  up  my  mind  to 
accept  the  inevitable.  I  saw  that  it  was 
impossible  for  a  horse  to  live  in  a  wild 
state  in  any  part  of  England.  I  saw  also 
that  I  was  far  too  valuable  an  animal  for 
the  gipsies  to  keep  for  their  own  pur- 
poses. So  I  concluded  that  the  best 
thing  I  could  do  was  to  behave  quietly, 
and  get  sold  to  a  gentleman,  when  1  might 
probably  be  kindly  treated,  though  I  must 
resign  all  hopes  of  liberty. 

Things  turned  out  as  I  expected.  As 
soon  as  I  was  at  all  presentable,  the  gip- 
sies were  most  anxious  to  sell  me,  know- 
ing that  they  would  probably  be  suspected 
of  having  stolen  me.  So  one  of  them 
took  me  to  a  fair,  and  sold  me  at  a  price 
which  was  no  doubt  important  to  them, 
but  which  seemed  to  me  extremely  small. 

I  was  bought  by  a  clergyman,  and  one 
by  no  means  young,  which  surprised  me 
considerably.    He  was  a  tall,  active,  wiry 


man,  with  the  keenest  of  eyes  and  the 
pleasantest  of  voices,  and,  as  I  soon 
found,  he  was  a  born  sportsman  and  a 
perfect  rider.  If  it  were  ever  possible  to 
feel  a  pleasure  in  carrying  a  fellow-crea- 
ture on  one's  back,  it  would  be  in  being 
ridden  by  such  a  one  as  my  new  master. 

He  took  me  up  to  Exmoor,  and  rode  me 
with  the  staghounds.  My  nature  had  now 
become  so  identified  with  my  outward 
shape,  that  I  almost  enjoyed  hunting  in 
this  novel  form.  My  memory  of  hunting 
from  the  human  point  of  view  stood  me  in 
good  stead,  and  my  master  and  I  soon 
became  distinguished  beyond  all  other 
men  and  horses  in  that  celebrated  hunt. 

This  distinction,  however,  was  fatal  to 
my  comfort.  My  master  was  a  poor  man, 
and,  tempted  by  a  very  high  price,  he  sold 
me  at  the  end  of  the  season  to  a  rich 
sportsman  of  enormous  weight. 

I  was  summered  comfortably  enough, 
but  in  the  hot  days  of  early  autumn  I  was 
again  taken  out  with  the  staghounds.  I 
was  young  and  strong  in  those  days,  and 
had  carried  my  former  master  without 
difficulty,  but  I  was  quite  unequal  to  the 
burden  of  such  a  mountain  of  flesh  as  now 
placed  itself  on  my  back.  I  did  what  I 
could,  for  by  this  time  I  was  fully  per- 
suaded of  the  wisdom  of  the  policy  of  sub- 
mission. But  it  was  of  no  use,  and  I  was 
soon  laid  up  with  a  strained  back,  from 
which  I  never  quite  recovered.  A  stupid 
veterinary  surgeon  was  sent  for,  who 
pulled  me  about,  and  first  thought  it  was 
my  shoulder  that  was  affected,  then  one 
of  my  hind  legs,  then  my  knee,  and  then 
my  foot.  So  he  tried  one  thing  after  an- 
other, and  lanced  me,  and  bandaged  me, 
and  blistered  me,  and  almost  vivisected 
mc,  while  I  was  driven  almost  wild  with 
pain  and  fury,  and  the  inexpressible  suf- 
fering of  being  unable  to  explain  to  him 
how  utterly  he  had  mistaken  my  case,  and 
how  worse  than  useless  were  all  the  tor- 
tures he  was  inflicting  on  me. 

At  last,  in  spite  of  his  treatment,  and 
merely  in  consequence  of  the  rest  which 
was  permitted  me,  I  got  well  enough  to 
be  considered  sound.  My  master  fortu- 
nately had  sense  enough  to  perceive  that 
I  was  not  up  to  his  weight,  as  indeed  no 
horse  really  was.  So  I  was  again  sold, 
and  this  time  to  a  young  cavalry  officer 
who  had  come  down  to  hunt  with  the  stag- 
hounds. 

I  was  taken  to  his  stables,  and  presently 
his  young  wife  came  to  see  the  new  horse. 
To  my  utter  amazement  I  recognized  my 
own  sister,  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  some 
years,  during  which  she  had  been  living 


760 

with  the  guardian  with  whom  I  had  chosen 
to  quarrel.  I  had  cared  little  for  her  in 
those  days,  as  indeed  I  had  cared  for 
nothing  but  my  own  selfish  pleasures. 
But  now  the  case  was  completely  altered. 
I  felt  all  the  gentleness,  the  longing  for 
sympathy,  which  are  natural  to  most 
horses.  And  my  sister  was  one  of  those 
rare  beings  who  have  a  peculiar  insight 
into  the  nature  of  animals,  who  sympa- 
thize'with  all  their  feelings,  and  seem  able 
to  read  their  thoughts.  She  stroked  my 
nose  with  her  little  soft  hand,  which  ap 
peared  to  exercise  over  me  a  kind  of 
mesmeric  influence.  I  returned  her  greet- 
ing as  best  I  could  with  my  velvety  upper 
lip  and  my  poor  dumb  tongue.  She  got 
me  some  bread  and  carrots,  and  I  was 
soon  installed  as  her  prime  favorite.  Her 
husband  was  a  good-natured  sort  of  fel- 
low, fond  of  horses  and  dogs  in  the  ordi- 
nary way,  and  one  who  would  not  will- 
ingly ill-treat  an  animal,  except  in  the 
way  of  sport.  But  he  had  not  the  pecul- 
iar gift  possessed  by  my  sister,  and  was 
inclined  to  laugh  when  she  descanted  on 
the  human  expression  that  she  discovered 
in  my  eyes.  She  was  probably  ignorant 
of  the  speculations  of  Pythagoras  and 
Empedocles,  perhaps  even  of  the  story  of 
Circe.  Her  imagination  had  lighted  upon 
a  doctrine  which  1  believe  to  be  true,  that 
It  is  not  uncommon  for  the  soul  of  a  man 
to  be  imprisoned  in  an  animal,  as  a  meas- 
ure of  punishment,  or  of  purgatory. 

In  a  material  point  of  view  I  was  now 
happy  enough.  I  was  kindly  treated  by 
everybody,  and  was  daily  petted  and  fed 
with  dainties  by  my  sister.  My  sole  duty 
was  to  carry  her  when  she  rode,  a  duty 
which  her  light  weight  and  light  hand 
made  a  pleasure.  My  human  memory  told 
me  exactly  what  I  ought  to  do,  and  I  be- 
came known  as  the  most  perfect  lady's 
horse  ever  seen. 

Mentally,  however,  I  suffered  much. 
That  sad,  beseeching  look  which  my  sis- 
ter noticed  in  my  eyes  was  the  only  way 
I  had  of  expressing  what  I  felt.  I  was 
filled  with  a  constant  longing  to  tell  her 
my  story,  and  to  reveal  to  her  who  1  really 
was.  The  impossibility  of  doing  this  was 
a  bitter  pain  to  me.  I  believe,  as  I  said 
before,  that  many  persons  have  been 
placed  in  a  position  similar  to  mine,  but 
the  power  of  speech  has  been  allowed  to 
them  only  in  a  few  instances.  Some  of 
these  are  recorded  in  the  early  history  of 
Rome,  but  the  case  of  Balaam's  ass  is 
perhaps  the  best  authenticated. 

Evil  days  were  now  a;)proaching.  I 
noticed  that  my  sister  now  rode  seldom 


THE   MODERN    NEBUCHADNEZZAR. 


and  more  seldom.  She  was  evidently  be- 
coming ill,  I  was  tried  in  harness,  and,  I 
need  not  say,  behaved  my  best.  Then  I 
was  driven  by  her  in  a  light  carnage. 
But  soon  even  this  exertion  became  too 
much  for  her,  and  she  faded  away  rapidly. 
She  used  to  be  wheeled  out  to  the  stables 
to  feed  and  caress  me,  but  at  last  the  day 
came  when  she  said  farewell,  with  many 
tears  on  both  sides.  I  heard  her  make 
her  husband  promise  never  to  part  with 
me,  and  I  saw  her  no  more.  But  I  soon 
heard  that  all  was  over,  and  I  followed 
her  remains  to  the  grave. 

Her  husband  was  broken-hearted,  and 
I  believe  looked  forward  with  satisfaction 
to  the  prospect  of  flinging  his  life  away  in 
the  war  that  was  now  commencing.  He 
kept  his  promise  not  to  part  with  me,  but 
to  him  I  was  only  a  horse,  nor  indeed  was 
there  any  reason  for  peculiar  care  of  me 
at  a  time  when  the  blood  of  thousands  of 
better  men  than  I  had  ever  been  was 
poured  out  like  water.  He  made  me  his 
charger,  and  I  accepted  my  fate  as  in- 
evitable. 

The  delicate  organization  of  a  horse 
makes  the  noise  and  smoke  of  battle,  and 
even  of  mimic  battle,  inexpressibly  hate- 
ful to  him.  My  first  field-day  was  very 
painful,  but  that  was  a  trifle  compared 
with  what  followed.  The  regiment  was 
ordered  to  the  Crimea,  and  I  was  placed 
with  many  other  horses  on  board  a  troop- 
ship. 

The  life  of  a  domesticated  horse  is  only 
tolerable  when  he  has  a  loose  box  in  which 
he  can  turn.  To  be  tied  up  in  an  ordinary 
stall,  especially  when  it  is  a  sloping  one, 
is  little  better  than  prolonged  torture. 
But  even  that  lot  is  enviable,  compared 
with  the  indescribable  sufferings  endured 
on  board  a  troop-ship.  However,  most  of 
us  survived  them,  and  in  course  of  time 
we  landed  in  the  Crimea.  There  our  suf- 
ferings were  almost  as  bad  in  a  different 
way  —  hard  work,  cold,  wet,  and  hunger. 

At  last  there  came  a  time  when  we, 
among  the  scanty  squadrons  of  the  Light 
Brigade,  were  drawn  up  at  the  end  of  a 
long  valley,  both  sides  of  which  were  held 
by  masses  of  the  enemy's  troops.  The 
word  was  passed  along  in  a  whisper  that 
we  were  going  to  charge  the  Russian 
army  at  the  other  end  of  the  valley.  There 
were  mutterings  and  curses  on  the  idiotic 
folly  of  him  who  ordered  it ;  but  the  time 
was  short.  I  heard  my  brother-in  law  say, 
"  It  is  hard  on  the  poor  young  fellows  who 
would  like  to  live  !"  And  then  he  patted 
my  neck,  and  I  felt  that  we,  at  any  rate, 
were  agreed,  and  that  death  could  not 


THE    MODERN   NEBUCHADNEZZAR. 


come  too  soon  to  both  of  us.  And  then 
the  charge  ran<;  out  loud,  and  we  all 
dashed  into  a  storm  of  shot  and  shell. 
Men  and  horses  immediately  beji^an  to  fall 
to  right  and  left  of  us,  and  my  rider  and  1 
were  racing  with  the  leader,  when  we  were 
both  struck,  and  rolled  over  together.  1 
struggled  to  my  feet  when  the  others  had 
passed,  and  looked  at  what  had  been  my 
sister's  husband.  There  was  only  his 
body ;  his  head  had  been  carried  off  by  a 
shot.  Only  a  few  minutes  seemed  to 
pass,  and  the  broken  wave  of  returning 
horsemen  came  back  upon  us.  Notwith- 
standing my  longing  for  death,  the  grega- 
rious instinct  prevailed,  and  with  them  I 
limped  back  again  into  the  British  lines. 
No  one  oflFered  to  catch  me.  There  was 
more  serious  work  to  be  done  that  day 
than  to  notice  a  wounded  horse.  I  knew 
where  a  sort  of  hospital  for  sick  horses 
had  been  established,  and  thither  I  man- 
aged to  drag  myself.  I  heard  a  discus- 
sion whether  I  should  be  shot  at  once,  and 
heartily  hoped  that  the  question  would  be 
decided  in  the  affirmative.  But  my  wound 
was  not  a  vital  one,  and  the  strangeness 
of  the  circumstance  induced  the  veteri- 
nary surgeon  to  keep  me  alive.  In  after 
days  hundreds  of  our  men  came  to  see  the 
horse  that  went  of  his  own  accord  to  the 
hospital  and  reported  himself  wounded. 

So  it  happened  that  I  was  saved  to  en- 
dure all  the  miseries  of  that  horrible 
winter,  when  we  used  to  be  kept  toiling 
with  heavy  burdens  of  shot  and  shell 
through  miles  of  snow  and  mud  ;  when  we 
lay  at  night  in  the  snow,  and  had  often 
nothing  but  snow  to  eat.  I  saw  hundreds 
of  horses  fall  and  die  round  me,  and  en- 
vied their  fate.  But  my  seven  years  of 
penal  servitude  bad  not  yet  expired,  and  I 
could  not  die.  * 

The  story  of  my  wonderful  instinct,  as 
they  called  it,  obtained  for  me  some  little 
consideration  in  that  time  of  cruelty.  And 
so  it  happened  that  1  lived  all  through 
the  war,  and  into  the  quiet  time  that  suc- 
ceeded it,  and  was  one  of  the  few  horses 
that  were  brought  back  to  England. 

There  was  welcome  enough  for  the 
Crimean  heroes,  but  no  thought  for  the 
horses  who  had  borne  the  worst  part  of 
the  work  and  the  suffering,  and  without 
whom  the  victory  could  never  have  been 
achieved,  in  the  confusion  that  followed 
the  battle  of  Balaklava  I  had  become 
mixed  with  the  ordinary  troopers,  and 
was  no  longer  recognized  as  an  officer's 
charger.  When  we  were  inspected  on 
our  return  to  England,  I,  with  many  oth- 
ers, was  pronounced  unfit  for  service,  and 


761 

not  worth  bringing  home.  Among  a  num- 
ber of  cast  horses  I  was  sent  to  be  sold 
by  auction,  and  was  bought  for  a  very 
small  price  by  a  cab  proprietor,  in  whom, 
to  my  indignation  and  horror,  I  recog- 
nized my  former  employer. 

**Do  as  you  would  be  done  by"  is  a 
maxim  inculcated  upon  children.  I  now 
experienced  its  converse.  I  was  done  by 
as  I  did.  Many  cabmen  are  good  fellows 
enough,  but  my  master  was  not  one  of 
them.  Even  the  sufferings  of  the  Crimea 
were  scarcely  as  bad  as  the  cruelty  of 
London.  I  was  stabled  in  a  stall  that 
was  no  better  than  a  dung-heap,  dark,  and 
suffocating  with  the  most  fcetid  odors. 
When  I  was  taken  out,  the  light  almost 
blinded  me.  FVom  morning  to  night  my 
lot  was  hard  work,  little  food,  and  con- 
stant flogging.  I  soon  wasted  away,  and 
felt,  with  a  bitter  kind  of  satisfaction,  that 
this  could  not  last  long.  I  became  cov- 
ered with  raw  places,  to  which  the  friction 
of  the  harness  and  the  constant  applica- 
tion  of  the  whip  added  indescribable  tor- 
ture. I  was  now  taken  out  only  at  night, 
in  order  to  escape  the  observation  of  the 
Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty.  I 
heard  my  owner  say  that  f  was  not  worth 
my  keep,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  intended 
simply  to  work  me  to  death. 

One  night  my  driver  took  up  a  fare 
near  Marlborough  House.  When  we 
reached  our  destination,  1  happened  to 
look  round,  and  recognized  my  former 
master,  the  clergyman.  His  quick  eye 
also  recognized  me,  and  I  heard  him  say, 
"Why,  that  horse  once  belonged  to  me  I 
He  looks  down  on  his  luck,  poor  fellow! 
Be  kind  to  him,  cabby,  and  here's  six- 
pence extra  for  you."  My  driver  grinned, 
and  proceeded  to  the  next  public  house. 

At  last  the  end  came.  One  night  I 
was  toiling  along  as  usual,  when  a  com- 
plete faintness  came  over  me,  and  1  fell 
"all  of  a  heap,"  My  driver  tried  to  rouse 
me  by  a  roost  unmerciful  flogging,  but  I 
felt  little  of  it.  My  seven  years  of  penal 
servitude  were  at  last  over.  I  closed  my 
eyes,  and  knew  no  more. 

When  I  next  regained  consciousness,  I 
found  myself  lying  on  the  grass  in  the 
Green  Park.  The  sun  was  rising  on  a 
brilliant  May  morning,  and  the  world  of 
London  was  awaking  to  work  and  pleas- 
ure. 

I  stretched  myself,  rubbed  my  eyes, 
and  felt  myself  all  over.  I  was  again  a 
man,  strong  and  well,  and  not  very  old. 
I  was  dressed  in  a  stable  suit  such  as  is 
worn  by  grooms.  After  a  little  consider- 
ation it  appeared  to  me  that  the  only  thing 


762 

I  was  fit  for  was  the  company  of  horses. 
I  proceeded  to  a  livery  stable  in  Duke 
Street,  which  I  had  known  in  former 
times,  and  applied  for  employment. 

The  master  looked  roe  over  sharply, 
and  then  said,  **  The  old  story,  I  suppose 
—  no  character.  Well,  you  look  as  if  you 
knew  something  about  horses.  Do  you 
think  you  could  do  anything  with  this 
one?"  ' 

He  then  opened  the  half-door  of  a  loose 
box,  and  a  savage  black  horse  darted  his 
head  out,  glared  wildly  round,  and  snapped 
at  us.  I  cau(;ht  his  head  between  my 
hands,  breathed  into  his  nostrils,  and 
whispered  into  his  ear.  The  vicious  ani- 
mal, as  he  was  called,  because  he  had 
endeavored  to  struggle  against  ill-treat- 
ment, whinnied  with  pleasure,  and  began 
to  "  nuzzle  "  me  with  his  nose  and  prehen- 
sile upper  lip. 

**  Weil,  that^s  a  rum  go,*'  said  the  mas- 
ter. **  I  have  heard  of  that  dodge,  but 
never  saw  it  before.  "I'll  give  you  fif- 
teen shillings  a  week,  young  man,  and  if 
you're  worth  more  you  shall  have  more." 

I  was  hungry,  and  by  no  means  in  a 
position  to  bargain,  so  I  accepted  his 
offer,  and  entered  on  my  duties  as  stable- 
man. Hut  they  did  not  continue  long. 
My  chief  pleasure,  indeed  my  only  one, 
was  to  read  the  newspapers,  and  renew 
my  acquaintance  with  the  world  from 
I  had  been  so  long  secluded.  And  so  it 
happened  that  I  noticed  an  advertisement 
in  which  I  was  desired,  if  still  living,  to 
apply  to  the  old  solicitors  of  my  family  in 
order  to  hear  "something  to  my  advan- 


TOADSTOOLS. 


From  The  Daily  TdegraplL 
TOADSTOOLS. 


tage. 


i> 


I  lost  no  time  in  waiting  upon  Mr.  X. 
My  former  appearance  had  been  so  far 
restored  that  he  found  little  difficultv  in 
recognizing  me,  and  he  knew  enough  of 
what  had  happened  seven  years  before  to 
induce  him  to  abstain  from  asking  incon- 
venient questions. 

It  appeared  that  an  old  aunt  of  mine 
had  died,  leaving  a  will  made  many  years 
before,  by  which  she  gave  me  all  her 
property.  And  so  I  became  the  owner  of 
some  hundreds  a  year.  You  may  imag- 
ine that  I  settled  my  business  and  got 
out  of  England  as  soon  as  possible.  I 
found  a  remote  nook  of  Italy  in  which  I 
established  myself.  I  had  lost  all  taste 
for  human  society.  My  sadness  is  incur- 
able, but  I  find  in  the  cultivation  of  my 
ground,  and  in  the  company  of  my  horse, 
my  dog,  and  my  books,  the  means  of  pass- 
ing my  time  without  finding  life  a  burden 
too  heavy  for  me  to  bear. 

A.  H.  A.  Hamilton. 


A  COMMON  object  of  the  country  at 
this  period  of  the  year  is  the  fungus,  and, 
scarcely  less  familiar,  in  wooded  districts 
especially,  the  fungus  -  hunter.  He  \s 
usually  of  a  serious  sort,  and  may  be  seen 
furtively  turning  over  dead  leaves,  as  if 
looking  for  the  remains  of  a  corse  which 
he  knows  to  be  thereabouts  and  yet  dreads 
to  discover.  Every  now  and  then  he  picks 
up  a  mouldy-looking  thing,  smells  it,  and 
puts  it  into  his  bag.  The  pursuit  evi- 
dently depresses  him,  and  melancholy 
might  be  less  aptly  symbolized  than  by  a 
fungus-hunter  sitting  in  a  damp  wood  eat- 
ing raw  toadstools,  without  salt.  Toad- 
stools have  been  much  misunderstood. 
The  rustic  calls  them  "  toad*3  meat,"  and 
tramples  in  his  own  ruinous,  hob-nailed 
fashion  upon  them  when  he  sees  them. 
Everybody  thinks  ill  of  them.  Boys 
throw  stones  at  them,  and  men  in  passing 
hit  them  with  their  walking-sticks  as  if  they 
were  some  kind  of  a  nuisance.  The  exact 
explanation  of  this  violent  manner  of  treat- 
ing toadstools  may  be  that  they  are  the 
vagabonds  of  the  vegetables,  and  without 
visible  means  of  subsistence.  That  plants 
should  grow  out  of  the  ground  is  natural 
enough,  but  that  they  should  sprout  up 
cheerfully  in  a  night  on  the  side  of  a  paling 
is  not  altogether  reasonable.  Rooted  to 
a  tenpenny  nail,  thev  inflate  themselves 
with  moisture  as  if  ironmongery  were 
succulent  and  sappy.  Give  them  a  wet 
brick  and  they  will  make  the  desert  blos- 
som as  a  rose,  covering  the  sterile  surface 
with  a  juicy  plantation  of  young  umbrellas. 
They  are,  indeed,  the  most  easily  satisfied 
of  all  vegetables.  Orchids,  it  is  true,  are 
not  exacting,  for  they  will  thrive  upon  a 
leg  of  a  chair  or  a  shovelful  of  cinders, 
and  throw  out  such  strands  of  pure  and 
lovely  flowers  as  make  an  ordinary  man 
feel  too  wicked  to  live  in  the  same  world. 
But  the  toadstool  goes  ahead  of  the  orchid 
in  its  frugality.  It  will  grow  inside  a 
cistern  with  nothing  but  zinc  to  nourish 
it,  and  shoot  two  feet  long  in  a  single 
night  upon  a  bar  of  metal.  These  are 
facts,  and  very  much  to  the  credit  of  the 
toadstool.  It  asks  for  nothing,  and  it 
takes  it  before  you  have  time  to  answer. 
If  you  put  down  your  hat  on  a  damp  place 
the  chances  are  that  it  will  be  filled  up 
with  a  puff-ball  by  the  time  you  want  to 
put  it  on  again.  Some  monks  had  a 
mighty  cask  of  wine  in  the  cellar,  but  it 
was  new;  so  they  closed  the  cellar  for  the 
wine  to  grow  olo,  and  they  let  it  alone  for 
three  years  and  then  went  to  drink  it. 


J 


TOADSTOOLS. 


But  they  had  overlooked  a  leak,  and  the 
whole  of  the  wine  bad  turned  into  fat, 
vinous  funguses,  the  abbots  of  all  fun- 
guses, which  nearly  filled  the  cellar,  and 
had  lifted  the  enopty  tun,  as  if  in  triumph, 
up  to  the  ceiling.  In  Basingstoke,  not 
long  ago,  toadstools  heaved  up  the  pave- 
ment of  the  street,  as  if  they  were  uneasy 
ghosts,  and  kitchen  hearth-stones  have 
been  known  to  get  solemnly  up  on  end, 
while  spectral  funguses  thrust  their  heads 
out  of  the  aperture.  Even  the  puff-ball, 
which  children  play  with,  has  prodigious 
potentialities.  1 1  multiplies  its  cells  at  the 
rate  of  sixty  million  in  the  minute,  and 
where  there  was  nothing  the  night  before 
you  may  find  next  morning  the  ground 
covered  with  things  as  big  as  pumpkins, 
and  solid  enough  to  throw  at  a  neighbor. 
Put  a  man  and  a  puff-ball  into  a  suitable 
cellar  together,  and  leave  them  alone,  and 
the  puff-ball  would  possibly  smother  the 
man.  So  when  we  laugh  at  the  toadstools, 
we  are  not  always  on  safe  ground.  Smut 
and  rust,  dry  rot  and  mildew,  already  tri- 
umph over  us  and  ours,  but  suppose  Poly- 
porus  squamosus  took  to  growing  up  on 
the  backs  of  books  in  the  library,  or  upon 
the  household  flannels,  invade  dour  jam- 
pots and  our  cruets,  and  took  possession 
of  our  boots  and  our  belongings  generally  ? 
Poly  porus  squamosus  increases  at  the 
rate  of  about  nine  pounds  a  week,  and 
in  a  month  measures  some  eight  feet 
in  circumference.  What  would  the  cook 
say  to  a  hundredweight  of  this  turbulent 
toadstool  in  the  larder  when  she  came 
back  to  town,  or  the  master  of  the  house 
at  finding  his  study  occupied  by  furlongs 
of  this  umbrageous  fungus?  As  it  is  we 
grumble  at  the  invasions  of  the  tiny  spe- 
cies of  this  much-abused  family,  but  let 
us  be  content  that  their  big  brothers  do 
not  accompany  them  in  their  incursions. 
This  serious  aspect  of  the  toadstool  does 
not,  however,  explain  the  persistence  of 
human  efforts  to  popularize  them  as  food. 
It  is  in  vain  that  the  unwilling  fungus 
protests  with  all  its  might  against  being 
considered  fit  for  food.  In  vain  that  it 
selects  for  its  development  all  the  roost 
odious  shapes  possible  to  vegetables,  and 
attaches  to  itself,  with  all  the  other  exte- 
rior decencies  of  unwholesomeness,  the 
most  objectionable  odors.  In  vain  does 
it  pretend  to  be  leather  or  glue,  a  lump  of 
frog-spawn  or  a  bunch  of  buttons,  a  horn, 
a  rag,  a  fragment  of  crockery.  The  reso- 
lute fungologiftt  eats  it.  In  vain  will  it 
smell  at  the  top  of  its  voice,  till  you  can 
positively  hear  its  malodorousness  half  a 
meadow  o£E.    In  vain  does  it  secrete  the 


763 

most  venomous  colors,  distributed  over  it 
in  the  most  reptilian  blotches.  The  fun- 
gologist  will  not  believe  it  even  on  its 
oath,  and  away  it  goes  into  the  stew-pan. 
Nothing  can  check  the  furious  enthusiasm 
of  the  scientist;  nothing,  except  cramp  in 
the  stomach,  convince  him  of  the  sincerity 
of  the  toadstool's  protest.  He  would  even 
turn  a  toad  o£f  to  eat  its  namesake.  This 
fungivorous  mania  is  noteworthy,  and  may 
arise  from  the  fact  that  man  is  naturally 
of  a  somewhat  unwholesome  appetite.  It 
is  certain  that  his  gastronomic  enterprise 
is  unlimited.  When  very  young  indeed 
he  will  put  anything  that  he  can  reach  into 
his  mouth,  even  his  own  socks  with  the 
feet  inside  them,  and  whatever  is  given 
him  to  play  with  he  will  promptly  proceed 
to  try  to  eat.  Growing  older  and  capable 
of  independent  locomotion,  he  goes  bucca- 
neering under  tables  and  furniture,  and, 
the  odds  are,  emerges  again  into  society 
with  something  irregular  in  his  mouth. 
Later  on,  and  having  the  run  of  the  garden 
and  fields,  he  grazes  promiscuously,  rob- 
bing the  finch,  dormouse,  and  squirrel  of 
their  viands,  and  not  hesitating  to  con- 
sume even  that  which  they  refuse.  Every- 
thing that  he  finds  is  put  at  once  to  the 
test  of  his  teeth,  and  his  experiences 
become  of  a  very  mixed  sort.  Arrived  at 
manhood,  he  experiments  upon  his  stom- 
ach with  the  fungus.  But  it  is  melancholy 
feeding  at  best.  A  company  can  never 
rise  to  much  hilarity  which  has  to  be 
perpetually  looking  in  each  other's  faces 
to  see  if  the  last  mouthful  threatens  to  be 
fatal.  No  one  ever  asks  for  a  second  help 
of  toadstools.  It  is  a  sufficient  achieve- 
ment that  the  first  plateful  should  have 
been  got  rid  of  without  casualty.  Each 
congratulates  the  other  when  it  is  done, 
and  drinks  a  glass  of  sherry  with  him. 
They  assure  the  chairman  that  it  was  ex- 
cellent; **  quite  like  the  real  mushroom  in 
fact"  —  if  not,  indeed,  rather  more  so. 
But  they  will  have  no  more  of  it.  They 
firmly  but  politely  decline.  The  chair- 
man in  the  course  of  general  conversation 
remarks  that  the  last  dish  was  composed 
of  a  toadstool  which  is  very  nearly  allied 
to  the  most  deadly  species  known,  and 
that  they  are  virtually  indistinguishable  — 
except  by  results.  The  company  wince 
at  this,  but  accept  the  fact  as  **  curious," 
and  **  remarkable,"  as,  indeed,  most  inter- 
esting, and  take  a  glass  of  sherry.  The 
conversation  involuntarily  drifts  upon 
remedies  for  poisoning  by  funguses,  but 
everything  that  is  suggested  is  pronounced 
by  some  one  or  another  to  be  delusive, 
as,  to  his  own  positive  knowledge,  he 


764 

knew  it  to  fail  sig^nally  in  the  case  of 
Farmer  So-and-So*s  boy,  who,  in  spite  of 
the  antidote,  was  seized  with  cramp  in  the 
stomach,  accompanied  by  dizziness,  and 
shortly  lost  all  consciousness.  Thus  pleas- 
antly discoursing,  these  consumers  of 
strange  meats  while  away  their  meal,  but 
are  dreadfully  upon  the  alert  all  the  time 
for  the  tirst  symptoms  of  an  attack.  Not 
that  toadstools  are  not  edible.  On  the 
contrary,  a  very  large  number  are  just  as 
good  as  bad  mushrooms.  But  the  ques- 
tion is  whether  they  are  worth  eating. 
Everybody  knows  that  two-thirds  of  the 
species  found  in  Great  Britain  are  harm- 
less, and  that  if  they  are  stewed  with 
herbs,  pepper,  salt,  and  butter,  they  have 
an  agreeable  flavor  of  herbs,  pepper,  salt, 
and  butter.  It  is  also  a  useful  work  to 
explode  the  popular  error  that  every  fun- 
gus is  deadly  poison,  for  —  who  knows  ? 
—  some  day  or  other  somebody  when  lost 
in  a  wood  might  sustain  life  by  devouring 
these  monstrosities,  when  otherwise  he 
might  have  died  of  hunger.  But  on  the  re- 
mote chance  of  somebody  doing  this,  is  it 
worth  while  suggesting  to  the  coster- 
monger  that  he  should  hawk  among  his 
customers'  promiscuous  barrow-loads  -of 
toadstools  'and  guarantee  them  all  safe 
eating?  Once  establish  the  idea  that  none 
of  them  are  poisonous,  and  deaths  would 
soon  occur.  For  instance,  no  one  can 
deny  that  the  common  boletus,  eaten  so 
very  largely  on  the  Continent  by  the 
poorer  classes,  might  often,  for  months 
together,  give  the  country  laborer  mate- 
rial for  a  meal ;  but  suppose  that  he  forgot 
to  submit  one  to  the  test  of  the  knife,  and 
omitted  to  watch  whether  it  turned  blue 
upon  incision,  he  might  die  from  the 
effects  of  eating  another  boletus  not  at  all 
unlike  the  edible  variety  when  the  stalk  is 
gone,  except  that  it  is  virulently  poison- 
ous. 


VENICE   IN   THE   EAST-END. 


From  The  Pall  Mall  Gaaette. 
VENICE  IN  THE  EAST-END. 

BY  MR.   RICHARD  JEFFERIES. 

The  great  red  bowsprit  of  an  Australian 
clipper  projects  aslant  the  quay  —  stem 
to  the  shore,  the  vessel  thrusts  an  out- 
stretched arm  high  over  the  land,  as  an 
oak  in  a  glade  pushes  a  bare  branch 
athwart  the  opening.  This  beam  is  larger 
than  an  entire  tree  divested  of  its  foliage, 
such  trees,  that  is,  as  are  seen  in  English 
woods.  The  great  oaks  might  be  bigger 
at  the  base  where  they  swell  and  rest 


themselves  on  a  secure  pedestal.  Five 
hundred  years  old  an  oak  might  measure 
more  at  six  feet,  at  eight,  or  ten  feet  from 
the  ground ;  after  five  hundred  years,  that 
is,  of  steady  growth.  But  if  even  such  a 
monarch  were  taken,  and  by  some  enor- 
mous mechanic  power  drawn  out,  and  its 
substance  elongated  into  a  tapering  spar, 
it  would  not  be  massive  enough  to  form 
this  single  beam.  Where  it  starts  from 
the  stem  of  the  vessel  it  is  already  placed 
as  high  above  the  level  of  the  quay  as  it 
is  from  the  sward  to  the  first  branch  of  an 
oak.  At  its  root  it  starts  high  overhead, 
high  enough  for  a  trapeze  to  be  slung  to 
it  upon  which  grown  persons  could  prac- 
tise athletic  exercises.  From  its  roots, 
from  the  forward  end  of  the  deck,  the  red 
beam  rises  at  a  regular  angle,  diminishing 
in  size  with  altitude  tiil  its  end  in  com- 
parison with  the  commencement  may  be 
called  pointed,  though  in  reality  blunt 
To  the  pointed  end  it  would  be  a  long 
climb,  it  would  need  a  ladder  like  those 
which  painters  use  against  the  steep 
facades  of  West-end  houses.  The  dull 
red  of  the  vast  beam  is  obscured  by  the 
neutral  tint  of  the  ropes  which  are  attached 
to  it;  color  generally  gives  a  sense  of 
lightness  by  defining  shape,  but  this  red 
is  worn  and  weather-beateui  rubbed  and 
battered,  so  that  its  uncertain  surface 
adds  to  the  weight  of  the  boom.  It  hangs, 
an  immense  arm  thrust  across  the  sky;  it 
is  so  high  it  is  scarcely  noticed  in  walking 
under  it;  it  is  so  great  and  ponderous, 
and  ultra  in  size,  that  the  eye  and  mind 
alike  fail  to  estimate  it.  For  it  is  a 
common  effect  of  great  things  to  be 
overlooked.  A  moderately  large  rock,  a 
moderately  large  house,  are  understood 
and  mentally  put  down  as  it  were  at  a  cer- 
tain figure,  but  the  immense  —  which  is 
beyond  the  human  —  cannot  enter  the 
organs  of  the  senses.  The  portals  of  the 
senses  are  not  wide  enough  to  receive  it; 
you  must  turn  your  back  on  it  and  reflect, 
and  add  a  little  piece  of  it  to  another  little 
piece,  and  so  build  up  your  understanding. 
Human  things  are  small;  you  live  in  a 
large  house,  but  the  space  you  actually 
occupy  is  very  inconsiderable;  the  earth 
itself,  great  as  it  is,  is  overlooked,  it  is  too 
large  to  be  seen.  The  eye  is  accustomed 
to  the  little,  and  cannot  in  a  moment  re- 
ceive the  immense.  Only  by  slow  com- 
parison with  the  bulk  of  oak-trees,  by  the 
height  of  a  trapeze,  by  the  climbing  of  a 
ladder,  can  I  convey  to  my  mind  a  true 
estimate  and  idea  of  this  gigantic  bowsprit. 
It  would  be  quite  possible  to  walk  by  and 
never  see  it  because  of  its  size,  as  one 


VENICE   IN   THE   EAST-END. 


walks  by  bridges  or  travels  over  a  viaduct 
without  a  thought. 

The  vessel  lies  with  her  bowsprit  pro- 
jecting: over  the  quav,  moored  as  a  boat 
run  ashore  on  the  quiet  sandy  beach  of  a 
lake,  not  as  a  ship  is  generally  placed, 
with  her  broadside  to  the  quay  wall  or  to 
the  pier.  Her  stern  is  yonder  —  far  out 
in  the  waters  of  the  dock,  too  far  to  con- 
cern us  much  as  we  look  from  the  verge 
of  the  wall.  Access  to  the  ship  is  ob- 
tained by  a  wooden  staging  running  out 
at  the  side:  instead  of  the  ship  lying  be- 
side the  pier,  a  pier  has  been  built  out  to 
fit  to  the  ship.  This  plan,  contrary  to 
preconceived  ideas,  is  evidently  founded 
on  good  reason,  for  if  such  a  vessel  were 
moored  broadside  to  the  quay  how  much 
space  would  she  take  up  ?  There  would 
be,  6rst,  the  hull  itself,  say  seventy  yards, 
and  then  the  immense  bowsprit.  Two  or 
three  such  ships  would,  as  it  were,  fill  a 
whole  field  of  water;  they  would  fill  a 
whole  dock ;  it  would  not  require  many  to 
cover  a  mile.  By  placing  each  stem  to 
the  quay  they  only  occupy  a  space  equal 
to  their  breadth  instead  of  to  their  length. 
This  arrangement,  again,  tends  to  deceive 
the  eye;  you  might  pass  by,  and,  seeing 
only  the  bow,  casually  think  there  was 
nothing  particular  in  it.  Everything  here 
is  on  so  grand  a  scale  that  the  largest 
component  part  is  diminished  ;  the  quay, 
broad  enough  to  build  several  streets 
abreast;  the  square,  open  stretches  of 
gloomy  water;  and  beyond  these  the  wide 
river.  The  wind  blows  across  these  open 
spaces  in  a  broad  way  —  not  as  it  comes 
in  sudden  gusts  around  a  street  corner, 
but  in  a  broad,  open  way,  each  puff  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  wide.  The  view  of  the  sky 
is  open  overhead,  mast^  do  not  obstruct 
the  upward  look;  the  sunshine  illumines 
or  the  cloud-shadows  darken  hundreds  of 
acres  at  once.  It  is  a  great  plain ;  a  plain 
of  enclosed  waters,  built  in  and  restrained 
by  the  labor  of  man,  and  holding  upon  its 
surface  fleet  upon  fleet,  argosy  upon  ar- 
gosy. Masts  to  the  right,  masts  to  the 
left,  masts  in  front,  masts  yonder  above 
the  warehouses;  masts  in  among  the 
streets  as  steeples  appear  amid  roofs; 
masts  across  the  river  hung  with  drooping 
half  furled  sails ;  masts  afar  down  thin 
and  attenuated,  mere  dark  straight  lines 
in  the  distance.  They  await  in  stillness 
the  rising  of  the  tide. 

It  comes,  and  at  the  exact  moment  — 
foreknown  to  a  second  —  the  gates  are 
opened,  and  the  world  of  ships  moves  out- 
wards to  the  stream.  Downwards  they 
drift  to  the  east,  some  slowly  that  have  as 
yet  but  barely  felt  the  pull  of  the  hawser, 


others  swiftly,  and  the  swifter  because 
their  masts  cross  and  pass  the  masts  of 
inward-bound  ships  ascending.  Two  lines 
of  masts,  one  raking  one  way,  the  other 
the  other,  cross  and  puzzle  the  eye  to  sep- 
arate their  weaving  motion  and  to  assign 
the  rigging  to  the  right  vessel.  White 
funnels  aslant,  dark  funnels,  red  funnefs 
rush  between  them ;  white  steam  curls 
upwards ;  there  is  a  hum,  a  haste,  almost 
a  whirl,  for  the  commerce  of  the  world  is 
crowded  into  the  hour  of  the  full  tide. 
These  great  hulls,  these  crossing  masts 
a-rake,  the  intertangled  rigging,  the  back- 
ground of  black  barges  drifting  down- 
wards, the  lines  and  ripples  of  the  water 
as  the  sun  comes  out,  if  you  look  too 
steadily,  daze  the  eyes  and  cause  a  sense 
of  giddiness.  It  is  so  difficult  to  realize 
so  much  mass  —  so' much  bulk  —  moving 
so  swiftly,  and  in  so  intertangled  a  man- 
ner; a  mighty  dance  of  thousands  of  tons 
—  gliding,  slipping,  drifting  onwards,  yet 
without  apparent  effort.  Thousands  upon 
thousands  of  tons  go  by  like  shadows, 
silently,  as  if  the  ponderous  hulls  had  no 
stability  or  weight;  like  a  dream  they 
float  past,  solid  and  yet  without  reality. 
It  is  a  giddiness  to  watch  them. 

This  happens,  not  on  one  day  only.  Dot 
one  tide,  but  at  every  tide  and  every  day 
the  year  through,  year  after  year.  The 
bright  summer  sun  glows  upon  it;  the 
red  sun  of  the  frosty  hours  of  winter  looks 
at  it  from  under  the  deepening  canopy  of 
vapor ;  the  blasts  of  the  autumnal  equinox 
howl  over  the  vast  city  and  whistle  shrilly 
in  the  rigging;  still  at  every  tide  the 
world  of  ships  moves  out  into  the  river. 
Why  does  not  a  painter  come  here  and 
place  the  real  romance  of  these  things 
upon  canvas,  as  V^enice  has  been  placed? 
Never  twice  alike,  the  changing  atmo- 
sphere is  reflected  in  the  hue  of  the  var- 
nished masts,  now  gleaming,  now  dull, 
now  dark.  Till  it  has  been  painted,  and 
sung  by  poet,  and  described  by  writers, 
nothing  is  human.  Venice  has  been  made 
human  by  poet,  painter,  and  dramatist, 
yet  what  was  Venice  to  this  —  this  the 
fact  of  our  own  day  ?  Two  of  the  cara- 
vels of  the  doge's  fleet,  two  of  Othello's 
strongest  war-ships,  could  scarcely  carry 
the  mast  of  my  Australian  clipper.  At  a 
guess  it  is  six  feet  through  ;  it  is  of  iron, 
tubular ;  there  is  room  for  a  winding  spiral 
staircase  within  it ;  as  for  its  height,  1  will 
not  risk  a  guess  at  it.  Could  Othello's 
war-ships  carry  it  they  would  consider  it 
a  feat,  as  the  bringing  of  the  Egyptian 
obelisk  to  London  was  thought  a  feat. 
The  petty  ripples  of  the  Adriatic,  what 
were  they  ?    This  red  bowsprit  at  its  roots 


766 

IS  high  enough  to  suspend  a  trapeze ;  at 
its  head  a  ladder  would  be  required  to 
mount  it  from  the  quay;  yet  by-and-by, 
when  the  tide  at  last  comes,  and  its  time 
arrives  to  move  outwards  in  the  dance  of 
a  million  tons,  this  mighty  bowsprit,  meet- 
ing the  Atlantic  rollers  in  the  Bay  of  Bis- 
cay, will  dip  and  bury  itself  in  foam  under 
the  stress  of  the  vast  sails  aloft.  The 
forty-feet  billows  of  the  Pacific  will  swing 
these  three  or  four  thousand  or  more  tons, 
this  giant  hull  which  must  be  moored  even 
stem  to  shore,  up  and  down  and  side  to 
side  as  a  handful  in  the  grasp  of  the  sea. 
Now,  each  night  as  the  clouds  part,  the 
North  Star  looks  down  upon  the  deck; 
then,  the  Southern  Cross  will  be  visible  in 
the  sky,  words  quickly  written,  but  half  a 
globe  apart.  What  was  there  in  Venice 
to  arouse  thoughts  such  as  spring  from 
the  sight  of  this  red  bowsprit?  In  two 
voyages  my  Australian  clipper  shall  carry 
as  much  merchandise  as  shall  equal  the 
entire  commerce  of  Venice  for  a  year. 
Yet  it  is  not  the  volume,  not  the  bulk 
only ;  cannot  you  see  the  white  sails  swell- 
ing, and  the  proud  vessel  rising  to  the 
Pacific  billows,  the  North  Star  sinking, 
and  the  advent  of  the  Southern  Cross; 
the  thousand  miles  of  ocean  without  land 
around,  the  voyage  through  space  made 
visible  as  sea,  the  far,  far  south,  the  transit 
around  a  world  ?  If  Italian  painters  had 
had  .such  things  as  these  to  paint,  if  poets 
of  old  time  had  had  such  things  as  these 
to  sing,  do  you  imagine  they  would  have 
been  contented  with  crank  caravels  and 
tales  thrice  told  already  ?  They  had  eyes 
to  see  that  which  was  around  them. 
Open  your  eyes  and  see  those  which  are 
around  us  at  this  hour.  In  five  centuries 
people  will  just  begin  to  realize  what 
London  is. 


THE   MOLE. 


From  Chambers*  Joomal. 
THE  MOLE. 

One  morning,  in  the  month  of  April, 
1880,  whilst  walking  over  a  small  piece  of 
grass  land,  I  saw  a  mole  upon  the  surface, 
and  whether  the  strength  of  the  roots  of 
the  turf  whence  he  had  emerged  had  pre- 
vented his  making  a  re-entry,  or  whether 
he  had  an  ambition  to  seek  pastures  new, 
I  do  not  know,  but  I  captured  him  with 
little  difficulty,  greatly  to  his  discompo- 
sure, as  I  judged  from  the  violent  palpita- 
tion of  his  heart.  I  carried  him  for  a 
short  time  in  the  hollow  of  my  left  hand, 
and  endeavored  to  allay  his  fears,  by 
stroking  his  back  with  my  right.    My  ef- 


forts to  soothe  his  perturbation  were  suc- 
cessful, as  by  degrees  the  palpitation 
ceased,  and  the  heart  beat  regularly.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  a  little  refreshment 
might  be  acceptable  to  him,  and  a  boy 
soon  procured  a  quantity  of  good-sized 
earthworms.  I  offered  my  velvety  friend 
one  of  them,  which  he  immediately  seized 
with  his  paws,  and  as  be  showed  an  incli- 
nation to  sit  down,  I  placed  him  upon  the 
grass.  He  sat  down  upon  the  turf  as 
straight  as  a  young  boarding-school  miss 
fresh  from  her  back-board,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  schoolmistress.  His  tail, 
which  was  carefully  arranged  behind  him, 
and  reposed  its  short  length  upon  the 
grass,  gave  him  almost  a  jaunty  air.  He 
ate  seven  large  worms  in  quick  succes- 
sion, but  metaphorically  laid  down  his 
knife  and  fork  when  half  through  the 
eighth.  I  have  said  that  he  sat  perfectly 
erect  during  his  meal,  and  in  whatsoever 
way  the  worms  were  presented  to  him, 
bead-foremost,  tail-first,  or  sideways,  he  al- 
ways turned  each  worm  head-first  towards 
him,  and  killed  it  before  eating  it  This 
he  did  by  biting  it  in  what  might  be  called 
the  neck,  where,  in  most  earthworms,  a 
kind  of  ring  or  elevated  fleshy  belt  near 
the  head  is  to  be  seen.  Though  the  worm 
has  neither  bones,  brains,  eyes,  nor  feet, 
it  has  a  heart,  which  is  situated  near  the 
head,  in  or  near  the  belt  before  spoken  of. 
I  noticed  carefully  that  he  bit  each  worm 
once  only ;  and  cfeath  was  instantaneous. 
A  worm  having  been  killed,  he  commenced 
eating  it,  beginning  at  the  head,  and  pass- 
ing it  carefully  through  his  hands  ;  there- 
by all  earth  was  cleared  from  it,  before  it 
entered  his  mouth.  The  muscular  strength 
of  a  mole  is  considerable,  in  comparison 
with  his  size  and  weight.  A  full-grown 
male  measures  six  and  a  half  inches  from 
the  point  of  the  snout  to  the  tip  of  the 
tail,  the  tail  itself  being  three-quarters  of 
an  inch  in  length.  His  average  weight  is 
three  and  a  quarter  ounces,  and  his  girth 
round  the  shoulders  is  five  inches.  The 
female  is  less.  Moles  feed  twice  a  day 
—  in  the  morning  about  eight  o'clock,  and 
in  the  afternoon  about  three,  as  long  ex- 
perience of  their  habits  has  shown.  The 
idea  that  the  mole  is  blind  is  erroneous. 
He  has  a  pair  of  brilliant  black  eyes, 
though  very  small,  which,  upon  examina- 
tion under  a  microscope,  have  shown  all 
the  parts  of  the  eye  that  are  known  in 
other  animals.  Anatomists  mention  that 
the  mole  possesses  an  advantage  in  re- 
spect to  his  eyes,  which  greatly  contrib- 
utes to  their  security,  namely,  a  certain 
muscle  by  which  the  animal  can  draw 
back  the  eye  whenever  it  is  necessary  or 


MR.    RUSKIN   ON   "PUNCH. 


767 


in  danger.  It  is  by  the  action  of  this 
muscle  that  the  eye  seems  considerably 
less  after  death,  it  being  drawn  back  into 
the  head,  and  appearing  merely  as  a  small 
black  point.  The  sense  of  hearing  in  the 
mole  is  very  acute,  as  is  also  that  of  smell- 
ing. A  mole  upon  being  disturbed  by  any 
noise,  as  can  be  seen  by  the  attitude  of 
listening  that  it  assumes,  afterwards  sniffs 
in  the  direction  from  which  the  sound 
proceeds,  as  if  to  endeavor  to  judge  by 
the  aid  of  his  sense  of  smell  what  may 
have  been  the  object  of  alarm.  Though 
the  sense  of  hearing  may  seem  more 
acute  than  that  of  smelling  in  the  animal, 
the  latter  must  be  very  strongly  devel- 
oped, as  by  it,  in  the  midst  of  darkness. 
It  seems  to  find  its  food.  The  mole  has 
few  enemies  that  it  cannot  easily  evade, 
except  the  human  mole-catcher.  One  of 
the  greatest  calamities  that  befall  the 
mole  is  an  occasional  inundation  of  his 
dwelling,  by  which  the  young  ones  are 
frequently  drowned.  The  old  ones  can 
save  themselves  by  swimming;  but  at 
this  a  mole  cannot  be  considered  an  adept, 
as  an  observer  says  it  takes  a  mole  nearly 
four  minutes  to  swim  six  yards.  A  dry 
summer  kills  off  many  young  moles,  as 
the  ground  being  very  hard,  they  cannot 
work  their  way  through  it  to  obtain  food, 
or  find  their  way  to  the  surface;  and  by 
his  behavior  he  marks  changes  of  weather, 
as  the  temperature  or  dryness  of  the  air 
governs  his  motions  as  to  the  depth  at 
which  he  lives  or  works.  This  is  from 
the  necessity  of  following  his  natural  and 
ordinary  food,  the  common  earthworm, 
which  always  descends  as  the  cold  or 
drought  increases. 


From  Tlie  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 
MR.  RUSKIN  ON  "PUNCH." 

There  is  no  falling  off 'in  the  interest 
excited  by  Mr.  Ruskin's  lectures  at  Ox- 
ford, and  the  audience  which  greeted  him 
yesterday  afternoon  was,  if  possible, 
packed  closer  than  ever.  Resuming  at 
the  point  where  he  had  left  off  last  term, 
Mr.  Ruskin  passed  from  the  art  which  ap- 
peals only  to  men  of  cultivated  minds  and 
gentle  temper  to  that  which  is  able  at 
once  to  arouse  the  interest  of  a  child  and 
to  break  the  apathy  of  a  clown.  The 
phrase  "cheap  art "  contains  a  dangerous 
fallacy,  for  it  is  (said  Mr.  Ruskin)  one  of 
the  paradoxes  of  my  political  economy 
which  you  will  find  one  day  to  be  an  ex- 
pression of  quite  final  truth  that  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  real  cheapness.    Every- 


thing has  its  just  and  necessary  price, 
which  you  can  no  more  alter  than  you  can 
alter  the  course  of  the  earth,  and  when- 
ever you  boast  that  vou  have  bought  any- 
thing for  half  price  be  assured  that  some 
one  else  has  had  to  pay  the  other  half. 
Still  there  are  obviously  some  forms  of 
art  which,  as  involving  less  labor  and  less 
rare  genius,  are  more  generally  attainable 
than  others,  and  it  is  this  kind  of  art 
which  necessarily  has  most  influence  over 
simple  minds.  Of  all  instruments  of 
cheap  art  in  this  sense  the  woodcut  is  the 
most  important,  and  there  is  no  limit  to 
the  mischief  it  can  do  by  encouraging 
vulgar  and  vile  modes  of  design.  Indeed, 
no  entirely  beautiful  representation  is  pos- 
sible in  a  woodcut,  whereas  everything 
vulgar  and  ugly  is.  I  have  brought  here 
(said  Mr.  Ruskin),  framed  for  your  per- 
manent enjoyment,  a  selection  of  wood- 
cuts, ignorantly  drawn  and  vilely  engraved, 
from  a  book  on  "The  Races  of  Southern 
America,*'  representing  whatever  is  savage 
and  sordid,  ridiculous  and  vicious,  in  hu- 
man nature,  and  I  shall  place  them  in 
your  Standard  Series,  next  to  some  sci- 
entific studies  by  Tintoret,  in  which  you 
can  see  all  that  is  graceful  in  form,  true  in 
instinct,  and  cultivated  in  capacity.  Mr. 
Ruskin  exhibited  also  some  w*oodcuts 
(**  by  no  means  the  ugliest ")  from  a  recent 
book  "Z,rt  Pourquoi  de  Malle,  Susanne^^ 
which  purports  to  "amusingly  instruct'*  a 
young  girl  in  the  elements  of  science. 
There  is  a  woman  struck  by  lightning  for 
her  instruction,  a  liver  exposed  for  her 
satisfaction,  and  a  nightmare  descrit>ed  to 
her  entertainment;  and  whatever  mon- 
strosities are  known  to  science  are  here 
collected  in  one  black  company  by  cheap 
engraving.  Of  another  result  of  this 
cheap  art  a  critic  wrote  the  other  day  that 
"by  a  series  of  bands  of  black  and  red 
paint  the  demoniac  beauty  of  the  sunset 
was  entirely  successfully  reproduced  *'  — 
a  remark,  said  Mr.  Ruskin,  which  con- 
tains everything  that  is  wrong,  call  it  de- 
moniac, diabolic,  or  aesthetic,  as  you  will. 
From  these  general  remarks  Mr.  Rus- 
kin turned  to  the  English  artists  who  had 
put  the  woodcut  to  a  better  use.  The  title 
of  the  lecture  was*" The  Fireside:  John 
Leech  and  John  Tenniel ; "  but  although 
he  had  given  these  names  as  those  of  the 
real  founder  and  of  by  far  the  greatest 
illustrator  of  Punchy  he  took  rather  the 
work  of  Mr.  Du  Maurier  as  typical  of 
entirely  classic  wood  engraving.  For  ex- 
amples to  be  placed  in  the  Standard  Series 
Mr.  Ruskin  had  selected  Mr.  Du  Mau- 
rier's  favorite  heroines,  Mrs.  Pon.sonby 
de  Torokyns  and  Lady  Midas  \  and  he 


768 


MR.    RUSKIN    ON   "PUNCH." 


pointed  out  how  the  beauty  of  the  younger 
lady  depended  on  eight  or  ten  strokes 
across  the  cheek.  It  is  an  optical  law  that 
transparency  depends  on  dark  over  light ; 
a  snow-storm  seen  over  a  dark  sky  is  not 
transparent,  rain  seen  between  us  and  a 
rainbow  is.  Mr.  Du  Maurier  sometimes 
carries  this  law  to  an  excess,  and  his 
drawings  are  often  more  like  a  chessboard 
than  a  picture ;  but  nothing  can  be  more 
perfectly  true  and  right  than  the  work* 
manship  in  many  of  his  smaller  studies, 
and  Mr.  Du  Maurier^s  faithful  representa- 
tion of  beautiful  faces  is  one  of  the  chief 
glories  of  "the  immortal  periodical." 
The  kindly  and  vivid  genius  of  Leech  saw 
a  jest  in  everything,  and  his  loving  wit 
covered  the  whole  range  of  social  life. 
Mr.  Tennlel  has  given  a  graver  scope  and 
a  steadier  tone  to  the  license  of  political 
controversy.  Mr.  Ou  Maurier^s  work  has 
been  to  illustrate  the  law  on  which  Mr. 
Ruskin  insisted  in  a  former  lecture,  and 
to  which  he  alluded  again  in  *•  Fors"  the 
other  day,  that  "on  all  the  beautiful  fea- 
tures of  men  and  women,  throughout  the 
ages,  are  written  the  solemnities  and  maj- 
esty of  the  law  they  knew,  with  the  charity 
and  meekness  of  their  obedience,  and  on 
all  unbeautiful  features  are  written  either 
ignorance  of  the  law,  or  the  malice  and 
insolence  of  their  disobedience."  And 
from  this  point  of  view  Mr.  Ruskin  ex- 
hibited enlarged  copies  of  "  Alderman  Sir 
Richard  "  (with  his  **  very  expensive  cast 
of  features *')  and  "the  colonel,"  in  which 
Mr.  Du  Maurier  has  shown  with  accurate 
delineation,  never  degenerating  into  ca- 
ricature, the  permanent  deterioration  of 
feature  on  the  one  hand  which  results 
from  self-indulgence,  and  the  noble  type 
which  comes  on  the  other  from  habitual 
self-control  and  just  self-respect. 

It  is  only  Punches  business  to  be  for  a 
moment  serious,  but  there  are  lessons 
worth  learning  for  all  that.  Punch  has 
always  been  a  polite  Whig,  with  a  senti- 
mental respect  for  the  crown  and  a  real 
respect  for  property,  steadily  flattering 
Lord  Palmerston  and  Mr.  Gladstone,  and 
having  for  his  ideal  of  human  perfection 
the  British  hunting  squire,  the  British 
colonel,  and  the  British  sailor.  The  hunt- 
ing squire:  and  the  roost  beautiful  sketch 
by  Leech,  or,  indeed,  in  the  whole  of 
Punchy  is  Miss  Alice  on  her  falher*s 
horse.  But  is  it  not  a  remarkable  thing 
that  Leech  should  never  have  stopped  to 
ask  whether  all  girls  can  be  like  Miss 
Alice,  and  that  Punch  should  never  have 
seen  any  beauty  in  the  poor?  Nor  is 
that  all.     Mr.  Du  Manner's  children,  with 


whom  the  ladies  reclining  in  elegant  atti- 
tudes are  generally  too  idle  to  play,  are 
extremely  pretty;  but  have  you  not  no- 
ticed how  much  their  prettiness  depends 
on  the  dressing  of  their  back  hair  and  on 
their  boots  ?  The  girls  are  beautiful,  too, 
but  there  is  a  look  of  somewhat  defiant 
pride  in  them  all;  and  there  is  not  a  single 
girl  in  Punchv9\\\\  humility  or  enthusiasm 
written  on  her  face.  The  popular  voice 
is  strong  in  Punchy  and  is  it  not  remark- 
able, too,  that  the  incarnate  John  Dull 
should  always  be  a  farmer,  and  never  a 
manufacturer?  and  that  Punch'* s  idea  of 
civic  majesty  should  be  this  repulsive  pic- 
ture of  "  Sir  Pompey  "  ?  Look,  too,  at 
this  characteristic  type  of  British  heroism 
—  "John  Bull  guards  his  pudding."  Is 
this  the  final  outcome  of  King  Arthur  and 
St.  George,  of  Britannia  and  the  British 
lion  ?  And  is  it  your  pride  or  hope  or 
pleasure  that  in  this  sacred  island  that 
has  given  her  lion  hearts  to  Eastern  tombs 
and  her  pilgrim  fathers  to  Western  lands, 
that  has  wrapped  the  sea  round  her  as  a 
mantle  and  breathed  against  her  strong 
bosom  the  air  of  every  wind,  the  children 
born  to  her  in  these  latter  days  should 
have  no  loftier  legend  to  write  upon  their 
shields  than  —  "John  Bull  guards  his 
pudding"?  It  is  our  fault,  Mr.  Ruskin 
continued,  and  not  the  artistes  ;  and  I  have 
often  wondered  what  Mr.  Tenniel  might 
have  done  for  us  if  London  had  been  as 
Venice  or  Florence  or  Siena.  In  my  first 
course  of  lectures  I  called  your  attention 
to  the  picture  of  the  doge  Mocenigo 
kneeling  in  prayer;  and  it  is  our  fault 
more  than  Mr.  Tenniel's  if  he  is  forced  to 
represent  the  heads  of  the  government 
dining  at  Greenwich  rather  than  worship- 
ping at  St.  Paul's. 

But  I  have  been  too  long,  said  Mr. 
Ruskin,  in  carping,  and  let  me  bear  tribute 
in  conclusion  to  the  charm  which  these 
artists  have  given  to  the  hearth  and  the 
fireside.  With  'whatever  restrictions  you 
should  receive  their  flattery,  this  at  least 
you  may  thankfully  recognize,  that  it  con- 
tains evidence  enough  of  the  beauty  and 
crescent  strength  of  the  young  genera- 
tion. At  no  period  —  and  1  speak  after 
careful  and  minute  comparison  —  has 
there  ever  been  anything  sq  refined,  so 
innocent,  so  dainty  pure,  as  the  girl  beauty 
of  the  British  islands.  And  I  know  from 
my  own  experience  of  help  received  from 
young  members  -of  this  university  that 
there  was  never  a  time  when  the  country 
could  more  securely  trust  her  destiny  to 
the  genius  of  her  sons  and  her  honor  to 
their  hearts. 


LITTELL'S  LIVING  AGE. 


Fifth  SarlMf 
Volune  ZLI7( 


.} 


No.  2062. -December  29,  1883.        J^Toifdm*' 


CONTENTS. 


I.  Robert  Browning, 
II.  The  Wizard's  Son,    Part  XX.,  . 

III.  The  Revival  of  the  West  Indies, 

IV.  Lord  op  Himself.    Conclusion,  • 
V.  Christmas  in  Calcutta,    . 

VL  Match-Making  in  County  Mayo. 
•«•  TiUe  and  Index  to  Volume  CLIX 


ConUmporary  Review^  • 
Afacmillan^s  MagaufUt 
NimUentk  Century^     • 
Sunday  Magazine^        • 
Belgravia^    •        •        • 


•     Queefit . 


•  771 

.  781 

.  795 

.  803 

.  809 

.  823 


POETRY. 


A  Christmas  Carol,  • 
Charles  Lamb,     . 
In  the  Golden  Glow, 


770 
770 
770 


For  a  Forthcoming  Picture  by  Mr. 

Alma  Tadema,  .       •       •       .    770 


Miscellany. 


824 


PUBUSH£D  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,   BOSTON 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  Dollaks,  rtmitUd  dirtctlytotht  PtMUktrt,  the  Liviho  Acs  will  be  panctnally  forwarded 
lor  9kytax,/ree  o/poiiaee. 

Kemitunoes  snoulcfbe  made  by  bank  draft  or  check,  or  by  post-oifice  money-order,  if  possible.  If  neither 
of  these  can  be  prooired,  the  moneyshould  be  sent  in  a  registered  letter.  All  postmasters  are  obliged  to  resister 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.    Drafts,  checks  and  monejMMtiers  should  be  made  payable  to  the  oroer  ol 

LiTTCLL  &  COb 

Single  N  umbers  of  Tmb  Livmo  AoB,  i8  oenta. 


770 


A  CHRISTMAS   CAROL,   ETC. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

In  David's  ancient  city 

A  little  child  was  born« 
And  laid  in  rocky  manger 

Upon  this  Christmas  morn  ; 
In  weakness  watched  and  tended 

By  peasant  maiden  poor, 
Where  ox  and  ass  found  shelter 

Within  a  stable  door. 

And  yet  that  lowly  infant 

Himself  was  God  most  high, 
Who  left  his  throne  of  glory 

To  suffer  and  to  die ; 
He  stooped  to  take  our  nature. 

That  we  might  rise  to  be 
His  faithful  loving  children 

Through  all  eternity. 

And  year  by  year  as  Christmas 

Rejoices  old  and  voung, 
And  domes  are  doubly  happy. 

And  thankful  hymns  are  sung; 
In  hearts  that  love  his  coming 

The  Saviour  still  is  born  : 
May  we  by  faith  behold  him 

Anew  on  Christmas  morn. 
Sunday  Magazine.  S.   M.  GiDLEY. 


CHARLES   LAMB. 

Dear  heart !  from  dim  Elizabethan  days 

Surely  thy  feet  strayed  to  our  garish  noon  ; 

Thou  should'st  have  walked  beneath  a  yellow- 
ing moon, 

In  some  old  garden's  green,  enchanted  ways. 

With  Herrick  and  Ben  Jonson  ;  while  in  praise 

Of    bis  lady  thrilled    the    nightingale's  full 
tune,  — 

And  he  grown  still,  these  sang,  'neath  skies  of 
June, 

That  bent  to  hear,  catches  and  roundelays. 

In  fair  converse,  thou  might'st  have  wandered 

With  Burton's  self,  the  master  whose  rare 
thought 

Makes  Melancholy  glad  the  heart  like  wine ; 

In  thy  earth-day,  these  fair  compeers  were 
dead; 

How  pleasant  was  their  laughter,  had  they 
caught 

The  sallies  of  thy  humor,  quaint  and  fine  I 
Specutor.  Katharine  Tynan. 


IN  THE    GOLDEN  GLOW. 

Lo  !  broken  up  and  melted  is  the  sky 
Into  an  ocean  of  immensity. 
Where  golden  islands  swim  in  golden  light 
Too  vast  and  shining-clear  for  mortal  sight ; 

And  day  is  ebbing  far  ;  but,  ere  it  goes. 
All  the  deep  passion  of  its  splendor  flows 
About  thy  beauty  in  a  rolling  tide 
Straight  from  heaven's  gates,  and  thou  art 
glorified. 


Oh,  that  the  burning  sunset  could  but  speak 
Those  burning  thoughts  for  which  all  words 

are  weak ; 
Could  tell  how  my  whole  love  to  thee  is  given. 
Quenchless  and  pure  as  very  fire  from  heaven! 

Ah  !  lift  the  wonders  of  that  amber  hair. 
And  turn  on  me  thine  eyes,  oh,  sweet  and  fair  1 
And  let  their  pity  meet  the  love  in  mine  — 
Pity  and  love  akin,  and  both  divine  I 

All  The  Year  Roand. 


FOR  A  FORTHCOMING   PICTURE    BY   MR. 
ALMA   TADEMA. 

{AdafUdfrom  tk«  Gruk  AtUkologyy  lit.  xU^  8.) 

The  Garland- Weaver. 

To-day,  when  dawn  was  young,  I  went 
Before  the  garland-weaver's  stall. 

And  saw  a  girl  whose  beauty  sent. 
Like  stars  of  autumn  when  they  fall, 

An  arrow  of  swift  fire  that  left 

Glory  upon  the  gloom  it  cleft 

Roses  she  wove  to  make  a  wreath, 
And  roses  were  her  cheeks  and  lips. 

And  faintly  flushed  the  flowers  beneath 
The  roses  of  her  finger-tips ; 

She  saw  me  stand  in  mute  amaze. 

And  rosy  blushes  met  my  gaze. 

**  O  flower  that  weavest  flowers,"  I  said ; 

"Fair  crown,  where  myrtle-blossoms  white 
Mingle  with  Cyprian  peuls  red 

For  love's  ineffable  delight ! 
Tell  me  what  god  or  hero  blest 
Shall  bind  thy  garland  to  his  breast : 

"  Or  can  it  be  that  even  I 

Who  am  thy  slave  to  save  or  slay. 

With  price  of  prayers  and  tears  may  buy 
Thy  roses  ere  they  fade  away  ?  " 

She  smiled,  and  deeper  blushed,  and  laid 

One  finger  on  her  lip  and  said : 

*•  Peace,  lest  my  father  hear ! "  —  then  drew 
A  blossom  from  the  crown,  and  pressed 

Its  perfume  to  the  pinks  that  blew 
Upon  the  snow-wreath  of  her  breast. 

And  kissed,  and  gave  the  flower  to  be 

Sweet  symbol  of  assent  to  me. 

Roses  and  wreaths  with  shy  pretence, 

As  for  a  bridal  feast,  I  bought ; 
And  veiling  all  love's  vehemence 

In  languor,  bade  the  flowers  be  brought 
To  deck  my  chamber  by  the  maid 
Whose  lips  on  mine  shall  soon  be  laid. 

The   hour    hath   struck:    she's    near,    she's 
near ! — 
O  Love,  a  new  and  fairer  shrine 
I  promise  thee,  if  thou  wilt  hear 
Thy    suppliant's    prayer,    and    make    her 
mine  J  —' 
Smile,  Love,  upon  this  suit,  to  be 
Forever  blessed  by  her  and  me  I 
Academv.  J*  A«  SymoxdS. 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


771 


From  The  Contemporary  Review. 
ROBERT  BROWNING. 

It  is  not  wonderful  in  an  age  of  obtru- 
sive artifice  in  art,  and  sham  sentiment 
liice  the  present,  that  Mr.  Browning  should 
have  written  long  with  little  appreciation  ; 
it  is  rather  wonderful  that  the  public  ap- 
preciation of  so  intensely  sincere  a  poet 
as  he  is  should  be  now  steadily  growing. 

Our  necessarily  brief  study  of  Browning 
may  appropriately  be  prefaced  by  some 
recent  words  of  Matthew  Arnold,  where 
he  tells  us  to  conceive  of  poetry  more 
worthily  than  it  has  hitherto  been  the 
custom  to  conceive  it.  **  More  and  more," 
be  says,  "mankind  will  discover  that  we 
have  to  turn  to  poetry  to  interpret  life  for 
us,  to  console  and  sustain  us.  Science 
will  appear  incomplete  without  it,  for  well 
does  Wordsworth  call  poetry  the  impas- 
sioned expression  which  is  in  the  counte- 
nance of  all  science,  the  breath  and  finer 
spirit  of  all  knowledge.*'  But  Aristotle 
had  long  since  observed  that  the  supe- 
riority of  poetry  over  history  consists  in 
its  possessing  a  higher  truth  and  a  higher 
seriousness.  How  opposed  this  view  is 
to  current  and  fashionable  theories  need 
not  be  pointed  out.  An  elegant  amuse- 
ment for  the  leisure  of  a  cultured  class,  a 
dainty  trifle,  the  taste  for  which  is  mostly 
outgrown  with  youth,  that  is  what  some 
reckon  it.  Critics  inculcate  that  the  form 
is  all,  and  the  substance  nothing.  This 
theory  is  assuredly  fathered  by  men  them- 
selves impotent  in  respect  of  thought,  in 
the  interest  of  a  metre-mongering  school 
equally  sterile.  It  is  a  theory  misbegot- 
ten by  critical  wind  upon  mere  versified 
vacuity.  And  accordingly  we  have  elab- 
orate metrical  manufactures,  destitute  of 
inspiration,  the  sense  sliding  from  one 
empty  verbal  abstraction  to  another,  as 
on  thin  tinkling  ice,  often  melodious,  in- 
deed, but  affording  no  foothold  or  grasp 
upon  definite  thought,  or  distinct  image, 
or  sincere  human  feeling.  This  may  be 
an  innocent  amusement  for  idle  persons, 
but  hardly  worthy  the  attention  of  strenu- 
ous men  in  so  serious  a  life  as  human  life 
is  bound  for  most  of  us  to  be.  At  the 
very  antipodes  of  all  this  stands  Brown- 
ing. Moreover,  what  we  look  for  in  good 
poetry,  likely  to  endure  beyond  the  hour's 


passing  fashion,  is  originality,  a  term  much 
abused,  but  rightly  implying  a  distinctive 
personality,  a  man  thinking,  seeing,  and 
feeling,  in  his  own  way  behind  the  words; 
whereas  there  is  a  great  deal  of  cultivated 
verse,  which  is  merely  a  fair  echo  of  other 
men's  voices.  Now,  in  Browning,  we 
have  most  marked  originality  —  marked, 
I  will  say,  to  the  verge  of  mannerism. 

From  careful  renewed  study  I  derive 
the  impression,  not  so  much  of  a  lyrist  or 
singer  (though  he  is  this  sometimes),  as 
of  a  seer  of  vital  truth  in  the  concrete 
forms  of  human  life,  an  interpreter  of  it, 
with  eminent  capacity  also  for  presenting 
it  dramatically.  I  have  never  fully  felt 
the  happiness  of  Mr.  Arnold's  definition 
of  poetry  as  a  criticism  of  life ^  for  after  all 
is  said,  poetry  and  criticism  as  a  rule  are 
precisely  opposed.  It  is  less  the  function 
of  poetry  to  analyse  and  discriminate  than 
to  synthesize  and  create ;  yet  this  phrase 
does  happily  describe  a  good  deal  of  Mr. 
Browning's  work.  He  delights  in  subtle 
psychological  analysis  of  motive.  And  in 
his  best  poems,  he  usually  tells  the  story, 
or  presents  his  dramatic  situations,  pal- 
pably to  enforce  some  idea  with  which 
they  are  pregnant. 

There  is  a  school  with  considerable  in- 
fluence just  now,  called  the  *•  Art-for-Art" 
school,  and  its  votaries  tell  us  that  the 
moral  is  nothing  in  art.  Certainly  Mr. 
Browning  differs  from  them ;  the  moral  is 
a  great  deal  to  him.  But  then  there  are 
morals  and  morals.  The  significance  of 
life  is  more  to  him  than  it  is  to  good  peo- 
ple who  write  tracts.  Human  life  is  an 
infinitely  complex  divine  mystery,  rich, 
ineffable,  to  be  prisoned  in  no  philosophi- 
cal formulae,  or  code  of  moral  rules.  One 
is  a  little  shy,  therefore,  of  the  excellent 
lessons  appreciative  disciples  will  find  us 
in  a  favorite  author :  one  is  apt  to  suspect 
the  clever  conjuror  of  himself  putting  in 
what  he  so  ingeniously  drags  out.  True 
works  of  art,  like  works  of  nature,  are  so 
incommensurable.  So  many  lessons  lie 
dormant  there,  which  the  very  genius  who 
created  them  did  not  even  himself  sus- 
pect —  or  at  least  beheld  but  dimly  —  and 
we  rather  resent  being  pinned  down  to 
one  lesson,  as  it  may  chance  to  strike  the 
amiable  and  ingenious  disciple.    Still,  of 


772 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


course,  the  meaniDg  deduced  will  be  val- 
uable according  to  the  folly  or  wisdom  of 
the  critic.  Yet,  when  we  are  told  by  the 
more  airy  and  academic  of  our  instructors 
that  true  art  only  blossoms  for  the  beauty 
and  pleasantness  of  blooming,  we  hesitate 
a  little.  There  is  beauty  and  beauty, 
pleasure  and  pleasure.  What  if  the  high- 
est  kind  of  beauty  and  pleasure  involve 
ugliness  and  pain  —  aye,  moral  approval 
and  disapproval  —  this  hateful  element  of 
profit^  as  well  as  that  more  favorite  one 
of  amusement  f  The  great  dramatic  poet, 
while  he  unravels  before  us  the  tangled 
skein  of  life's  so  intricate  mystery,  in  the 
very  act  of  creating,  also  illuminates,  with 
his  own  profound  spiritual  insight,  the 
heights  and  depths  of  life,  with  signifi- 
cance we  could  never  have  discovered  for 
ourselves.  And  how  are  you  to  obtain 
that  highest  kosmic  unity  which  tragic  art 
demands,  without  such  intuition  of  central 
universal  truth  underlying  the  common 
facts  of  life  as  they  appear  to  ordinary 
eyes  ?  Historic  chronicles,  realistic  tales, 
but  no  tragic  poetry  without  this.  Every 
great  work  of  y^schylus,  Sophocles,  and 
Shakespeare,  is  thus  universal  in  signifi- 
cance, representative  of  some  grand  law 
of  human  destiny,  some  abiding  relations 
of  humanity  with  God.  The  colossal  per- 
sonages of  the  Oresteia,  Prometheus, 
Hamlet,  Romeo,  Juliet,  Faust,  are  not  our 
neighbors  over  the  way,  but  in  their 
breathing  individuality  are  eternal  ideals 
also.  In  proportion  therefore  to  a  man's 
own  spiritual  and  intellectual  calibre,  I  do 
not  say  for  practical,  but  for  prophetic 
and  imaginative  purposes  —  and  this  apart 
from  the  question  of  inspiration  —  will  be 
the  degree  of  abiding  value  in  the  poetry 
he  creates.  So  that  for  critics  to  com- 
mend us  to  poets  without  moral  sense  is 
more  ridiculous  than  for  them  to  commend 
us  to  painters  afflicted  with  color-blind- 
ness, or  musicians  without  ear.  If  a  man 
is  to  represent  more  than  the  mere  sur- 
face of  life,  he  must  see  it  truly,  or  else 
distort  it  —  must  discriminate  light  from 
shadow,  spiritual  beauty  from  deformity, 
variety  of  moral  as  well  as  mental  shape, 
and  tone,  and  tint,  all  the  soul-notes  that 
contrasted  and  combined  make  human 
music,  the  inevitable  consequences  that 


nature  has  assigned  to  moral  good  and 
evil.  Else  you  will  have  reiterated  photo- 
graphs of  low  passions  and  mean  motives, 
which,  except  as  a  foil  to  the  higher  as- 
pects of  life,  and  either  as  assisting  to 
develop,  or,  at  least,  as  antagonistic  to  the 
nobler  elements  of  our  nature,  palpably 
corrupting  and  disintegrating,  can  only  be 
repulsive  to  sane  people,  and  therefore 
bad  as  art.  Would  you  call  a  man  a  great 
painter  if  he  (though  never  so  skilfully) 
could  paint  you  only  varieties  of  leprosy 
and  skin  disease  ?  Besides,  without  a 
clear  vision  of  what  conscience  reveals,  of 
its  compensations  and  reproaches,  of  the 
dreadful  desolating  dragon-brood  engen- 
dered by  sin  and  sin's  congeners,  no 
tragedy,  no  true  moving  picture  of  life  is 
possible.  Now,  Browning  presents  you 
with  thoroughly  sound  and  wholesome 
views  of  life  —  even  if  at  times  he  stirs 
up  the  rotteness  of  it  a  little  too  curiously. 
But  he  does  not  persistently  obtrude  dis- 
ease upon  you.  If  you  have  Guido,  in 
**  The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  you  have  also 
the  holy  child  Pompilia,and  Caponsaccbi, 
the  frivolous  but  generous  soul,  capable  of 
regeneration  through  the  combined  effect 
of  Pompilia's  virtues,  wrongs,  and  the  dia- 
bolical depths  to  which  selfishness  has 
descended  in  Guido,  her  husband.  The 
poet's  outlook  upon  life  is  large  and  lib- 
eral, but  deep  also  and  sane,  so  that  we 
are  braced  by  his  revelations  of  what  he 
sees,  better  able  to  live  and  enjoy  our  own 
life,  bear  our  own  sorrows  and  disappoint- 
ments, die  our  own  death  **in  sure  and 
certain  hope."  And  although  I  cannot 
agree  with  the  ultra-Browningites  that  the 
defectiveness  and  obscurity  of  his  style  is 
a  positive  merit  —  because,  forsooth,  a 
treasure  is  valuable  in  proportion  to  the 
trouble  it  costs  to  find  —  yet  I  do  think 
the  rough  shell  is  well  worth  breaking 
open,  if  there  be  so  true  a  pearl  as  there 
is  in  this  case  within. 

Grand  rough  old  Martin  Lather 
Bloomed  fables,  flowers  on  furzet 

as  our  poet  says. 

Though  he  has  written  little  pure  drama, 
yet,  on  the  whole,  he  is  the  most  eminent 
dramatic  poet  of  modern  England ;  while 
as  lyrist,  as  singer,  he  cannot  compete 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


773" 


with  Tennyson,  whose  form  is  as  felici- 
tous as  his  subject-matter  is  richly  sensu- 
ous, intellectual,  and  spiritual.  But  I  do 
DOt  think  any  post-Elizabethan  dramas  of 
our  literature  have  surpassed,  and  only 
one  or  two  have  rivalled,  the  **  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon,"  and  "Colombe's  Birthday." 
These  are  full  of  movement,  of  action,  of 
various  passion  ;  they  pulsate  with  life 
and  emotion;  the  plot  is  noble  and  ele- 
vated ;  they  abound  in  characters  delin- 
eated by  a  master's  hand ;  while  **  Co- 
lombe's  Birthday "  is  not  directly,  but 
indirectly  stimulating,  and  humanizing 
in  the  highest  degree.  Pompilia,  indeed, 
in  "  The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  who,  at  the 
beginning,  comes  very  near  Goethe's 
Margaret  for  gracious  maidenhood,  grows 
too  intellectual  and  Browningesque  to- 
wards the  end.  It  is  far  otherwise  with 
Colombe,  who,  budding  a  pure,  high-born 
maiden  in  the  opening  scenes,  rejoicing  in 
her  own  fair  world  and  little  regarding 
others,  blossoms  amid  the  storms  of  ad- 
versity, under  the  lovelight  of  a  lover  of 
noble  nature,  though  of  low  birth,  into  the 
highest  type  of  womanhood,  renouncing 
the  grandest  prizes  of  the  world,  and  de- 
voting herself,  through  the  consecrating 
influence  of  this  one  love,  to  the  allevia- 
tion and  amelioration  of  the  lot  of  those  in 
need.  I  know  not  any  drama,  showing 
more  delicate  insight  into  the  shy  matur- 
ing of  a  woman's  afiEection,  checked  and 
chilled  by  the  cold  breath  of  convention, 
.yet  ripened  by  the  vision  of  a  heroic  soul's 
devotion,  ever  itself  deepening  and  broad- 
ening in  purity  and  self-renouncement 
through  his  love  for  her.  These  plays 
abound  in  beautiful  poetry,  appropriate  to 
the  place  in  which  it  occurs,  while  indis- 
criminately euphuistic  diction  in  season 
and  out  is  entirely,  and  most  righteously, 
in  spite  of  all  the  bad,  fashionable,  aca- 
demic critics  of  the  passing  hour,  abjured 
by  Browning.  But  assuredly  this  utterly 
dramatic  Shakspearian  manner  of  unroll- 
ing the  royal  robe  of  human  life  before  us 
seamless  and  unrent  is  not  that  ordinarily 
congenial  to  him.  Usually  the  inventor 
prefers  to  pull  his  mechanism  to  pieces, 
and  show  us  how  it  works  ;  the  gardener 
plucks  up  his  growing  flower  to  display 
the  roots  and   manner  of  organization. 


There  is  probably  implied  here  less  sure 
vision  into  the  objective  manifestations  of 
character,  into  how  it  must  inevitably  un- 
fold  itself  in  collision  with  its  fellows. 
Thus  Browning  does  not  always  afford  us 
clearly  constructed  plots;  his  narratives 
do  not  develop  themselves  smoothly  ;  he 
is  not  Interested  in  the  progress  of  the 
events  themselves.  The  enormously  vo- 
luminous *'Ring  and  the  Book"  shows 
wonderfully  acute  and  varied  knowledge 
of  life ;  but  it  is  revealed  through  mono* 
logues,  wherein  many  persons  comment 
from  their  special  point  of  view  on  a  few 
incidents  only.  His  play  of  "  Strafford  " 
deals  with  a  grand  national  theme ;  and 
in  Pym  we  have  the  strongly  delineated 
flgure  of  one  of  our  great  national  heroes 
admirably  contrasted  with  poor  StrafTord, 
and  the  weak,  unreliable  King  Charles; 
but  the  plot  seems  rather  confused,  and 
the  movement  of  the  whole  action  some- 
what indistinct.  It  contains,  however,  a 
noble  passage  of  poetry  at  the  close, 
wherein  the  poet,  while  impartially  just  to 
Strafford,  seems  io  show,  in  the  flnal  utter- 
ance of  Pym,  that  his  own  sympathy  is 
with  England  in  her  liberal  career  of 
progress. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  delineation 
of  a  popular  agitator  in  **  A  Soul's  Trage- 
dy "  is  almost  cynical,  and  not  very  happy, 
while  **  Hohenstiel  Schwangau  "  seems  a 
quite  unveraciously  lenient,  as  well  as 
rather  un poetical,  portrait  of  the  maii 
whom  the  greatest  European  poet  of  our 
generation,  Victor  Hugo,  chastised  with 
scorpions  in  his  *•  Chdtiinents^'*  and  the 
"  Histoire  d'un  Crime:'  The  "  Patriot," 
however,  is  an  excellent  satire  on  the 
fickleness  of  mobs. 

**Pippa  Passes,"  again,  is  but  a  series 
of  dramatic  scenes,  linked  together  as  by 
God's  own  sunshine,  sweet  chiid-Pippa, 
the  innocent  bird-song  of  whose  young 
heart  falls,  without  her  knowledge,  though 
with  momentous  effect,  upon  the  ears  of 
guilty  worldly  souls  who  hear.  The  epi* 
sode  of  Ottima  and  Sebald  with  their 
adulterous  loves,  after  the  murder  by  Ot- 
tima of  her  old  husband,  is  one  of  the 
most  tremendous  things  in  English  drama, 
as,  in  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning,  the  whole 
ghastly  scene  starts  out  upon  you;  you 


774 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


hear  the  blood-stained  couple  talk,  and 
see  them  move.  It  is  of  Shakespearian 
power. 

Now,  there  are  distinctly  two  schools  of 
epic  and  dramatic  art  —  one  synthetic, 
objective,  the  other  analytic,  reflective, 
didactic.  Certainly  the  former  is  the 
more  perfectly  dramatic ;  but  great  poets 
have  alwavs  blended  the  two  nuanners, 
though  belonging  distinctively  to  one  or 
other  school.  The  way  of  i^schylus  and 
Sophocles  is  not  that  of  Homer,  Chaucer, 
Shakespeare,  Scott,  Thackeray,  Balzac, 
Byron ;  but  more  akin  to  that  of  the 
greatest  modern  artists  in  general,  Victor 
Hugo,  Shelley,  Wordsworth,  George 
Sand,  Browning,  Wagner,  George  Eliot. 
But,  of  course,  that  is  not  to  say  that  an 
artist  never  writes  in  the  manner  less 
characteristic  of  him.  For  good  or  evil, 
the  age  has  grown  self-conscious,  analytic, 
metaphysical,  scientific.  And  the  most 
important  artists  will  assuredly  reflect 
this  temper  of  their  age.  Does  it  not 
seem  silly,  as  well  as  unthankful,  to  re- 
sent this?  to  condemn  such  work  because 
it  is  unlike  the  old  ?  It  is  a  product  sui 
generis;  it  is  so  much  added  to  the  old 
work,  for  which  let  us  be  thankful.  Brown- 
ing peers  microscopically  into  far-away 
influencing  causes,  and  remote,  intricate- 
ly mingled  motives;  these  interest  him 
almost  more  than  the  conduct  to  which 
they  lead.  And  why  not  ?  But  the  work 
is  proportionately  less  dramatic.  For 
character  is  here  presented  in  its  more 
isolated  and  passive  aspects.  In  this 
kind  of  work  it  is  nearly  impossible  that 
the  analyst  should  not  color  the  repre- 
sentation very  manifestly  from  looking 
through  his  own  special  glasses ;  his  lens 
will  not  be  quite  achromatic.  In  dramatic 
poetry  proper  the  creator  is  a  centre, 
radiating  alien  individuality,  rather  than 
diffusing  his  own  peculiar  subjective  idio- 
syncrasy among  the  works  of  his  hand. 
His  characters  possess  him,  rather  than 
he  them.  Curiously  enough  in  the  vol- 
ume called  **  Pachiarotto,"  Mr.  Browning 
seems  to  disclaim  all  self -revelation. 
Now,  if  this  be  a  merit,  is  it  true  of  him ; 
and  if  it  be  true  of  him,  is  it  a  merit?  To 
both  questions  I  answer.  No,  You  don*t 
want  a  mere  impassive  mirror,  reflecting 
surfaces,  but  a  man,  selecting  vital  char- 
acteristics. Even  Shakespeare  reveals 
himself  in  the  manner  o(  his  representa- 
tion of  life ;  all  genius  must.  Far  more 
is  this  true  of  Browning,  even  if  he  had 
not  written  many  poems  obviously  self- 
revealing.  But  every  dramatist  is  self- 
revealing  by  the  emphasis  and  tone  of  his 


delineations;  while  Browning  comments 
like  a  chorus  upon  the  action,  both  per- 
sonally, and  through  one  pretty  obviously 
his  mouthpiece. 

The  old  truths  remain,  but  their  body 
and  appearance  change.  They  return, 
indeed,  enriched  with  the  result  of  their 
own  denial,  with  the  doubt  thrown  upon 
them,  which  has  caused  them  to  be  re- 
moulded, and  recast  more  perfectly.  And 
so  when  science  cried,  "  Overturn  !  over- 
turn ! "  and  the  old  creed  suffered  obscu- 
ration, arose  prophets  and  poets  of  denial 
and  despair,  with  their  divinely  appointed 
work  to  do.  For  who  can  give  us  a  com- 
plete philosophy  of  life?  We  must  gather 
together  the  spec!?!  vital  aspects  of  the 
whole,  each  artist  was  gifted  to  see. 
Shelley,  Byron,  Carlyle,  Leopardi  passed  ; 
we  have  Victor  Hugo,  Tennyson,  Brown- 
ing, Hegel,  Fichte,  Coleridge,  Words- 
worth, James  Hinton.  Is  this  a  strange 
doctrine,  that  great  poets  think?  Did 
not  Dante,  Milton,  Lucretius?  They  do 
think,  but  with  all  their  faculties  fused 
into  one  organ,  instead  of  with  a  wrong- 
fully isolated,  and,  therefore,  crippled 
function,  the  logical  understanding  only. 
Milton  and  Dante  have  powerfully  helped 
to  mould  theology;  and  in  this  spiritual 
crisis,  produced  mainly  by  scientific  dis- 
covery, men  will  look  more  and  more,  I 
think,  to  poets  who  are  prophets  also. 
And  so  I  shall  presently  inquire  briefly 
what  salient  lessons  Browning  has  taught 
us. 

But  we  have  flrst  to  note  his  peculiar 
skill  in  ps)'chological  analysis,  and  espe- 
cially in  a  region  which  he  has  made  quite 
his  own,  wherein  he  has  enriched  our  lit- 
erature with  such  subtle  studies  as  no 
other  writer  has  given  us  —  the  twilight' 
land  of  moral  sophistry,  where  it  is  hard 
indeed  to  discriminate  between  true  and 
false,  religious  and  worldly,  vulgar  and 
ideal,  good  and  evil  or  mean  motives, 
where  they  are  ever  passing  into  one  an- 
other, the  Protean  soul  ever  eluding  her 
own  self-knowledge,  and  the  knowledge 
of  others,  by  assuming  infinite  masks  and 
shapes.  Nor  is  this  region  so  unfamiliar 
to  the  accustomed  inward  life  of  most  o£ 
us,  after  all  —  for  how  mixed  are  motives 
even  in  our  very  religion,  and  the  most 
ostensibly  disinterested  actions  of  life! 
To  this  class  of  work  belong  Paracelsus, 
Sludge,  Blougram  —  and  wonderfully  clev- 
er studies  they  are,  especially  the  two 
last;  though  ihese  are  hardly  poetry, 
while  Paracelsus  is.  The  pictures  of 
casuistically  and  scholastically  trained 
Roman    Catholic  ecclesiastics;    shrewd, 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


77S 


ambitious,  worldly,  like  Ognibea  in  the 
"  SouPs  Tragedy ;  '*  sensual  and  supersti- 
tious, as  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  the  monk  of 
the  Spanish  cloister,  aod  the  old  dying 
bishop,  who  orders  his  tomb  at  St.  Prax- 
ed*s  Church  ;  or  semi  sceptical,  outwardly 
conforming  men  of  the  world,  like  Blou- 
gram;  these  are  quite  unique  and  inimit- 
able. Drowning  seems  positively  to  revel, 
as  though  for  the  mere  mental  gladiator- 
ship,  suppleness  of  soul's  wrist,  swift, 
dazing  play  of  intellectual  fence,  in  these 
labyrinthine  convolutions  of  juggling 
sophistry,  wherein  some  unseen  adver- 
sary is  confounded  by  sheer  devilry  of 
the  understanding,  and  the  worse  often 
made  to  appear  the  better  reason.  He  is 
many-sided  in  sympathy,  sees  all  round 
and  far  away,  and,  therefore,  perhaps,  is 
unable  to  take  one  side  very  pronounced- 
ly. He  even  sees  what  may  be  said  for 
an  error,  a  bad  cause,  or  a  bad  man,  their 
redeeming  or  modifying  qualities,  and 
what  a  bad  man  has  to  say  for  himself. 
So  far  he  becomes  his  apologist,  finds  a 
soul  of  good  in  things  evil.  That  is  not- 
ably so  in  "The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  in 
Sludge,  and  Blougram.  Guido  and  Blou- 
gram  are  in  perfect  dramatic  keeping;  all 
they  say  is  a  perfectly  natural  self-revela- 
tion of  their  native  unloveliness ;  it  must 
be  confessed  that  the  studies  are  some- 
what unsavory  from  their  merciless  real- 
ism, where  not  a  wart  or  a^ven  is  left  out. 

Another  of  these  persons,  but  a  secular 
person  in  this  case,  is  the  elder  man,  the 
lord  in  **The  Inn  Album*'  —  a  powerful 
narrative  —  for  the  two  other  people,  the 
upright  and  just,  though  somewhat  stern, 
soured,  and  merciless  woman,  and  the 
young  millionaire  whom  she  saves,  are 
absolutely  veracious  portraits;  but  the 
tempter  has  no  redeeming  qualitv  what- 
ever, he  is  a  moral  monster;  ancf  do  we 
want  lago  so  minutely  vivisected  over 
and  over  again? 

But  Sludge  is,  though  very  clever,  I 
think,  one  of  Browning's  less  perfectly 
dramatic  studies.  His  favorite  method  is 
to  make  these  people  analyze  themselves 
in  their  own  fashion,  in  a  monologue  ad- 
dressed to  some  imaginary  interlocutor. 
But  in  a  sketch  like  Sludge,  you  too  much 
see  Browning  looking  into  his  subject, 
and  giving  his  own  version  of  what  he 
sees,  though  ostensibly  in  the  voice  of 
the  self-apologist.  He  is  talking  inside  a 
lay  figure.  The  author's  acute  glance 
discerns  all  the  influences  that  would 
mould,  mar,  and  corrupt  such  a  man  as  he 
takes  Sludge  to  be,  and  makes  him  com- 
ment on  these ;  though  to  him  probably 


the  process  of  his  own  degeneration 
would  not  have  been  at  all  such  as  he 
could  be  so  fully  aware  of,  and  be  able  to 
trace  thus  distinctly  with  his  finger. 
Moreover,  he  displays  a  wealth  of  far- 
reaching  speculation,  and  opulence  of  in- 
tellectual resource,  a  fertility  and  clever- 
ness in  special  pleading,  which  we  can 
scarcely  attribute  to  the  poor  creature, 
whom  here  and  there  the  author  lets  us 
see  he  intends  to  represent.  Assuredly 
long  monologues,  laying  bare  the  inter- 
minable inner  processes  of  one  over-in* 
tellectualized  and  self-conscious  mind,  are 
apt  to  be  wearisome.  Besides  which,  the 
writer's  very  marked  and  mannered  idio- 
syncrasy of  expression  is  usually  lent  to 
his  different  characters.  And  you  feel  at 
times  as  if  they  were  too  much  made 
mouthpieces  for  the  abstruse,  though  in- 
teresting, reflections  which  the  writer  de- 
sires to  utter  on  various  topics. 

Though  I  yield  to  no  one  in  very  warm 
admiration  for  a  great  deal  of  Browning's 
work,  especially  the  earlier  work,  yet  I 
confess  I  do  feel  that  verse  is  not  always 
the  fitting  and  inevitable  medium  for  many 
of  these  utterances.  And  1  judge  by  the 
canon  he  himself  has  furnished  in  the 
verses  he  entitles  "Transcendentalism,*' 
—  where  he  tells  a  brother  in  the  craft  not 
to  take  a  harp  into  his  hands,  and  after 
much  preluding  "  speak  bare  words  across 
the  chords,"  however  excellent,  but  to 
drape  his  ideas  in  sights  and  sounds. 
There  is  too  much  mere  arguing,  not 
enough  appeal  to  the  intuitions,  emotions, 
perceptions,  imagination.  And  the  style 
accordingly  wants  proportionate  poetic 
distinction,  wants  dignity;  but  if  sound 
substance  be  necessary  to  the  best  po- 
etry, a  noble  form  is  equally  required. 
Browning's  is  not  a  winning  style  —  the 
mere  witchery  of  words  is  too  often  ab- 
sent—  we  are  under  no  spell  of  enchant- 
ment. His  lines  are  not  "in  love  with 
the  progress  of  their  own  beauty; "it  is 
rather  our  bare  intellect  that  is  strained 
to  understand  the  literary  conundrums 
proposed  to  us.  Perfect  poetry  involves 
the  perfect  harmony  of  word,  meaning, 
mood,  and  sound,  with  dignity  or  loveli- 
ness either  of  subject,  or  interpretation; 
though  an  obtrusively  artificial,  is  to  a 
noble  style  as  the  deportment  of  a  danc- 
ing master  is  to  the  unaffected  demeanor 
of  a  gentleman.  But  we  want  the  vola- 
tile thought  or  feeling  preserved  for  us 
in  the  crystal  of  pellucid  expression,  made 
a  world-heritage  in  the  amber  of  a  happy 
phrase.  That  is  eminently  the  character- 
istic of  Shakespeare,  Dante,  Milton,  and 


776 

also  of  Tennyson  —  occasionally  too  of 
lesser  lights,  like  Gray,  and  Campbell. 

Of  course,  fine  philosophical  poetry,* 
which  is  the  imaginative  expression  of 
profound  thought  in  symbol  and  metaphor, 
or  phrase  of  high  degree,  demands  corre- 
sponding attention  and  capacity  on  the 
part  of  the  reader;  and  good  poetry  in 
general,  indeed,  demands  this.  But  un- 
necessary intellectual  strain  the  reader 
usually  loves  to  be  spared  in  poetry  by  a 
careful  and  captivating  manner  on  the 
part  of  the  poet  —  in  the  best  poetry  the 
very  images  and  words  lead  him  captive 
as  with  a  chain  of  flowers,  with  *'  strains 
of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,"  by 
the  mere  instinctive  selection  of  harmoni- 
ous ideas,  images,  and  •words,  whose  very 
sound  and  subtle  associations  prolong 
and  rivet  the  charm.  While  in  Browning, 
not  only  is  the  grammatical  construction 
difficult  —  from  long  parentheses,  and  side 
eddies  of  comment  on  subjects  not  in 
close  relationship  with  the  main  theme, 
inversions  of  the  parts  of  speech,  and 
strange  elisions  —  but  the  metre  appears 
seldom  as  an  outgrowth  from  the  ideas, 
rather  as  an  extraneous  piece  of  adopted 
ingenuitv,  the  grotesque  cleverness  of 
which,  indeed,  is  rather  diverting  and 
confusing  than  helpful — the  words  them- 
selves seem  chosen  for  their  direct 
meaning  onfy^  irrespective  of  beautiful 
appropriateness ;  their  intrinsic  ugliness, 
harshness,  and  disagreeableness  of  im- 
age, or  suggestion,  being  altogether  disre- 
garded. 

Browning,  moreover  —  who  often  re- 
minds me,  both  in  his  admirable  qualities 
and  in  his  defects,  of  Ben  Jonson  —  is  an 
exceedinglv  learned  man,  familiar  with  all 
manner  bt  technical  terms  belonging  to 
the  various  arts,  sciences,  and  even  the 
trades  and  professions  of  daily  life,  —  a 
most  remarkable  combination  of  specula- 
tive poet,  and  shrewd,  experienced  man  of 
the  world,  familiar  with  it  in  all  its  aspects, 
whether  elevated  or  vulgar.  Now  these 
learned  details  he  is  apt  somewhat  merci- 
lessly to  obtrude  on  the  reader,  taking  for 
granted  a  familiarity  with  them  which  is 
uncommon.  But  if  in  poetry  we  are  pulled 
up  short  by  many  terms  unfamiliar,  the 
effect  is  disturbing  to  that  continuity  of 
mood  or  sentiment  which  the  enjoyment 

*  There  is  little  of  this  in  Browning.  We  find,  in- 
deed, much  nakedly  argumentative,  ratiocinative  verse, 
but  that  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  poetry  at  all.  Parts 
of  Tennyson's  "In  Memoriam,"  of  Mr.  Buchanan's 
"Balder,"  of  Mr.  Swinburne's  "Songs  Before  Sun- 
rise," are  better  examples  of  a  type  very  rare  in  En- 
elish  poetrv.  There  is  little  of  it  in  Coleridge,  and 
Wordsworth,  but  somewhat  more  in  Shelley. 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


\ 


of  poetry  demands ;  and  there  are  so  many 
blanks  and  barren  spaces  left  in  our  im- 
agination ;  it  is  in  that  respect  just  like 
musical  verse  with  a  minimum  of  mean- 
ing, which  we  strive  uncomfortably  and  in 
vain  to  arrive  at.  But  here,  though  we 
have  a  thoughtful  poet,  we  have  not  one 
who  always  helps  us  by  sweet  cadences. 
In  *'  Christmas-Eve  and  Easter-Day,"  he 
gives  us  a  half-humorous  account  of  how 
some  of  his  metres  occur  to  him,  and  this 
passage  furnishes  a  fair  specimen  of  such 
metres :  — 

A  tune  was  bom  in  my  head  last  week 
Out  of  the  thump-thump  and  shriek-shriek 
Of  the  train,  as  I  came  by  it  up  from  Man* 

Chester, 
And  when  next  week  I  take  it  back  again. 
My  head  will  sing  to  the  engine's  clack  again. 
While  it  only  makes  my  neighbor's  haunches 

stir, 
Finding  no  dormant  musical  sprout 
In  him,  as  in  me,  to  be  jolted  out. 

Great  dramatic  poets  have  always  much 
humor,  and  this  is  a  marked  feature  in 
Browning.  I  cannot  but  think  that  the 
bizarre  surprises  of  his  rhythm  are  often 
contrived  out  of  sheer  fun,  with  a  sort  of 
Rabelaisian  or  Aristophanic  chuckle  over 
the  discomfiture  they  must  cause  to  deli- 
cately constituted  ears.  For  assuredly,  the 
ingenuity  of  the  rhymes  is  infinite.  Not 
in  "  Hudibras,"  "  Beppo."  or  "  Don  Juan  " 
is  it  more  fertile.  And  this  is  often  per- 
fectly appropriate  to  the  subject  matter, 
and  so  agreeable  —  as  in  Fra  Lippo 
Lippi,  for  instance,  that  utterly  dramatic, 
most  breathing  portrait.  Even  in  **  Christ- 
mas Eve  "  the  humor  of  some  of  the  pic- 
tures is  equal  to  Dickens.  And  what  can 
exceed  the  tragi-comedy  humor  of  "The 
Bishop  orders  his  Tomb,"  "  The  Spanish 
Cloister.*'  and  "  Holy-Cross  Day  "  ? 

These  pieces  are  as  sharply  outlined 
and  veracious  as  possible.  In  '*  The 
Monk*s  Soliloquy  in  the  Spanish  Oois- 
ter,"you  have  a  malicious,  bad,  but  grossly 
superstitious  and  self-righteous  monk,  ap- 
parentlv  looking  out  from  his  cell  window 
at  another,  who  is  attending  to  his  favorite 
flowers  in  the  monastery  garden,  a  placid, 
innocent  sort  of  person,  but  not  so  scru- 
pulous in  his  religious  observances.  The 
wicked  old  bigot  detests  the  blameless 
insipidity  of  his  neighbor.  Though  full 
of  grim  fun,  the  picture  is  terrible  too. 
This  is  what  a  bigot  can  be. 

But  there  is  no  such  extravagant  and 
out-of-the-way  word  in  the  language  that 
Browning  will  not  find  you  a  rhyme  for,  if 
not  with  one  word,  then  with  two,  three, 
or  even  four,  and  if  not  in  one  language. 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


777. 


then  in  another.  Of  these  treble  and 
quadruple  rhymes  he  is  fond.  One  or 
two  strange  freaks  in  this  direction  I 
will  quote  from  **  Old  Pictures  in  Flor 
cnce 


» 


I  that  have  haunted  the  dim  San  Spirito  — 
Or  was  it  rather  the  Ognissanti  ? 
Patient  on  altar  steps  planting  a  weary  toe ; 
Nay,  I  shall  have  it  yet,  detur  amanti  I 
My  Koh*i-noor,  or  if  that*s  a  platitude, 
Jewef  of  Giamschid,  the  Persian  Sofi*8  eye  I 
So  in  anticipative  gratitude, 
What  if  I  take  up  my  hope  and  prophesy  ? 

Then  in  the  same  page  we  have  haffem 
hot  rhyming  to  Wiianagemot^  the  Latin 
word  ante  to  Dante^  perorate  to  zero  rate^ 
cub  licks  to  republics*  And  "  iVf  aster 
Hughes  of  Saxe  Gotba**  is  a  still  more 
extraordinary  instance  of  wanton  barbar- 
isms in  rhyming.  Here  we  have  vocifer- 
ance  and  stiffcr  hence,  and  corrosive  and 
o  sieve  /  But  even  in  his  treatment  of  a 
grave  tragic  subject  it  is  characteristic  of 
our  author  to  show  a  certain  ouaint  hu- 
mor, and  the  phrases  used  are  frequently 
rude  and  colloquial.  This,  indeed,  gives 
a  cachet  of  individuality.  And  though  not 
infrequently  such  a  method  gives  a  some- 
what grotesaue  and  inharmonious  effect 
to  Browning  s  serious  poetry,  yet  how  far 
better  is  it  than  the  finical  lackadaisical 
unreality,  as  of  Osric,  or  Piercie  Shafton, 
so  in  vogue  now,  that  fears  to  call  a  spade 
a  spade,  and  faints  and  screams  with  the 
delicate  titillating  delight  of  calling  it  an 
efifodiator,  or  something  equally  silly  1 

The  obscurity  complained  of  comes 
sometimes  from  the  monologue  method, 
for  the  one  person  who  is  alone  before 
the  reader  is  talking  at,  questioning,  and 
replying  to  other  interlocutors,  whom  the 
author  has  in  his  mind,  but  the  reader 
only  euesses  at ;  and  what  they  are  sup- 
posed to  say  the  reader  must  divine 
from  the  onlv  words  he  has  before  him. 

Enough  oi  all  this,  however.  It  needs 
pointing  out,  if  you  wish  to  do  as  Matthew 
Arnold  bids  you,  estimate  your  classic 
fairly,  and  recognize  where  he  comes 
short,  only  in  order  that  vou  may  the 
more  fully  and  intelligently  appreciate 
what  is  truly  admirable  in  him  and  others. 
For,  let  me  say  distinctly,  with  whatever 
abatements,  Browning  is  a  great  English 
writer,  to  whom  we  are  very  deeply  in- 
debted. A  fissured  volcano  rolls  you  out 
ashes,  stones,  and  smoke,  along  with  its 
flame  and  burning  lava.  And  he  who 
never  descends  into  the  deeps  shall  never 
ascend  upon  the  heights.  A  dapper 
dandy,  with  little  mind  and  little  heart, 
but  perfect  self-possession  —  there  is  not 


very  much  of  him  to  possess  —  hands  you 
his  neat  little  gift  well  polished,  say,  a  new 
silk  hat  nicely  brushed.  An  uncouth 
great  man,  with  big  mind  and  big  heart, 
possesses  himself  not  so  thoroughly  — 
there  is  more  of  him  to  possess  —  and  he 
presents  you  with  his  gift ;  say,  a  huge 
vase  of  gems ;  but  the  vase  may  have  a 
flaw  in  it,  and  what  then  ?  One  can  only 
pity  the  fastidious  person  with  the  weak 
di°:estion,  whose  gorge  so  rises  at  some 
trivial  fault,  as  he  deems  it,  in  the  cookery 
that  he  cannot  enjoy  and  be  nourished 
by  good  wholesome  food,  when  it  is  of- 
fered. Perhaps  because  it  lacks  olives  or 
truffles,  he  is  for  throwing  it  all  away. 
And  as  Mr.  Browning's  style  is  some- 
times perfectly  clear,  full  of  Saxon  force 
and  dignity,  his  lines  and  phrases  here  and 
there  memorable  for  their  strong,  incisive 
felicity,  seldomer,  though  now  and  then, 
even  for  delicate  grace,  so  his  metres  are 
frequently  original,  appropriate,  vigorous, 
and  perfectly  germane  to  the  sense.  That 
is  so  in  the  fine  stining  ballads  of  **  Herv^ 
Kiel,"  "Gismond,"  the  "Ride  from 
Ghent  to  Aix,'*  and,  in  the  whole  of  that 
spirited  tale,  "The  Flight  of  the  Duch- 
ess.'* This  is  told  by  an  old  huntsman 
retainer  who  had  assisted  the  duchess  in 
her  flight ;  and  the  easy,  jovial,  familiar 
canter  of  it  is  inimitably  adapted  to  the 
speaker  and  to  his  charming  story.  **  The 
Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,"  again,  the 
child's  story,  for  its  light  humor,  and 
flexible,  dancing  measure  corresponding, 
could  not  be  surpassed.  In  *'  Cavalier 
Tunes**  you  hear  the  gallop  of  cavalry, 
and  the  clank  of  the  sabre.  What  can  be 
finer  in  sound  than  "The  Lost  Leader,*' 
so  elevated  and  human  in  sentiment  also? 
What  more  exhilarating  and  interpreta- 
tive of  the  sense  than  the  rapid  rush  of 
the  well-known  •'  How  they  brought  the 
Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix  "? 

But  "  Saul  '*  is  probably  the  finest  poem 
Browning  ever  wrote,  and  it  has  the  note 
of  immortality.  I  know  not  any  modern 
poem  more  glorious  for  substance  and 
form  both ;  here  they  interpenetrate ;  they 
are  one  as  soul  and  body,  character  and 
deed,  lofty  aim  and  heroic  countenance. 
The  glory  of  the  lilt  of  it,  the  long,  billowy 
roll  of  the  sound,  entirely  corresponds  to 
the  splendor  of  clear  imagination  that 
burns  in  upon  the  soul,  as  with  sunlight, 
the  whole  beautiful  succession  of  scenes, 
all  harmonious  with  unity  of  purpose  and 
highly  human  aim,  rising  luminous  before 
us  to  the  sweet  song  of  David  the  shep- 
herd boy,  while  he  sings,  and  singing 
wrestles  with  the  kingdom  of  jarkness, 


778 

that  holds  captive  Saul's  kingly  spirit,  be- 
loved by  him,  until  his  deep-loving  insight 
culminates  in  one  sublime  vision  of- divine 
love,  whence  his  own,  and  all  the  universe 
have  proceeded;  divine  love  condescend- 
ing to  human  weakness  and  death  for  our 
deliverance,  ever  giving  itself,  indeed,  but 
most  fully  in  young  David's  descendant, 

{esus  the'  Christ,  the  Redeemer,  the  elder 
rother  of  mankind. 

I  have  said  that  we  must  certainly  re- 
gard Browning  as  teacher;  and  so  let  us 
briefly  note,  in  conclusion,  a  few  of  the 
salient  impressions  as  to  his  message, 
conveyed  by  a  general  study  of  his  works. 
And  yet  he  is  hardly  a  prophet  —  because 
he  throws  himself  with  so  much  apprecia- 
tive ^sympathy  into  all  the, possible  op* 
posed  aspects  of  life,  and  attitudes  of  the 
human  actors.  I  think  it  is  Mr.  Hutton 
who  has  well  called  him  a  great  imag- 
inative interpreter  of  the  approaches  to 
action.  Moreover,  he  is  rather  an  acute 
psychologist  than  a  profound  metaphy- 
sician. His  own  convinced  contribution 
to  the  solution  of  the  world-problem  is 
less  remarkable  than  his  keen,  intelligent 
appreciation  of  what  others,  often  mutu- 
ally antagonistic,  have  contributed.  We 
have  inevitably  touched  on  one  at  least  of 
the  lessons  to  be  learned  from  him  in  de- 
scribing **  Saul.*'  He  seems  to  believe  in 
divine  love,  and  human  love,  as  the  best 
and  most  substantial  realities.    He  sings: 

If  any  two  creatures  grew  into  one, 

They  would  do  more  than  the  world  has  done ; 

Though  each  apart  were  never  so  weak, 

Yet  vainly  through  the  world  should  ye  seek 

For  the  knowledge  and  the  might 

Which  in  such  union  grew  their  right 

Some  of  his  lines  and  phrases  are  mir- 
acles of  condensation.  Thus  out  of  the 
passionate  fragment,  **In  a  Balcony,"  I 
take— - 

Look  on  through  years ! 
We  cannot  kiss,  a  second  day  like  this ; 
Else  were  this  earth,  no  earth. 

Usually  he  deals  with  scenery  as  did 
the  elder  poets  and  Scott ;  it  is  only  a 
backa:round  to  him  for  his  figures.  But 
he  often  paints  with  graphic  force,  espe- 
cially his  favorite  Italian  scenes.  How 
vivid  the  lunar  rainbow  and  fiery  sky  in 
"Christmas-Eve,"  and  the  charming  Ven- 
etian poem,  so  full  of  rich,  ripe  passion 
and  love-languor,  *M n  a  Gondola  " !  Simi- 
larly beautiful  is  the  episode  of  Jules  and 
Phene ;  and  there  is  quite  a  Keatsian  lus- 
ciousness  of  sensuous  enjoyment  in  **  The 
Bishop  orders  his  Tomb.*' 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


Nature,  however,  is  not  to  Browning  a 
grand  spiritual  symbol,  moving  to  medita- 
tive rapture,  as  she  moves  Wordsworth, 
Shelley,  Byron,  Coleridg:e.  He  never 
gives  himself  up  to  her,  but  asserts  him- 
self against  her  inquisitorially,  as  it  were. 
Yet  the  vital  function  of  nature  in  her 
secret,  unconfessed  influence  over  human 
emotion,  even  when  ostensibly  concerned 
only  with  other  human  beings,  is  dealt 
with  strikingly  here  and  there,  notably  in 
these  fine  lines  from  **By  the  Fireside," 
where  apparently,  as  in  **  One  Word 
More,"  Mr.  Browning's  wife,  our  greatest 
English  poetess,  is  referred  to  —  the  poet 
is  speaking  of  the  supreme  moment,  as  he 
always  describes  it,  of  love  given  and  re- 
turned.   There  cannot  be  lovelier  lines : 

We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third. 

But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well ; 

The  sights  we  saw,  and  the  sounds  we  heard. 

The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell, 

Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred. 

Oh  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is ! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away  I 

How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss. 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play. 

And  life  be  a  proof  of  this ! 

A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast. 

But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 

Life  and  life ;  we  were  mixed  at  last. 

In  spile  of  the  mortal  screen. 

The  forests  had  done  it,  there  they  stood ; 

We  caught  for  a  second  the  powers  at  play ; 

They  had  mingled  us  so  for  once  and  for  good. 

Their  work  was  done,  we  might  go  or  stay ; 

They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood. 

There  is  a  similar  thought  in  "i>  By* 
ron  de  nos  jours ^^  But  God  the  Creator, 
and  the  human  individual  with  his  free 
will,  stand  face  to  face,  if  I  rightly  appre- 
hend his  teaching  on  this  score ;  and  ex- 
ternal nature  (except  as  educating  man)  is 
of  comparatively  little  importance:  he  is 
furious,  indeed,  with  Byron  (whom  he 
detests)  for  teaching  differently.  Brown- 
ing is  no  pantheist,  and  no  mystic.  Per- 
sonally I  regret  it,  so  far  as  he  is  to  be 
regarded  as  teacher. 

I  note  that  in  "The  Return  of  the 
Druses,*'  "  Paracelsus,"  **  Sludge,*' "  Blou- 
gram,**  he  deals  with  the  same  favorite 
topic,  a  man  pretending  to  supernatural 
power,  partly  for  ambitious  ends,  but 
partly  also  for  the  sake  of  what  he  hon- 
estly believes  to  be  the  good  of  mankind, 
to  engender  a  salutary  confidence  in  them, 
to  give  them  strength  and  comfort.  But 
there  is  always  a  conflict  within  the  man 
as  to  whether  this  is  really  justifiable  or 
not.     The  insincerity  will  not  let  coo* 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


779 


science  rest.  This  is  the  point  of  view  of 
pious  fraud;  but  in  neither  case  is  there 
more  than  the  merest  passing  shadow  of 
a  conviction  of  the  genuineness  of  the 
miraculous  claim  preferred.  Now  I  can- 
not help  thinking  that  the  subject  becomes 
pro  tanto  less  intrinsically  poetical,  as 
well  as  probably  less  true  to  fact.  Most 
likely,  Browning  does  not  conceive  of 
such  men  as  believing  in  their  own  ab* 
normal  magical  faculty  (except,  indeed, 
slightly,  by  an  almost  avowed  process  of 
self-sophistication),  because  he  is  so  far 
at  one  with  the  scientific  scepticism  of  his 
age  as  not  himself  to  admit  the  possibility 
of  any  such  pretensions  being  in  any 
measure  well  founded.  But  yet  the  mvs- 
tical,  supernatural  element  does  color 
some  of  his  most  notable  poems  — name- 
ly, those  which  deal  with  Christianity. 

It  is  sufficiently  remarkable  in  this  age 
of  scepticism,  that  our  two  indisputably 
roost  eminent  poets,  and  precisely  those 
most  eminent  for  intellectual  power, 
should  be  on  the  side  of  faiih^  and  more- 
over of  Christian  faith,  though  claiming 
liberty  to  interpret  the  articles  of  that 
faith  for  themselves.  One  of  Browning's 
most  characteristic  and  arresting  poems  is 
'*The  Experience  of  Karshish,  an  Arab 
Physician."  He,  visiting  Bethany  in  the 
course  of  his  travels,  encounters  there 
Lazarus,  and  writes  concerning  him  to  a 
friend  and  fellow-physician  far  away.  In 
this  wonderfully  graphic  letter  he  is  pal- 
pably dominated  by  some  strange  impres- 
sion as  of  a  real  experience  in  the  case, 
though  he  is  bound  professionally  to  re- 
gard and  write  of  it  contemptuously  as 
one  of  mere  trance  and  hallucination. 
Indeed,  he  is  angry  with  himself  and  sur- 
prised because  he  cannot  treat  the  matter 
as  lightly  as  his  understanding  assures 
him  it  ought  to  be  treated.  So  that,  amid 
bis  description  of  new  remedies,  gum- 
tragacanth,  mottled  spiders,  the  Aleppo 
sort  of  blue-flowering  borage,  and  what 
not,  he  returns,  though  apologetically,  to 
this  singular  condition  of  Lazarus,  whom 
he  describes  as  living  in  the  light  of  an- 
other world,  a  stranger  here,  at  cross- 
purposes  with  all  men's  ordinary  views  of 
life,  with  firm,  adoring  trust  in  the  benev- 
olent Nazarine  physician,  who,  as  he 
thinks,  raised  him  from  the  dead,  and  on 
whose  claim  to  be  divine  he  implicitly 
relies.     Karshish  writes :  — 

I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills. 
Like  an  old  lion's  cheek-teeth  ;  out  there  came 
A  moon  made  like  a  face,  with  certain  spots 
Multiform,  manifold,  and  menacing ; 
Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me ;  so  we  met 


In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unawares, 
The  man  and  L 


What  a  picture !  why  is  it  not  painted  by 
a  kindred  genius  ?    Again :  — 

He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life 
(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 
Which  runs  across  some  vast  distracting  orb 
Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread. 
Which,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter  yet, 
The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life ! 
So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses. 
Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on. 
Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong  across, 
And  not  along  this  black  thread  thro'  the  blaze» 
//  should  be  baulked  by  here  it  cannot  be, . 

Then  he  apologizes  for  devoting  so 
much  valuable  space  to  a  madman,  and 
resumes  professional  talk.  But  in  a  post- 
script he  can't  help  adding:  — 

The  very  God  !  think,  Abib !  dost  thon  think  ? 
So  the  All-great  were  the  all-loving  too  — 
So  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voicCf 
Saying,  O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here  I 
Face  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself ! 
Thou  hast  no  power^  nor  may'st  conceive  of 

mine. 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love ; 
And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee. 
•  .  .  The  madman  saith  he  said  so:  it  is 

strange. 

Now,  a  man  could  scarcely  have  written 
this  marvellous  poem,  every  word  of  which 
will  repay  study,  had  he  not  himself  be- 
lieved in  the  story  of  Lazarus,  and  in  the 
so-called  supernatural  elements  which  it 
implies:  this  gives  the  astonishing  force 
and  reality  to  it;  else  the  poet  would 
hardly  represent  the  ideas  involved  as  so 
dominating  the  learned  stranger. 

**  Caliban  upon  Setebos  "  is  also  remark- 
ably powerful  —  it  is,  in  vividly  realized, 
grotesque,  imaginative  symbol,  a  terrible 
satire  upon  the  low,  anthropomorphic  no- 
tions men  have  made  to  themselves  con- 
cerning God,  and  which  have  become 
formulated  in  some  current  popular  theol- 
ogies. Not  from  the  best  and  deepest, 
but  from  the  more  degraded  and  superfi- 
cial character  of  haman  nature,  have  our 
religious  ideas  been  too  much  derived. 
So  that  Browning,  though  a  Christian, 
might  not  be  considered  by  all  strictly 
orthodox.  Caliban,  Shakespeare's  mon- 
ster, kicks  his  feet  in  the  slush  of  the  isle, 
where  Prospero  and  Miranda  keep  him 
for  a  drudge,  and  soliloquizes  about  his 
deity,  Setebos,  at  whose  arbitrary,  tyran- 
nic power  he  gibes  and  jeers  —  until  a 
storm  bursts,  and  then  he  cowers,  abjectly 
worshipping.  This  is  a  strong,  weird 
poem  —  not  liable  to  the  objection  that 


}8o 

there  is  too  much  naked  argument,  which 
is  true  of  **  Christmas-Eve,"  and  especially 
of  "St.  John  in  the  Desert." 

"Christmas-Eve  and  Easter-Day"  is 
an  elaborate  argument,  set  in  imaginative 
framework,  to  prove  the  fundamental  pos- 
tulate of  Christianity,  and  so  is  *'St.  John 
in  the  Desert."  The  argument  of  ♦•  Christ- 
mas-Eve" is  that,  if  man  had  im*ented 
the  idea  of  God  suffering  with  us  and  for 
us  to  redeem  us,  ^/  would  be  more  loving, 
and  therefore  really  higher  than  God. 
And  in  "Easter-Day"  the  sole  punish- 
ment of  the  lost  soul  allotted  bv  the  Judge 
is,  that  since  he  has  chosen  for  his  por- 
tion, and  has  been  fully  satisfied  with  the 
fair  prizes  this  world  can  offer  to  his 
senses  and  his  ambition,  he  shall  keep 
them  forever,  and  attain  to  no  more,  ex- 
cluded by  the  very  nature  of  the  case  from 
those  yet  diviner  possibilities,  the  more 
spiritual  and  less  earthbound  aspired  to 
reach.  And  here  we  touch  upon  the  idea 
which  recurs  with  reiterated  emphasis  in 
Browning  —  that  earth^s  perfect  is  not 
the  absolute  perfect  —  that  what  we  count 
full-orbed  and  consummate  success  is  not 
so  from  a  higher  point  of  view,  but  that 
rather  the  apparent  failures  are  the  more 
full  of  promise  and  potency;  they  point 
to  a  yet  richer  completeness  to  be  attained 
hereafter;  they  are  germs  still  to  be  de- 
veloped ;  the  more  slowly  they  ripen,  the 
more  sweet  and  enduring  the  fruit.  In 
"  Saul "  Mr.  Browning  says :  — 

'Tis  not  what  man  does  that  exalts  him, 
But  what  man  would  do. 

This  doctrine  is  proclaimed  unceasing- 
ly, and  of  course  implies  strong  faith  on 
the  proclaimer*s  part  that  the  universe  is 
sound  at  heart,  not  "a  suck  and  a  sell," 
which,  alas !  is  so  dolefully  and  wailfully, 
and  with  more  or  less  tunefully  sensual 
caterwaulings,  the  encouraging  strain  of 
our  latest  bardlets:  but  in  all  sober  seri- 
ousness there  is  abroad  now  some  dread, 
paralyzing  fear,  that  lays  a  cold,  dead 
hand  upon  the  purest  and  most  generous 
hearts  among  us.  And  God  knows  — 
who  permits  nature,  Satan,  and  man,  his 
mimic,  to  commit  such  horrible  atrocities 
as  are  committed  every  day  and  night 
upon  this  earth  —  there  is  excuse  enough 
for  a<7ony  and  doubt!  But  in  Browning 
we  And  no  despair;  he  preaches  energy 
at  our  life-task,  doing  our  chosen  work 
with  all  our  might;  he  tells  us  to  pierce 
below  custom  and  convention,  and  lay 
hold  of  what  is  true,  satisfying,  and  abid- 
ing in  our  spirits ;  yea,  even  when  we  fail 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  he  assures  us 


ROBERTT  BROWNING. 


that  we  may  trust  God,  the  father  of  our 
spirits,  to  perfect  the  good,  honest  work 
we  have  begun,  in  his  own  best  manner, 
and  to  renew  our  youth  like  the  eagle's,  if 
not  here,  then  hereafter.  Shockingly  un- 
scientific !  Still,  unless  I  completely  mis- 
understand him,  so  Browning  believes. 
"Andrea  del  Sarto,"  a  very  beautiful 
sketch,  proclaims  the  imperfection  of  a 
perfection,  that  has  no  trace  of  inability 
to  grasp,  hold,  and  express  some  infini- 
tude of  aspiration  beyond  the  work  actu- 
ally accomplished. 

Ah  !  but  a  man*s  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp. 
Or  what's  a  heaven  for  ?     All  is  silver-grey. 
Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art  —  the  worse. 

He  notes  how  he  could  correct  some 
wrong  drawing  of  an  arm  in  a  painting  by 
Raffaelle;  but  feels  how  far  the  young 
painter  soars  above  him  notwithstanding 

—  (this  may  throw  a  side-light  on  our 
poet's  own  defective  form).  It  is  better 
to  fail  in  technique  than  in  more  essential 
things,  though  good  workmanship  of 
course  is  infinitely  to  be  desired.  The 
great  painter-poet,  Blake,  will  occur  to  us, 
whose  technique  in  painting,  and  rhythm 
in  poetry  were  often  defective.  And  so 
also  with  Byron,  and  Wordsworth. 

"The  Grammarian's  Funeral,"  again, 
vindicates  the  narrow  limited  life-work  of 
a  special  student  by  the  conception  that 
he  is  justified  in  God's  light,  because  he 
has  eternity  wherein  to  grow  complete, 
and  learn  all  other  things.  The  full-orbed 
divine  idea  is,  indeed,  by  the  imperfec- 
tions of  the  isolated  fragments  of  the 
curving  line  —  by  the  letting  go  the 
straight  line;  so  by  the  restraint  of 
chemical  affinities  is  the  nutrition  for  or- 
ganization, and  the  performance  of  living 
functions  possible.  Things  are  not  in 
their  momentary  appearances,  however 
fair  and  complete  these  may  seem ;  they 
are  fulfilled  in  their  disappearance  even, 
and  their  living  again  in  richer  form, 
wherein  their  old  state  is  verily  more  its 
own  true  self  than  before;  for  each  is  in 
and  by  others  — must  pass  aw^ay  to  live: 
"  That  which  thou  sowest  is  not  quickened 
except  it  die;  and  God  giveth  it  a  body 
as  it  hath  pleased  him."  So  a  rather  dis- 
credited old  book  says.  Three  great 
writers  see  and  teach  this  very  distinctly 

—  Hegel,  Hinton,  and  Browning.  Brown- 
ing again  and  again  expresses  his  strong 
belief  in  our  personal  immortality.  You 
find  that  in  "  Evelyn  Hope,"  "  La  Saisiaz," 
and  elsewhere.  He  believes  in  com- 
pensation, the  righting  of  all  wrong,  the 
satisfaction  of  our  highest  and   holiest 


THE  WIZARDS   SON, 


jSi 


aspirations,  the  eternal  permanence  of 
righteousness  and  love,  the  supplement- 
ing of  utmost  human  weakness  by  that 
divine  power,  which  is  the  very  basis  and 
essence  of  all  endeavor,  yea,  of  all  life, 
however  feeble,  though  to  the  confused 
judgment  of  sense  it  appears  forever  lost 
and  annihilated.  Note  the  fine  poem 
**]nstans  Tyrannus,"  where  the  poor 
mean  victim  of  persecution  becomes  ter- 
rible to  the  tyrant  when  he  pra/s,  and  Goii 
is  seen  standing  by  his  side. 

Earth  being  so  good,  would  Heaven  seem  best  ? 
Now  Heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride, 

the  baffled,  but  still  loyal  lover  sings  of 
the  "last  ride"  his  lady  and  he  enjoyed 
together.  This  doctrine  is  best  illustrated 
in  the  two  noble  philosophical  poems, 
"  Abt  Vogler,"  and  "  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra," 
the  former  unique  as  a  chant  in  praise  of 
music,  that  youngest  and  most  spiritual 
of  arts. 

Notice  next  how  strenuously  Browning 
urges  upon  us  determination^  strength  of 
will.  Strong  character  may  be  warpea, 
but  twisted  back  again  to  good  purpose, 
and  even  the  warping,  he  holds,  has  a  use. 
But  namby-pamby  negation  of  all  char- 
acter, what  force  and  help  is  there  in  that  ? 
In  this  light  we  are  to  regard  "  The  Statue 
and  the  13ust."  Again,  he  will  have  no 
leaving  of  ill-savored,  inextricable  en- 
tanglements of  conduct  to  take  care  of 
themselves,  and  go  on  breeding  low,  de- 
teriorated, corrupting  growths.  This  is 
the  idea  in  that  terrible  and  most  graphic 
narrative  in  his  latest  volume,  **  Ivan 
Ivanovitch,"  about  the  woman  who,  under 
whatever  temptations,  saved  her  own  life 
at  the  expense  of  that  of  her  children 
when  pursued  by  wolves,  and  whom,  after 
he  has  heard  her  apology,  a  strong  man 
slays  with  his  own  private  hand,  the 
narrator  approving.  While  in  "  The 
Inn  Album,**  again,  the  young  man  does 
Heaven's  justice,  as  if  inevitably,  with 
his  own  hands,  on  the  old  villain.  In  the 
grand  ballad  "  Gismond  "  the  traitor's  lie 
can  onlv  be  adequately  refuted  by  the 
death  of  the  traitor  at  the  hands  of  the 
lady's  avenger.  And  ** Forgiveness"  in 
"  P'acchiarotto"  has  a  similar  issue.  It 
is  the  teaching  also  of  "Before,"  where 
the  speaker  advises  the  two  men  to  fight 
it  out,  if  the  wrong-doer  will  not  confess 
and  ask  pardon.  But  in  "After,"  the 
view  widens  — 

Take  the  cloak  from  his  face,  and  at  first 
Let  the  corpse  do  its  worst 
•  .  .  How  he  lies  in  his  rights  of  a  man  I 
Death  has  done  all  death  can. 


And  absorbed  in  the  new  life  he  leads, 
He  recks  not,  he  heeds 

Nor  his  wrong,  nor  my  vengeance ;  both  strike 
On  his  senses  alike. 
And  are  lost  in  the  solemn  and  strange 
Surprise  of  the  change. 
Ha !  what  avails  death  to  erase 
His  offence,  my  disgrace  ? 
I  would  we  were  boys  as  of  old, 
In  the  field,  by  the  fold  I 
His  outrage,  God's  patience,  man*s  scorn 
Were  so  easily  borne  ! 
I  stand  here  now;  he  lies  in  his  places- 
Cover  the  face. 

Next,  we  have  many  poems  whose  prac* 
tical  message  is— -break  through  customs 
and  conventions,  away  from  earthly  greeds 
and  mundane  vanities,  to  learn  that  love 
is  best,  and  free  development  of  your  own 
capacities,  so  far  as  that  may  be  in  this 
life  1  I  read  this  lesson  in  "  Respectabil- 
ity," and  notably  in  "The  Flight  of  the 
Duchess,"  who,  finding  a  true  humao 
heart  beat  under  an  old  gipsy  woman's 
forbidding  garb  and  aspect,  and  initiated 
by  her  into  a  fair,  liberal  life,  adapted  to 
draw  forth  and  satisfy  the  human  cravings 
in  her  soul,  stunted  and  withered  among 
the  heartless,  starched  court  puppets  with 
whom  her  lot  is  cast,  breaks  away  from 
the  world  of  pageant  to  find  a  real  one 
elsewhere. 

Least  notable  of  all  perhaps  are  the 
poet's  pure  lyrics.  For  these  are  seldom 
an  expression  of  personal  feeling,  so  em- 
bodied as  to  be  representative,  as  iq 
supreme  singers  like  Burns,  Heine,  Leo- 
pardi,  Shelley;  they  are  the  result  of  a 
merely  conceived  alien  mood,  being  often 
hard  and  harsh  in  sound.  Yet  one  would 
not  willingly  have  missed  three  or  four 
beautiful  ones,  foremost  among  them  be- 
ing "  Prospice,"  "  May  and  Death,"  and 
"April  in  England."  They  have  sin- 
cerity, pathos,  deep  human  feeling,  and 
music,  while  the  first-named  is  also  re^ 
markable  for  the  writer's  characteristic 
virile  fortitude,  and  daring  courage. 

RoDEN  Noel. 


From  Macmillan't  Maguioe. 
THE  WIZARD'S  SON. 

CHAPTER  XL. 

OoNA*s  mind  had  been  much  disturbed, 
yet  in  no  painful  way  by  the  meeting  with 
Mrs.  Methven.  The  service  which  she 
had  done  to  Walter's  mother,  the  contact 
with  her,  although  almost  in  the  dark, 
the  sense  of  approach  to  another  womaa 


768 


MR.    RUSKIN    ON   "PUNCH." 


pointed  out  how  the  beauty  of  the  younger 
lady  depended  on  eight  or  ten  strokes 
across  the  cheek.  It  is  an  optical  law  that 
transparency  depends  on  dark  over  light; 
a  snow-storm  seen  over  a  dark  sky  is  not 
transparent,  rain  seen  between  us  and  a 
rainbow  is.  Mr.  Du  Maurier  sometimes 
carries  this  law  to  an  excess,  and  his 
drawings  are  often  more  like  a  chessboard 
than  a  picture ;  but  nothing  can  be  more 
perfectly  true  and  right  than  the  work- 
manship in  many  of  his  smaller  studies, 
and  Mr.  Du  Maurier's  faithful  representa- 
tion of  beautiful  faces  is  one  of  the  chief 
glories  of  **the  immortal  periodical." 
The  kindly  and  vivid  genius  of  Leech  saw 
a  jest  in  everything,  and  his  loving  wit 
covered  the  whole  range  of  social  life. 
Mr.  Tenniel  has  given  a  graver  scope  and 
a  steadier  tone  to  the  license  of  political 
controversy.  Mr.  Du  Maurier*s  work  has 
been  to  illustrate  the  law  on  which  Mr. 
Ruskin  insisted  in  a  former  lecture,  and 
to  which  he  alluded  again  in  "  Fors  "  the 
other  day,  that  '*  on  all  the  beautiful  fea* 
tures  of  men  and  women,  throughout  the 
ages,  are  written  the  solemnities  and  maj- 
esty of  the  law  they  knew,  with  the  charity 
and  meekness  of  their  obedience,  and  on 
all  unbeautiful  features  are  written  either 
ignorance  of  the  law,  or  the  malice  and 
insolence  of  their  disobedience."  And 
from  this  point  of  view  Mr.  Ruskin  ex- 
hibited enlarged  copies  of  **  Alderman  Sir 
Richard  "  (with  his  "  very  expensive  cast 
of  features  '*)  and  "  the  colonel,"  in  which 
Mr.  Du  Maurier  has  shown  with  accurate 
delineation,  never  degenerating  into  ca- 
ricature, the  permanent  deterioration  of 
feature  on  the  one  hand  which  results 
from  self-indulgence,  and  the  noble  type 
which  comes  on  the  other  from  habitual 
self-control  and  just  self-respect. 

It  is  only  Punches  business  to  be  for  a 
moment  serious,  but  there  are  lessons 
worth  learning  for  all  that.  Punch  has 
always  been  a  polite  Whig,  with  a  senti- 
mental respect  for  the  crown  and  a  real 
respect  for  property,  steadily  flattering 
Lord  Palmerston  and  Mr.  Gladstone,  and 
having  for  his  ideal  of  human  perfection 
the  British  hunting  squire,  the  British 
colonel,  and  the  British  sailor.  The  hunt- 
ing squire:  and  the  most  beautiful  sketch 
by  Leech,  or,  indeed,  in  the  whole  of 
Punchy  is  Miss  Alice  on  her  father*s 
horse.  But  is  it  not  a  remarkable  thing 
that  Leech  should  never  have  stopped  to 
ask  whether  all  girls  can  be  like  Miss 
Alice,  and  that  Punch  should  never  have 
seen  any  beauty  in  the  poor?  Nor  is 
that  all.     Mr.  Du  Maurier^s  children,  with 


whom  the  ladies  reclining  in  elegant  atti- 
tudes are  generally  too  idle  to  play,  are 
extremely  pretty;  but  have  you  not  no- 
ticed how  much  their  prettiness  depends 
on  the  dressing  of  their  back  hair  and  on 
their  boots?  The  girls  are  beautiful,  too, 
but  there  is  a  look  of  somewhat  defiant 
pride  in  them  all ;  and  there  is  not  a  single 
girl  in  Punch  with  humility  or  enthusiasm 
written  on  her  face.  The  popular  voice 
is  strong  in  Punchy  and  is  it  not  remark- 
able, too,  that  the  incarnate  John  Bull 
should  always  be  a  farmer,  and  never  a 
manufacturer?  and  that  Punches  idea  of 
civic  majesty  should  be  this  repulsive  pic- 
ture of  "  Sir  Pompey  "  ?  Look,  too,  at 
this  characteristic  type  of  British  heroism 
—  "John  Bull  guards  his  pudding."  Is 
this  the  final  outcome  of  King  Arthur  and 
St.  George,  of  Britannia  and  the  British 
lion  ?  And  is  it  your  pride  or  hope  or 
pleasure  that  in  this  sacred  island  that 
has  given  her  lion  hearts  to  Eastern  tombs* 
and  her  pilgrim  fathers  to  Western  lands, 
that  has  wrapped  the  sea  round  her  as  a 
mantle  and  breathed  against  her  strong 
bosom  the  air  of  every  wind,  the  children 
born  to  her  in  these  latter  days  should 
have  no  loftier  legend  to  write  upon  their 
shields  than — "John  Bull  guards  his 
pudding"?  It  is  our  fault,  Mr.  Ruskin 
continued,  and  not  the  artist's  ;  and  I  have 
often  wondered  what  Mr.  Tenniel  might 
have  done  for  us  if  London  had  been  afi 
Venice  or  Florence  or  Siena.  In  my  first 
course  of  lectures  I  called  your  attention 
to  the  picture  of  the  doge  Mocenigo 
kneeling  in  prayer;  and  it  is  our  fault 
more  than  Mr.  Tenniel's  if  he  is  forced  to 
represent  the  heads  of  the  government 
dining  at  Greenwich  rather  than  worship- 
ping at  St.  Paul's. 

But  I  have  been  too  long,  said  Mr. 
Ruskin,  in  carping,  and  let  me  bear  tribute 
in  conclusion  to  the  charm  which  these 
artists  have  given  to  the  hearth  and  the 
fireside.  With  whatever  restrictions  you 
should  receive  their  flattery,  this  at  least 
you  may  thankfully  recognize,  that  it  con- 
tains evidence  enough  of  the  beauty  and 
crescent  strength  of  the  young  genera- 
tion. At  no  period  —  and  I  speak  after 
careful  and  minute  comparison  —  has 
there  ever  been  anything  sq  refined,  so 
innocent,  so  dainty  pure,  as  the  ^rl  beauty 
of  the  British  islands.  And  I  know  from 
my  own  experience  of  help  received  from 
young  members  -of  this  university  that 
there  was  never  a  time  when  the  country 
could  more  securely  trust  her  destiny  to 
the  genius  of  her  sons  and  her  honor  to 
their  hearts. 


LITTELL'S  LIYING-  AGE. 


Fifth  8«riM 
Volume  ZLIV( 


I  }  No.  2062.  — December  29,  188a 


{Prom  Benimingi 
Vol.  OLIX. 


CONTENTS. 


I.  Robert  Browning, 

IL  The  Wizard's  Son.    Part  XX.,  . 
HI.  The  Revival  of  the  West  Indies, 
IV.  Lord  op  Himself.    Conclusion,  • 

V.  Christmas  in  Calcutta,    . 
VI.  Match-Making  in  County  MAva 

*0*  Title  and  Index  to  Volume  CLIX. 


Contemporary  Review^ . 
MacmillatCs  AfagoMine^ 
Nineteenth  Century^     • 
Sunday  Magazine^        • 
Belgravia^    •        .        • 


•    Qt4een, . 


771 

781 

795 
803 

809 
823 


POETRY. 


A  Christmas  Carol,  • 
Charles  Lamb,     . 
In  the  Golden  Glow, 


770 
770 

770 


For  a  Forthcoming  Picture  by  Mr. 

Alma  Tadema,  ....    770 


Miscellany. 


824 


-••^ 


PUBUSHED  EVERY  SATURDAY  BY 

LITTELL  &  00.,  BOSTON 


•■» 


TERMS    OF    SUBSCRIPTION. 

For  Eight  Dollars,  rtmitUd  direciiy  to  tht  PtMiskert,  the  Livino  Agm  will  be  punctually  forwarded 
for  ayear,yrrtf  o/postare. 

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of  these  can  be  proaired,  the  mooeyshouldbc  sent  in  a  resistered  letter.  All  poetmasters  are  obliged  to  reeister 
letters  when  requested  to  do  so.  i>ra{ts,  checks  and  moneysHrdcra  should  be  made  payable  to  the  oroarol 
LiTTCLL  &  Co. 

Siqgle  Numbers  of  Tmb  lavnio  Acs,  18  oenla. 


770 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL,    ETC. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

In  David's  ancient  city 

A  little  child  was  born. 
And  laid  in  rocky  manger 

Upon  this  Christmas  mom  ; 
In  weakness  watched  and  tended 

By  peasant  maiden  poor, 
Where  ox  and  ass  found  shelter 

Within  a  stable  door. 

And  yet  that  lowly  infant 

Himself  was  God  most  high, 
Who  left  his  throne  of  glory 

To  suffer  and  to  die ; 
He  stooped  to  take  our  nature. 

That  we  might  rise  to  be 
His  faithful  loving  children 

Through  all  eternity. 

And  year  by  year  as  Christmas 

Rejoices  old  and  voung, 
And  homes  are  douoly  happy, 

And  thankful  hymns  are  sung ; 
In  hearts  that  love  his  coming 

The  Saviour  still  is  born  : 
May  we  by  faith  behold  him 

Anew  on  Christmas  morn. 
Sunday  Magazine.  S.  M.  GlDZ^EY. 


CHARLES  LAMa 

Dear  heart  I  from  dim  Elizabethan  dajrs 

Surely  thy  feet  strayed  to  our  garish  noon  ; 

Thou  should'st  have  walked  beneath  a  yellow- 
ing moon, 

In  some  old  garden's  green,  enchanted  ways, 

With  Herrick  and  Ben  Jonson  ;  while  in  praise 

Of  bis  lady  thrilled  the  nightingale*s  full 
tune,  — 

And  he  grown  still,  these  sang,  'neath  skies  of 
June, 

That  bent  to  hear,  catches  and  roundelays. 

In  fair  converse,  thou  might'st  have  wandered 

With  Burton's  self,  the  master  whose  rare 
thought 

Makes  Melancholy  glad  the  heart  like  wine ; 

In  thy  earth-day,  these  fair  com]>eers  were 
dead; 

How  pleasant  was  their  laughter,  had  they 
caught 

The  sallies  of  thy  humor,  quaint  and  fine  I 

Spectator.  KATHARINE  TyNAN. 


IN  THE    GOLDEN  GLOW. 

Lo  I  broken  up  and  melted  is  the  sky 
Into  an  ocean  of  immensity. 
Where  golden  islands  swim  in  golden  light 
Too  vast  and  shining-clear  for  mortal  sight; 

And  day  is  ebbing  far  ;  but,  ere  it  goes. 
All  the  deep  passion  of  its  splendor  flows 
About  thy  beauty  in  a  rolling  tide 
Straight  from  heaven's  gates,  and  thoa  art 
glorified. 


Oh,  that  the  burning  sunset  could  but  speak 
Those  burning  thoughts  for  which  all  words 

are  weak ; 
Could  tell  how  my  whole  love  to  thee  is  given. 
Quenchless  and  pure  as  very  fire  from  heaven ! 

Ah  !  lift  the  wonders  of  that  amber  hair. 
And  turn  on  me  thine  eyes,  oh,  sweet  and  fair ! 
And  let  their  pity  meet  the  love  in  mine  — 
Pity  and  love  akin,  and  both  divine  ! 

All  The  Year  RouimL 


FOR  A  FORTHCOMING    PICTURE   BY    MR. 
ALMA    TAD E MA. 

{.Adapted from  the  Greek  Anthology,  lA.  xiL,  8.) 

The  Garland- Weaver. 

To-day,  when  dawn  was  young,  I  went 
Before  the  garland-weaver's  stall. 

And  saw  a  girl  whose  beauty  sent. 
Like  stars  of  autumn  when  they  fall, 

An  arrow  of  swift  fire  that  left 

Glory  upon  the  gloom  it  cleft. 

Roses  she  wove  to  make  a  wreath, 
And  roses  were  her  cheeks  and  lips. 

And  faintly  flushed  the  flowers  beneath 
The  roses  of  her  finger-tips ; 

She  saw  me  stand  in  mute  amaze, 

And  rosy  blushes  met  my  gaze. 

•*  O  flower  that  weavest  flowers,"  I  said ; 

"Fair  crown,  where  myrtle-blossoms  white 
Mingle  with  Cyprian  petals  red 

For  love's  ineffable  delight ! 
Tell  me  what  god  or  hero  blest 
Shall  bind  thy  garland  to  his  breast : 

"  Or  can  it  be  that  even  I 

Who  am  thy  slave  to  save  or  slay. 

With  price  of  prayers  and  tears  may  buy 
Thy  rosea  ere  they  fade  away  ?  " 

She  smiled,  and  deeper  blushed,  and  laid 

One  finger  on  her  lip  and  said  : 

"  Peace,  lest  my  father  hear  ! "  —  then  drew 
A  blossom  from  the  crown,  and  pressed 

Its  perfume  to  the  pinks  that  blew 
Upon  the  snow-wreath  of  her  breast. 

And  kissed,  and  gave  the  flower  to  be 

Sweet  symbol  of  assent  to  me. 

Roses  and  wreaths  with  shy  pretence. 

As  for  a  bridal  feast,  I  brought ; 
And  veiling  all  love's  vehemence 

In  languor,  bade  the  flowers  be  brought 
To  deck  my  chamber  by  the  maid 
Whose  lips  on  mine  shall  soon  be  laid. 

The   hour    hath   struck:    she's    near,    she's 
near ! ^ 
O  Love,  a  new  and  fairer  shrine 
I  promise  thee,  if  thou  wilt  hear 
Thy    suppliant's    prayer,    and    make    her 
mine  I  — 
Smile,  Love,  upon  this  suit,  to  be 
Forever  blessed  by  her  and  me  I 
Academy.  J.  A.  SYMOND& 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


77» 


From  The  Contemporary  Review. 
ROBERT  BROWNING. 

It  is  not  wonderful  id  an  age  of  obtru- 
sive artilice  in  art,  and  sham  sentiment 
liice  the  present,  that  Mr.  Browning  should 
have  written  long  with  little  appreciation  ; 
it  is  rather  wonderful  that  the  public  ap- 
precialion  of  so  intensely  sincere  a  poet 
as  he  is  should  be  now  steadily  growing. 

Our  necessarily  brief  study  of  Browning 
may  appropriately  be  prefaced  by  some 
recent  words  of  Matthew  Arnold,  where 
he  tells  us  to  conceive  of  poetry  more 
worthily  than  it  has  hitherto  been  the 
custom  to  conceive  it.  '•  More  and  more," 
be  says,  "mankind  will  discover  that  we 
have  to  turn  to  poetry  to  interpret  life  for 
us,  to  console  and  sustain  us.  Science 
will  appear  incomplete  without  it,  for  well 
does  Wordsworth  call  poetry  the  impas- 
sioned expression  which  is  in  the  counte- 
nance of  all  science,  the  breath  and  finer 
spirit  of  all  knowledge."  But  Aristotle 
had  long  since  observed  that  the  supe- 
riority of  poetry  over  history  consists  in 
its  possessing  a  higher  truth  and  a  higher 
seriousness.  How  opposed  this  view  is 
to  current  and  fashionable  theories  need 
oot  be  pointed  out.  An  elegant  amuse- 
ment for  the  leisure  of  a  cultured  class,  a 
dainty  trifle,  the  taste  for  which  is  mostly 
outgrown  with  youth,  that  is  what  some 
reckon  it.  Critics  inculcate  that  the  form 
is  all,  and  the  substance  nothing.  This 
theory  is  assuredly  fathered  by  men  them- 
selves impotent  in  respect  of  thought,  in 
the  interest  of  a  metre-mongering  school 
equally  sterile.  It  is  a  theory  misbegot- 
ten by  critical  wind  upon  mere  versified 
vacuity.  And  accordingly  we  have  elab- 
orate metrical  manufactures,  destitute  of 
inspiration,  the  sense  sliding  from  one 
empty  verbal  abstraction  to  another,  as 
on  thin  tinkling  ice,  often  melodious,  in- 
deed, but  affording  no  foothold  or  grasp 
upon  definite  thought,  or  distinct  image, 
or  sincere  human  feeling.  This  may  be 
an  innocent  amusement  for  idle  persons, 
but  hardly  worthy  the  attention  of  strenu- 
ous men  in  so  serious  a  life  as  human  life 
is  bound  for  most  of  us  to  be.  At  the 
very  antipodes  of  all  this  stands  Brown- 
ing.   Moreover,  what  we  look  for  in  good 


passing  fashion,  is  originality,  a  term  much 
abused,  but  rightly  implying  a  distinctive 
personality,  a  man  thinking,  seeing,  and 
feeling,  in  his  own  way  behind  the  words; 
whereas  there  is  a  great  deal  of  cultivated 
verse,  which  is  merely  a  fair  echo  of  other 
men's  voices.  Now,  in  Browning,  we 
have  most  marked  originality  —  marked, 
I  will  say,  to  the  verge  of  mannerism. 

From  careful  renewed  study  I  derive 
the  impression,  not  so  much  of  a  lyrist  or 
singer  (though  he  is  this  sometimes),  as 
of  a  seer  of  vital  truth  in  the  concrete 
forms  of  human  life,  an  interpreter  of  it, 
with  eminent  capacity  also  for  presenting 
it  dramatically.  I  have  never  fully  felt 
the  happiness  of  Mr.  Arnold*s  definition 
of  poetry  as  a  criticism  of  life ^  for  after  all 
is  said,  poetry  and  criticism  as  a  rule  are 
precisely  opposed.  It  is  less  the  function 
of  poetry  to  analyse  and  discriminate  than 
to  synthesize  and  create ;  yet  this  phrase 
does  happily  describe  a  good  deal  of  Mr. 
Browning^s  work.  He  delights  in  subtle 
psychological  analysis  of  motive.  And  in 
his  best  poems,  he  usually  tells  the  story, 
or  presents  his  dramatic  situations,  pal- 
pably to  enforce  some  idea  with  which 
they  are  pregnant. 

There  is  a  school  with  considerable  in- 
fluence just  now,  called  the  "  Art-for-Art" 
school,  and  its  votaries  tell  us  that  the 
moral  is  nothing  in  art.  Certainly  Mr. 
Browning  differs  from  them;  the  moral  is 
a  great  deal  to  him.  But  then  there  are 
morals  and  morals.  The  significance  of 
life  is  more  to  him  than  it  is  to  good  peo- 
ple who  write  tracts.  Human  life  is  an 
infinitely  complex  divine  mystery,  rich, 
ineffable,  to  be  prisoned  in  no  philosophi- 
cal formulae,  or  code  of  moral  rules.  One 
is  a  little  shy,  therefore,  of  the  excellent 
lessons  appreciative  disciples  will  find  us 
in  a  favorite  author :  one  is  apt  to  suspect 
the  clever  conjuror  of  himself  putting  in 
what  he  so  ingeniously  drags  out.  True 
works  of  art,  like  works  of  nature,  are  so 
incommensurable,  ^i^  many  lessons  lie 
dormant  there,  which  the  very  genius  who 
created  them  did  not  even  himself  sus- 
pect —  or  at  least  beheld  but  dimly  —  and 
we  rather  resent  being  pinned  down  to 
one  lesson,  as  it  may  chance  to  strike  the 


poetry,  likely  to  endure  beyond  the  hour's  |  amiable  and  ingenious  disciple.    Still,  of 


772 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


course,  the  meaning  deduced  will  be  val- 
uable according  to  the  folly  or  wisdom  of 
the  critic.  Yet,  when  we  are  told  by  the 
more  airy  and  academic  of  our  instructors 
that  true  art  only  blossoms  for  the  beauty 
and  pleasantness  of  blooming,  we  hesitate 
a  little.  There  is  beauty  and  beauty, 
pleasure  and  pleasure.  What  if  the  high-^ 
est  kind  of  beauty  and  pleasure  involve 
ugliness  and  pain  —  aye,  moral  approval 
and  disapproval  —  this  hateful  element  of 
profit,  as  well  as  that  more  favorite  one 
of  amusement  f  The  great  dramatic  poet, 
while  he  unravels  before  us  the  tangled 
skein  of  life's  so  intricate  mystery,  in  the 
very  act  of  creating,  also  illuminates,  with 
his  own  profound  spiritual  insight,  the 
heights  and  depths  of  life,  with  signifi- 
cance  we  could  never  have  discovered  for 
ourselves.  And  how  are  you  to  obtain 
that  highest  kosmic  unity  which  tragic  art 
demands,  without  such  intuition  of  central 
universal  truth  underlying  the  common 
facts  of  life  as  they  appear  to  ordinary 
eyes  ?  Historic  chronicles,  realistic  tales, 
but  no  tragic  poetry  without  this.  Every 
great  work  of  iEschylus,  Sophocles,  and 
Shakespeare,  is  thus  universal  in  signifi- 
cance, representative  of  some  grand  law 
of  human  destiny,  some  abiding  relations 
of  humanity  with  God.  The  colossal  per- 
sonages of  the  Oresteia,  Prometheus, 
Hamlet,  Romeo,  Juliet,  Faust,  are  not  our 
neighbors  over  the  way,  but  in  their 
breathing  individuality  are  eternal  ideals 
also.  In  proportion  therefore  to  a  man's 
own  spiritual  and  intellectual  calibre,  I  do 
not  say  for  practical,  but  for  prophetic 
and  imaginative  purposes  —  and  this  apart 
from  the  question  of  inspiration  —  will  be 
the  degree  of  abiding  value  in  the  poetry 
he  creates.  So  that  for  critics  to  com- 
mend us  to  poets  without  moral  sense  is 
more  ridiculous  than  for  them  to  commend 
us  to  painters  afflicted  with  color-blind- 
ness, or  musicians  without  ear.  If  a  man 
is  to  represent  more  than  the  mere  sur- 
face of  life,  he  must  see  it  truly,  or  else 
distort  it  —  must  discriminate  light  from 
shadow,  spiritual  beauty  from  deformity, 
variety  of  moral  as  well  as  mental  shape, 
and  tone,  and  tint,  all  the  soul-notes  that 
contrasted  and  combined  make  human 
music,  the  inevitable  consequences  that 


nature  has  assigned  to  moral  good  and 
evil.  Else  you  will  have  reiterated  photo- 
graphs of  low  passions  and  mean  motives, 
which,  except  as  a  foil  to  the  higher  as- 
pects of  life,  and  either  as  assisting  to 
develop,  or,  at  least,  as  antagonistic  to  the 
nobler  elements  of  our  nature,  palpably 
corrupting  and  disintegrating,  can  only  be 
repulsive  to  sane  people,  and  therefore 
bad  as  art.  Would  you  call  a  man  a  great 
painter  if  he  (though  never  so  skilfully) 
could  paint  you  only  varieties  of  leprosy 
and  skin  disease?  Besides,  without  a 
clear  vision  of  what  conscience  reveals,  of 
its  compensations  and  reproaches,  of  the 
dreadful  desolating  dragon-brood  engen- 
dered by  sin  and  sin's  congeners,  no 
tragedy,  no  true  moving  picture  of  life  is 
possible.  Now,  Browning  presents  yoa 
with  thoroughly  sound  and  wholesome 
views  of  life  —  even  if  at  times  he  stirs 
up  the  rotteness  of  it  a  little  too  curiously. 
But  he  does  not  persistently  obtrude  dis- 
ease upon  you.  If  you  have  Guido,  in 
"The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  you  have  also 
the  holy  child  Pompilia,and  Caponsacchi, 
the  frivolous  but  generous  soul,  capable  of 
regeneration  through  the  combined  effect 
of  Pompilia's  virtues,  wrongs,  and  the  dia- 
bolical depths  to  which  selfishness  has 
descended  in  Guido,  her  husband.  The 
poet's  outlook  upon  life  is  large  and  lib- 
eral, but  deep  also  and  sane,  so  that  we 
are  braced  by  his  revelations  of  what  he 
sees,  better  able  to  live  and  enjoy  our  own 
life,  bear  our  own  sorrows  and  disappoint- 
ments, die  our  own  death  *Mn  sure  and 
certain  hope."  And  although  I  cannot 
agree  with  the  uUra-Browningites  that  the 
defectiveness  and  obscurity  of  his  style  is 
a  positive  merit  —  because,  forsooth,  a 
treasure  is  valuable  in  proportion  to  the 
trouble  it  costs  to  find  —  yet  I  do  think 
the  rough  shell  is  well  worth  breaking 
open,  if  there  be  so  true  a  pearl  as  there 
is  in  this  case  within. 

Grand  rough  old  Martin  Lather 
Bloomed  fables,  flowers  on  furze, 

as  our  poet  says. 

Though  he  has  written  little  pure  drama, 
yet,  on  the  whole,  he  is  the  most  eminent 
dramatic  poet  of  modern  England  ;  while 
as  lyrist,  as  singer,  he  cannot  compete 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


773' 


with  Tennyson,  whose  form  is  as  felici- 
tous as  bis  subject-matter  is  richly  sensu- 
ous, intellectual,  and  spiritual.     But  I  do 
Dot  think  any  post-Elizabethan  dramas  of 
our  literature  have   surpassed,  and  only 
one  or  two  have  rivalled,  the  **  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon,"  and  "  Colombe's  Birthday." 
These  are  full  of  movement,  of  action,  of 
various  passion ;    they  pulsate   with   life 
and  emotion;  the  plot  is  noble  and  ele- 
vated ;   they  abound  in  characters  delin- 
eated   by  a  master's  hand ;  while  "  Co- 
lombe's   Birthday"  is   not    directly,  but 
indirectly   stimulating,    and    humanizing 
in  the  highest  degree.     Pompilia,  indeed, 
in  "  The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  who,  at  the 
beginning,    comes    very    near    Goethe's 
Margaret  for  gracious  maidenhood,  grows 
too    intellectual    and  Browningesque   to- 
wards the  end.     It  is  far  otherwise  with 
Colombe,  who,  budding  a  pure*  high-born 
maiden  in  the  opening  scenes,  rejoicing  in 
her  own   fair  world  and  little  regarding 
others,  blossoms  amid  the  storms  of  ad- 
versity, under  the  lovelight  of  a  lover  of 
noble  nature,  though  of  low  birth,  into  the 
highest  type  of  womanhood,  renouncing 
the  grandest  prizes  of  the  world,  and  de- 
voting herself,  through  the  consecrating 
influence  of  this  one  love,  to  the  allevia- 
tion and  amelioration  of  the  lot  of  those  in 
need.    I   know  not  any  drama  showing 
more  delicate  insight  into  the  shy  matur- 
ing of  a  woman's  affection,  checked  and 
chilled  by  the  cold  breath  of  convention, 
.yet  ripened  by  the  vision  of  a  heroic  soul's 
devotion,  ever  itself  deepening  and  broad- 
ening in    purity   and    self-renouncement 
through  his   love  for  her.    These  plays 
abound  in  beautiful  poetry,  appropriate  to 
the  place  in  which  it  occurs,  while  indis- 
criminately euphuistic  diction   in  season 
and  out  is  entirely,  and  most  righteously, 
in  spite  of  all  the  bad,  fashionable,  aca- 
demic critics  of  the  passing  hour,  abjured 
by  Browning.     But  assuredly  this  utterly 
dramatic  Shakspearian  manner  of  unroll- 
ing the  royal  robe  of  human  life  before  us 
seamless  and  unrent  is  not  that  ordinarily 
congenial  to  him.     Usually  the  inventor 
prefers  to  pull  his  mechanism  to  pieces, 
and  show  us  how  it  works  ;  the  gardener 
plucks  up  his  growing  flower  to  display 
the  roots  and   manner  of  organization. 


There  is  probably  implied  here  less  sure 
vision  into  the  objective  manifestations  of 
character,  into  how  it  must  inevitably  un- 
fold itself  in  collision  with  its  fellows. 
Thus  Browning  does  not  always  afford  us 
clearly  constructed  plots;  his  narratives 
do  not  develop  themselves  smoothly ;  he 
is  not  Interested  in  the  progress  of  the 
events  themselves.  The  enormously  vo- 
luminous **Ring  and  the  Book"  shows 
wonderfully  acute  and  varied  knowledge 
of  life ;  but  it  is  revealed  through  mono- 
logues, wherein  many  persons  comment 
from  their  special  point  of  view  on  a  few 
incidents  only.  His  play  of  "  Strafford  " 
deals  with  a  grand  national  theme;  and 
in  Pym  we  have  the  strongly  delineated 
6gure  of  one  of  our  great  national  heroes 
admirably  contrasted  with  poor  Strafford, 
and  the  weak,  unreliable  King  Charles; 
but  the  plot  seems  rather  confused,  and 
the  movement  of  the  whole  action  some- 
what indistinct.  It  contains,  however,  a 
noble  passage  of  poetry  at  the  close, 
wherein  the  poet,  while  impartially  just  to 
Strafford,  f^^///j  to  show,  in  the  final  utter- 
ance of  Pym,  that  his  own  sympathy  is 
with  England  in  her  liberal  career  of 
progress. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  delineation 
of  a  popular  agitator  in  **  A  SouPs  Trage- 
dy "  is  almost  cynical,  and  not  very  happy, 
while  "  Hohenstiel  Schwangau  "  seems  a 
quite  unveraciously  lenient,  as  well  as 
rather  unpoetical,  portrait  of  the  man 
whom  the  greatest  European  poet  of  our 
generation,  Victor  Hugo,  chastised  with 
scorpions  in  his  **  Chdtiments^^  and  the 
"  Hisloire  d'un  Crime:'  The  "  Patriot," 
however,  is  an  excellent  satire  on  the 
fickleness  of  mobs. 

^'Pippa  Passes,"  again,  is  but  a  series 
of  dramatic  scenes,  linked  together  as  by 
God's  own  sunshine,  sweet  child-Pippa, 
the  innocent  bird-song  of  whose  young 
heart  falls,  without  her  knowledge,  though 
with  momentous  effect,  upon  the  ears  of 
guilty  worldly  souls  who  hear.  The  epi« 
sode  of  Ottima  and  Sebald  with  their 
adulterous  loves,  after  the  murder  by  Ot- 
tima of  her  old  husband,  is  one  of  the 
most  tremendous  things  in  English  drama, 
as,  in  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning,  the  whole 
ghastly  scene  starts  out  upon  you;  you 


774 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


hear  the  blood-stained  couple  talk,  and 
see  them  move.  It  is  of  Shakespearian 
power. 

Now,  there  are  distinctly  two  schools  of 
epic  and  dramatic  art  —  one  synthetic, 
objective,  the  other  analytic,  reflective, 
didactic.  Certainly  the  former  is  the 
more  perfectly  dramatic ;  but  great  poets 
have  alwavs  blended  the  two  manners, 
though  belonging  distinctively  to  one  or 
other  school.  The  w^ay  of  i£schylus  and 
Sophocles  is  not  that  of  Homer,  Chaucer, 
Shakespeare,  Scott,  Thackeray,  Balzac, 
Byron ;  but  more  akin  to  that  of  the 
greatest  modern  artists  in  general,  Victor 
Hugo,  Shelley,  Wordsworth,  George 
Sand,  Browning,  Wagner,  George  Eliot. 
But,  of  course,  that  is  not  to  say  that  an 
artist  never  writes  in  the  manner  less 
characteristic  of  him.  For  good  or  evil, 
the  age  has  grown  self-conscious,  analytic, 
metaphysical,  scientific.  And  the  most 
important  artists  will  assuredly  reflect 
this  temper  of  their  age.  Does  it  not 
seem  silly,  as  well  as  unthankful,  to  re- 
sent this?  to  condemn  such  work  because 
it  is  unlike  the  old  ?  It  is  a  product  sui 
generis;  it  is  so  much  added  to  the  old 
work,  for  which  let  us  be  thankful.  Brown- 
ing peers  microscopically  into  far-away 
influencing  causes,  and  remote,  intricate- 
ly mingled  motives;  these  interest  him 
almost  more  than  the  conduct  to  which 
they  lead.  And  why  not?  But  the  work 
is  proportionately  less  dramatic.  For 
character  is  here  presented  in  its  more 
isolated  and  passive  aspects.  In  this 
kind  of  work  it  is  nearly  impossible  that 
the  analyst  should  not  color  the  repre- 
sentation very  manifestly  from  looking 
through  his  own  special  glasses ;  his  lens 
will  not  be  quite  achromatic.  In  dramatic 
poetry  proper  the  creator  is  a  centre, 
radiating  alien  individuality,  rather  than 
diffusing  his  own  peculiar  subjective  idio- 
syncrasy among  the  works  of  his  hand. 
His  characters  possess  him,  rather  than 
he  them.  Curiously  enough  in  the  vol- 
ume called  "  Pachiarotto,"  Mr.  Browning 
seems  to  disclaim  all  self -revelation. 
Now,  if  this  be  a  merit,  is  it  true  of  him ; 
and  if  it  be  true  of  him,  is  it  a  merit?  To 
both  questions  I  answer,  No»  You  don't 
want  a  mere  impassive  mirror,  reflecting 
surfaces,  but  a  man,  selecting  vital  char- 
acteristics. Even  Shakespeare  reveals 
himself  in  the  Manner  oi  his  representa- 
tion of  life ;  all  genius  must.  Far  more 
is  this  true  of  Browning,  even  if  he  had 
not  written  many  poems  obviously  self- 
revealing.  But  every  dramatist  is  self- 
revealing  by  the  emphasis  and  tone  of  his 


delineations;  while  Browning  comments 
like  a  chorus  upon  the  action,  both  per- 
sonally, and  through  one  pretty  obviously 
his  mouthpiece. 

The  old  truths  remain,  but  their  body 
and  appearance  change.  They  return, 
indeed,  enriched  with  the  result  of  their 
own  denial,  with  the  doubt  thrown  upon 
them,  which  has  caused  them  to  be  re- 
moulded, and  recast  more  perfectly.  And 
so  when  science  cried,  **  Overturn  !  over- 
turn!" and  the  old  creed  suffered  obscu- 
ration, arose  prophets  and  poets  of  denial 
and  despair,  with  their  divinely  appointed 
work  to  do.  For  who  can  give  us  a  com- 
plete philosophy  of  life?  We  must  gather 
together  the  special  vital  aspects  of  the 
whole,  each  artist  was  gifted  to  see. 
Shelley,  Byron,  Carlyle,  Leopardi  passed ; 
we  have  Victor  Hugo,  Tennyson,  Brown- 
ing, Hegel,  Fichte,  Coleridge,  Words- 
worth, James  Hinton.  Is  this  a  strange 
doctrine,  that  great  poets  think?  Did 
not  Dante,  Milton,  Lucretius  ?  They  da 
think,  but  with  all  their  faculties  fused 
into  one  organ,  instead  of  with  a  wrong- 
fully isolated,  and,  therefore,  crippled 
function,  the  logical  understanding  only. 
Milton  and  Dante  have  powerfully  helped 
to  mould  theology;  and  in  this  spiritual 
crisis,  produced  mainly  by  scientiflc  dis- 
covery, men  will  look  more  and  more,  I 
think,  to  poets  who  are  prophets  also. 
And  so  I  shall  presently  inquire  briefly 
what  salient  lessons  Browning  has  taught 
us. 

But  we  have  flrst  to  note  his  peculiar 
skill  in  psychological  analysis,  and  espe- 
cially in  a  region  which  he  has  made  quite 
his  own,  wherein  he  has  enriched  our  lit- 
erature with  such  subtle  studies  as  no 
other  writer  has  given  us  —  the  twilight 
land  of  moral  sophistry,  where  it  is  hard 
indeed  to  discriminate  between  true  and 
false,  religious  and  worldly,  vulgar  and 
ideal,  good  and  evil  or  mean  motives, 
where  they  are  ever  passing  into  one  an- 
other, the  Protean  soul  ever  eluding  her 
own  self-knowledge,  and  the  knowledge 
of  others,  by  assuming  infinite  masks  and 
shapes.  Nor  is  this  region  so  unfamiliar 
to  the  accustomed  inward  life  of  most  of 
us,  after  all  —  for  how  mixed  are  motives 
even  in  our  very  religion,  and  the  most 
ostensibly  disinterested  actions  of  life! 
To  this  class  of  work  belong  Paracelsus, 
Sludge,  Blougram  —  and  wonderfully  clev- 
er studies  they  are,  especially  the  two 
last;  though  these  are  hardly  poetry, 
while  Paracelsus  is.  The  pictures  of 
casuistically  and  scbolastically  trained 
Roman    Catholic  ecclesiastics;    shrewd, 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


77S 


ambitious,  worldly,  like  Ogniben  in  the 
•*  SouFs  Tragedy ; "  sensual  and  supersti- 
tious, as  F>a  Lippo  Lippi,  the  monk  of 
the  Spanish  cloister,  and  the  old  dying 
bishop,  who  orders  his  tomb  at  St.  Prax* 
ed*s  Ciiurch  ;  or  semi  sceptical,  outwardly 
conforming  men  of  the  world,  like  Blou- 
gram;  these  are  quite  unique  and  inimit- 
able. Browning  seems  positively  to  revel, 
as  though  for  the  mere  mental  gladiator- 
ship,  suppleness  of  soul's  wrist,  swift, 
dazing  play  of  intellectual  fence,  in  these 
labyrinthine  convolutions  of  juggling 
sophistry,  wherein  some  unseen  adver- 
sary is  confounded  by  sheer  devilry  of 
the  understanding,  and  the  worse  often 
made  to  appear  the  better  reason.  He  is 
many-sided  in  sympathy,  sees  all  round 
and  far  away,  and,  therefore,  perhaps,  is 
unable  to  take  one  side  very  pronounced- 
ly. He  even  sees  what  may  be  said  for 
an  error,  a  bad  cause,  or  a  bad  man,  their 
redeeming  or  modifying  qualities,  and 
what  a  bad  man  has  to  say  for  himself. 
So  far  he  becomes  his  apologist^  finds  a 
soul  of  good  in  things  evil.  That  is  not- 
ably so  in  "The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  in 
Sludge,  and  Biougram.  Guido  and  Blou- 
gram  are  in  perfect  dramatic  keeping;  all 
they  say  is  a  perfectly  natural  self-revela- 
tion of  their  native  unloveliness;  it  must 
be  confessed  that  the  studies  are  some- 
what unsavory  from  their  merciless  real- 
ism, where  not  a  wart  or  a^en  is  left  out. 

Another  of  these  persons,  but  a  secular 
person  in  this  case,  is  the  elder  man,  the 
lord  in  **The  Inn  Album"  —  a  powerful 
narrative  —  for  the  two  other  people,  the 
upright  and  just,  though  somewhat  stern, 
soured,  and  merciless  woman,  and  the 
young  millionaire  whom  she  saves,  are 
absolutely  veracious  portraits;  but  the 
tempter  has  no  redeeming  qualitv  what- 
ever, he  is  a  moral  monster;  anci  do  we 
want  lago  so  minutely  vivisected  over 
and  over  again? 

But  Sludge  is,  though  very  clever,  I 
think,  one  of  Browning's  less  perfectly 
dramatic  studies.  His  favorite  method  is 
to  make  these  people  analyze  themselves 
in  their  own  fashion,  in  a  monologue  ad- 
dressed to  some  imaginary  interlocutor. 
But  in  a  sketch  like  Sludge,  you  too  much 
see  Browning  looking  into  his  subject, 
and  giving  his  own  version  of  what  he 
sees,  though  ostensibly  in  the  voice  of 
the  self-apologist.  He  is  talking  inside  a 
lay  figure.  The  author's  acute  glance 
discerns  all  the  influences  that  would 
mould,  mar,  and  corrupt  such  a  man  as  he 
takes  Sludge  to  be,  and  makes  him  com- 
ment on  these;  though  to  him  probably 


the  process  of  his  own  degeneration 
would  not  have  been  at  all  such  as  he 
could  be  so  fully  aware  of,  and  be  able  to 
trace  thus  distinctly  with  his  finger. 
Moreover,  he  displays  a  wealth  of  far- 
reaching  speculation,  and  opulence  of  in- 
tellectual resource,  a  fertility  and  clever- 
ness in  special  pleading,  which  we  can 
scarcelv  attribute  to  the  poor  creature, 
whom  here  and  there  the  author  lets  us 
see  he  intends  to  represent.  Assuredly 
long  monologues,  laying  bare  the  inter- 
minable inner  processes  of  one  over-in- 
tellectualized  and  self-conscious  mind,  are 
apt  to  be  wearisome.  Besides  which,  the 
writer's  very  marked  and  mannered  idio- 
syncrasy of  expression  is  usually  lent  to 
his  different  characters.  And  you  feel  at 
times  as  if  they  were  too  much  made 
mouthpieces  for  the  abstruse,  though  in- 
teresting, reflections  which  the  writer  de- 
sires to  utter  on  various  topics. 

Though  I  yield  to  no  one  in  very  warm 
admiration  for  a  great  deal  of  Browning's 
work,  especially  the  earlier  work,  yet  I 
confess  I  do  feel  that  verse  is  not  always 
the  fitting  and  inevitable  medium  for  many 
of  these  utterances.  And  1  judge  by  the 
canon  he  himself  has  furnished  in  the 
verses  he  entitles  "Transcendentalism," 
—  where  he  tells  a  brother  in  the  craft  not 
to  take  a  harp  into  his  hands,  and  after 
much  preluding  "  speak  bare  words  across 
the  chords,"  however  excellent,  but  to 
drape  his  ideas  in  sights  and  sounds. 
There  is  too  much  mere  arguing,  not 
enough  appeal  to  the  intuitions,  emotions, 
perceptions,  imagination.  And  the  style 
accordingly  wants  proportionate  poetic 
distinction,  wants  dignity;  but  if  sound 
substance  be  necessary  to  the  best  po- 
etry, a  noble  form  is  equally  required. 
Browning's  is  not  a  winning  style  —  the 
mere  witchery  of  words  is  too  often  ab- 
sent—  we  are  under  no  spell  of  enchant- 
ment. His  lines  are  not  **in  love  with 
the  progress  of  their  own  beauty; "it  is 
rather  our  bare  intellect  that  is  strained 
to  understand  the  literary  conundrums 
proposed  to  us.  Perfect  poetry  involves 
the  perfect  harmonv  of  word,  meaning, 
mood,  and  sound,  with  dignity  or  loveli- 
ness either  of  subject,  or  interpretation ; 
though  an  obtrusively  artificial,  is  to  a 
noble  style  as  the  deportment  of  a  danc- 
ing master  is  to  the  unaffected  demeanor 
of  a  gentleman.  But  we  want  the  vola- 
tile thought  or  feeling  preserved  for  us 
in  the  crystal  of  pellucid  expression,  made 
a  world-heritage  in  the  amber  of  a  happy 
phrase.  That  is  eminently  the  character- 
istic of  Shakespeare,  Dante,  Milton,  and 


\ 


776 

also  of  Tennyson  —  occasionally  too  of 
lesser  lights,  like  Gray,  and  Campbell. 

Of  course,  fine  philosophical  poetry,* 
which  is  the  imaginative  expression  of 
profound  thought  in  symbol  and  metaphor, 
or  phrase  of  high  degree,  demands  corre- 
sponding attention  and  capacity  on  the 
part  of  the  reader;  and  good  poetry  in 
general,  indeed,  demands  this.  But  un- 
necessary intellectual  strain  the  reader 
usually  loves  to  be  spared  in  poetry  by  a 
careful  and  captivating  manner  on  the 
part  of  the  poet  —  in  the  best  poetry  the 
very  images  and  words  lead  him  captive 
as  with  a  chain  of  flowers,  with  "  strains 
of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,"  by 
the  mere  instinctive  selection  of  harmoni- 
ous  ideas,  images,  and -words,  whose  very 
sound  and  subtle  associations  prolong 
and  rivet  the  charm.  While  in  Browning, 
not  only  is  the  grammatical  construction 
difficult  —  from  long  parentheses,  and  side 
eddies  of  comment  on  subjects  not  in 
close  relationship  with  the  main  theme, 
inversions  of  the  parts  of  speech,  and 
strange  elisions  —  but  the  metre  appears 
seldom  as  an  outgrowth  from  the  ideas, 
rather  as  an  extraneous  piece  of  adopted 
ingenuity,  the  grotesque  cleverness  of 
which,  indeed,  is  rather  diverting  and 
confusing  than  helpful  — the  words  them- 
selves seem  chosen  for  their  direct 
meaning  onty^  irrespective  of  beautiful 
appropriateness  ;  their  intrinsic  ugliness, 
harshness,  and  disagreeableness  of  im- 
age, or  suggestion,  being  altogether  disre- 
garded. 

Browning,  moreover  —  who  often  re- 
minds me,  both  in  his  admirable  qualities 
and  in  his  defects,  of  Ben  Jonson  —  is  an 
exceedingly  learned  man,  familiar  with  all 
manner  of  technical  terms  belonging  to 
the  various  arts,  sciences,  and  even  the 
trades  and  professions  of  daily  life,  —  a 
most  remarkable  combination  of  specula- 
tive poet,  and  shrewd,  experienced  man  of 
the  world,  familiar  with  it  in  all  its  aspects, 
whether  elevated  or  vulgar.  Now  these 
learned  details  he  is  apt  somewhat  merci- 
lessly to  obtrude  on  the  reader,  taking  for 
granted  a  familiarity  with  them  which  is 
uncommon.  But  if  in  poetry  we  are  pulled 
up  short  by  many  terms  unfamiliar,  the 
enect  is  disturbing  to  that  continuity  of 
mood  or  sentiment  which  the  enjoyment 

•  There  is  little  of  this  in  Browning.  We  find,  in- 
deed,  much  nakedly  argumentative,  ratiocinative  verse, 
but  that  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  poetry  at  all.  Parts 
of  Tennyson's  "In  Memoriam,"  of  Mr.  Buchanan's 
** Balder,"  of  Mr.  Swinburne's  "Songs  Before  Sun- 
rise," are  better  examples  of  a  type  very  rare  in  Kn- 
clish  poetrv.  There  is  little  of  it  in  Coleridge,  and 
Wordsworth,  but  somewhat  more  in  Shelley. 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


of  poetry  demands ;  and  there  are  so  many 
blanks  and  barren  spaces  left  in  our  im- 
agination; It  is  in  that  respect  just  like 
musical  verse  with  a  minimum  of  mean- 
ing, which  we  strive  uncomfortably  and  in 
vain  to  arrive  at.  But  here,  though  we 
have  a  thoughtful  poet,  we  have  not  one 
who  always  helps  us  by  sweet  cadences. 
In  "  Christmas-Eve  and  Easter-Day,"  he 
gives  us  a  half-humorous  account  of  how 
some  of  his  metres  occur  to  him,  and  this 
passage  furnishes  a  fair  specimen  of  such 
metres :  — 

A  tune  was  born  in  my  head  last  week 
Out  of  the  thump-thump  and  shriek-shriek 
Of  the  train,  as  I  came  by  it  up  from  Man* 

Chester, 
And  when  next  week  I  take  it  back  again, 
My  head  will  sing  to  the  engine^s  clack  again. 
While  it  only  makes  my  neighbor*s  haunches 

stir. 
Finding  no  dormant  masical  sprout 
In  him,  as  in  me,  to  be  jolted  ouL 

Great  dramatic  poets  have  always  much 
humor,  and  this  is  a  marked  feature  in 
Browning.  I  cannot  but  think  that  the 
bizarre  surprises  of  his  rhythm  are  often 
contrived  out  of  sheer  fun,  with  a  sort  of 
Rabelaisian  or  Aristophanic  chuckle  over 
the  discomfiture  they  must  cause  to  deli- 
cately constituted  ears.  For  assuredly,  the 
ingenuity  of  the  rhymes  is  infinite.  Not 
in  "  Hudibras,"  "  Beppo,"  or  "  Don  Juan  " 
is  it  more  fertile.  And  this  is  often  per- 
fectly appropriate  to  the  subject  matter, 
and  so  agreeable  —  as  in  Fra  Lippo 
Lippi,  for  instance,  that  utterly  dramatic, 
most  breathing  portrait.  Even  in  '•Christ- 
mas Eve  "  the  humor  of  some  of  the  pic- 
tures is  equal  to  Dickens.  And  what  can 
exceed  the  tragi-comedy  humor  of  "The 
Bishop  orders  his  Tomb,"  "  The  Spanish 
Cloister,"  and  "  Holy-Cross  Day  "  ? 

These  pieces  are  as  sharply  outlined 
and  veracious  as  possible.  In  "  The 
Monk*s  Soliloquy  in  the  Spanish  Oois- 
ter,"you  have  a  malicious,  bad,  but  grossly 
superstitious  and  self-righteous  monk,  ap- 
parently looking  out  from  his  cell  window 
at  another,  who  is  attending  to  his  favorite 
flowers  in  the  monastery  garden,  a  placid, 
innocent  sort  of  person,  but  not  so  scru- 
pulous in  his  religious  observances.  The 
wicked  old  bigot  detests  the  blameless 
insipidity  of  his  neighbor  Though  full 
of  grim  fun,  the  picture  is  terrible  too. 
This  is  what  a  bigot  can  be. 

But  there  is  no  such  extravagant  aod 
out-of-the-way  word  in  the  language  that 
Browning;  will  not  find  you  a  rhyme  for,  if 
not  with  one  word,  then  with  two,  three, 
or  even  four,  and  if  not  in  one  language. 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


777. 


then  in  another.  Of  these  treble  and 
quadruple  rhymes  he  is  fond.  One  or 
two  strange  freaks  in  this  direction  I 
will  quote  from  **  Old  Pictures  in  Flor- 
ence : "  — 

I  that  have  haunted  the  dim  San  Spirito  — 
Or  was  it  rather  the  Ognissanti  ? 
Patient  on  altar  steps  planting  a  weary  toe ; 
Nay,  I  shall  have  it  yet,  detur  amanti  I 
My  Koh-i-noor,  or  if  that*s  a  platitude, 
Jewef  of  Giamschid,  the  Persian  Sofi*8  eye  I 
So  in  anticipative  gratitude, 
What  if  I  take  up  my  hope  and  prophesy  ? 

Then  in  the  same  page  we  have  ha^em 
hot  rhyming  to  Witanagemot^  the  Latin 
word  ante  to  Dante,  perorate  to  gero  rate^ 
cub  licks  to  republics.  And  "  Master 
Hughes  of  Saxe  Gotha**  is  a  still  more 
extraordinary  instance  of  wanton  barbar- 
isms in  rhyming.  Here  we  have  ifocifer- 
ance  and  stiffer  hence,  and  corrosive  and 
o  sieve  /  But  even  in  his  treatment  of  a 
grave  tragic  subject  it  is  characteristic  of 
our  author  to  show  a  certain  quaint  hu- 
mor, and  the  phrases  used  are  frequently 
rude  and  colloquial.  This,  indeed,  gives 
a  cachet  of  individuality.  And  though  not 
infrequently  such  a  method  gives  a  some- 
what grotesque  and  inharmonious  effect 
to  Browning  s  serious  poetry,  yet  how  far 
better  is  it  than  the  finical  lackadaisical 
unreality,  as  of  Osric,  or  Piercie  Shafton, 
so  in  vogue  now,  that  fears  to  call  a  spade 
a  spade,  and  faints  and  screams  with  the 
delicate  titillating  delight  of  calling  it  an 
efifodiator,  or  something  equally  silly  I 

The  obscurity  complained  of  comes 
sometimes  from  the  monologue  method, 
for  the  one  person  who  is  alone  before 
the  reader  is  talking  at,  questioning,  and 
replying  to  other  interlocutors,  whom  the 
author  has  in  his  mind,  but  the  reader 
only  euesses  at ;  and  what  they  are  sup- 
posed to  say  the  reader  must  divine 
from  the  only  words  he  has  before  him. 

Enough  of  all  this,  however.  It  needs 
pointing  out,  if  you  wish  to  do  as  Matthew 
Arnold  bids  you,  estimate  your  classic 
fairly,  and  recognize  where  he  comes 
short,  only  in  order  that  vou  may  the 
more  fully  and  intelligently  appreciate 
what  is  truly  admirable  in  him  and  others. 
For,  let  me  say  distinctly,  with  whatever 
abatements.  Browning  is  a  great  English 
writer,  to  whom  we  are  very  deeply  in- 
debted. A  fissured  volcano  rolls  you  out 
ashes,  stones,  and  smoke,  along  with  its 
flame  and  burning  lava.  And  he  who 
never  descends  into  the  deeps  shall  never 
ascend  upon  the  heights.  A  dapper 
dandy,  with  little  mind  and  little  heart, 
but  perfect  self-possession  —  there  is  not 


very  much  of  him  to  possess  —  hands  you 
his  neat  little  gift  well  polished,  say,  a  new 
silk  hat  nicely  brushed.  An  uncouth 
great  man,  with  big  mind  and  big  heart, 
possesses  himself  not  so  thoroughly  — 
there  is  more  of  him  to  possess  —  and  he 
presents  you  with  his  gift ;  say,  a  huge 
vase  of  gems ;  but  the  vase  may  have  a 
flaw  in  it,  and  what  then  ?  One  can  only 
pity  the  fastidious  person  with  the  weak 
digestion,  whose  gorge  so  rises  at  some 
trivial  fault,  as  he  deems  it,  in  the  cookery 
that  he  cannot  enjoy  and  be  nourished 
by  good  wholesome  food,  when  it  is  of- 
fered. Perhaps  because  it  lacks  olives  or 
truffles,  he  is  for  throwing  it  all  away. 
And  as  Mr.  Browning's  style  is  some- 
times perfectly  clear,  full  of  Saxon  force 
and  dignity,  his  lines  and  phrases  here  and 
there  memorable  for  their  strong,  incisive 
felicitv,  seldomer,  though  now  and  then, 
even  for  delicate  grace,  so  his  metres  are 
frequently  original,  appropriate,  vigorous, 
and  perfectly  germane  to  the  sense.  That 
is  so  in  the  fine  Stirling  ballads  of  **  Herv^ 
Kiel,"  "Gismond,"  the  "Ride  from 
Ghent  to  Aix,''  and,  in  the  whole  of  that 
spirited  tale,  "  The  Flight  of  the  Duch- 
ess." This  is  told  by  an  old  huntsman 
retainer  who  had  assisted  the  duchess  in 
her  flight;  and  the  easy,  jovial,  familiar 
canter  of  it  is  inimitably  adapted  to  the 
speaker  and  to  his  charming  story.  "  The 
Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin,"  again,  the 
child's  story,  for  its  light  humor,  and 
flexible,  dancing  measure  corresponding, 
could  not  be  surpassed.  In  **  Cavalier 
Tunes  "  you  hear  the  gallop  of  cavalry, 
and  the  clank  of  the  sabre.  What  can  be 
finer  in  sound  than  "The  Lost  Leader,*' 
so  elevated  and  human  in  sentiment  also? 
What  more  exhilarating  and  interpreta- 
tive of  the  sense  than  the  rapid  rush  of 
the  well-known  *•  How  they  brought  the 
Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix  "? 

But  "  Saul "  is  probably  the  finest  poem 
Browning  ever  wrote,  and  it  has  the  note 
of  immortality.  I  know  not  any  modern 
poem  more  glorious  for  substance  and 
form  both ;  here  they  interpenetrate  ;  they 
are  one  as  soul  and  body,  character  and 
deed,  lofty  aim  and  heroic  countenance. 
The  glory  of  the  lilt  of  it,  the  long,  billowy 
roll  of  the  sound,  entirely  corresponds  to 
the  splendor  of  clear  imagination  that 
burns  in  upon  the  soul,  as  with  sunlight, 
the  whole  beautiful  succession  of  scenes, 
all  harmonious  with  unity  of  purpose  and 
highly  human  aim,  rising  luminous  before 
us  to  the  sweet  song  of  David  the  shep- 
herd boy,  while  he  sings,  and  singing 
wrestles  with  the  kingdom  of  jarkness, 


778 

that  holds  captive  Saul's  kiDgly  spirit,  be- 
loved by  him,  until  his  deep-loving  insight 
culminates  in  one  sublime  vision  of- divine 
love,  whence  his  own,  and  all  the  universe 
have  proceeded ;  divine  love  condescend- 
ing to  human  weakness  and  death  for  our 
deliverance,  ever  giving  itself,  indeed,  but 
most  fully  in  young  David's  descendant, 

{esus  the  Christ,  the  Redeemer,  the  elder 
rother  of  mankind. 

I  have  said  that  we  must  certainly  re- 
sard  Browning  as  teacher;  and  so  let  us 
briefly  note,  in  conclusion,  a  few  of  the 
salient  impressions  as  to  his  message, 
conveyed  by  a  general  study  of  his  works. 
And  yet  he  is  hardly  a  prophet  —  because 
he  throws  himself  with  so  much  apprecia- 
tive ^sympathy  into  all  the. possible  op- 
posed aspects  of  life,  and  attitudes  of  the 
human  actors.  I  think  it  is  Mr.  Hutton 
who  has  well  called  him  a  great  imag- 
inative interpreter  of  the  approaches  to 
action.  Moreover,  he  is  rather  an  acute 
psychologist  than  a  profound  metaphy- 
sician. His  own  convinced  contribution 
to  the  solution  of  the  world-problem  is 
less  remarkable  than  his  keen,  intelligent 
appreciation  of  what  others,  often  mutu- 
ally antagonistic,  have  contributed.  We 
have  inevitably  touched  on  one  at  least  of 
the  lessons  to  be  learned  from  him  in  de- 
scribing **  Saul.*'  He  seems  to  believe  in 
divine  love,  and  human  love,  as  the  best 
and  most  substantial  realities.    He  sings: 

If  any  two  creatures  grew  into  one. 

They  wuuld  do  more  than  the  world  has  done ; 

Though  each  apart  were  never  so  weak, 

Yet  vainly  through  the  world  should  ye  seek 

For  the  knowledge  and  the  might 

Which  in  such  union  grew  their  right. 

Some  of  his  lines  and  phrases  are  mir- 
acles of  condensation.  Thus  out  of  the 
passionate  fragment,  **  In  a  Balcony,"  I 
take  — 

Look  on  through  years ! 
We  cannot  kiss,  a  second  day  like  this ; 
Else  were  this  earth,  no  earth. 

Usually  he  deals  with  scenery  as  did 
the  elder  poets  and  Scott ;  it  is  only  a 
background  to  him  for  his  figures.  But 
he  often  paints  with  graphic  force,  espe- 
cially his  favorite  Italian  scenes.  How 
vivia  the  lunar  rainbow  and  fiery  sky  in 
'*  Christmas-Eve,'*  and  the  charming  Ven- 
etian poem,  so  full  of  rich,  ripe  passion 
and  love-languor,  "  I n  a  Gondola  **  I  Simi- 
larly beautiful  is  the  episode  of  Jules  and 
Phene;  and  there  is  quite  a  Keatsian  lus- 
ciousness  of  sensuous  enjoyment  in  ^*  The 
Bishop  orders  his  Tomb.*' 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


Nature,  however,  is  not  to  Browning  a 
grand  spiritual  symbol,  moving  to  medita* 
tive  rapture,  as  she  moves  Wordsworth, 
Shelley,  Byron,  Coleridg:e.  He  never 
gives  himself  up  to  her,  but  asserts  him* 
self  against  her  inquisitorially,  as  it  were. 
Yet  the  vital  function  of  nature  in  her 
secret,  unconfessed  influence  over  human 
emotion,  even  when  ostensibly  concerned 
only  with  other  human  beings,  is  dealt 
with  strikingly  here  and  there,  notably  in 
these  fine  lines  from  "By  the  Fireside," 
where  apparently,  as  in  "  One  Word 
More,"  Mr.  Browning's  wife,  our  greatest 
English  poetess,  is  referred  to  —  the  poet 
is  speaking  of  the  supreme  moment,  as  he 
always  describes  it,  of  love  given  and  re- 
turned.   There  cannot  be  lovelier  lines  : 

We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third, 

But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well ; 

The  sights  we  ^aw,  and  the  sounds  we  heard. 

The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell. 

Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred. 

Oh  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is ! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away ! 

How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss. 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 

And  life  be  a  proof  of  this ! 

A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast. 

But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 

Life  and  life ;  we  were  mixed  at  last. 

In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen. 

The  forests  had  done  it,  there  they  stood ; 

We  caught  for  a  second  the  powers  at  play; 

They  had  mingled  us  so  for  once  and  for  good. 

Their  work  was  done,  we  might  go  or  stay ; 

They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood. 

There  is  a  similar  thought  in  *'  Le  By* 
ron  de  nos  Jours, *^  But  God  the  Creator, 
and  the  human  individual  with  bis  free 
will,  stand  face  to  face,  if  I  rightly  appre- 
hend his  teaching  on  this  score;  and  ex- 
ternal nature  (except  as  educating  man)  is 
of  comparatively  little  importance:  he  is 
furious,  indeed,  with  Byron  (whom  he 
detests)  for  teaching  differently.  Brown- 
ing is  no  pantheist,  and  no  mystic.  Per- 
sonally I  regret  it,  so  far  as  he  is  to  be 
regarded  as  teacher. 

1  note  that  in  "The  Return  of  the 
Druses,** "  Paracelsus,"  •*  Sludge,"  "  Blou- 
gram,"  he  deals  with  the  same  favorite 
topic,  a  man  pretending  to  supernatural 
power,  partly  for  ambitious  ends,  but 
partly  also  for  the  sake  of  what  he  hon- 
estly believes  to  be  the  good  of  mankind, 
to  engender  a  salutary  confidence  in  them, 
to  give  them  strength  and  comfort.  But 
there  is  always  a  conflict  within  the  man 
as  to  whether  this  is  really  justifiable  or 
not     The  insincerity  will  not  let  con* 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


779 


science  rest.  This  is  the  point  of  view  of 
pious  fraud;  but  in  neither  case  is  there 
more  than  the  merest  passing  shadow  of 
a  conviction  of  the  genuineness  of  the 
miraculous  claim  preferred.  Now  I  can- 
not help  thinking  that  the  subject  becomes 
pro  ianto  less  intrinsically  poetical,  as 
well  as  probably  less  true  to  fact.  Most 
likely,  Browning  does  not  conceive  of 
such  men  as  believing  in  their  own  ab* 
Dormat  magical  faculty  (except,  indeed, 
slightly,  by  an  almost  avowed  process  of 
self-sophistication),  because  he  is  so  far 
at  one  with  the  scientific  scepticism  of  his 
age  as  not  himself  to  admit  the  possibility 
of  any  such  pretensions  being  in  any 
measure  well  founded.  But  yet  the  mys- 
tical, supernatural  element  does  color 
some  of  his  most  notable  poems  —  name- 
ly, those  which  deal  with  Christianity. 

It  is  sudiciently  remarkable  in  this  age 
of  scepticism,  that  our  two  indisputably 
most  eminent  poets,  and  precisely  those 
most  eminent  for  intellectual  power, 
should  be  on  the  side  of  faith^  and  more- 
over of  Christian  faith,  though  claiming 
liberty  to  interpret  the  articles  of  that 
faith  for  themselves.  One  of  Browning's 
most  characteristic  and  arresting  poems  is 
**The  Experience  of  Karshish,  an  Arab 
Physician."  He,  visiting  Bethany  in  the 
course  of  his  travels,  encounters  there 
Lazarus,  and  writes  concerning  him  to  a 
friend  and  fellow-physician  far  away.  In 
this  wonderfully  graphic  letter  he  is  pal- 
pably dominated  by  some  strange  impres- 
sion as  of  a  real  experience  in  the  case, 
though  he  is  bound  professionally  to  re- 
gard and  write  of  it  contemptuously  as 
one  of  mere  trance  and  hallucination. 
Indeed,  he  is  angry  with  himself  and  sur- 
prised because  he  cannot  treat  the  matter 
as  lightly  as  his  understanding  assures 
him  it  ought  to  be  treated.  So  that,  amid 
his  description  of  new  remedies,  gum- 
tragacanth,  mottled  spiders,  the  Aleppo 
sort  of  bluc'flowering  borage,  and  what 
not,  he  returns,  though  apologetically,  to 
this  singular  condition  of  Lazarus,  whom 
he  describes  as  living  in  the  light  of  an- 
other world,  a  stranger  here,  at  cross- 
purposes  with  all  men's  ordinary  views  of 
life,  with  firm,  adoring  trust  in  the  benev- 
olent Nazarine  physician,  who,  as  he 
thinks,  raised  him  from  the  dead,  and  on 
whose  claim  to  be  divine  he  implicitly 
relies.     Karshish  writes :  — 

I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills. 
Like  an  old  Iiun*s  cheek-teeth  ;  out  there  came 
A  moon  made  like  a  face,  with  certain  spots 
Multiform,  manifold,  and  menacing ; 
Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me ;  so  we  met 


In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unawares, 
The  man  and  L 


What  a  picture  I  why  is  it  not  painted  by 
a  kindred  genius?    Again:  — 

He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life 
(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 
Which  runs  across  some  vast  distracting  orb 
Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread. 
Which,  conscious  of,  he  muse  not  enter  yet. 
The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life  1 
So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses. 
Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on. 
Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong  across. 
And  not  along  this  black  thread  thro'  the  blaze, 
//  should  be  baulked  by  here  it  cannot  be* 

Then  he  apologizes  for  devoting  so 
much  valuable  space  to  a  madman,  and 
resumes  professional  talk.  But  in  a  post- 
script he  can't  help  adding:  — 

The  very  God  I  think,  Abib !  dost  thou  think  ? 
So  the  All-great  were  the  all-loving  too  — 
So  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice. 
Saying,  O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here  1 
Face  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself  I 
Thou  hast  no  pcwer^  nor  may'st  conceive  of 

mine, 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love ; 
And  thou  m